Last week, a woman in at the grocery store was blabbering on about her family’s Elf on the Shelf. Consumed by guilt, I ducked into the pain relief aisle. 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 after my divorce. We unpacked the elf and read the book. The story goes that each night while kids are sleeping, the elf heads back to the North Pole and returns before morning. Each day when the kids awake, they must search the house to find the elf in its new hiding spot.
On the first morning with the elf, I walked in the kitchen and realized she was sitting in the same spot as the day before. Damn, I forgot to move her before I went to bed. The kids were eating cereal and didn't ask about the elf. They seemed to have forgotten, too. This effort to create idyllic childhood memories was off to a rocky start.
The second morning, I woke up with pangs of guilt. I forgot to move the elf again. As I approached the elf, her beady, little eyes glared at me. They seemed to say, I will not be ignored. I was creeped out. I made sure Fluffy, our pet bunny was ok, and vowed to do better on day three.
The woman at Walgreens said she’d arranged their elf on the kitchen island alongside Barbie and posed the two as if they were drinking maple syrup out of straws. The cynical bitch in me scoffed, thinking, what a waste of time, as others, waiting for their prescriptions, giggled at her story.
Our elf came to the wrong shelf if she expected to enjoy 6:30 am two-fer-ones with Barbie. A headless Lego Darth Vader might stroll in, but Barbie doesn't visit these parts. Besides, I don’t even own syrup. Waffles are a to-go food in my house.
On the elf's third night, Louis C.K. was on the Daily Show, so while that dashing sugar plum danced in my head, I completely forgot the elf...again. When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, her eyes twinkled, she grinned from ear to ear and she gesticulated a "Fa-la-luck You!"
Realizing the whole elf thing was a bust, I decided to deep six that chemically-imbalanced twit. I needed less drama during the holidays, not more. I probably should have donated it to a starving coyote or something, but instead I simply tossed that skinny little bitch in the trash and went about my day.
The next morning, still half asleep, I came through the kitchen to let out the dog. Turning the corner, my heart skipped a beat as I found the elf hanging from the kitchen light fixture. I cut that psycho down, stuck a steak knife in both her eyes, and tossed her back in the trash.
On Saturday, I awoke to a blood-curdling scream. Having an early morning pee, my youngest discovered the elf floating face down in the toilet. Unable to simply flush it, I fished that still-smiling-pee-soaked elf out of the toilet and put her back in the trash.
On 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. On Tuesday, I bound and gagged that fucking elf-devil, drove to the Kwikie Mart and tossed her in the dumpster. Done. Finito. Freak show's over, folks. I felt relieved and finally got a decent night's sleep.
As we backed out of the garage the following morning, I heard a crunch under the back tire. As I glanced up the drive, sure enough, I spotted my tormentor, flat as a pancake in the snow. In what apeared to be slow motion, I saw her crushed little body still muster the strength to raise her arm and give me the finger. There was only one thing left to try.
I covered her in peanut butter and let the dog go to town.
But I know that bitch will be back.
The Elf on the Shelf seems to be a non-perishable item.