The March Hare

My family celebrated Christmas on New Year's Eve, because it was more convenient for everyone and gave us all more shopping time. So there we were, opening our gifts and having a lovely time, when I looked into the bag of stuff my grandmother was giving me. Inside the bag, there was an honest-to-God muu-muu.

"Is this a muu-muu?" I screamed, and then I immediately put it on over my clothes, pushed a pillow under it, and put my cigarettes in my pocket. I was already wearing flip-flops, so that was covered. Voila, instant white trash.

After my grandmother left I asked my sister if she had gotten anything odd from her. "Oh, yeah, she gave me a can of Progresso Tomato Soup."

"You don't think she's maybe..."

"No way," my sister said. "Remember when you were ten and she gave you and Brennan bottles of ketchup and mustard for Christmas?"

It's good to know that some things don't change. My grandmother has always wrapped up whatever she has lying around the house, regardless of how inappropriate it might be.

However, the muu-muu was part of a trend this year to give me sleepwear that could be packaged and sold as birth control. Three-inch-thick flannel jammies, a pink chenille robe that zips up the front, a pair of raspberry cotton pajamas that emphasize everything that's wrong with me. Obviously someone doesn't like the idea that Stephen and I might breed.