Due to the logistical drama that is in-law-to-in-law niece-sharing, Santa agreed at the last minute to swing by our abode a day early this year. Though I was initially concerned celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus on the 24th instead of the 25th might jeopardize the size of our holy windfall, my fears proved short-lived as I soon realized our arrangement allowed me an extra 24 hours to do nothing but sit on my duff, lube up with Laura Mercier 'Tarte au Citron' soufflé body creme and take photographs with my new jazzamarazz camera.
"What to shoot first...what to shoot first...," I said to myself, maundering from room to room, Monte keeping a quick clip at my heels.
"How about this?" my Father says, handing me a large, relatively thin square-shaped package.
"What is it?" I asked, curious but skeptical that whatever it was it couldn't be nearly as first-photo worthy as Monte using my niece's upper-arm chunk as his personal popsicle. "This wasn't under the tree, was it?"
"No, we wanted to give this one to you separately -- open it," my Mother instructed with an eye-twinkle, wedging herself between the two of us, "you're gonna die, just die."
Now I know only a handful of you have ever met my Mother, but trust me when I tell you this woman put the first and second 'p' in "proper," so when she breaks out the slang on Christmas morning - violent slang, no less - you know something truly fantastic is about to drop.
But even my highest expectations couldn't have prepared me for this...
Here's hoping for four-paneled dog prints underneath every one of your real and artificial trees tomorrow morning!
have a very Merry Christmas,