Can't you just hear The Chipmunks singing that damn song in their eerily high-pitched, fast-forward voices? Sorry to be so crass, but I just spent half the day hanging lights outside only to discover I am straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas. Or whatever it's called.
I began last weekend with beautiful white lights---the old-fashioned kind, with big, delicate bulbs. John and I and hung them together on two trees and along the rooftop. We thought the lights would cheer up my mom and be a nice welcome home for my dad, once he's finally released from the hospital.
I should've stopped there. But no.
Over the week, as onlookers admired our lights, I turned into one of those compulsive (wanna-be) homeowners who just can't identify when to end. I concocted a plan for more lights, bigger and better lights, sections of white and colored lights. You get my bright idea.
Suffice to say, it wasn't so bright. The only lights working at the current moment are two connected stands of the marquee white lights lining the rooftop. There are at least 10 strands in the rest of the yard, strategically and effortfully hung in trees, on posts, through obstacles.
Merry freakin' Christmas.
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