This story gets me in the spirit every year
Christmas with Louise
As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his
fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to
fill them.
What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true
because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings were
overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses
and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those
things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If
you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse
yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, "What does this
do?" "You're kidding me!" "Who would buy that?"
Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a
standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a
passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush
hour.
Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many
different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the
box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I
settled for "Lovable Louise." She was at the bottom of the price
scale. To call Louise a "doll" took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came
to life.
My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee
morning hours, long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the
dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate
some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby
tray. I went home and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his
house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left
the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back
and bark some more. We all agreed that Louise should remain in her
panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came
over for the traditional Christmas dinner.
My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door.
"What the hell is that?" she asked. My brother quickly explained,
"It's a doll."
"Who would play with something like that?" Granny snapped. I had
several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut. "Where are her
clothes?" Granny continued. "Boy, that turkey sure smells nice,
Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room. But
Granny was relentless. "Why doesn't she have any teeth?" Again, I
could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one
wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, "Hang on Granny!
Hang on!"
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up
to me and said, " Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?" I told
him she was Jay's friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by
the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually
flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa's last
Christmas at home.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had
died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise
made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom in
the morning. Then she lurched from the panty hose, flew around the
room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat
screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa
ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering
mouth to mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair
and wet his pants and Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of
the room, and sat in the car. It was indeed a Christmas to treasure
and remember.
Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to
decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had
suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh.
Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored
her to perfect health. Louise went on to star in several bachelor
party movies.
I think Grandpa still calls her.
