They All Come From the Same Place, Don't They?

Now, I normally wouldn't rat out my own mother. In fact, I don't think I ever have except for the one time when she parked our car in a mall parking place by rounding off the corners of the car next to us. After several tries. Now, that was just too darn neat to keep to myself, especially when she coolly picked up the molding that had been on the side of our car prior to parking, stated that clearly there was an obvious manufacturing defect that allowed silly molding to actually stick out from the car and then threw it in the back seat, brushed off her hands and calmly stated, "your Dad will take care of it, let's go get a sweater". Face it, when you're seven that is just too darn cool to keep to yourself.

But, for the sake of preserving any inheritance that might someday come my way, Sunday brunches, and a whole lot of current babysitting, I'm certainly smart enough not to rat her out now. Nope, would’t do that.

However, hypothetically speaking, let's say one's dear mother recently provided an explanation, in the tones appropriate for the Church she was in, as to why one's father was not with her as he is each and every week. And, that explanation came out as, "He's in the hospital". Now, let's add the conjecture that this was the church where one's father had managed to cause a little bit of a commotion at a prior service by having a massive heart attack. Of course, it is important to note that the Irish amongst us do consider the annual St. Patrick's Day dinner, drink and dance a "service" so it qualified. And, then two years later, one’s father again caused a tiny bit of commotion by leaving the weekly services in a shiny ambulance after partaking of a bit too much chemo. So, giving the "he's in the hospital" explanation followed by a chortle when he was indeed just delayed at the airport would, I believe, allow for at least one global karma ratting out exception if not more, again, not that I would do anything like that.

Now, as a matter of necessity and only as a matter of necessity, Magic Elves must enter this discussion. And if you don’t have one they are these little 12” elves that you order on-line and that come packed in a box with magic snow which is remarkably similar to the paper circles left over from a three-hole punch. And each elf costs, with shipping, $40. And I’m guessing that the inventor of these elves is getting some recycling credit for picking up left over paper circles from some big company so her profit margin is probably pretty good. And I didn’t think of it which really just ticks me off.

So, you order one of these cute little elves because you only have one child and don’t want him to miss out on the Elf Magic craze and because you clearly are an idiot. And, when you get the little critter, you also get a cute story which you read to the son which requires you to put out water and crackers for the elf each evening to remind the elf of snow and who knows what. And, you put some of those round "magic snowflakes" on him. And then somehow, he causes mischief during the night while also bringing a little gift to the son in a gift bag that comes with the elf. It’s all so very cute and you're still so deluded that you take 87 pictures of the kid with the elf to preserve the lovely elf experience for posterity.

Then you get the second child and another elf becomes necessary and as luck would have it, you can still get one on-line, with shipping, for $40. A girl elf this time for the daughter. And, now two little presents are needed each evening for the greedy elf-owners which thereby drives up the cost of the Christmas season to “stupid” as soon as the elf-owners catch on that the toothpicks in nifty containers, matchbox cars, melon baller, band aids, birthday candles, plastic silverware and other nifty neato items the elves are bringing are remarkably similar to those that were already in the house.

Then, the mischief ideas begin to pan out considering it’s been three years for the boy elf. That is, of course, with the exception of the one where the elves like to get on the ceiling fan at night and hook their feet on really well so we can turn that sucker on in the morning to see if we can launch them into the fireplace. The fireplace is unlit, of course, as we all know that burning up an elf has some Santa repercussions with associated nightmares and teeth gnashing and has an associated cost of at least $40 including shipping and handling for elf replacement. But, heck, a girl can always dream.

So, the hypothetical mother is in the house, having watched the little ones while us older folks were off doing who knows what and I’m picking up the elves to get them on the ceiling fan while fighting off the cat who has an issue with the elves getting a cup of water that he believes is his when the mother states that another family member got herself an elf this year as well. But, that elf wouldn’t fit on a ceiling fan because she was quite a bit bigger. Which doesn’t make sense to her, because, as she explains, don’t they all come from the same place?

I told her of course they do, it’s a magical place called the North Pole where this guy called Santa lives. Not going to be me that that ruins the magic of Christmas for her. Even if I do hear a comment about how a certain someone is somewhat of a smart ass which certainly is a trait that could only have come from my father. Nope, Virgina, all the elves come from the North Pole. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.