Leaving the house, I saw a guy from the electric company eyeballing our meter. “This thing looks broken,” he said. It was a statement I was unfit to comment on; all I knew about electricity was that it charged my phone and stung like hell on direct contact.
But the guy was right to wonder, and not just on account of it being his job. It’s still more than a month ’til Christmas and our house is already lit up like the Bellagio. Lit up and decked out. We have holiday editions of everything: from hand towels to dinner plates to plant pots. There are myriad incarnations of Santa Claus perched on every table, hanging from windows, and rappelling down ceilings. Angels, wreaths — even freakin’ Rudolph on the roof. And twinkle, twinkle everywhere. There’s a blazing tree suddenly sprouted in the garden that’s costing us a small fortune in repairs (every other day, it seems, a branch goes out). Just this morning workers finished lining the stairs with running lights. It’s very Star Trek. “Khaaaaan!” I shouted as I traipsed down the steps. “What’s wrong with you?” Ma said. “Are you high?”
Understand: this wasn’t a side to my mother that I saw growing up. Back then she was too busy working. Now that she’s semi-retired, she seems to be making up for all the drabness of Christmases past, when her only concession to the season were a token tree (unlit most of the time) and a slab of ham on the table. Noche buena? If it weren’t for the fireworks, we would have slept through midnight (I’m referring to the noise, not the spectacle).
Christmas has never held much fascination for me. It’s hard to care when people go about pretending all is right with the world. Crime stops in the Philippines whenever Manny Pacquiao enters the ring. The infant Jesus, on the other hand, never wielded such leverage. More larcenous behavior is committed around his birthday than at any time of the year, making a mockery of the biblical exhortation to give until it hurts. Hand the man your wallet and cellphone — it’s Christmas; get into the spirit.
Oh, I’m all for peace, love, and goodwill to men. And chestnuts roasting on an open fire. As for decking the halls, la-la-la-la-la, call me sexist, but I leave that to the women. It’s really not my business how they do it as long as they leave me out of their project. So our house is loaded with enough lights and knickknacks to decorate the town plaza. My mother looks like she’s having a jolly time of it; why spoil her fun? There’s not much cheer to November, anyway. Why not make the power company happy as well?
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