Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls

pleather chair and snatched my credit card as I lifted it clear of my wallet. Again, I heard the sound of something like a record screeching to a halt.

  "This credit card has expired," Todd Everest huffed as he frisbeed it back to me. Snapping his fingers twice, he snarled, "Produce another within the next 30 seconds, and I still might consider letting you get the child's plate at the buffet."

  Protests about my lousy credit report and spending habits fell on deaf ears. I may as well have been pleading to an Easter Island statue.

  "Fifteen seconds and ticking, Missus Pooper," Todd Everest said.

  I begrudgingly handed him my debit card, which he immediately swiped through the card scanner imbedded in his arm.

  On any other day, I would have kicked the clown square in his masculinities, but that was pointless because he didn't have any. I pretended to listen intently to Todd Everest gush on about himself and the "Polar Dream" package until he made the comment about filming location and allotted time slots.

  "Hold on," I said, in my bravest hamster-like squeak, "I have kids that are asleep at 1:30 in the morning. You do not want them grumpy."

  "No," he mocked, "YOU'RE the one that doesn't want them grumpy! I will sit quietly and read a book until everyone is in their pre-determined places. I will not set up a backdrop or props…or even adjust the lighting until my muffin and latte are fully digested. So, my requirement is that you arrive thirty minutes before your appointment and use the remaining time to entertain my every whimsy."

  "I've had enough, you pompous jackass!" I politely remarked. "I'm out of here."

  "I don't care for your tone and lack of reverence, Missus Pooper," Todd Everest sniffed. A jerk of his head was the signal for Captain NoNeck to rush in and work me over with his set of brass knuckles. I signed package Polar Dream's contract nanoseconds before King Kong turned my teeth into Chicklettes.

  Dripping sweat and trembling from the shakedown, I was met by Kewpie Doll, who happened to be blocking the escape path. She demanded that I complete a survey about my most pleasant experience.

  My backhand, combined with the heft of my bloated purse, clobbered Pam Anderson Junior so hard that her fake ta-tas shot out her silk nightie and landed in the steaming cauldron of hot chocolate. I was so pissed on my way out of the mall that I grabbed a Gucci watch off a kiosk's shelf and tossed the clerk a $50 bill without calling my son, Perry, to get his approval.

  That evening, my husband slammed the phone down so hard the handset shattered. "I can't believe this!" he roared. "They refuse to give us a refund, stating that you willingly signed the contract. We have the choice of showing up for the damned photo shoot at 1:00 a.m. or forfeit all the money. By the way, what did he mean when he said, 'including the down payment for the Polar Dream package?"

  "You weren't particularly fond of the boys, were you?" I sheepishly asked.

  "Oh no, you didn't agree to donate my testicles again, did you?" he shrieked, covering his crotch with both hands.

  "Not those 'boys,' you idiot," I exasperatedly replied. "I'm talking about our sons. There's some kind of clause in the contract that states if we don't appear on time for the photo shoot, our sons become indentured servants to Todd Everest Portman, the pinhead photographer, for one summer."

  "Hmm…it would get them out of the house and away from the TV and computers for a while. Will they get paid?" my dropout of a husband asked.

  "Indentured servants are effectively slaves, Dan," I explained, "until our debt is paid off."

  "Again, would they get paid?" he persisted.

  "No, Sweetheart, they wouldn't. And, by the way, if we don't show up, then they garnish our wages for the entire cost of the Polar Dream package."

  "Garnish? That means they'll give us fresh lettuce and lemon wedges? I just don't get it," he said. "I thought this was a photo shoot."

  "You'd make a fine studio photographer," I dryly responded. His sincere and modest "thank you" confirmed my husband is an idiot. "By the way, if we don't show up for this fool sitting, you might want to be looking for a second job to pay them off."

  "Why should I?" he huffed, "After all, you were the one who willingly signed their contract. You should be the one to get another job."

  "Three's enough already, Dan," I angrily retorted. "I'm still paying for your Blu-ray collection of Vanilla Ice's best concert performances. Why is the disk blank anyway? Did one of the boys accidentally erase it?"

  "Um, sure, Hon, that's what happened." He suspiciously changed the subject with, "You know how much my parents and sisters love the holidays, don't you?"

  Distracted by the gallon of milk gushing out our fridge when I opened the door, I shot back, "Right, Dan, whatever!" Well, Forest Gump interpreted that as an approval to invite every one of his inbred relatives over for a big Christmas feast prepared by me!

  Dan walked over and gave me a warm and loving hug. Actually, I think he did it to pin my arms down so I didn't beat the holy living snot out of him.

  The song "Do you Really Want to Hurt Me?" by Culture Club began blaring on the radio.

  "Listen, Babe, they're playing our wedding song!" Dan said in a weak attempt to soften the news.

  So, even louder, I sang, "Yes, I Really Want to Kill You!" From the kitchen window, I watched Dan sprint to his accidental convertible and peel out of our driveway.

  I was prepared for the knock at the door the next morning. Expecting to see Dan fumbling with his keys – not knowing I had changed the locks – I grabbed my cast-iron skillet, threw open the door and yelled, "Your key doesn't work anymore, Dan!" I stopped the arc of my skillet a mere three inches in front of Dan's mother's face.

  "Sounds like my boy's in need of boner pills," Dan's father, Bernie, deadpanned. "I can share some of mine with him if you think it'll help you two get through the weekend."

  "The only thing that will help me with this mess is a bottle of Tequila," I muttered under my breath.

  "What's that, Dear?" asked Dan's mother, Fran. "If you need someone to clean up the cat's mess, I'd imagine one of my strapping grandsons would help. Now, you just waddle over in front of them and put your foot down."

  "I want to put my foot somewhere, but Dan's not here right now," I said. "So, why don't you two come back later after he gets home," I said during my attempt to shove the door closed.

  It was too late. Fran slithered through the narrowed door opening, and then the door bounced off of Bernie's beer gut and flung wide open. Dan's three older sisters, Chloe, Barbara, and Annie, arrived a few hours later. And Dan still hadn't returned home. I would have filed a Missing Person's report with the police, but I didn't really give a crap. In fact, once Dan came home, I had already planned to call the cops to report that I had killed an intruder.

  "I see that almost everyone made it to our house," Dan said through the phone. "Too many witnesses, Babe. Guess I'll mosey on home now."

  "I have a better idea," I saucily purred. "Where are you? I'm feeling frisky. How about if I slip out of here and join you for a quickie?"

  "Nope, odds are you'd come over here to the Plaid Piper and slit my throat."

  "So, when did you get a brain, Scarecrow?" I fumed. "By the way, the Plaid Piper is a gay bar. Is there something you want to tell me, Pussycat?" I nearly peed myself, I was laughing so hard.

  The pregnant pause told me the dumb-butt did not have a clue. He cleared his throat and whispered, "I was wondering why all these terrific guys kept buying me drinks last night. I came back here this morning to see if I could scrounge up a free breakfast and thought I should call you. That was pretty considerate of me, wasn't it?" Coldly, I refused to answer, so Dan continued his confession with, "Look, I wasn't going to tell you this, but I fell asleep in my hotel room last night and woke up this morning in bed with a naked transvestite."

  "Serves you right, dirtbag. How'd it feel being on the receiving end, li'l guy?" I sneered, referring to the meaningless size of his tool.

  "I'm sore, okay! I hope you're happy now. This i
s all you're fault." Dan said, in his attempt to move the spotlight off of him.

  The Tequila was kicking in, so I played along. "How so?" I asked.

  "If you hadn't signed the photo-studio's contract, I wouldn't have blown my cool and fled for the bar."

  I deflected it back by saying, "Your parents and sisters are here, Shmuck. You arranged that long before I ever landed in the photo-studio nightmare."

  Dan rubbed salt in the wound by asking, "Have Perry's and Matt's girlfriends arrived yet? I told them to let you know if their families were going to join us for Christmas dinner, too."

  It was my turn to slam down the phone. What was I going to do? With everyone Dan had invited, we would have 27 people stuffed into every nook and cranny of our 3-bedroom house for Christmas Eve dinner.

  Did I forget to mention our portrait sitting with Todd Everest Portman was scheduled for 1:30 a.m. Christmas morning? Yep, I was scared and stupid enough to settle for that date and time.

  Perhaps it was the booze talking, but the Tequila and I hatched the most delicious plan.

  I cheerfully let Dan back in the house with nothing more than a gentle pat on his butt. "Just a reminder of your good times this morning, Easy Rider. Come on in! You're folks and sisters are all in the den. We're watching Deliverance," I chuckled.

  As expected, Perry and Mat's girlfriends, Tiffany Rae Allen and Sandra Conner, respectively, told me their families were excited about joining us for Christmas Eve dinner. Turns