My wife is a fan of tchotchkes, those decorative trinkets that have no intrinsic function other to annoy innocent husbands everywhere. Tiny figurines and pithy sayings painted on signs soil our shelves like weeds on a manicured lawn. Our window ledges and bookshelves creak under the weight of energy crystals, decorative vases and tiny potted cacti. Holidays, therefore, become opportunities for a level of proliferation that threatens to overwhelm even the most vigilant of suffering spouses.
No sooner does the calendar turn to December in our house than tchotchke obsession reaches its peak. Suddenly, wooden Santas are hung from every door knob and miniature Christmas trees adorn every commode. Little bells are tacked on all the doors that make our house sound like the entrance to a hardware store.