The Risks of Going to the Homestead

To clarify, my parents live in Chicago, in the city, we just have a lot of trees. It's not like New York, ok? Not everywhere is like New York. I know the thought can be shocking to some. Let it go.

Anyways, the first weekend that I was home we had some pretty mild weather and my mother decided that this meant it was a perfect opportunity to get up on the roof and hang the Christmas wreath and potentially other such festive things.

Now I have something of an aptitude for climbing on things: rocky outcrops, lighting grids, trees, piles of stuff, tables, banisters, jungle gyms, fallen trees, armoires, radiators, etc. I suppose one could put roofs on there. In this spirit, my father refused to have anything to do with this increasingly despised task of the holiday season. Also in this spirit, my mother told me to put on shoes that were not flip-flops and to get out on the roof.

Putting up the wreath, taking care of the basic electricality of it all was just fine. And THEN, the secret agenda appears out of nowhere.

"Oh Johanna, can you just check the gutter over there? I think the connection got displaced when we had them cleaned last week."

Oh really? You had them cleaned? Because I know have what feels, smells and looks like a fountain of hundred-year-old leaf debris all over my hands. I had to shove my entire arm up a curved gutter spout and muck it out. To aid me in this arduous process, I was given a wire hanger. And now I probably have tetanus.

Then I had to clean the outsides of the windows.

When I finally got back inside and on the ground, it was discovered that my mother had not thought to test the lights on the wreath before sending me into the tree canopy. FML.

And repeat.