Today, I initially planned to display pics of our lush and green Christmas tree, lovingly bedecked in our collection of painted glass ornaments (all of which have special meaning) as well as my very sparkly vintage tabletop tree, carefully decorated with atomic-era ornaments. That will have to wait.
I must confess to you upfront that our house is no longer my personal holiday wonderland, but rather, something out of "Eastbound and Down" or, actually, an episode of "A Jerry Springer Christmas." Before issuing any judgment one way or another, it is imperative that you know that I married Clark Griswold, for better or for worse. Beau loves Christmas more than anyone I know, and he truly believes that a Christmas without "fun" decorations (a.k.a. campy tchotchkes a go-go) is not a Christmas worth celebrating. He has truly longed for colorful lights and blow ups on the front lawn (to be put up by him whilst wearing his IU Santa cap...) for as long as I have known him.
This year, despite our agreement to go crazy with a fleet of white-lit grapevine deer, he unilaterally brought the Christmas cheer to our street. Duh, we are the only people in our entire neighborhood with a motorized blow up on the front lawn.
Without further ado:
Beau said that this snapshot includes Indie "for scale." The Santa is 7.5 feet tall and is lit up at night.
Marriage is all about compromise and, despite my utter visceral hatred of lawn blow ups at Christmas or any season, how can I deny my truly precious husband this one thrill? As he told me (using the teenage defense), "It is not like I am out gambling our money away or doing something shady..."
Please, if you pass by our house, enjoy the view, but don't tell Beau about it. It will only encourage him to add the reindeer to the roof that he is "saving" for next year.
More to come later...