With my son in the car, I drove past a prematurely decorated house Sunday evening and glanced at the front porch. “Oh my. ‘Tis the season,' indeed!” I exclaimed. My son, having been fumbling through the cd’s, completely missed it. “You’ll have to take a look at it on the way back home.”

A few minutes later, I pointed and said, “Look—there it is,” and the sounds of his laughter drowned out the stereo. In fact, we both took great delight in the plastic, lighted nativity scene on display.

“Mom…."

“No, Dylan, no,” I said, interrupting what I knew he was about to ask. I really do know my son that well, so I knew it was time to just start saying NO, knowing that it just wouldn't be right for me to drop him off and drive around the block a few times while he stealthily waited in the bushes until there was a line of traffic to witness him running up on the front porch, snatching up the pride and joy of the nativity scene right by its light bulbs, hugging it to his chest and wailing to the night sky, "You killed him! You electrocuted the Baby Jesus!!"

Yes, we blend in with regular folk, moving effortlessly in and out of polite society, but our fantasy life is really just another episode of My Name is Earl.

I have no explanation, by the way, for my son’s questions as to why this is considered an appropriate holiday decoration. All I can think about is that there’s some guy in Malaysia who, bending over his young trainee, said, “You just stick this electrical cord through the anal opening of their saviour and they’ll give you three bucks for it.” He’s the reason for the season, they say.

I know, I know. Gwenn tells me all the time: “Pack light, sister, ‘cause you’re heading south for a long, long time.” But honestly, a bird just dropped his blessings on that plastic Jesus with the lighted pelvis and I'm the one who needs to be more respectful?

Please.