Being the classy parents we are, Henry and I nearly forgot to get Chooch’s picture with Santa. And standing in line with all the other asshole, last-minute parents, I seriously contemplated just photoshopping one and calling it a year. Instead, I snatched the keys off Henry and me and my chest pains sat in the car. My weak, grinchy heart just can’t take holiday crowds. Oh, I have boatloads of holiday cheer, my friends. When I’m alone in my living room with a glass of spiced wine, admiring my gaudy Christmas tree.
Much like being paged by Olive Garden, Henry alerted me when they were nearly next in line and I went back in to pretend like I’m a good mommy, and my ass immediately re-clenched when I had to shrug past a horde of line-standers.
I tried to coax Chooch into telling Santa he wanted a haircut, but instead (after he lied about being a good boy), when Santa asked what he wanted he mumbled, “Jack in the box.” He’s been on this bizarre, slightly worrisome jack in the box kick because it’s the J identifier in his ABC book. I imagine Santa was like, “Son, that was on my wishlist back in 1942.” Every time he tells me he wants one, I want to take him by the shoulders and give him a good shake, and then shout, “You’re supposed to want gratuitously violent toys that double as weapons when your father pisses me off. I mean, you. When daddy pisses you off.”
Do you know Target sells jack in the boxes for nearly twenty dollars? TWENTY DOLLARS for a piece of shit tin box with a deformed plastic clown whose only purpose of existence is to pop out and scare the fuck out of impressionable youths? Why do you think I’m thirty years old and jumping at the drop of a feather? BECAUSE I HAD A JACK IN THE BOX AS A CHILD.
And another reason I can’t get him a jack in the box is because I may have read somewhere once that there is a pornographic slice of cinema with a scene featuring a very well-endowed jack in the box.