Ho, Ho, — Oh, F *** It.

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These are the only working Christmas lights in the house.  Out of three boxes of them.   I am decorating the tool-shed, I guess. 

Elder-care seems to involve a lot of swearing, and trying to Make Things Seem Nice, when really, they kind of aren’t.  And trying to string up Christmas lights in your dad’s yard, as he always did, to cheer him up and make him (and you) feel like you are taking good care of his house, and by extension, of him.

This is what I accomplished.  After testing the lights, lassoing some azaleas on the patio, de-lassoing when the plug didn’t reach the extension cord, and finally giving up and driving off to buy a tree and some replacement lights.

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WHO STORES THE COLORED LIGHTS ATTACHED TO THE WHITE LIGHTS?  NICELY COILED AROUND A STORE-IT-EASILY CABLE THING? WHO??

PEOPLE WHO HAVE DEMENTIA OR HAVE BEEN CARING TOO LONG FOR SPOUSES WITH DEMENTIA, THAT’S WHO.  

NOTHING in this house is ever what it seems. 

HALF the lights don’t even work.  These are ALL ONE STRING.  But in the middle they sort of cop out.  Kind of like me, after trying to string them one night, waiting till the next day so I could see better, and discovering, at dusk, that I am writing squiggles and probably foul words in the bushes with lights.

I drove off to the garden center for a real tree, and paid them extra to put on the tree stand and give me All New Lights.   I am dropping lots of money at the garden center.  They love middle-aged Ladies on the Verge.  We blow in and take all the things we could possibly need to Make Someone Happier and still, even with REPLACEMENT BULBS, the lights don’t work.  Garden-center teens explain lights never work the next year, it’s just a racket.  Works for me.  Take my money.

 

 

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