My father--or should I say Step Skank via my father--gave me another Easter basket for Christmas. I think that's the second or third year in a row now that those two can't keep the holidays straight. Considering the man couldn't remember my birthday this year, even though it's only three days before his own, and has forgotten Chandler's birthday for two years in a row, I'm not surprised. The first year that he and the midlife-crisis wife gave me an Easter basket for Christmas, they filled it up with cheap perfume and an accompanying message that "every girl likes to smell good." Uh, not this girl. You see this girl is allergic to perfume. It makes her throat swell shut. This girl prefers to actually be able to breathe and swallow over smelling good.
You would think that after 32 years, my father would know this fact about me. Step Thing, a.k.a. Wife Number 2, knew it. The people I used to work with knew it. My mom, sister, grandmother, and nephew all know it, and yet my father doesn't have a clue. How do I know that for sure? Well, this year, Step Skank sprayed both the Easter basket and the cheesy card with two different types of perfume. I had to get up and take a Benadryl just to see what else was in the basket. There was a stuffed bear--like I really need that at 32--a few pieces of candy, and a gift card from JCPenney's. Given my relationship or lack there of with Step Skank, I have a feeling the card has nothing on it or, if it does have money on it, it's only like 50 cents. I'm definitely going to go online and check the amount before going to the store today. I don't want to get embarrassed.
I know it should be the thought that counts, but when you give your daughter something that could potentially kill her two out of three years, you're really not thinking at all, or you are thinking and it's the kind of thought that will land on Santa's naughty list permanently.
