Ahhh, feel that? Recognize the sensation? Feeling returning to your fingers and toes. We forgot that, poor Floridians that we are. Unaccustomed to brutal winter weather. Polar vortexes? That sounds like something we order from an ice cream truck. Cool. Refreshing. Summer. Not something that fries our yards. Freezes our pipes. Forces us to bundle up in whatever is available — “Will anyone look at me funny if I wear this Christmas tree skirt around my neck?”

“What do you think, Magic 8 Ball? Should I let you decide everything for me in the New Year?” I shook the little hunk of plastic. Turned it over and waited for the ghostly message to appear in the window. What would it say? Would it accept such a massive responsibility? I trembled with excitement. My whole life was about to change. I was getting back on the New Year’s resolution train. I never do resolutions, but this year I felt called to make one. But not just any resolution. Something big! And that’s when I came up with this: Let the Magic 8 Ball make all of my decisions for me. BUT … only if it agreed to take on the challenge.

Once upon a time there were three boxes. Three. One was for outside decorations. Two were for in. They held lights. Ornaments. An assortment of Christmas knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Decorating was manageable. I could be in and out of the attic in a couple minutes. All was right with the world. Ho ho ho … Fast forward to the present. The modern day Christmas … with a child in the house … and I have just completed a marathon. A military operation. Our living room looks like a shipping port strewn with containers. There are lights everywhere. Homemade decorations filling every conceivable space. Each step risks impaling my foot on some lethal decoration. Bah humbug … I must have carted 16 boxes of Christmas “stuff” out of the attic this year. It’s a death-defying experience. Actually, it’s more death-inviting. I try to do it alone. Why? Because men are missing a key chromosome for common sense.