Cheeto La Frito Strikes Back 

 

 

On the sixth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Six geese a-laying, 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree.

When we were kids my little brother nicknamed me Cheeto La Frito .

It was a burden and everyone called me by that stupid name for years- family members, friends, the mailman and even a few teachers. My brother had convinced so many people I liked that name that it would have taken me fifty years to convince them it wasn’t true.

So I didn’t even try- I just lived with that stupid name.

But that’s okay because since my Christening at age 6 of my trademark infringing nick name my little brother’s hairline has receded and he drives a fuel efficient car ( I drive a Boss Jeep ) so revenge may have been slow but at least my hands are clean.

I mean, by nature I’m just not into the vengeance thing.

But I do have a taste for it and it’s true- revenge is sweet and I know that for a fact because I got my first taste on the Christmas just after I turned 11.

Most of the kids I grew up with participated in the ‘let’s peek at our Christmas Present Olympics’.

Leave a package on the car seat, an unwrapped gift peeking out from under a bed and the little Commandos I grew up with would be in and out of the Christmas present hiding place with stealth and efficiency that would have any branch of any armed forces anywhere in the world on their knees in fear and envy.

My little brother however had them all beat.

One Christmas my Parents restorted to putting a padlock on their bedroom door- and they also put a lock on the closet door AND they double wrapped the presents too- first in brown paper and then with Christmas paper.

Ha.

My brother not only figured out where they hid the keys he came out of that room with a list- you read that right- a complete list of Christmas presents and who they were intended for.

He waited until they went out on Christmas Eve and then he pulled out the list and proceeded to destroy me and our little Sister’s Christmas.

He did that every darned year.

So on that Christmas Morning ( as with the many before )  we opened our presents and gave our Oscar Winning ” gee what a neat surprise ” Christmas Performances and then I proceeded to pinch my little brother every single chance I got for the rest of Christmas Vacation.

The next year I was ready- I plotted and planned and I could hardly wait until our parents started their Christmas shopping.

I was walking around the house with little bells on my shoelaces and singing Christmas carols and I even helped my Dad put tinsel on the tree which was something I refused to do because my Dad believed that tinsel had to be hung on the tree one freaking strand at a time.

I used to hide in my tree house- sometimes in the snow- in order to escape the dreaded tree trimming.

But not this year.

I’d already figure the keys to the locks never left the house- and I’d figured they were near their bedroom because he and Mom would head down the hall, I’d hear them stop for a minute and then their door would open.

So one day I go take a look and on top of a bookshelf under a ceramic Santa-

were the keys.

That’s when my Merry Christmas began.

I spent the rest of the week I’m taking my Brother’s presents out of the closet after our Parents wrapped them and I start stashing them in my own closet. 

My Mom caught me at it and when she asked what I was doing I looked up at her and said…

” nothing.”

She looked at the packages, saw who they were for and told me they had better be back in her room on Christmas Eve them and she walked away.

Just  like that.

I gave up a couple of Christmas parties and a sleepover at my friend’s house just so I could hang around the hall that led into my parents bedroom waiting for the day my Brother would sneak down the hall and reach up towards that ceramic Santa…

And one day it paid off.

My brother sneaks down the hall and into our Parent’s room and then he comes out and leaves the door open and drops the keys on the floor and as he walks by I say, ‘what’d you get?”

” Drop dead Cheeto.”

Now, it’s not like he could go and ask our Parents why he wasn’t getting any presents- so it must have been a LOOONNNGGG three days till Christmas.

Well of course he had presents on Christmas morning and me and my Sister were really surprised and that night when my brother busted the eggs in my shoes and decapitated my Barbie Dolls ( I hated those things anyway ) I didn’t get angry- I didn’t yell or pinch or tie him to a tree.

I was just feeling to good to be mad -I was feeling happy and satisfied and the sweetness swam around on my tongue like sugar from a Pixie Stick

Years later I can put a name on the taste that I would one day know as the sweet taste of revenge.

It’s Cheetos

and the taste is very sweet.

Happy Holidays.

Only 7 more days until I reach

The Inner Circle of Hell

CHRISTMAS.

 

LD 90/05 – indicates a 90% lethality within 05days.

On the fifth day of Christmas, 
my true love sent to me 
Five golden rings, 
Four calling birds, 
Three French hens, 
Two turtle doves, 
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

My Great Aunt was my Grandfather’s younger sister and she had some serious class.

She always wore simple elegant black dresses and a strand of white pearls and she loved to drive those classic Cadillac Town Cars with Mozart blasting out of the speakers with enough force to rattle the windows of passing cars and scare the birds out of the trees.

Her house was also great and she had nifty antiques and a wine cellar.

Yes indeed, a big old wine cellar that the entire family would disappear into for at least two hours when she had her holiday parties.

When they were done ‘visiting’ down there they’d come back up and sort of pour themselves into the living room chairs and couches and they were pretty useless until dinnertime.

At least they told some good stories ( complete with side jokes)  about other Christmases and the entire time they were talking they kept their watery unfocused eyes glued to the little table by the fireplace.

My Great Aunt had this Victorian marble top table that later in the evening would set a single giant silver serving tray on.

That tray and a pile of little round cookies dusted with powdered sugar were the only things on the table.

Oh wait, there was usually something from the wine cellar on the table.

Anyway.

All the adults would sort of hang out at this table and pop those little cookies into their mouths one after another and the more they ate the redder their faces got.

I thought it was from all the laughing they did.

Anyway, one year ( I had just turned nine years old ) I’m back in the kitchen listening to Mozart and my Aunt is making the Bourbon Balls and she’s talking to me about refining my ‘ manners’ which as far as she was concerned were very good (and let me tell you, etiquette was everything to that lady ) but that I had remember NOT to tell my chicken story when she brought the turkey out.

Wow.

Tell one story when you’re five years old ( just before everyone digs into their Christmas Turkey Dinner)  about your friend’s Grandma who broke her leg chasing a headless chicken (that she just ‘hacked’) around a yard  as it sprayed blood on the flowers and family cat and you pay for it for the rest of you life.

I promised and then she mixed the ingredients for her bourbon balls and then the phone rang and she told me to not eat the cookie mix from that bowl.

Oh okay- there were lots of other bowls on the counter so I scooted up her step stool and helped myself to a little this (hey, peppermint frosting) and some of that (yum, seafood) and I was about to help myself to the peanut butter cookie mix that was waiting for a turn at the old cookie sheet bound for the oven when her son (my Dad’s Cousin) walks in.He looks at the bowls and then down into the Bourbon Ball mix and I say, ” I’m not supposed to eat that “

” No ” he says as he picks up the bottle next to the bowl and splashes some of it into the cookie mix ” no you’re not.”

I remember he was whistling ‘ Silver Bells ‘ when he walked out of the kitchen.

I think it was the only Christmas song he knew.

A few minutes later my Dad and his sister ( my Aunt Sharon ) walk into the kitchen with their cousin ( who is still humming Silver Bells ) and my Aunt Sharon picks up the bottle and my Dad nods and she splashes some more of whatever was in the bottle into the bowl.

” What makes you think she won’t notice? ” my Dad asks.

My Aunt says, ” she’s in the Wine Cellar with Mother.”

Just then my Great Aunt’s other son walks in, they talk and chuckle and then my Dad points to the cookie mix and my Aunt Sharon hands their cousin the bottle.

” Those are going to be great cookies.” my Aunt laughed and then the four of them walk out and I’m standing there on my aunt’s foot stool-

looking down into the cookie bowl that I wasn’t supposed to get into to.

But hey, she didn’t say I couldn’t put anything into it so I picked up the bottle and added my own little touch to the cookie mixture.

And then my Great Aunt walks in and sees me.

She’s not upset and she says I can hardly ruin something like that because, ” all they want to do is suck the juice out of it anyway.”

So she takes the bottle from my hand and empties it out into the bowl and then she tosses in some more cookies and nuts and she starts to roll the mix into little balls and she tells me to scoot along.

So that night, after dinner and before presents my Aunt brings out the silver tray and sets it on the marble top table and the adults sort of stand around it and each one nudges the other and then they each take a cookie.

And then at the count of three they each pop a cookie take a bite and the next thing I know this tapestry my Great Aunt had (it had dogs and horses and women playing harps all over it) was covered with cookie crumbs, spit and booze.

And at that exact moment I had a new story to tell every single time anyone of them reached for a cookie-

Any cookie.

Anywhere.

Anytime.

Merry Christmas.

Only 8 more days until I reach

The Inner Circle of Hell

CHRISTMAS.