“The spirit of Christmas giving says finders keepers,” Georgie announces, apparently having developed her own unique interpretation of holiday traditions.
The next few rounds devolve into what can only be described as genteel chaos. Gifts change hands with the frequency of a stock market crash, alliances form and dissolve based entirely on who has what someone else wants, and the Christmas carols playing in the background create the mostironic soundtrack possible for what’s essentially become a luxury gift battle royale.
By the time we reach the final rounds, the chaos has reached epic proportions.
Georgie clutches her latest acquisition—a gourmet chocolate selection—like it contains the secrets to eternal youth. “These are Belgian truffles!” she announces to the room. “Hand-dipped by monks or something equally impressive!”
“Actually, they’re Swiss,” Macy corrects from across the circle, adjusting her newly acquired cashmere throw with smugness as if she’s just won a corporate takeover. “And they’re machine-made. I can tell by the consistency of the chocolate drizzle.”
“Oh, excuse me, Professor Chocolate,” Georgie retorts, hugging her box tighter. “I didn’t realize we had a candy expert in our midst. Tell me, does your vast confectionery knowledge come with a degree, or did you just Google it?”
Macy’s smile could freeze hot chocolate. “Some of us simply appreciate quality when we see it.”
“And some of us appreciate not being pretentious about candy!” Georgie fires back.
But then the unthinkable happens. Macy makes a grab for Georgie’s chocolates.
“Those would pair perfectly with my evening wine,” she says, lunging forward.
“OVER MY DEAD BODY!” Georgie shrieks, clutching the chocolate box and dodging backward.
Right into the Christmas tree.
The fourteen-foot Noble fir sways ominously, ornaments jingling like warning bells. For a moment, it looks like it might recover. Then gravity takes over with the enthusiasm of Newton himself.
“TIMBER!” someone yells as the tree crashes down in a shower of gold and silver ornaments that explode like glittery grenades across the marble floor.
Georgie, still clutching her chocolates, trips over a fallen branch and goes sliding across the polished floor like she’s surfing on pine needles.
“GET BACK HERE, YOU CHOCOLATE THIEF!” she bellows, scrambling to her feet and chasing Macy around the wreckage.
Macy, hampered by her cashmere throw, tries to escape by climbing onto a velvet chair, which promptly tips over, launching her toward one of the massive chandeliers. She grabs on with both hands, swinging like a very elegant Tarzan.
“HELP!” she squeaks, dangling twenty feet above the chaos.
Meanwhile, the spa thief—apparently, not content to let Georgie and Macy have all the fun—makes a desperate grab for someone else’s gift and ends up sliding into the overturned furniture. She, too, grabs for the nearest chandelier, leaving both women swinging from the crystal fixtures like very expensive Christmas ornaments themselves.
“MY CHOCOLATES!” Georgie wails, diving after her scattered truffles as they roll across the floor like edible marbles.
The remaining guests scatter like startled deer, some slipping on chocolate, others dodging falling ornament shards that tinkle and crash like a symphony of destruction.
This is the best entertainment I’ve seen all year,Fish chitters with a laugh.I take back everything I said about hoomans being boring.
Matilda stands in the center of her destroyed grand room, her perfectly coiffed hair now resembling something a tornado might produce, watching chocolate-covered Georgie army-crawl across her marble floor while two women dangle from her chandeliers like human piñatas.
“EVERYBODY OUT!” she shrieks, her elegant hostess facade finally cracking. “OUT, OUT, OUT! AND TAKE YOUR DERANGED FAMILY MEMBERS WITH YOU!”
“But my chocolates!” Georgie protests, still on her hands and knees, collecting truffles.
“NOW!” Matilda roars, pointing toward the door with the authority of a woman who’s had enough Christmas spirit to last three lifetimes.
Mom grabs Georgie by the back of her sequined sweater and hauls her toward the exit while Buffy and I help extract the chandelier-clingers with a stepladder someone miraculously produced.
“Well,” I say to Fish as we’re unceremoniously escorted out into the cold December air, stepping over scattered ornament debris, “that was?—”
“NEVER COME BACK!” Matilda slams the door so hard that the windows rattle.
Hoomans are so weird,Fish concludes with satisfaction.But I have to admit, they sure know how to make an exit.
