Where have I been, you ask? (And when I say "you" I mean my lovely neighbor Jill who wasn't really concerned, just bored and needed some tripe and twaddle to read). So Jill, In addition to the obligatory holiday shin digs, shopping and other shtuff, my cup of crud runneth over. In keeping with the holiday spirit I've outlined my absenteeism excuses to the tune of a favorite Christmas carol. Keep in mind the items in parenthesis are for clarification only and should not be sung. Got it? Ok, big breath.
In the month of December my true love gave to me(and my family):
9 calls to comcast (slow high speed internet)
8 new prescriptions
7 doctor's visits
6 days of shoveling (me, not the hubby. See item #1)
F I V E G O L D E N S H E E T S.(bed-wedding woes. No, not me.)
4 sinus infections
3 refinances
2 kids' birthdays
AND A RUPTURED ACHILLES!
Now that we've taken care of the housekeeping items, onto the reason I called this meeting. It has come to my attention that a hidden danger lurks in every unfinished basement. I'm not talking venomous hairy legged creatures, carbon monoxide poisoning or even toppling food storage shelves of Cap'n Crunch, cling peaches and canned corn. No, surprisingly I'm referring to the risks imposed by those simple white strings with the metal doohickeys knotted at the end used to turn on a bare light bulb.
You see I nearly inflicted on myself a smile akin to a Kentucky monster truck rally season ticket holder. In a rare and coveted 3 minutes to myself I foolishly retreated to the cold, cavernous concrete confines of our unfinished basement for gift wrapping. While some enjoy the mad cat screech of scotch tape dispensers and exercising the pre-requisite geometry skills needed to wrap, this chore for me ranks right up there with do it yourself bikini waxes, returning electronics to Wal-Mart, and fishing that rat's nest of damp hair out of the shower drain with my tweezerman tweezers.
Now back to the public service announcement. I recklessly stacked a gps thingy, pyrex storage containers, perfume and other assorted breakables in slippery boxes into a teetering tower of debt filled doom on the cement floor. As I overloaded my arms with the pyramid of presents I mistakenly heard my litter of preschoolers racing down the stairs. Terrified they'd discover my secret stash of Christmas joy, I panicked. With the grace and elegance of an overdue water buffalo I jumped up, grabbed the metal thingamabob with my mouth and hastily yanked off the bulb.
That one vigorous pull not only left me in the dark, but securely wedged the string between my two front teeth like equine gauge dental floss. The worst part was the metal thingy anchored the twine in place and kept knocking on the back of my teeth. Now had I been David Letterman, Goofy the dog or any of the Beverly Hillbillies, that thick piece of string would have slid on through like Crisco on a Christmas pig. But $2500 in orthodontia, flossing only on dental appointment days, and the generous gob of carmelcorn gunk for lunch created an impenetrable trap.
At that point I was nothing more than a dumb dog on a short leash. So I acted accordingly and scooted backwards, posterior protruding, and shook my head to dislodge the metal whatchamacallit all the while balancing the slippery stack of fragile packages.
Why didn't I just put the presents down and pull it out with my fingers? Well, short string plus short person = short on options. The safety code length string only allowed me to bend over slightly. And, while I do have freakishly long arms,(thanks to Mrs. Fitzgerald, my 3rd grade teacher, for pointing that out at recess), apparently this freak came up short again and I was unable to deposit the breakables on the floor.
I then tried disengaging the string by standing on my tippy toes to get some slack while scooching the metal grabber around with my tongue and teeth. No dice. If only I'd skipped A.P. History and practiced tying knots in maraschino cherry stems with the cool high school girls! Who knew that skill would prove useful outside of a dating resume?
So at this point my options are:
1)scream (or slobber and slur) for help from two 4 year olds and run the risk of exposing some of their gifts.
2)Wait hours in the dark until my husband gets home and endure a lifetime of clearly deserved incessant ridicule.
Before I can decide a tiny tickle in my nose turns into a sneeze even my Grandpa Berg couldn't beat. In a forceful spray of slobber and snot the string is finally blown out of my mouth.
