FOR THE PAST two weeks, The Princess has been practically foaming at the mouth when she gets home, wondering if the mail has come, if I was sure I checked, and did her dad ever get the mail?
While her entreaties did send off a few Step Mom Warning Pings, I wasn’t really concerned.
After all, it’s illegal to send alcohol, cigarrettes and bomb-making materials to the ‘tween sent through the mail. What could she have possibly ordered that would be so bad?
I remember ordering things out of the back of Teen Beat, like a necklace that lit up and Sea Monkeys that you could train to do tricks, and impatiently pestering my mother over the mail, ala Ralphie in the Christmas Story, and always with the same disappointing results. The necklace was an advertisement for the magazine, and the Sea Monkeys were nearly microscopic brine shrimp, and the only “tricks” they ever performed, were eating and pooping.
Yesterday, the mail she was looking for arrived and the puzzle was revealed, and if the picture of the Halloween costume matches what The Princess ordered is correct, the puzzle isn’t the only thing she wants to reveal.
“Did the mail come?” she hollered, racing up the drive, fresh off the bus, as if I’d just fallen off the turnip truck. “Yes,” I said, and “You’re kidding, right?”
“Isn’t it great!” she said, ripping the box open to reveal a nurse costume, or what I assume was a nurse costume, if one is currently on the nursing staff at Heff’s place, manning the cardiac machine at the Playboy Mansion.
“You really want your dad to see you in this?” I asked.
“It’s just for a party,” she said.
“Right,” I told her. “And if you wear this, even in the house, I guarantee your dad is going to be tagging along, dressed as an escapee from an insane asylum, and I’ll join him as a bottle of Roll-Aides.”
She thought about it, and the fear of the wrath of Chap dawned in her big brown eyes.
She swallowed and said, “What are we going to do? The party’s tomorrow.”
I nodded. “We’ll make something. How about something scary?”
“Like Chainsaw Massacre?” she said. “Dad has a chainsaw.”
“How about something really scary,” I said, “Like a Wallstreet Broker?”