SIS: Wayward bachelorette gifts and public humiliation: Christmas gifts that keeps on giving

 File this one under: “It Could Only Happen to Scarlette.”

     It starts off innocently enough: I’m moving. And because I enjoy pain and suffering so much, I’m moving at the beginning of winter.
     In northern Idaho.
     The last time I moved in the winter I promised myself I’d only ever do it again if I was going to a tropical bungalow, complete with a pool boy and a champagne waterfall.
     Yeah, and I also promised myself I’d never eat fast food or drink Tequila again.
      I don't even know why I talk to myself, I'm such a liar.
     Regardless of the weather, this move was a little more daunting than the last; as Mr. and Mrs. Quille, we've acquired more "things" in the past two years than either of us have in our entire lives. I have boxes and boxes of stuff: crystal bowls, vases, candle holders, etc. Man oh man, did we get a lot of candle holders for our wedding. Either we stink or look like we’re into pagan séances.
     Sadly, many of our gifts haven't yet seen the light of day; there was just nowhere to put them in our old house. The new house provides far more areas to display our finery, so I guess you could call that a bonus. Right?
     Well, after packing for days and days several things were finally ready to move, but that barely amounted to 5 percent of our total belongings – much of which was stowed away in various nooks and crannies. Despite this, my husband decided it would be a great day to have his father and brother come help us move the big stuff.   
     Never mind that our house was a pigsty of epic proportions. Never mind that roughly 95 percent of our earthly goods weren't packed yet, or even ready to be seen by the public. The KING had decided it was time for the peasants to move, and so it must be.
     As my father- and brother-in-law got ready to move our bed, something dawned on me: I hadn't looked under there for about 27 months.
     Suddenly, I remembered a bag filled with leftover party favors from my bachelorette party. I remembered some lingerie, some handcuffs, a few other things and, of course, a penis hat. I remembered the last place I’d seen it: stashed under the bed so my exploration-prone kids didn’t stumble across it and come away scarred for life.
     Did I mention there was no room in that house for anything? GREAT.
     I had to think fast, otherwise my father-in-law was going to have the misfortune of thinking I walked his son on a leash.
     A million things ran through my mind: Why did I keep that bag? Am I a hoarder, but instead of Chihuahuas or old phone books, am I obsessed with penis-themed novelty items? Why are my friends such freaks?
     I grabbed The King by the throat and hissed at him: “I'm not ready to move the bed.”
     He gave me that “Dude, she’s lost her mind” look, but thankfully knew I meant business.
     While he created a diversion I slithered under the bed and retrieved the perverse gift bag – now a home to a few spiders and at least three obese dust bunnies. Before anyone was the wiser, I stuffed it into a box of clothes.
     Phew. Good thing that was over.
     Ha! Not so fast. My embarrassment was far (far) from over.
     As the mattress was lifted I saw something shining in the afternoon sun. The object was electric blue, longer than it was wide, and apparently had fallen out of the bachelorette bag.
     “What the hell is that?” I thought. Then I gasped in horror.
     I hopped on the bed frame, grabbed the foreign object (it was a gift!) and stuffed it in my pocket. No one had seen a thing.
     Now let’s recap: at this point I’m walking around my trashed house with my in-laws, harboring a stash of perverse party favors and have a very visible cylindrical object in my pants pocket. It looked like I was really happy to moving.
    The bag of tricks was safe; the problem was there was nowhere safe enough to hide “the other thing.” I definitely didn't have time to sneak off and bury it in the yard (I’ll admit: I thought about it).
     Finally I gave up and decided my purse was the safest place. With cat-like subtlety, I spirited it away, and forgot about it roughly 10 seconds later.
     Embarrassment averted.
     Well… not quite.
     In an awe inspiring lapse of short-term memory, I managed to tote that thing around in my purse for the next couple of days without a care in the world. That is, until I had to drive to Coeur d’Alene to handle a traffic ticket at the courthouse.
     There was some big case that day, and people were lined up outside like it was an exclusive club – a club so exclusive you had to pass through a metal detector and undergo a purse/coat search.
     Ahem. I think you see where this is going.
     The 60-something bouncer/police officer went through my bag and held up my long-forgotten bachelorette gift for further inspection. He wasn't my father-in-law – thank God – but half the population of Kootenai County got an eyeful.
     The guy behind me laughed, but I'm pretty sure everyone else thought I was going to court for working one of "those" massage parlors. Whatever it was they though, it wasn’t flattering.
     So what could I do but put my head down, quietly take my purse, and handle my business with the clerk. (Then slink out like a thief in the night.)
     But even after all that I still had another dilemma: I’d been publicly embarrassed, and someone must pay for this crime.
     I'm certainly not one of those people who’s above revenge, so I took old blue home, placed him in a lovely box and wrapped him in especially festive Christmas paper. I'm going to do a little research on who gave me this talisman, and she’s getting a surprise under the tree this year.

     Ho, Ho, Ho.
‘Tis the season,


Scarlette Quille