There’s this house I pass every evening on my way in from work. There’s nothing really spectacular about the house, just your usual red brick, ranch-styled house. Oh and it has that wheelchair ramp out front. I shouldn’t notice it, really, but it’s in the armpit of a curve so my headlights hit it each evening and I have no choice but to look at it, if only for a flash, before I turn my steering wheel.

But the folks who live there recently decorated the house, attracting my attention more so than usual. They didn’t paint their front door or add some vinyl siding, nor did they hang some new shutters or plant some annuals in the window boxes. No, these folks, whose house already attracts far more attention than it likely deserves only because of its shitty location, location, location, decided that, to spruce up the place, instead of picking up the beer cars in the front yard, removing the pine straw from their gutters, or simply putting some fucking air in the tires of the pickup out front, what they should really do is hang some lights.

And in some ways, it’s a good idea because, well, when you live in the armpit of a curve in rural Alabama, you absolutely do need more light when you consider that, well, some folks miss those curves. But Christmas, not safety, was what they had in mind when Martha and Bubba Stewart opted for those strings of lights that dangle in strands from your roofline, those ones that, I suppose, are to give the appearance of icicles hanging from your rootop. Except this is Alabama. And icicles so rarely dangle from anything around here. And those things don’t really look like icicles anyway; they really only look like some strings of cheap-ass lights that dangle from some yokel’s rooftop because he has the aesthetics of a, um, cheapass yokel.

But on this particular house, although they have decorated with those lights, the lights do not dangle from the rooftop…no, no, that’s where you’d expect them. Instead, perhaps because of limited mobility (and if that’s indeed the reason, I apologize…but somehow I sense it isn’t), or perhaps because he’s a dumbass (judging from the rest of the, um, ambience he’s created, I suspect this is far more likely to be the case), this guy hung the lights on the railing of the wheelchair ramp. So, even if you glance at it briefly, out of the corner of your bad eye, in a blinding rain, if for some reason, somehow, there’s an illusion of icicles created, is it supposed to be a wondrous and beautiful thing to see them hanging from the handrail of Granny’s wheelchair ramp? Doesn’t your mind instantaneously drift to the image of a spill at the bottom of the ramp, a wreckage of blue-veined legs and pee-stained cushions, sagging, floppy bosoms and big, rubber wheels, all in tangle with someone’s gingham skirt hoisted high above the waistband of her Depends? No? Ok, maybe it’s just me….

We’re not finished yet though.

My real problem is that this guy, he hung those lights weeks ago, about the time you were still scrambling for a Larry Craig costume to wear to the company Halloween party. That’s right: Mr. and Mrs. HeeHaw Homemaker put up their Christmas decorations back in October. Now I know the local WalMarket put out their holiday stuff back then too, as did some of the stores in the mall and a few other places here and there. Oh and there were shoppers who took advantage of it, grabbing up all the Christmas stuff they could carry. In October.

And I scratched my head.

Because in third grade, I paid a lot of attention to my teacher. She wore Earth Shoes, no make-up, cut her hair short and had an odd last name, yet somehow she seemed just like the rest of us. And, although we knew she was married, she insisted that we all call her Ms. Chunn and not (and I mean absolutely not!) Mrs. Chunn. She was one of those hairy-legged feminist-types, we figured, but she really did seem so…normal. And nice. Oh and I think she did actually shave her legs. Which gave me license to like her, in spite of her sensible shoes and funny name.

So I paid attention to her. And when she started explaining to us why diamonds were so expensive, I listened intently. She didn’t have to repeat it for me because, even at 8 years of age, I understood basic supply-and-demand theory, that the rarer something is, the more valuable it is.

And to this day, in fact, every time I go to the mall in October or every time I drive past that house, I remember Ms. Chunn and I absolutely resent the expansion of the holiday season to before even Halloween. Here’s my thinking: if it lasts two months, a full one sixth of the year, really, seriously, how fucking special is it? Now I’ll admit that I spend more time in any given year with my head resting sweetly on my pillow, but I'll spend a lot more time this year in the "holiday spirit" than I will in the bathroom. Now, if you look at it like that, by celebrating the season for a full two months out of the year, don’t we value Christmas somewhere between sleep and taking a shit?

I’m just saying….