Deck the Halls With Colleen Hawley

Maybe I'm over optimistic, but I'm sure that there's some Christmas Angel somewhere up there that's assigned to my house specifically to keep it from imploding over the Holidays. While others get to witness good will towards men, experience the joy from the spirit of giving, and lose themselves in the sounds of the carols....I get to witness my cheap-ass husband doing all his shopping at Good Will, experience him flipping the bird to the Spirit of Christmas Future, and lose my hearing in the wail of the sirens.

Case in point, decorating the house. Although I took some sort of oath as a psychiatric nurse to "only use my powers for good" or something like that, I'm in touch with the fact that I'm married to the genetic composite of the Grinch and Homer Simpson. After two weeks of him faking a seizure every time I mentioned this wondrous chore to him, on Christmas Eve I casually mention that the neighbors' property is looking so festive that they'll probably win the local paper's decorating contest, and won't it be nice to have this pointed out to him every time he goes out to shovel the driveway?

Not appreciating the muttered curse words....I'm relieved to see that glint of "You Ain't Gettin One Up On Me" returning to his eyes...and do a mental cartwheel when I see him digging in the garage for the ladder. Stepping over his blueprints several hours later, I'm pleased to see a delivery truck unloading about 100 000 Christmas lights, complete with one giant electric Santa. Could this be THE year? Could we make the newspaper on a page that doesn't involve pictures of emergency personnel and court notes?

I hold back my tears of pride for my man as I invite my darling little boys to bake cookies with me to reward their Dad for creating such a winter wonderland right on our own roof. Ignoring the occasional loud swearing and the kitchen lights flickering, I'm only slightly prepared to see Tommy flailing helplessly as he drops past the patio doors on to the back lawn. Although grateful that the lawnmower he never bothered to put away broke his fall, he curses the hedging shears that only slightly missed thrusting him into a gender identity crisis.

Rushing outside, and closing the door to hide the gales of laughter coming from the boys, I lean down to hear him whisper what I fear may be his last words....."Do I have more up there than that yahoo next door?". Reassured that the lights are dimming all over the neighborhood and the power meter is spinning so fast I'm fearful it'll take flight, he nods the OK to move him on to the couch.

Unable to move this portable hernia by myself, I strategically place beer cans in between his twisted form and the back door and cheer him on as he follows the beacons and crawls to safety. Encouraging him to just ignore the "6.0" signs that the kids are holding up, I tuck him in on the couch and break in to my reserve of ice packs and Aspirin.

Shooing the kids to bed before the real Santa makes an appearance, I fan the smoke to stop the screeching of the smoke alarms, scrape the black lumps that should have been cookies onto a plate, and present my humble offering to the man who risked his life to shut me up.

Realizing I'd placed three too many beer within reach, I cover his polluted, sleeping body with a blanket, and hunker down in bed by myself to await Christmas morning. As dreams of Visa bills disappearing fill my head, I fail to hear the kids sneaking into the living room in the dark to see if they can catch Santa....and likely mug him.

As they look expectantly out the picture window for that magical sleigh, they hear a rumbling from the roof. Could it be eight tiny reindeer bringing Saint Nick to our home? Or could it be Saint Nick himself being blown off the roof as the screws that were only half nailed in before Tommy came crashing down crumbled under the weight of a 350 pound animatronic fat guy waving his arms and dancing?

Being awoken by the screams of the kids as they watched jolly old Saint Nick swing like a pendulum by a string of lights and blink off and on in front of the picture window, Tommy jumps to his feet and yells in that special way that only someone heavily intoxicated and covered in soft tissue injuries can. Turning their attention from the psychotic Santa to the big lump struggling loudly under a blanket in the dark, the kids abandon their quest for toys and switch to survival mode. Planting one foot squarely in Tommy's man-bits, the oldest leads his brothers to safety under my bed.

Waking to what I believe is the sound of Michael Jackson singing something about a "can of whoop-ass", I stumble in the dark to the living room to see what's the matter. Although I'm sadly not at all surprised to see my new strobe-light-Santa flapping in the wind, I'm puzzled to see Tommy rolling on the floor clutching his privates and sucking his thumb. Hearing the boys warming up their war-cry, I sigh and order Tommy to stop crying, and to disconnect the power to the roof before the insurance guy who's been posted in the van across the street ever since Tommy installed the windows takes a picture.

Forgetting the likelihood that Tommy will electrocute himself digging for an electrical cord in the snow, I turn my attention to the boys' snarling threats from my room at the boogeyman who dared to invade their loot-fest. I wish I would have had the patience to calmly explore solutions to this skirmish....I wish I would have sent someone sober to do the unplugging... and I wish I would have known that the boys closed and locked my bedroom door!

Bouncing face-first off the door I thought was left open, I'm trying to deduce whether my head injury or the fact that the transformers all blew when Tommy stuck the cord into the snowbank is responsible for the complete blackness I find myself plunged into. Feeling my way down the hall following the sounds of Tommy's moans, I have only the occasional flash of the insurance guy's camera to guide me to the spot on the front lawn where Tommy lays.

Again unable to lift him, and out of beer cans, I ease myself into a sitting position beside my broken-up, charred man and look alarmingly at the kids in the window brandishing spears that they fashioned out of coat hangers and my curling iron. Ignoring Tommy's pleas to find a sharp piece of ice and give him a vasectomy for Christmas, I give him the one Christmas present that will restore his faith in this glorious season....I grab hold of the electrical cord coming from our neighbor's roof, and yank every freaking one of his lights onto a broken heap on his lawn.

As Tommy professes his love for me while one single tear courses down his singed and swollen face, I comfort myself with the knowledge that I've brought unity to my neighborhood...by evoking the largest mass-911 call in our town's history.

Hope Santa brings me a new lawyer......