At the salon while having gray streaks added to my hair to look like the other moms, I heard a lady blabbering about her family’s tradition: the Elf on the Shelf. Consumed by guilt, I sunk low in my chair. All week I'd tried to kill our Elf on the Shelf.
I purchased the elf in an effort to create a new holiday tradition for my boys following my divorce. We opened the box, unpacked the elf and read the enclosed book. The story goes that each night while the boys are sleeping, the elf heads back to the North Pole and returns before morning. When the kids wake up, they must search the house to find the elf in its new hiding spot.
After the first night with our elf, I walked in the kitchen, saw her sitting in her original spot, and realized, damn, I forgot to move her before I went to bed. The kids were already awake and hadn’t asked about the elf. They seemed to have forgotten, too. This new tradition was off to a rocky start.
The second night, I forgot to move the elf again and felt pangs of guilt. But as I approached the elf, her beady little eyes glared at me, angry for being ignored. I vowed to do better on day three.
playing dolls. But at a minimum, I thought I could handle changing the elf's location each night.
Nope. The third night I completely forgot about the irritating elf. When I came into the kitchen, she had her teeny-tiny-elf-middle finger extended, as if to say: "Fa-la-la-la-la You! I will not be ignored." Was a rabbit boiling on my stove top, too?
After the elf flipped me the bird, I decided to deep six that chemically-imbalanced shelf elf. I probably should have donated it to a starving family or something, but I tossed that skinny little bitch right in the trash and went about my day.
Early the next morning and still half asleep, I came through the kitchen to let out the dog. As I turned the corner, my heart skipped a beat in shock as I found the elf hanging in a noose from the kitchen light fixture.
The damn little elf was smiling and giving me the finger. I cut the psycho elf down and with its eyes staring back at me, tossed it back in the trash.
On Saturday, I awoke to a blood curdling scream. My youngest, having an early morning pee, discovered the little shit-ass elf floating face down in the toilet. With tongs, I fished that still-smiling-creepy-pee-covered-elf-bitch out of the toilet and threw her back in the trash.
Sunday my oldest found her in the fridge. She had stabbed herself with a pickle fork.
Having a late night snack Monday, my middle son found her with her head in the oven.
Enough was enough. I bound and gagged the little elf-devil, drove to the Kwikie Mart and tossed it in the dumpster. Done. Finito. No more little freak show.
This morning as we backed out of the garage I heard a crunch under the back tire. Sure enough, as I glanced up the drive, I could spot my tormentor, smiling and giving me the finger. I guess for $30, the Elf on the Shelf is non-perishable and will have a longer shelf life than me.