Attack of the Inflatables

It’s starting to be a whole lot more festive around here these days. I’m not just talking about the house, either. I admit we did bare bones decorations, because there’s a mighty big trip coming up for us all right after Christmas, but the rest of the neighborhood has kicked into gear, too.

I think it’s that the weather finally cooled off from the mid-80’s back to where it’s supposed to be. I’m not sure I can handle the consistency of five times in a row where I don’t have to stick my hand on the window to see if it’s hot enough outside to wear shorts when I get dressed each day. But still, the cool slash cold slash freezing my butt off temperatures do add a nice feel to the holidays.

As I’m tooling around in the jeep after sunset, I see all these fun, cheerful decorations. There are lights twinkling in trees, hanging from roofs in that ooooh-so-realistic icicle stream, and pandering shamelessly to the little kid in all of us with huge ropes across the roof. Some go the extra mile and beg Santa to stop at their house, with candy-cane swags lining the sidewalks, mirrored in street after street over in Stepfordville. Of course that’s the same place where block captains have strategic meetings about decorations in January, gearing up for the next year, and the welcome wagon greets new residents with a lighting diagram and neighborhood bylaws which say they must comply, so I’m not sure that’s so cool after all.

But still, decorations are cool at night.

…During the day though, I see all these sad blobs lying on the ground, like melted Frosty Snowmen all over the place. They ooze across the winter grass in shades of white and red and green, with touches of blacks and blues for good measure. Cords snake from them leading to the driveways and front stoops like evil, alien tentacles. Somehow, Christmas has become corrupted by inflatable yard “art.”

I don’t get it, either. I really wish all the inflatable stuff like that had stayed in the price range where only party rental companies and used car dealerships could afford it. Then I wouldn’t be treated to the horrible spectacle of rip-stop nylon gone bad. And it is bad, too, what with the tiny little blower motors spinning Santa, Rudolph, Frosty and some unnamed Elf around on a carousel nightly, while they are lit up from inside. No one needs to see Santa’s guts, people.

Now I love me some tiny white lights. I love the colored ones, too, don’t get me wrong. But it’s the overdone accompaniment that has me a bit “what the hell?” about some of the decorations. The concept of some fresh pine boughs and candles has been bastardized to the Nth degree with the addition of inflatables. I’m almost afraid of what they’ll come up with next year.

I really think that the inflata-manger really says it all, though. Don’t you?