Posted by
Pilgrim spectator on Friday, December 19, 2008 7:32:17 PM
As the years go by it gets harder and harder to find a safe place to hide the Christmas gifts. You'd think with our house it would be a cinch. It's old, with lots of nooks and crannies. What's the problem? The problem is I live with the two nosiest people in the world. My husband and son can locate a Christmas gift faster than a teenager can log on to Twitter. I'm beginning to wonder if I've got any hiding places left.
I used to be able to hide presents under the bed. I could fit everything under there -- ski sweaters, X-boxes, sleeping bags, even a guitar. I stuffed them into pillow cases and no one ever knew. But everything got ruined the year I left Jiminy Cricket's leg hanging out of its bag. Our son discovered it and that took care of that.
For the next few years I used the den closet. It had lots of room for the big stuff since it had a shelf at the back, behind the hanging clothes. Then my husband went hunting for his gym shoes one day after Thanksgiving and found the VCR I'd bought for the den. It's probably just as well. I need the space anyway for all our other stuff, like the tennis racquets, Someday Box (you know, "Someday I'm going to make a hooked rug out of all these scraps") and the letterman's jacket my husband won't let me throw away.
The cubbyhole closet upstairs was a great place for several years. Nobody went there so I could hide almost anything. Then a Furbie went nuts one year, probably from the heat since it's located next to the fireplace, and he wouldn't shut up until our son tracked him down. Ever since then that's the first place he looks.
The guys have already discovered the broom closet and the trunk of my car. They even found the DVD of Gladiator I hid in the meat drawer of the fridge. This year they're following me everywhere I go. I'm starting to feel like a drug dealer with the FBI on my heels.
I do have one place left: the washing machine.
My guys have never gone near it, and believe me, it isn't because I haven't tried. I've threatened, cajoled, even offered seminars on "How to Use the Washing Machine," complete with free hot dogs and door prizes, but nothing has ever worked. I doubt that either one of them has ever touched the thing. All I have to do is say, "Gee, look at all these loads of wash that need to be done," and I see backsides scampering down the hall.
Yeah, the washing machine. Now I know I'm safe, at least for another year.