For some as yet unknowable reason, I decided to start the first day of Snow-On-The-Ground-Finally-But-You-Still-Have-To-Drive-The-Kids-To-School by losing track of my keys. At the same time, my garage door openers and my phone disappeared. I'm not given to conspiracy theories (only Alzheimer's, thank you genetics), so of course I looked for a goat on which to place my troubles then summarily send out of town, guilty and cold.
Sure, we'd exchanged keys briefly (because I lost my set of keys to Husband's truck LONG ago), but he was not the culprit. My son, the one of spotty but infinite wisdom, reminded me of our longtime savior: The Valet Key. The Valet Key has come in handy on many of our life-or-death excursions in the past, to include the following drop everything holidays (not of mirth): God-Help-Us-There's-No-Cheese and Really-There's-No-Toilet-Paper-In-The-Camper-Nor-The-Boat, but also Does-This-Look-Like-Strep-Throat-To-You. The Valet Key, like the Special Magic Key We Leave Out For Santa, are the only two items which can be found at a moment's notice in our house, always.
So armed with The Valet Key, we made our way out to and INTO the car and headed off to the middle school, leaving the house unlocked and the garage door open. (The Valet Key can do nothing about house door locks nor errant garage openers.) Hoping to not come home to four sets of doggie footprints in the snow, I rushed as much as one can through a 20 mph school zone, delivered the kids then made my way back. All, thank goodness, was well: The door hadn't popped open releasing the hounds, and no one had foolishly chosen to steal the Shit We Store But Don't Even Realize We Have.
Once home I was able to solve--much to the entire neighborhood's joy--the Mystery Of The Missing Robe Sash. (I apologize to those of you out on the roads before 7 am. I am truly sorry.) But I could divine no keys, no openers. The phone had turned up on its own, lonely no doubt, but I was still at a loss for the remainder of my Essential Effects. I needed a success, something to remind me of my prowess.
If you've been reading this ERSTWHILE blog for any length of time you know that I am a simple woman...and I worry about your choices. But being simple, I am easily amused and have an exceedingly low threshold for pride. For example: I can change lanes without treading on the dashed yellow lines, I can accidentally yet perfectly leave just enough of any cooked substance to exactly fill whichever leftovers container I have pulled from the cupboard, and (yes, here's the Christmas Miracle) I can restart last night's fire into a morning blaze. (It's crackling right now, a full 12 hours after I put it to bed.)
So as I was performing my combustable miracle, Lionel Barrymore (god, I love that dead old man) came across the Sirius XM Holiday Traditions channel on the TV Machine and began reading Clement Moore's "'Twas The Night Before Christmas". It was during this dissertation that I realized a tiny detail I had overlooked all these years. It concerns the bad guy at the end of the story, the "Jerk". I knew that for some reason, much like my bad decisions this morning, Santa had chosen to take up with a bad element before leaving the scene of the B&E at Mr. Moore's. The witness himself clearly wrote in his poem/statement: "...and turned, with a jerk." It bothered me, has bothered me lo' all these many years: What business did SC have with a Jerk on Christmas Eve? But with the perfection and intonation of Mr. Barrymore's rendition, I heard an earlier detail: "...down the chimney he came with a Bound." Obviously this is shorthand for a "bounder" or one who wanders the countryside looking for meals or marks. Santa didn't know this Bounder was anything except a cold, needy creature who could use a few moments in a nice warm chimney flue--probably some cookies and milk, too. Like four dogs had they wandered out of a magically opened garage door, this being needed a kindly passerby.
But somewhere, somehow in the interim, the Bounder turned into a Jerk. Maybe he dissed the cookies, perhaps his appearance was so heinous that he was in fact the reason that Mr. Moore had "thrown up the sash" some time earlier in the account. (Again, I apologize to any early morning travelers passing by my open blinds today. You may pass without alarm nor nausea now, as I have recovered my sash.) But for whatever reason, this man turned Jerk on SC and rather than leave him with the Moore's, Santa took charge of him with the whole finger-laying and nodding, and dispatched him away from the home.
Likely a much too kindly man to drop the Jerk from a soaring sleigh, I don't know what Santa did with his extra package that night. And I wouldn't spend much time worrying about it if I didn't know one simple fact: The Jerk is still at large. He wrecks havoc on busy minds this time of year and he obviously has sticky fingers.
Guard your keys, phones, and garage door openers: Tis the Season of Mayhem and The Jerk Abides!
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