Ever since Barb found out that Chooch blows a gasket when I get stuff in the mail (other than bills) and he doesn’t, she began sending him random cards and dollar bills in the mail, signed “Secret Friend.”
His perplexity seems to outweigh his delight in adding to his dollar collection. I am thoroughly enjoying watching him drag his hand through his hair, grit his teeth and yowl, “WHO IS SENDING ME THIS STUFF?!” And when she sent him a card wishing him luck on starting first grade? Holy shit, the apoplectic explosion was Pay Per View-worthy.
“HOW DO THEY KNOW I’M IN FIRST GRADE?!!?” he wailed.
“Maybe I should stop,” Barb laughed when I told her how distressed this is making him. “I don’t want to cause any psychological damage!” (Yes, let’s blame Barb when Chooch grows up to be the next Unabomber, not me!)
“You should send him a picture of Gilad,” I instigated. (Gilad is the Israeli fitness guru behind the long-running aerobics program “Bodies In Motion” which, along with Slim Fast, helped me lose weight in time to be a junior bridesmaid in my aunt’s wedding when I was 12, after my grandma jiggled my underarms and flashed that disapproving frown I knew so well. Anyway, this show is still on in syndication and Chooch HATES HIM so bad that he has to leave the room.)
I guess she’s too afraid of pulling the wrong Jenga block from his psyche, so she sent him more anonymous cash, which he got yesterday.
“REALLY!? ANOTHER LETTER FROM SECRET FRIEND!?” he huffed. Then he kind of growled and shook his head. I feel like if I had been sent secret mail as a child, I’d have been filled with joy and hope that it was my real mom sharing with me the modest income she was earning baking baguettes in France.
Chooch wrote this message on the back of the envelope. I guess we’re supposed to put it back in the mail. Minus the money, of course.
Shit, you’d think he was getting cat livers in the mail, not cash.
This has been wildly entertaining for me.