BANISHMENT 8: Christmas Lights in February

This has been a big year for me in a number of ways, but personal fireworks have largely shot off in grand gesture because this is the first year I have lived alone. All years leading up to now I have been stowed away with a handful of roommates who do things like take all the hot water and eat my Cheerios. But this time around, I chalked up the nerve and said, “Room for one please,” and then put down a fat wad of cash to rent half of a house. At the time, I thought this was a superb idea. I thought I was moving up in the world. But when you rent half of a house, don’t kid yourself. You’re not renting freedom; you’re renting a new set of parents.

The thing about renting in general is that you will always have a landlord. And that landlord will always have a personality that makes you want to grate their heart into small shreds of cheese. The last landlord I had was a repressed gay in his mid forties who buried his mother’s hair underneath our impeccably bricked driveway. My current landlords, though terribly sweet at heart, are parental folk who treat me as though I’m a five-year-old who just stole five million dollars from their khaki pockets. I get emails from them most every day. Or knocks on the door. And while I smile and nod and pretend like we will soon bake a keish together, what I really want to do is scream at them and tell them I’m a book editor, not a drug lord. I trade tips on grammar, not sexual favors. If they think I’m loud and unruly, they should probably either soundproof the walls or rent the portioned off third of their house to the Vanderbilt coma ward.

And while this personal interaction of any landlord-tenant relationship is often trying, it’s the unspoken land of common territory that really fingernails the chalkboard for me. Shared space is where both parties stake equal claim in representation, but more often than not, one party bowls the other over. It’s like being a divorced parent trying to raise a lovely child, only to leave for the weekend and come back to find five piercings, a facial tattoo, and an indisputable enrollment in the U.S. army. How do you explain that at parent-teacher conferences? Yes, I’m sorry. But that half of my child is my ex-husband’s fault.

I feel pretty much that exact way about my front lawn. While most of the time I think my house is pretty adorable and picket fence like – it’s white with nice little columns, a porch swing, and a green front door – I do take issue with the small matter of my landlord’s “holiday syndrome” which appears to all onlookers as my “holiday syndrome.” There is not a day of the year where our lawn does not celebrate the slaughter of a turkey, the kiss of cupid, or the dashing speed of Donner.  Our Bermuda no longer thinks its grass, but rather the landing spot for overly priced figurines. 

Currently, we find ourselves in February. Somewhere between hearts and leprechauns. And while this should mean that our house should only boast things like shutters and door knobs, we have instead adopted the redneck display of a continued Christmas. Lights strung like popcorn all around our columned porch. As a result, and quite without my permission, I have become The Girl with Christmas Lights in February. I’m sure this would be fine and all if I were the kind of person who thought stringing snowflake-shaped lights at any time of year was socially acceptable. But I am not into lights shaped like anything but bulbs. And I certainly don’t think people should illuminate their homes like theme parks unless it’s strictly the time of year post-turkey, pre-Santa.

This year for lent if I could, I would put to rest our dabbling in holiday décor and stick to more sensible arrangements like well cut grass and freshly painted walls.  But joint custody being what it is, I fear for the next 6 months I’m doomed to break bread with lawn ornaments while watching drivers by stop, point, and whisper.