I aim low in many categories.  Christmas is NOT one of them.  I flip the calendar to December and my eyes get twitchy, I have a few bouts of hyperventilation and I may seize a little.

The OCD kicks in- big time.  I buy too many presents, spend too much money, make too many cookies, and make my house look like Saint Nick, himself, threw up all over my interior- tastefully, of course (Jen).

This year, right after Thanksgiving, the weather was mild (read: freakishly warm and a definite sign that I should not put up Christmas stuff yet.)   But every time I would leave my house- I would be bombarded with reminders of my slacker ways in the form of twinkling multi-colored Christmas lights and butchered classic Christmas songs by Gloria Estefan.

Then it happened.

The weather turned.  A cold front was moving in and snow was in the forecast.  I HAD to get my Christmas stuff up before the snow was here!

I hurried to bring up 24 large Rubbermaids from the basement.  I put on Night Ranger’s greatest hits and knocked out tree #1. 

I was on a roll.  I pulled out the Rent and Hairspray soundtracks (’cause nothing says Happy Holidays like trans-genders, lesbians, and “Negro Day”!)

I finished tree #2.

I took a deep breath and got out ‘the village’.  The bane of my existence.  An electrician’s nightmare.   A firefighter’s dream.  I thread cords throughout fake cotton snow and avoid all common sense and fire prevention lessons that I have learned.  I got it all set and ready to light.  Half of the lights did not work.  All of a sudden, I am troubleshooting light bulbs and changing fuses in Clark Griswold style (but with slightly more colorful language.)

I turned on some Fiona Apple because the moment called for angsty, bitchy tunes.

I went to Target to buy new bulbs.  Got home to test it- still didn’t work- cursed the bald man with the lisp that told me which bulbs to use.

I cursed Michael’s and their apparent faulty wiring in the lights from last year.  I attempted to return them- a year later with no receipt or packaging-  just accusatory insanity in my eyes.  The homely woman in customer service (that probably knitted the sweater she was wearing with her man hands) wasn’t buying my story that they were defective and sent me on my way.

I went to Home Depot and bought all new lights.

Got home and had to set up the fire hazards ALL OVER AGAIN with the new lights.  Still. Not. Working. I started looking around for hidden cameras in my own home and thinking if someone is laughing at me- this ISN’T funny!

The village has turned me into a paranoid schizophrenic- great-I have enough problems!

Then I noticed something… all of the cords that weren’t working were all plugged into the same extension cord.  I changed out the extension cord and voila…

The lights worked and the village was done.  I felt sort of bad for taking my anger out on the man with the speech impediment at Target and the masculine woman at the craft store, sort of, but Christmas makes me crazy- like certifiable.

Two and a half days later, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here, and I’m still wearing the same clothes I was wearing when I started.  And I stink.