I have beef. Big, flame-broiled, dropped on the floor, picked back up, slapped on your plate anyway, BEEF.
While I sincerely appreciate the four bikes, the Barbie Ice Cream Shoppe, the Mousetrap game, the $500 in shopping money, the CD player, the Baby Alive that really pees and poops!, the sled, the Teddy Ruxpin and Titanic – Collectors Edition, I seem to be missing something. A very big something. A very big Italian something.
And, no, Santa, I’m not talking about Tony Danza in his Who’s The Boss days.
I’m speaking of that TUSCAN VILLA that was to be nestled in the hills with a vineyard in the back yard. Right behind the pool.
Yes, Santa! THAT ONE!
See, that was supposed to be my happy place. The place where I can get away. Relax. Put my feet up.
And that vineyard? THAT was supposed to help with the relax part. And I believe there was a hot muscley cabana boy or two in that deal we had.
Speaking of that deal, I believe I held up my end of the bargain. I was a good girl. Far as you know. I minded my manners. Most of the time. I got good grades. Between 10th grade and college. You, sir, were too busy giving Hateful Helga that keg of Budweiser she demanded and playing Midget Monopoly with the elves and kissing my mom under the ol’ Leaf and Berries!
NOW I’m in desperate need of my happy place and I have to settle for the local Microtel beside The Waffle House with a bottle of concentrated apple juice. NO VILLA! NO VINEYARD = NO WINE! AND NO CABANA BOYS!
Pay up, Fat Boy, or Rudolph is toast.