Now THAT’S a Weird Christmas Tradition!

Larceny at the Christmas Party
So then…she offers me a tray of hors d’oeuvres – little warm puff pastries of cheesy-mushroom goodness. I pop a puff and say, “Wow – what a great Christmas party, Angie. Your home is so beautifully decorated — and the food is delicious!”

It’s a genuine “grown-up” holiday party with Christmas carols playing in the background while we enjoy a dinner buffet, eggnog, and decorated Christmas cookies.

(I’m in my 20’s — so most of the parties I attend are just booze-soaked excuses for people to hook up – the biggest nod to the Christmas spirit might be stacking the red Solo cups next to the green Heineken bottles.)

Angie smiles and says, “Thank you. I’m so glad you guys could make it! I’ve heard a lot about you from Matt.”

She points to her husband Matt who’s at the bar with my boyfriend, so we wave.

Then Carla and Ed, the couple who drove with us to the party, join us in the living room.

Angie juggles her tray to give them a one-armed hug since they’ve known each other from back in New York.

Carla says, “Angie, the decorations are great! And this tree is amazing!”

We turn to gaze at the beautiful Christmas ornaments tucked into the branches amongst the twinkly lights. It really is gorgeous.

We all chat a bit, then Angie says she needs to return to the kitchen for more appetizers.

As soon as her back is turned, Ed plucks a snowman ornament from the tree and slips it in his pocket!

Just then Angie turns back around to ask if we want more wine. I’m so surprised, I can’t speak but Ed casually says, “No thanks, we’re good.”

When Angie turns her back again, Ed pulls out the snowman and tosses it to Carla who scoops it up and slips it into her purse!

I look to the left and look to the right – but the other partygoers haven’t seen the ornament hurtling through the air, so they just keep right on talking, laughing, and drinking.

I don’t know Carla and Ed very well, but I’m the only witness, so I feel compelled to hiss, “What the hell?”

Ed says nonchalantly, “Oh, it’s a tradition.”

Carla nods.

I say, “What’s a tradition? Stealing an ornament is a tradition?”

Carla says, “Yeah. We do it at every Christmas party we attend.”

I furrow my brow. “Are you serious? You steal ornaments at every Christmas party you attend?”

Ed says, “Just one ornament.”

Carla shoots Ed a look like I’m the crazy one. “Yeah, just one ornament per party. Jeesh, Darcy.”

I sputter, “But, but, but…isn’t that wrong?”

My Catholic school-trained brain is about to overload. A) This is stealing. And B) This is stealing a decoration celebrating Jesus’ birthday! And C) THIS IS STEALING!

Carla waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, they’ll never miss it. Look how many ornaments they have! It’s just one little one.”

Oh My God, I’m pretty sure this is the same rationalization for heinous crimes perpetrated against humanity the world over.

“But what if it’s a special one – or they realize it’s missing?” I ask.

Ed says, “By the time people put their decorations away, they can’t remember every ornament.”

Carla concurs. “And besides, we never take a special one – like something personalized – like Baby’s First Christmas with the date on it — or like a touristy one from a vacation spot or something.”

Ed chimes in, “And we don’t take ones that look antique. We just take normal stuff like elves, Santas, angels, candy canes, penguins—”

Carla laughs, “Penguins! Oh my God, we have tons of penguins!”

Ed nods, sips his beer, and chuckles – “Tons of penguins!”

“What do you do with the ornaments?” I ask.

“Oh, we take them home and put them on our tree. We have quite a collection. Some really cool stuff. We’ve been doing this for years,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Carla, looking at Ed fondly. “Ever since we started dating.”

He smiles back at her. In their minds, this is simply a sweet little holiday tradition that they share.

To me, it borders on sacrilege! Their Christmas tree is laden with the profit of their sins! They’ve plundered the goodwill of their friends and neighbors to beautify their own home!

I ask, “But what happens when some of those people come to your house for a Christmas party? Won’t they see their ornaments on your tree and recognize them?!”

They look at me with bewilderment.

“Oh, we’d never have a party at our house,” says Carla.

“Yeah,” says Ed. “Someone might steal something.”

— Darcy Perdu



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(Unlike Carla and Ed’s sacrilegious thievery — MY holiday traditions include cookies and milk for Santa who writes only in BLOCK letters and opening one gift on Christmas Eve. What are some of YOUR Christmas traditions or funny holiday memories? Ever witnessed any larceny or questionable behavior around the holidays?  Share them in the Comments Section!)
Larceny at the Christmas Party P

BOOBIE-trapped — LITERALLY & Hilariously!

BOOBIE-trapped -- LITERALLY & Hilariously!  True tale when my boob got trapped in...well, you gotta click it to find out!  #funny #embarrassing #mammogram #fireman

So then…she politely avoids eye contact as she grabs my left breast and plops it on the plate. She yanks my left arm almost out of its socket and drapes it up, then angles it awkwardly around the giant metal mammogram machine so that she can take a picture.

(I imagine that this is what prom pictures will look like in the future – topless girls with their arms around their transformers-robot dates.)

The technician rotates the plate a bit, then she flattens my cantaloupe to a crepe.

“Don’t breathe,” she instructs, then steps behind the shield to press the xray button.

I hear the whir of the xray picture, then she says, “Oh!” and darts from the room!

‘Oh?’

What does she mean: ‘Oh?’

Was she talking about my xray?

Was that a dismayed ‘Oh’ like ‘Oh, this is dreadful, we have to chop this puppy off!’

Or was it more of a surprised ‘Oh’ like ‘Oh, how odd – how did that diamond ring get in that boob?’

However, I imagine if I had accidentally swallowed a diamond ring, it would probably end up in my stomach, and not my left breast. But who knows? Stranger things have happened.

How would they get it out, I wonder? What if they damaged the breast in the process? Well, I suppose I could just sell the diamond ring to buy a new breast. A perky one. But then I’d have to get the other one to match. It’s too awkward to have one perky and the other one swinging.

It’s at this time I wonder if it’s ok for me to breathe again.

I look toward the door which has a little window, but I can’t see anything.

The technician has still not returned.

I reach my free hand up to see if I can somehow release the lever that has my boobie in its excruciatingly painful grip – but no luck.

Where the hell did she go?

I wait and wait and wait. And wait some more.

Finally she returns. I ask, “What happened!?”

She replies nonchalantly — and with a dismissive wave toward the hall – “Oh, there was just a small fire out there.” And then she goes about swapping my left boob for the right boob in her torture chamber.

WHAT?

There was just a small WHAT out there? A fire?

And she left me in here, literally trapped in this machine? I’m not familiar with emergency medical procedure, but I’m pretty sure “In case of fire, release boobies” has got to be near the top of the list!

What if the small fire had turned into a BIG fire and she had to evacuate? What about half-naked me, with my breast in a vise? If I couldn’t release the lever, would I have to flee and leave my breast behind? How could I? I’ve grown attached to that breast. AND it might have a diamond ring inside it, for Pete’s sake!

I am working myself up into quite a state until I realize that if the fire had become larger, then big strapping rugged firefighters would have shown up to save the day. And being caught as a half-naked damsel in distress would be a memorable way to meet a potential date.

I can just hear him telling our grandkids how we met: “Fire and smoke everywhere – but your brave topless Grammy was grinning from ear to ear as we rescued her — cantaloupe and crepe and all.”

— Darcy Perdu

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Diamond in the Breast

When Parenting Lessons Go VERY Wrong

When Parenting Lessons Go Very Wrong    #funny  #parenting  #lesson  #gambling

So then…I cast a furtive glance at my young kids, hoping the dealer doesn’t spot them, as I place my chips on number 13 on the roulette table.

Children are forbidden to linger on the gambling floor at the Vegas casino, so my husband is casually walking them slowly up and down the aisle so they can watch me gamble.

Degenerate parents?

No, just the opposite.

In fact, I’ve just given a rather impressive lecture at lunch about the evils of gambling, the addictive nature of the game, and how the house always wins.

(Why bring the kids to Vegas, then?  It’s a quick hop from LA where we can take Chloe, age 4, and Tucker, age 7, to the wave pools, magic shows, world-class M&M store — and to see white tigers, lions, and sharks.)

But this time, they ask if they can gamble.

No.

Why?

You’re children. Only adults can gamble.

OK, can you gamble for us, then?

No. Then David and I both explain why gambling is a futile pursuit and not worth their interest.

Then Chloe and Tucker explain why LIFE.SIMPLY.CANNOT.MOVE.FORWARD.UNTIL.WE.
GO.GAMBLE.RIGHT.NOW.

You know that adorable, high-pitched, super-frenetic, mind-numbingly-repetitive way that kids have of communicating their immediate needs?

In frustration, I huff, “Fine! I will show you what a waste of time and money this is. I’ll walk over there right now and put 5 bucks on a number – and that’s it – one time – and you’ll see how quickly we lose – so pick your number.”

“Thirteen,” Tucker says. Chloe nods enthusiastically.

David walks the kids up and down the aisle, slowly, so they can watch the transaction.

I stomp over to the roulette wheel and change $5 for chips.

I put the chips on number 13 with a flourish, and steal a glance at the kids — my “I-told-you-so” look at the ready.

The wheel spins. The dealer says, “Thirteen.”

Then he hands me $175 in chips.

The kids are jumping up and down.

David is shaking his head.

I am stunned.

I’m excited to win — but disappointed that my “lesson” in the futility of gambling has failed so miserably.

I’ve just demonstrated to my impressionable young children how you can make 35 times your money in under 60 seconds.

Impressive parenting.

I cash in the chips, deposit the money in the kids’ bank accounts, and we never speak of it again.

— Darcy Perdu

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Well, THAT’S a Little Personal

BOOBIE-trapped -- LITERALLY & Hilariously! True tale when my boob got trapped in...well, you gotta click it to find out! #funny #embarrassing #mammogram #fireman

So then…he looks me over and asks, “Have you had sexual relations with anyone with yellow jaundice or viral hepatitis?”

And I think, Omigod, do I look like someone who’s been doing that? Do I look jaundicy?

“No!” I exclaim defensively.

Now I’m worried he thinks “she doth protest too much” and that I’ve totally been shagging hepatitis-jaundice people all day long.

“Any tattoos or body piercings?” he asks.

“No,” I say, trying to think how I can prove this to him without completely disrobing – and realizing that it would be much easier to prove that one DOES have tattoos (i.e. look at the skull on my ass!) or piercings (i.e. check out my nipple ring!) than to prove one does NOT.

“In the past twelve months, have you had a positive test for syphilis?”

I hesitate. Does he mean “positive” as in – a positive result — like “hooray, I don’t have syphilis!” — or “positive” as in – “damn, I tested positive for syphilis!”

He looks up from his clipboard.

“Nope, no syphilis, nope,” I say quickly.

“In the past 12 months, have you had sex with a male who has had sex, even once, since 1977 with another male?”

Omigod, that’s a lot of pressure. Now I’m responsible for remembering everyone I had sex with – plus everyone THEY had sex with? How would I know? This is the age of the bisexual, the metrosexual, the hypersexual. As far as I know, none of my males had relations with other males, but that phrase “even once” is stressing me out. I’m trying to recall if anyone’s said something like “I experimented a bit in college” — or “one time, at band camp…”

“Ummmm,” I stammer. “I’m not sure. Since 1977, huh? That’s a lot to think about.”

He says, “You don’t have to think of everyone you had sex with since 1977 – just if your recent partners had male relations since 1977. So just think of the people you’ve had sex with in the past 12 months.”

Oh, that narrows it down some.

“Ok, then no.”

He checks off the box on the form and prepares to ask another question.

He asks if I’ve been to Haiti — if I’ve injected drugs by syringe — if I’ve had sex with anyone who’s injected drugs by syringe — while in Haiti.

These are awfully personal questions and I should be incensed by this invasive procedure. I’m just trying to give blood, for God’s sakes. I’m trying to save lives, people! Cut me some slack on the inquisition!

On the other hand, I’m such a people-pleaser, I want to answer all the questions correctly. And I’m so competitive, I want to ace this test and prove that my blood is the best, most pure, most awesome blood they could ever hope to collect today! Super Blood!

He asks, “At any time, have you taken money or drugs in exchange for sex?”

I pause. “Well, I’m married – so does jewelry count?”

 

Fortunately, the Blood Drive tech has a sense of humor.

I pass the test. I give the blood. I get cookies and juice.

And I save lives, people!

— Darcy Perdu

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Madcapping Adventure

Madcapping Adventure
So then…I fake a ghastly gastro-intestinal malady to exit work early, grab a cab to my apartment, and throw together a couple ensembles appropriate for the flash and dazzle of Vegas. Hey, why spend a lonesome weekend in my New York apartment when I can surprise my boyfriend on his business trip at a big casino hotel?

I board the flight with much excitement. Here I am, madcap gal, flitting cross-country for the weekend! I am spontaneous! I am wild! I am…actually…exhausted. How long is this flight? Finally, I land in Sin City, ready to Sin. In the lobby, I call my boyfriend’s hotel room but no one answers. Hmm. Perhaps surprising him was not such a good idea after all. I call again. Still no answer. I had not planned on this.

Plan? Plan? Madcap gals do not plan!

So I charge over to the registration desk and request a key for my “husband’s” room, certain he’d be pleased with the instant promotion. And wonder of wonders, the clerk gives it to me! I’m amazed he does not require documentation of some kind before so blithely passing over a hotel key! But hey, this is Vegas.

I zip down the hall, eager to freshen up before searching for my soon-to-be-surprised paramour. But as I approach the door to his room, I hear voices. My key poised just above the lock, I pause. There is only one reason you do not answer your hotel room phone when you are in your hotel room.

Oh…my…God. He’s in there with some blonde blackjack dealer. He is having sex. He is…shooting guns. Shooting guns? Wait. Car crash. Sirens. Oh, thank God. It’s the TV! He left the TV on! I quickly enter the empty room. What was I thinking? He would never shoot guns while having sex.

So I look in the mirror, as I am wont to do occasionally, OK, frequently, OK, obsessively. And I notice that the cross-country trip and near brush with infidelity have taken a toll. If I hurry, I can shower and change before my boyfriend returns to his room. Then I can surprise him in clean and glowing splendor.

I strip, rush into the bathroom, slide open the glass shower door, and — CRASH! It smashes into a million shards of glass. Good grief! I didn’t slam it! Now what? I survey the pile of jagged glass. My boyfriend could return to his room at any minute. I can either notify the front desk…or I can succumb to vanity and take a shower anyway.

Cut to: Me showering, gingerly tiptoeing on bath towels covering the broken glass.

Hair dryer. Curling iron. Make-up. Gold-spangled mini dress. I lift the towels to survey the damage, nicking my finger in the process. Damn. Blood on the bath rug, the mini dress, and the curling iron.

OK, now how do I deal with the fact that I broke the hotel’s shower door – AND I’m not even supposed to be in his room in the first place? How much do shower doors cost anyway?

Not feeling so madcap now. Descending in elevator. Descending in mood.

BRAINSTORM! I march over to the front desk and demand the front desk manager’s attention post-haste. “I almost killed myself in your shower!” I exclaim. “Your door shattered into a million pieces and look – the glass slashed my finger!” I thrust my nicked finger in his face, wincing with pain, while still maintaining my accusatory glare. “My husband is NOT going to be happy when he hears about this!”

Cut to: Me, supervising the bellmen packing and moving all my boyfriend’s belongings to our new (and complimentary) hotel suite.

I am ecstatic. I nibble a strawberry from the complimentary fruit basket and sip the complimentary champagne as I lounge on the sumptuous king-size bed, wearing my most revealing nightie, waiting for my honey to enter and enjoy the benefits of my clever madcapping.

Regrettably, he is downstairs in his old room, frantically reporting to hotel security, “I’ve been robbed! And look in the bathroom: Glass everywhere! Blood! I think someone’s been stabbed!”

— Darcy Perdu

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