Anybody who puts their kid on this horse who bolted right down outside the grocery store is asking to be taken for a ride. This fella will take your mind for a real nice trip with his emotional instability. And don’t expect any help from his ne’er-do-well friends! Harrumph.
Something wholely unexpected happened this past weekend.
I received a muffin basket! And it was delivered to my improv theater, not even my house! The point is, it was received in public in front of many a salivating eye.
Guilt-claimer: Yes, I actually used the self-deprecating italicized note above to unabashedly brag. It’s called arrogant wolf in sheepish clothing.
The basket turned out to be from the very gracious host of a show taped at a public access TV station that I performed in last year.
Anyway, I tried to share the wealth among friends and wish-they-were-my-friends alike, muffles, truffins, and all, but the real joy was in carrying a cozy-looking gift basket down the streets of DC after midnight, past wary-eyed hipsters and beyond-cool clubbers, leaving a trail of wholesome feelings that don’t usually exist at that hour in my wake.
My parents came back from their most recent spate of travels with gifts in tow!
Well, a gift.
With much fanfare and ado, my mother presented me with…a pair of socks!
She announced, with ceremonial oohing and aahing and gewing and gawing, that she had spent hours picking them out, and were they ok, and so on and so forth.
I felt as if I were missing something, seeing as how they were, quite frankly, a 3-pack of ankle-length white socks (native to almost any retail outlet across the world). Although to their credit and hers, the keepers of feet were marked “Extra Soft” with a delightful traditional Anglo-style known as “argyle” pattern on the back of each ankle.
Another pair of socks I own. I have really small feet, hee hee.
photo courtesy of Flickr and zak_greant
My dad, as if to fully confirm that something was off about the whole charade of a gift-giving, continued with “She really couldn’t decide which ones to get! She spent forever choosing them!”
Then my mother pressed onward with “Are they ok? I mean, really, do you like them? Because I want to make sure you like them.”
My father said, “Yes. Please. Tell us. Be honest.”
I felt like yelling, quite meanly, “They’re just socks, people!”
But I didn’t. And I can thank my good breeding for that. Now with what accompanying garments to whip out these toe ticklers and for which occasion, I just can’t decide!
No, really, I can’t!