It started out so innocently. I got the elf for my daughter and I was kind of mad at myself for caving in to the mommy peer pressure to do the elf thing. But my poor kid was feeling left out at school because her first grade teacher (and damn her to hell for this) would start every morning (after the Pledge of Allegiance, of course because we’re good Americans) with the sharing of elf stories. She’d ask the kids what their elf was doing when they woke up? Had it been naughty or nice? Blah, blah.
That sealed it. I was forced to enter the elf world. I got a boy elf because I thought he was less creepy and the girl elf looked a little rough like she was working a double shift at the North Pole Hooters. Honestly, it could have just been the fluorescent lights at Target.
Any who, so there I was with the boy elf in the check out line at Target and I start getting a weird feeling like the elf is trying to communicate with me from the hermetically sealed package. I can’t even see him because he’s inside a box which contains the propaganda material, sorry I meant elf story, but I’m not kidding when I tell you I got a dirty, little elf vibe. Like he was telling me I was hot.
Not that I would argue with him on that. I was looking good. I went to Target immediately after getting my hair highlighted and blown out and I was feeling fabuglam which is what all the cool PTA moms call themselves who hang out in the foyer of the elementary school and hold court. (Well, it’s really not a foyer but you know the inside front area of the school and what the hell on them treating the school like it’s their freaking home? I’m telling you every morning it’s like a long ass receiving line at a wedding.)
Whatever on what I just told you, the important point is that I was, for sure, the most fabuglam woman in the #4 Target checkout aisle.
Once I got the elf in my car the flirty feeling doesn’t go away if anything it intensifies. I’m a little scared. Could I being having a stroke or something? Although, I don’t remember any of the signs of a stroke being the surreal experience that you’re being hit on by a plush toy still in a box.
So, I did what you would have done, I opened that sucker up. I wanted to save it for my daughter to open but by God when you feel that level of arousal in your car and the seat warmers aren’t even on you have to do something.
I ripped the box open and the elf winked at me. Yep, I was stroking out. Even though I checked my eyes in the rear view mirror and my pupils were evenly dilated for sure I was goner. Then I slapped myself in the face. I felt that. No facial paralysis. Did I get bad Diet Coke mix at McDonalds or something? Was their carbonation to syrup ratio so off that I was having hallucinations?
As all of this is going through my head I stared feeling a tingle in my jingle. The elf, who I had put in my lap while I checked my pupil dilation, was nuzzling my lady garland and Oh Holy Night it felt amazing. I immediately picked up the elf (and by immediately I mean about four minutes later) and threw him in the passenger seat.
By this time I’m shaking, in a good way, if you know what I mean, and while I’m attempting to regain my composure (it’s not everyday I experience a great big ho, ho, ho in the parking lot of Target) I start thinking of plausible excuses for what’s going on. I quickly blamed my husband.
We had being going through a bit of a dry spell in the romance arena. Totally not my fault, by the way. His stupid fantasy football teams were responsible for our craptastic love life. He had three. I told him he couldn’t handle three teams, but he ignored me. What with the trades, the drafts, the roster changes it became like a second job. Oh, and here’s the real killer he said it was stressing him out and causing him to have insomnia.
“So, let me get this straight,” I asked the man/child my husband had become, “your make-believe, pretend, mythical football teams are causing you so much stress you can’t sleep? Do you think you’re mentally ill? Because that’s what it looks like to me or you’re the world’s biggest idiot which is also a real possibility.”
Putting all the responsibility for my afternoon delight with a toy squarely on my husband’s shoulders made me feel better, much better. I then proceeded to pick my daughter up from school where she was delighted to get the elf which she quickly named Candy Cane. For the next couple of nights I did all the elf stuff you’re supposed to do. I moved him around from the kitchen to the family room, put him in the tree. You know the usual.
Then on night four I woke up and found Candy Cane in bed with me. Strange, because I had left him in the kitchen on top of the toaster. I was in bed all by myself because my husband had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs while watching ESPN – shocker, I know. Well, if I’m lying I’m dying, the elf began wooing me. This, my friends, is when I started my downward spiral of carnal elfing.
You’re judging me I can feel it. Please stop because there’s more to my story. That damn Elf on a Shelf broke my heart. He was one talented, brown-haired, blue-eyed, jerk! In answer to the question I know you’re dying to ask. The elf is junkless. What he does have is that erect red stocking hat. It may not be big, but it’s got some mad skills.
I took Candy Cane everywhere with me. We were inseparable. I even, like a lot of moms, became a little obsessed with taking “Elfy Selfies.” Pictures of my handsome little man doing naughty and nice things. But then a mere week later I began to think that Candy Cane was cheating on me.
I would come home from work or running errands and I would find him hanging out at Barbie’s Dream House. One time I caught Candy Cane and Mermaid Barbie riding the wave of desire. Which really confused me. Isn’t the whole mermaid fish tail, pretty much, an aquatic chastity belt? And you do not want to know what I found him doing in the Disney Princess Little People Palace with the Polly Pocket dolls. The final straw was when he crossed over the species line to get his giddy up on with the My Little Ponies. Who knew Rainbow Dash was such a tramp.
“Enough!” I told Candy Cane. I was kicking him out of the house. He fought me but I sealed him in a Ziploc Freezer bag (the limited edition holiday themed bags because I’m not a monster) and dumped him off at Goodwill. My daughter wasn’t upset at all. Over stupidly expensive hot chocolate at Starbucks she confessed that the Elf wasn’t as much fun as she thought he would be.
“You know,” she sighed, “it seems like the moms are way too much into the Elf on the Shelf. They talk about their elves all the time and take a bunch of pictures. It’s kind of weird.”
What could I do except nod my head and say, “Yeah, you’re right. It sure is.”
***
Liberate yourself from that freaking elf and give yourself the gift of a Snarky book! Empty is a “laugh till you cry” menopausal revenge adventure. Back to School is a hysterical read for any mom whose experienced elementary school parent drama. Trouble in Texas is a tall tale of what happens when a daughter lets her septuagenarian mom enlist her in a wild scheme that could end up with both of them in jail. And Four Seasons of Snarky is full of short stories (perfect for the person who doesn’t have much time to read) that feature tales of suburban revenge. 
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Snarky in the Suburbs 