I am a new-century gal.  I put up the Christmas lights on the house.  It’s not as if it was a goal to learn something new like climbing Mt. Everest.  I just wanted to climb on the roof and get it done.  My husband just doesn’t have the Christmas-mojo like me.  I want everything to look and feel Christmasy a few weeks before Christmas.  Now it’s normal for me to hang lights with my boys, five years running.  I still keep hoping it might change one year, maybe THIS year.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving seemed like a fine time.  However, I fell asleep at 1:00.  Somebody didn’t want to wake me and somebody didn’t want to tackle the lights without me.  I had no idea I was the go-to-gal.  Come Sunday, somebody desperately needed to get some exercise and ride his bike.  I was not as polite; I did not wait around.  Hence, the boys and I assumed our annual responsibility. I think the boys look forward to it; It’s our thing.

It was a balmy 61 degrees, sun beating down on the roof.  It felt a little funny to wear sunglasses to put up Christmas lights.  My younger one exclaimed, “It’s hot!  It’s like Christmas in July!”  He found a new job, water boy.  He spent a lengthy time filling every container he could find with water and ice, dragging his supply up to the roof.  I think he just liked climbing the ladder.

We got new fancy, rainbow-colored icicle lights.  Now that seems fitting, very California.  The new lights required a lot of plastic clips to get the strings to hang straight.  In my opinion, droopy lights are just plain painful. I guess I am becoming an expert and developing new experts too.  My youngest was appalled at the lack of quality control on the clips.  Plastic fringe missed the cut, like a hanging chad.  (And this is the guy who prefers clothes on the floor instead of the hamper.) My oldest rolled his eyes at me when I suggested they might screw around while I ran to the hardware store for more clips.  “ We know what to do!  We’ll stay on our butts.”  I told them they could never stand near the edge, EVER.

Since nobody broke his neck while I was gone, we worked up a pretty good system for the first two hours.   Two of us put clips on the lights and the third attached the light string to the roof.   Eventually my help started leaving. My older son had a school project meeting; then there were two. The younger one decided hanging was a one-person job after the clips were on, leaving just me.  I had my cell phone; I could call down for help.

I basked in the warmth of the sun and waved to the neighbors below as I worked.  Two neighbors said I should get down. “I can’t stand the pressure.  You are making the rest of us feel guilty.”  Others said I was doing a fine job or my favorite, “You’re a rock star!”  I didn’t even have to tell them I was running a load of laundry too.  The burning question from each, “Where is the hubby?” Funny, I don’t think anyone would ask where the wife-y was if my husband was up on the roof instead of me.

My husband did his part two days later:  Inspector.  I knew enough to connect no more than three strings together; it said so right on the box.  It got a little complicated plugging in the lights.  I didn’t feel right exposing the extension cord along the rooftop. Usually it’s under the eaves.  Mr. Inspector called me on it.  “You can’t expose the juncture to the elements!”

Sheesh.  He’s getting all techie. “Can we duct-tape the cord under the eaves?”  He cringed.  I called him a doubting Thomas Edison.  Next thing I know, he’s digging around for nails in the toolbox.  He gets the cord to stay in place all fancy-like, hidden safely underneath the eaves.  To-ma-to.  To-mot-o.  Juncture safe.

WE did it.

Share on Facebook