Decking the halls with a change of mess and clutter

I'm trying to declutter my house, but this is sadly futile because it's Christmas.

This might as well be another definition for clutter because it's impossible to decorate for Christmas without making an almighty mess.

Let's talk about my garage. I've recently been on a campaign to move a virtual Mount Everest of stuff I never use from my closets and living room into our secondary storage unit, also known as the garage.

I know some of you guys are thinking, “The garage is for parking the car. Not for collecting your junk.” I can see the disgusted looks on your faces.

No, of course, I've never tried to put my car in there. It would never fit. I mean, get real. Do we live in Michigan, where I'd have to shovel the snow off my car every day just to go to work? Of course not. Are we in Indio, where my dashboard would crack from the heat? Nope.

But my garage is still highly useful. Its plywood shelves do work great to keep stuff I only need annually, like the petroleum-based Christmas tree or the tents we used to take camping but now only pretend we will use again.

It's been such a feeling of triumph to remove things from the corner of the living room, like the cooler we took to Big Sur last summer but never quite managed to put away. It belongs on the camping equipment shelf in the garage, but it took a long, leisurely detour before making it there.

And then there are the last couple of boxes of wine left over from my daughter's wedding 18 months ago. They've been sitting in the bottom of the hall closet ever since, along with my son's snowboard, which I'm hoping he will never use again.

Gee, now that those items have gone to their nests in the garage, there's room in the hall closet for other clutter that can be removed from the dining room floor, like the huge boxes of craft supplies I got out to make Curly Girl's wedding invitations but, oops, never quite managed to put away.

But here's the thing. Thanks to Christmas, now I have to haul things out of the garage — which is the wrong direction — and bring them into the house.

At least they're organized in red and green storage boxes so I know which ones to haul into the house. Well, I hope so. For reasons that remain a mystery to me, Christmas decorations keep ending up in the orange-and-black Halloween boxes, and vice versa.

Last year, we put a big plastic skull atop the Christmas tree, because it never made it into the correct box. So, why not?

My son did manage to bring in the petroleumbased Christmas tree and plunk it in the living room, though it has yet to be assembled. And the boxes of lights made it into the house and are up decorating the front yard, too.

I live on one of those suburban streets where my neighbors have too much energy. They cover their yards with acres of cheerful lights and decorations, so I'd look like a pathetic slacker if I didn't.

Last year, I wasn't feeling too great, so I called up one of those yard decorating services to ask how much to string some basic lights up for me. The guy told me he could put some lights across my yard and around the bushes in my planter for a mere $450. He was giving me a break since I was sick.

After the world stopped spinning, I told him thanks a lot, but that wouldn't work for me. But thanks for offering me the discount. Even if it didn't include the cost of renting the lights.

Then I ordered $100 worth of white lights online and told the boys in my house to go outside and string them. Problem solved. It looked great.

When my kids were small, I used to decorate like a demented Energizer Bunny. Tinsel garlands hung from the chandeliers. All sorts of random Santas peered out from every corner. Christmas-themed pillows and kitchen towels proclaimed the season. Glowing fake candles illuminated it all indoors, accompanied by a supernova of wattage outdoors.

I'm not sure exactly when I got tired of this, but probably one January when I had to take it all down and pack it away. So now things are simpler. It will probably stay that way until my new grandson, Floyd, is older. Then I suspect I'll get crazy again.

Meanwhile, I just hope someone will come and put away all these boxes.