January 10, 2014
Inter-Mingling of the Species
Know what's nice about having a potluck party on Friday evening? If you invite the right people, you'll have enough food to last you the rest of the weekend. It may not be food that actually goes together (sausage links and cheesecake dip, anyone?), but what's more important -- a premeditated complimentary menu, or not changing out of your pajamas all weekend?
Since I'd already eaten the breakfast sausage for dinner on Saturday, that left the chocolate-covered pretzels for breakfast on Sunday. Long ago, I'd learned the secret to opening bags of snacks. The glued seams on the bottom of the bag are always much easier to get open than the top. So I turned the bag over to attack it from the bottom.
Not realizing that the top was already open a little bit. Chocolate shards and pretzel dust all over my lap.
Including my crotch. But I'm going to say lap because of what came next.
I figured I'd just carefully ease my pants off -- since I was already nearly fully-horizontal in my recliner anyway -- ball them up, and retire to my room for new pants. Easy-sleazy!
But the Christmas tree is still up. Which means that two of the four floor-to-ceiling living room windows are sans curtains. Because we are wonderful neighbors who like to share our fabulous Christmas lights with commuters walking to the train and neighbors alike! (Merry Christmas, neighborhood! If the blinking bulbs don't give you a seizure, Creepy Light-up Santa is sure to give you a grabber!)
Okay, forget the pants-less idea. Idea number two -- the vacuum cleaner. I could just get Husband to vacuum my lap with that retractable hose thing. And then I remembered that horrible screeching-sucking noise that happens when the shower curtain gets stuck in the nozzle, and I was NOT having it. Not in my lap!
Enter Plan C. Oh, dear God, why do I have to be so damn creative? And hilarious? And void of any moral compass?
I put the recliner back into the regular sitting position and called Stella over. It was her lucky day. A quick pat of my lap was all it took for me to alert her to what needed to happen. She looked at me. I looked at her. We silently nodded, and she got to work.
Yes. My dog licked my lap clean. I would have hung my head in shame, had I not been laughing The Ugly Laugh That Is Much Like Crying.
Now, in my defense, my recliner is leather. And new. And there was really no other option that wouldn't have lead to melted chocolate on the leather, and that is not an option when you are O.C.D. Stella's tongue is really the only tool in the world that can clean-up food on a molecular level, thereby saving my gorgeous new chair from the same fate that currently plagues the driver's seat in my car.
Also in my defense, my knees were together. There was no tongue-on-pants-on-labia contact. My clitoris was not involved.
But the sight was still enough to practically send Husband to the hospital. Thank God he eventually recovered. I'd hate to have to explain that one to the emergency room staff.
"No, I didn't punch him in the ribs. I just... Yeah, let's go with that. I punched him in the ribs. Go get the officer on duty. I will confess everything... except why my lap is moist."
So there it is, my holiday gift to you, loyal reader -- moral superiority. Enjoy it while you can. And then let's never speak of it again.
December 30, 2013
How Wenchie Saved Christmas
You're familiar with Elf on the Shelf, yes? Yes, of course, you are. You've at least seen the many oh-so-clever Elf on the Shelf memes going around Facebook. And for those of you who don't know -- Elf on the Shelf is a little elf who sits on a shelf (hence the name) in one's home and reports back to Santa on the behavior of the little children who live there. It's deceitful. It's manipulative. It's everything we love about Christmas.
Now, regardless of your opinion of E.O.T.S. (as he/she shall henceforth be called), my sister Billi has employed her elf "Sam" with great success, as her two hellions -- Boy Child (10) and The Spare (7) -- still believe in Santa Claus. God be praised!
Last Christmas, if you'll remember, Boy Child achieved exceeding, almost gratuitous adorability by including in his note to Santa a request for a Brighton necklace for his mommy. (You can refresh your memory here.) So, wanting to keep the Santa myth alive for him for one more year, Billi bought herself a necklace. Win-win!
But this year, Boy Child upped the stakes. His belief in Santa waning, he didn't include his request for Billi in his letter to Santa; he privately told Sam the E.O.T.S. to tell Santa. Well, shitsnax. Barring a motion-sensor camera embedded in Sam's belly, there was no way Billi could know what Boy Child whispered to the elf, and his childhood faith and innocence would be irrevocably shattered on Christmas morning when Santa failed to deliver the requested gift.
Meanwhile, as per our usual custom, Billi and I did stocking stuffers for each other. She gives mine to Husband, I give hers to Girl Child, and -- poof! -- they magically appear in our stockings on Christmas morning. C'mon, we're adorable!
As Billi sat and unwrapped the small gifts in her stocking, Boy Child watched with great interest.
Aveda lip gloss set.
"That's not it."
"That's not it."
Book by Dave Barry.
"That's not it. I don't think Santa got my message."
Blue, feathered bird ornament.
"THAT'S IT! THAT'S WHAT I ASKED SANTA TO GIVE YOU!"
Well, slap my ass and call me Whendel. If that ain't a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is! WENCHIE FOR THE WIN! It's like Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and a unicorn had a baby, and it was ME!
And that, boys and girls, is the story of how Wenchie saved Christmas. Any minute now, I expect the t.v. executives will be backing a dump truck full of money up to my house to buy the rights to my story, so watch for it next December on the Hallmark channel! "A Very Wenchie Christmas," starring Rebel Wilson as Wenchie, Scarlett Johanson as Billi, and Jaden Smith as Boy Child!