This is OTS, I hope you'll smile when you realize the depth of my wickedness...it is really quite funny in a totally evil way. This year my family has chosen to "White Elephant" gifts (we're all innately evil, if you've not gotten the memo yet). The rule is it's got to be something you hate, but you just ....grrrrr.....you just can't bring yourself to throw it away.
The following is a story written by me Oct. 19, 2001 regarding the gift I've chosen as my White Elefannut I will be including the story with the gift...If Uncle Virgil is EXTREMELY lucky, I'll show him how it works...but that depends entirely upon how much pecan pie and beer I've injested (not necs. in that order):
"I go upstairs to relax and watch Buffy (or Enterprise, or Angel, CSI, SVU...any number of my favorite brain candy shows) As I walk into the room, IT sits there. IT is waiting for me. The sparkly padded knee bar glints evilly at me. The shiny hand parts catch the light in an eerily pretty, yet deceptively wicked way.
I get into my t-shirt and sleep shorts, all the while hearing whispering in the background. The parts of the machine are talking about me. "Look at that poochy belly," they say, "the Ethel Mermon arms are just a-flappin'...and those thighs...JUST LOOK AT THOSE THIGHS!!!" "Shut the eff up," I butter, then I climb into bed and switch the TV on.
Lazily, drowsily I flip through the channels, stopping on the shows that catch my attention, moving to another attention grabber when a commercial comes on. "You money waster." I sit straight up in bed straining to head...did one of my babies cry out? Nothing to be heard but TV noise. I lay back down. "You let HIM buy me, and now I just sit here." I definitely heard it that time, and I definitely know who HIM is. To top it off, I also know who is talking to me...goading me...
About 4 months ago, my darling husband sees a wonder commercial touting the benefits of a new exercise machine called the Total Tiger. Droolingly, he looks at me with that special glint in his eyes...not THAT special glint, but the special glint that tells me he wants to purchase something, and it's gonna be expensive. I watch the infomercial, not duly impressed. I don't think we'll use it, and I tell him so. "No, I promise I'll use it, " he cajoles, "you don't even have to get one it...but think of the money we'll SAVE on your health club membership if you DO use it." He really wants the thing badly, and since I've been married to him (then) 6 years, I know I cannot tell him not to much (proof of that is 2 of our 3 kids). The evil entered our house, innocuously delivered by the postman 6-8 weeks later.
There it sat in our dining room while I went through surgery. It mocked me the entire time. Fatty-fatty-two-by-four it chanted when I entered the room. I told dear husband that I was going to start using it when the doctor gave me the okay to start working out again. BTW: Husband has gotten on the machine a grand total of 3 times since the darn thing arrived. The day of the doctor's okay came and went, but I didn't tell the machine. It did figure it out for itself, thought, and has been harassing me ever since. It harangued me when we moved, and it got a lovely spot in my bedroom right next to my dresser. "Don't bend over," it says, "you don't know how much more those shorts can take."
The final straw came about a month ago. I was doing a very girly thing...Any woman out there can totally relate to this, while men just look on and laugh. I was putting on a pair of jeans. That in itself is not so girly, guys put on jeans all the time. The girly part is that I was lying down on the bed in order to zip and button the darn things (my husband, the dear man, thinks that this is hilarious...and should be a spectator sport on Reality TV). I heard it as I buttoned the last button. Maniacal laughter coming from the direction of my dresser!
THAT WAS IT! I was going to show the machine exactly what mettle I was made of. That night (in my nightie no less), I did the "recommended" 3 minutes on the Total Tiger. I thought I was going to die. Seriously. Die. The next day, parts of me that I didn't realize that belonged on a human (much less me) felt like they'd just gone 6 rounds with Mike Tyson, and he ate half of them. The total Tiger got a new name that day, it's now not so lovingly referred to as "The G** Da*n Machine," or GD Machine for short. Dear hubby will ask why I'm moving like an old lady, and I'll say, "The GD Machine." I'll raise my arms to put my hair up in a ponytail, wince in agony, and mutter, "I hate that GD Machine." I stand up, "I hate that GD Machine." I sit down, "I hate that GD Machine." Breathing hurts. GD Machine. All my friends know it, and it's name. They hear me b*tching about it all the time.... because I hurt all the time.
So. Last night. It was taunting me, baiting me, and I worked out just to show that GD Machine who the boss was. I got through one set of commercials (I work out during the commercials, how pathetic am I?) and on till the next set. I think I heard the GD Machine do a little whimpering of it's own last night. This morning I slid into my (skinny) jeans, and not only did I NOT have to lie down to zip up, I didn't even have to suck it in. Victory is MINE! I stuck my tongue out at the GD Machine as I went to get the kids ready for school. As I left the room, I could've sworn I heard someone softly chuckling...."
I'm possessed right??? This is just such a totally wrong thing to give to someone...... <img border="0" title="" alt="[Big Grin]" src="images/icons/grin.gif" />
