by Laura Levine
Looking inside the shopping bag, I saw it was filled with pine cones, cotton balls, swatches of felt, and a tube of something called Wacky Glue, guaranteed to stand up under fifty pounds of pressure.
“It’s time for you to tackle those pine cone Santas!”
Oh, foo. I’d forgotten all about Lance’s Christmas crafts projects.
“I’d do it myself,” he said, “but I’ve still got the pipe cleaner elves to make.”
Lance had gone all out on the Christmas decorations, and I must say the tree was looking pretty darn terrific, with crystal snowflakes, glittering white and silver balls, sprigs of holly—all finished off with his acorn garlands, which added quite a festive touch.
He’d put in so much effort, the least I could do was glue some cotton balls onto a couple of pine cones.
And so, as Lance trotted off to work, I bid Luanne and Kevin good-bye and headed off to the kitchen to make pine cone Santas.
After covering the kitchen island with newspaper, I set out all the supplies: twelve pine cones, cotton balls, felt, and a bunch of what’s known in crafting circles as “goo-goo eyes,” white plastic buttons with small black pupils encased inside them. When shaken, the pupils move around to give a goggle-eyed effect.
And finally, there was the Wacky Glue, the vital ingredient that would hold it all together.
Lance had printed the directions from a crafts website, and much to my relief, they looked reasonably easy to follow. All I had to do was glue two goo-goo eyes to each pine cone, cut out a pink felt nose and attach it under the eyes, and a red felt mouth under the nose. The final touch would be cotton balls shaped into a mustache and beard.
Simple, right?
Wrong. Oh, so very wrong.
Have you ever tried to glue a goo-goo eye to the tip of a pine cone? Well, don’t. It’s darn near impossible. Those pine cones had really tiny tips, and the goo-goo eyes kept sliding off. I had to slosh on the Wacky Glue like crazy before those pesky eyes finally stuck to the cones.
Afraid to jostle any of the eyes, I decided to let the glue set for a while before I returned to complete the job—time spent in the entertaining company of a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon. I meant to spend only an hour watching those doyennes of drama, but I got caught up in some riveting wine-tossing scenes, and wound up watching their antics for several episodes. Three hours later I looked up in the middle of a hair-pulling match, and realized I’d forgotten all about my pinecone Santas.
I hustled back to the kitchen where, one by one, I went down the line of would-be Santas, happy to see the goo-goo eyes were firmly attached to the pinecones.
Even without the rest of the face, the Santas were beginning to look really cute.
This crafting thing wasn’t so bad, after all. Maybe I could take it up as a hobby. For all I knew, I had a wellspring of creativity just waiting to be tapped.
With a song in my heart, and an Oreo in my mouth (a gal’s got to keep up her energy), I began industriously cutting twelve felt noses for my Santas.
When I was through, I reached for one of the Santas to glue on his nose.
And that’s when disaster struck.
When I tried to pull the pine cone, it wouldn’t budge. I yanked and yanked. But that damn cone stayed stubbornly welded to the marble. Frantically I went down the line, only to discover that each and every Santa was welded to the island. On careful inspection, I saw that all the Wacky Glue I’d sloshed on the pine cones to keep the goo-goo eyes in place had trickled down the cones and through the newspapers onto Mrs. Van H’s priceless marble island!
Oh, hell. Why had I used so much damn glue? Why hadn’t I used something stronger than newspaper to protect the marble? And why had I wasted three hours on those damn Beverly Hills housewives?
I tugged frantically at the cones, trying to jar them loose, but they just snapped off in my hands, and I soon wound up with an island full of pine cone stubs.
I couldn’t risk scraping them off with a knife and marring the surface of the marble, mined no doubt from some ancient quarry in Rome.
By now I was in a mild state of panic. I had single-handedly ruined Connie Van Hooten’s kitchen island!
I was totally flipping out, wondering how many lifetimes I would have to work to reimburse Mrs. Van H for the cost of her island, when I thought of a possible way out of this mess:
Lupe! After all, she was a maid. Surely she’d know how to get pine cone Santas off kitchen islands.
Like a flash I was knocking at the Parkers’ back door.
“Ms. Jaine. What’s wrong?” Lupe asked, when she came to the door and saw the look of panic on my face.
“Santas are Wacky Glued to the island!” was all I was able to gasp out.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “No comprende.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath and tell her exactly what had happened.
Once she’d heard the whole story, she nodded her head in comprehension.
“No problemo,” she assured me with a big smile. “Lupe can fix.”
With that, she scurried to one of Scotty’s creaky cupboards and pulled out a can of WD40.
“This is wonderful,” she said, holding it aloft. “Works miracles.”
Minutes later, we were back in Mrs. Van H’s kitchen, and, as promised, the WD40 did indeed work miracles.
Lupe sprayed the stuff under the base of each pine cone, gradually freeing them from captivity. Of course, by now the kitchen smelled like the inside of an auto repair shop, but I didn’t care.
We scrubbed the island free of WD40, and opened the windows and door to air out the room.
After tossing the pine cone detritus into the trash can outside, I headed back to the kitchen to shower Lupe with profuse thanks—not to mention a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, which we shared, sitting side by side at the kitchen island.
Lupe dug in with gusto. Not as much gusto as me, of course—nobody beats me in the ice cream gusto department—but she was pretty darn enthusiastic.
“Mr. Scotty won’t buy ice cream unless it’s on sale,” she said, spearing a spoonful. “His favorite flavor is ‘Expired.’
“Such a miserable man. When he hired me, he promised he’d pay me five hundred dollars a week. But when I got my first paycheck it was only $100. He said he took out the rest for room and board. He works me day and night and gives me only one day off every other Thursday.”
“That’s awful! Have you tried looking for another job?”
“Impossible,” she sighed.
“Why? Surely there are plenty of jobs for housekeepers in Bel Air.”
She shook her head sadly.
“I can’t believe how foolish I was. In the beginning, when I thought Mr. Scotty was my friend, I told him all about my sister, Norma, and my nephew, Raul. I’m so proud of Raul, he’s starting college this year. Raul was born here in the United States, so he’s a citizen. But Norma, she is illegal like me.
“Mr. Scotty hired a detective and found out all about Norma and Raul. Where they live. Who their landlord is. Where Raul goes to school. Now, when I threaten to quit, he tells me he’s going to turn me and Norma over to La Migra. I don’t care for myself. I can always run off and hide somewhere. But Norma can’t run. She has to be here for Raul.
“So I’m trapped with Mr. Scotty. I keep hoping that when Raul graduates from college, he will get a good job and make enough money to find a lawyer who will keep Norma safe. In the meanwhile, I’m stuck with the Evil One.”
“You poor thing!” I said, my heart going out to her.
By now we’d scraped the last of the ice cream from our bowls.
“Thank you so much for all your help,” I said, as she got up to leave.
“Why don’t you come back with me?” Lupe said. “Missy is away jogging. You can visit with your cat.”
Leaping at the opportunity to spend some alone time with Pro, I accompanied Lupe back to Scotty’s house, where I gave her a hug and
thanked her again for being my rescuing angel.
Then I made my way upstairs to Missy’s bedroom, where I found Prozac lolling on her faux mink throw, playing with her catnip skunk, Rhett Butler, batting him about with girlish glee.
Oh, Rhett. I do declare. You are one hunky skunk!
Great. Not only was she cheating on me with Missy, now she had a thing going with the skunk.
“Hi, sweetheart!” I called out, plastering a hopeful smile on my face.
She looked up to shoot me a blank stare.
Oh. It’s only you.
“I just dropped by to say hi.”
I plopped down on the bed next to her and began scratching her behind her ears, something that normally sends her into spasms of ecstasy. But today, she ignored my loving strokes and continued pouncing on Rhett.
When I reached over to take her in my arms she wriggled free.
Yuck! You smell like WD40.
I sat there for a few more minutes, hoping Prozac would tire of Rhett and turn her attention to me. But no such luck. I might as well have been part of the faded wallpaper.
With a pained sigh, I hauled myself up from the bed.
“Bye, darling,” I called out as I headed for the door, hoping for at least a farewell meow.
But Prozac was too busy pouncing on Rhett to notice I was leaving.
I was halfway down the stairs, feeling utterly rejected, when the front door banged open and Scotty came charging into the house, loaded down with a bunch of plastic bags from the 99 Cent Store.
“Hey, Jaine,” he said, catching sight of me. “I finished all my Christmas shopping. I got all this,” he said, holding up the plastic bags, “for less than twenty bucks!”
He beamed with pride.
“I just hope nobody expects me to wrap their presents. No way was I spending an extra ninety-nine cents for three rolls of wrapping paper.
“Come see what else I bought,” he said, beckoning me into the kitchen, where Lupe was busy stretching a small mound of hamburger meat into dinner for four.
Scotty whipped out a large bakery box and set it down on a well worn kitchen table. Then he lifted the lid with pride, revealing a scrumptious looking Yule log, thick with chocolate frosting.
“It’s a chocolate Yule log!” he beamed. “And I got it half price!”
I had no doubt that he did. Because written on the log in red and green icing was the inscription MERRY CHRISTMAS, AUNT HARRIET!
“Put it in the freezer,” he commanded Lupe. “We’ll defrost it on Christmas Day.”
“Speaking of Christmas, Mr. Scotty,” Lupe said, nervously fingering the edges of her apron, “I’m hoping I can have the day off to be with my family.”
“Are you kidding?” Scotty replied, as if she’d just asked for a Tesla. “I just gave you Christmas off last year.”
And with that, he lumbered off.
“Sometimes,” Lupe hissed, her eyes blazing fury, “I feel like killing that man.”
At the time, of course, I didn’t dream she actually may have meant it.
Chapter 8
I left Lupe stewing under Scotty’s dictatorial reign and made my way back to Casa Van H. Passing the trash cans where I’d stashed the mangled pinecones, I felt a stab of guilt. Poor Lance would be so disappointed to know they were now destined for a landfill.
I had intended to while away the rest of the afternoon with the Beverly Hills Housewives, but instead I got in my Corolla and spent the next forty-five minutes battling Christmas traffic to drive out to Lance’s favorite vegetarian restaurant in Santa Monica—the kind of eco-chic joint where women in one-hundred-dollar yoga pants sip chai lattes between workouts.
I’d decided to get Lance his favorite kale and tofu salad for dinner that night.
Yes, I know that kale and tofu on the same plate is enough to make a normal person upchuck. But for some strange reason, Lance actually liked the stuff, and I figured getting him the salad was the least I could do after ruining his pine cone Santas.
The parking lot was full of Mercedes SUVs when I got there, so I wound up parking five blocks away. When I finally got to the restaurant, I had to wait in line to place my order. (Can you believe people wait in line to buy kale and tofu?) What seemed like eons later, I made it to the head of the line and ordered Lance’s godawful salad. I’d been planning to make a pit stop at Ralphs supermarket for some of their yummy fried chicken for my own dinner, but drained of all energy, I decided to order something at the vegetarian joint instead.
Working on the tried and true principle that you can never go wrong with cheese, I chose the least objectionable item on their menu: an avocado and mozzarella sandwich.
At long last, my eco-friendly order was ready and I headed back outside. I was about a block away from the restaurant when I suddenly noticed a pop-up Christmas store, chock-full of Christmas ornaments. I’d been so frazzled from my rush hour trek to the restaurant, I guess I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
Now I wandered inside and saw the most adorable felt Santas hanging from a tree. With white cottony beards and bright red Santa caps. Best of all, the clerk assured me, they were handmade! And on sale! I bought up a whole bunch, thrilled that I would be able to hand Lance some handmade ornaments, after all.
Maybe slogging through all that hellish traffic had been a blessing in disguise.
I was quite pleased with myself when Lance came home from work that night.
I had his ghastly salad laid out in Mrs. Van H’s breakfast nook, along with a glass of his favorite (glug!) coconut water.
“Kale and tofu salad! Yum!” he cried when he saw the revolting pile of greens on Mrs. Van H’s fine china.
“I drove all the way to Santa Monica to get it.”
“Aren’t you an angel!” he said, sitting down and digging into it with relish.
How he got that stuff past his gullet, I’ll never know.
“And look at you,” he beamed, “eating something reasonably healthy for a change.”
I had to admit the avocado and cheese sandwich wasn’t so bad, except for the icky sprouts they’d shoved in.
“So,” Lance asked, spearing a hunk of tofu, “how’d it go today with the pinecone Santas?”
“Not exactly as planned,” I admitted.
I proceeded to tell him about my nightmarish adventure with the goo-goo eyes and the Wacky Glue on Mrs. Van H’s kitchen island.
I thought for sure he’d be disappointed, but strangely enough, he took it all in stride.
“Dear, sweet, incompetent Jaine,” he said, tsking in pity. “Worry not. Uncle Lance will take care of everything. By the time I’m through decorating, this house will look like a real-life issue of Martha Stewart Living.”
“Actually, Lance,” I said, smarting more than a tad at his “incompetent” crack, “I found some really cute Santas we can use instead.”
I raced into the kitchen and got the felt Santas I’d bought that afternoon.
“Aren’t they great?” I said, laying them out on the table. “And they’re handmade. Just not by me.”
Lance looked down and wrinkled his nose.
“We can’t possibly use these,” he said, holding up one of the Santas like it was a dead mouse. “Way too tacky.”
“Hold on,” I said, beginning to really regret driving all the way over to Santa Monica for Lance’s stupid salad. “Let me get this straight. Felt Santas are tacky, but pine cones with goo-goo eyes and cotton beards are the height of good taste?”
“The pine cone Santas were kitsch,” Lance said, as if explaining the letters of the alphabet to a four-year-old. “There’s a fine line between kitschy and tacky. Someday I hope I’ll be able to teach it to you.”
By now, I was ready to dump his stupid kale salad on his head.
But he just chattered on, oblivious.
“You’re not the only one who did some shopping today,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small jewelry box.
“For you,” he sai
d, handing it to me. “For your date with Randy.”
I opened it to find a pair of beautiful silver teardrop earrings.
See? This is why I can’t ever stay mad at the guy.
“Oh, Jaine!” he cried, hope in his eyes, kale in his teeth. “Things are really looking up for us! I’ve got a date with Graham, and with any luck, you’ll hook up with Randy. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we both wound up with dates on New Year’s Eve? For once we won’t be stuck home watching 30 Rock and eating diet popcorn!”
“I keep telling you, Lance. It doesn’t have to be diet popcorn. This year, we could get popcorn with salt and cheddar cheese.”
“This year,” he said gleefully, “we could get lucky!
“To us!” he said, raising his glass of coconut water in a toast. “May we both wind up with the man of our dreams.”
I raised my glass of chardonnay, but just as we were about to clink glasses, we heard shouting coming from Scotty’s house.
“You miserable sonofabitch!” a woman was yelling.
Never one to miss a minute of drama, Lance was up and out of his seat like a rocket. I’m ashamed to admit I was hot on his heels right behind him.
We peeked out the front door at Scotty’s house. Standing in the porch light under his portico was a tall, aristocratic sixtysomething woman in Katharine Hepburn slacks and a flowing wool cape. Her thick crop of silver hair was swept back from the sides of her head in soaring wings.
I couldn’t make out her features at this distance, but her voice was ringing loud and clear.
“It was you, you bastard! You cut the electrical cords on our Christmas display.”
And indeed, I looked across the street and saw that the extravagant display we’d noticed the other night was unlit, unmoving, dead to the world.
Scotty stood there, his chin and gut both jutting out belligerently.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It had to be you,” said the silver-haired aristo. “You’ve been making such a fuss about our Christmas display, scaring everybody off with your ridiculous bullhorn.”
“Your decorations are a blight on the neighborhood,” Scotty shot back. “Invading our privacy with your blinding lights. And clogging the street with traffic. Whoever cut those cords did everybody on the block a favor.”
