People who follow me on @instagram know that I dabble in home design. In a hostile world, I choose to nest as radical praxis. People who follow me on @twitter know that I recently moved into what can best be described as a suburban Disneyland. This is the first time I have encountered holiday decorating as subculture and identity. I am talking animated displays, layered twinkle lights and displays set to music.
I refuse to be caught slipping. I am wrapping my front porch footstools in big bows to match the blinking “JOY” sign. Don’t start none, won’t be none.
Some folks took, shall we say, another route. And I have questions. They begin with those inflated Christmas yard…things. They’re great if you like used car lots and these things:
Seriously, the inflatables are fine. They are aimed at children, as all decorations should be. They are big and fluffy and some of them light up. Others dance around. They’re great.
Adorable. When they’re…alive. Unfortunately, every morning I wake up to a graveyard of cheerful inflatables. It’s like a crime scene around here. Look at this:
Were I a child, I would wonder who killed Frosty.
I took to Twitter to ask why this happens. Apparently, the inflatables run on a constant motor. People power down the display and this happens. Maybe there is a good reason you don’t just…blow them up once so children don’t start asking existential questions about life and death and meaning but what do I know. I’m new here.
The inflatable murder mob at least tries. The Christmas projector people have given up before they even start.
You know the Christmas projector people. You may be a Christmas projector people. These are the houses that project a holiday light show onto the side of their house like its a barn. The infomercials promise a dazzling light display but the reality is about as “dazzling” as a math worksheet on a classroom projector.
Bless their hearts, these projector lights are the sparklers of 4th of July firework shows. They mean well and they try real hard but no one is fooled.
I get it. It’s a pandemic. If ever there was a time to give up, this is it. Don’t be pressured into half-assing your holiday lights. If you’re fortunate enough to be housed — in suburban Disneyland or anywhere else — you have done enough this year. I’d rather you give up before you murder the inflatable elves every morning or deaden your soul with projector lights at night.
If you’re going to give up, give up deliberately. Give up with STYLE! Skip the lights and the Polar Bear Express display. Buy a onesie, turn off all the porch lights and get drunk. That’s called self-respect.
Smitten Kitchen’s homemade Irish Cream recipe is crafty and indulgent. No fan or electricity needed.