We’re being invaded. That’s right. In homes across America, an
invasion is taking place. Alien beings are landing on front lawns
and just sitting there. We don’t know what they are waiting for. We
just know that they are there.
We’re being invaded. That’s right. In homes across America, an invasion is taking place. Alien beings are landing on front lawns and just sitting there. We don’t know what they are waiting for. We just know that they are there.
That’s right. America is being invaded by inflatable holiday décor.
Frankly, this invasion scares me to death. It’s not even that it’s tacky. Look, I’m a woman with an obviously fake tree in her living room. And that tree is covered with tiny Santa ornaments that either have Santa surfing, sitting on lounge chairs drinking mai-tai’s or trying not to get too close to the twinkling flamingo lights. So I know tacky. Heck, I am tacky personified.
What really scares me is that these inflatable things are huge. Seriously. Take a close look at one of them – they’ll scare you too. We’re talking about 12-foot-tall Santa Clauses.
It’s pretty frightening to see that much jolly old elf in one place. And it’s even scarier when he’s riding in a huge sleigh driven by giant reindeer.
I love the holidays as much as anyone. In fact, I might like the holidays more than anyone. But I draw the line at putting inflatable people on my lawn. I mean, it’s just wrong to have a giant Santa hanging out all day long, waving cheerily at all who pass, only to turn him off at midnight so he’s a massive puddle of polyester until the next day.
Call me crazy, but I would feel like I was killing Santa every single night. And what would happen if the unthinkable occurred and one morning I forgot to inflate Santa? Would I be responsible for hundreds of children immediately going into intense therapy because they saw a dead Santa on their neighbor’s lawn? It could scar a kid for life.
Frankly, it’s just too much responsibility for me.
Of course, I could just get a snowman. But really, what’s the point? This is California. In fact, this is a part of California where snow, if we see it at all, is rare and only visible on distant mountain peaks. In a once-in-a-lifetime-storm, we might see a few flurries hit the porch. But those melt faster than a Milky Way bar on a leather car seat in August.
On the other hand, if I forgot to inflate the poor guy, it might just be authentic. I mean, you would expect a melted snowman on a South Valley lawn where the coldest day of the year is about 45 degrees, right?
Of course, I could just get a giant snow globe. But there’s something about those things that’s even scarier than the giant Santas and climatically incorrect snowmen.
You take a snowman – and sometimes an entire snow family – and you trap them inside a plastic ball. And all day long, they sit in front of your house with a fan throwing air in places that might be a little uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that they are being constantly bombarded by tiny plastic snow pellets smacking them upside the head.
Yeah, that’s the way I’d want to spend my life.
I mean, look at them. They’re waving cheerily, but you just know that deep inside, they’re frightened too. What if the power goes out? What if the mean kid down the street suddenly decides to see what happens when the snow globe family says hello to his little friend, Mr. Screwdriver?
And the scariest part of all is this. What would happen if all these inflatables got loose? Would they soar off into space? Would they meet up with all the lost Mylar balloons and decide to get revenge? And what if you had more than one inflatable on your lawn?
Could they all get together and plot against you? Could you come home from work one day to find your entire house sitting about 20 feet in the air, still connected to your assortment of now-flying inflatable reindeer?
So, you see, this is why those giant Santas and snowmen scare the beejeebers out of me. Honestly, you never know where desperation and a couple of extension cords will lead. That’s why you will never find an inflatable anything in my front yard. Not even an inflatable tropical Santa dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, riding in a sleigh driven by eight inflatable flamingoes.
Although, as the Queen of Trailer Trash Christmas, I’d be sorely tempted.
