But gifts have a dark side. No, I'm not describing the random turtle neck you got from your aunt, again. I'm talking about the packaging. More specifically, the innocuous styrofoam peanut.
You have seen it before. Curving more like the letter "S" than impersonating a peanut, they burst forth like Mount St. Helens upon opening, as if the inner chambers of the box had to release pressure to maintain equilibrium, leaving a light covering of white devils on all that is near.
My neighbor Bob and I have had two conversations. I know very little about Bob except that he yells at his doberman Rocko to be quiet after each episode of barking and does not seem to leave his house. I was a tad surprised when I saw him at my door.
"Did you have a box filled with peanuts?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, wondering why the trash had not been picked up yet.
"Would those be them?" Bob asked pointing to his yard, littered with scattered peanuts for 30 yards. A pack of them were gathered together attempting to raise a flag.
An hour and half later, I had picked up all the peanuts. For the first hour, I did not use a rake. I bent over and gathered the crunchy poof balls, placed them in my sack, then chased the ones that had jumped out when I bent over to collect their friends. I felt like the little kid who keeps putting ice cubes in his cup.
Sure enough, as I was beginning my task, the garbage truck came by. The driver looked at me, saw the box, saw the spilled contents, and laughed and drove away.
Oh, Friday. Happy birthday Wife!
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