Hubs is downstairs, screaming like a woman at a fantastic shoe sale where Gucci bags are thrown in with every purchase. My heart jumped erratically, as I asked him what in the world was going on, and he shouted (with much enthusiasm, I might add), “My Avalanche were down zero to two. And with one minute left in the game — one minute! — they scored a goal to be down by one, and now, with just fifteen seconds left in the game, they scored again, and they tied it, Baby!! They tied it! We’re looking at a tied game, and we’re looking at overtime, and I’m looking at the best hockey team in the NHL on TV right now!! I love these boys!”
Will any of them volunteer to switch sports and play for the Denver Broncos?
And on an entirely different note — because that’s how I roll, switching gears quickly and spinning directions even faster — I might have mentioned that the boy asked Santa Claus for a discontinued set of Legos. This should be outlawed and banned. What makes the boy think that Santa’s zippy little elves have secured a license to reproduce retired Lego sets? Isn’t that what “retired Lego set” means? Like, it’s not being manufactured ANYWHERE any longer, even at the North Pole?
And then I might have mentioned that Santa leaned over to whisper these famous last words into the boy’s ear: “I think we have one of those Lego sets sitting on a counter at the North Pole.”
Blast it, Santa Claus! What do you know about Lego sets?
And because of Santa’s words and the twinkle in his eye that confirmed to the boy that his words rang true, the boy is beside himself with excitement, as he anticipates finding this particular Lego set in our living room on Christmas morning. He is fully convinced that Santa plans to scoop this retired set up off the counter at the North Pole (Does Mrs. Claus let him store toys for good little boys on her kitchen counters? Or is this a counter in the workshop? Santa wasn’t clear.), and that Santa will toss it into the sleigh come Christmas Eve, and that somehow it will find it’s way down our chimney, through the sealed glass doors on our gas fireplace, and land in the vicinity of our decorated and well-lit tree.
Clearly, it’s destined to be a Christmas miracle. Or rather, Hubs and I are going to NEED a Christmas miracle to actually secure this retired Lego set.
Naturally, this means that Hubs and I have resorted to eBay, and we’re behaving like trained scouts on a Red Bull buzz, looking for exactly the right set that contains all the pieces, and all this searching causes Mama to need adult beverages.
And here’s my question, oh great eBay sellers: Why would you even bother to sell a Lego set that was missing nineteen different pieces, because, rest assured, some gentleman is doing just that, and the boy…well…he would notice a nineteen-piece shortage. He’s neurotic like that — likes to count his pieces, and then becomes plagued with stress if one is not present and accounted for. I can only imagine what building a Lego set with nineteen AWOL bits of plastic would do to him.
It would be equivalent to Hubs saying, “Yeah, I was nineteen trusses short, but I went ahead and sheeted the garage roof anyway.”
So my December wish for all of you is simply this: May your children ask for toys that are SOLD IN STORES, PEOPLE. Sold in stores is a good thing.
And my December wish for Hubs is this: May the Colorado Avalanche use their overtime blessing wisely, so that they don’t waste this miraculous two-goals-in-less-than-sixty-seconds ending to regulation play and then lose the game.
Because, if they do — if they go on and have the audacity to lose in overtime, after those two crowd-screaming goals — I’m not sure that Hubs’ heart will be able to take it.