I have no idea what Mark is typing, but he looks up from his phone, his brows knitted in confusion. “How do you spell wool?”
No one answers him, and so he tries again, speaking mostly to himself this time. “Wool … why doesn’t my phone understand what I’m trying to type?” He pokes a finger at the phone’s screen. “W … H …”
I glance over at him. “Really, Mark?”
He looks up sheepishly. “So how do you spell it?”
“O … O … L.”
He types and then stares intently at his screen. “HA! You don’t know how to spell it either. My phone says that’s wrong.”
“What did you type, exactly?”
“W … H … O … O … L.”
Kallan, who has been silent until now, shrieks with laughter as I explain, “Babe, there’s no H. W-O-O-L … no H.”
He stabs the correction into his phone. “That’s not what you said the first time.”
There is another shriek of laughter from Kallan. “Oh my god, Daddy … whool? Really? That is the funniest thing I have ever heard!” Kallan tries out the word a few more times, quickly bastardizing the pronunciation to exaggerate the mistake. “Whool … wahowl …wahool … wuhool …wuhHOOL.” She leaps from her chair and stalks around the kitchen as though she is a supermodel, pausing dramatically at the end of the catwalk to toss her hair and stare at us over one shoulder. “What am I wearing? Nothing but wuhHOOL.”
Mark refuses to look up from his phone. “People make mistakes.”
After a few more trips down the runway, each time ending with a doe-eyed, “What am I wearing? Nothing but wuhHOOL,” Kallan transforms herself into her father, doing a pretty excellent imitation of his slouchy walk and then stopping short confusedly as an invisible someone demands answers. “What am I wearing? Hold on, let me check.” Kallan as Mark pulls awkwardly at the collar of her shirt to squint at the label. “Why, I believe it’s wuhHOOL.”
Color rises in Mark’s cheeks as I sink against the kitchen counter, weeping with laughter. He glares at me, flustered and embarrassed, and he mutters, “Why does this family have to make such a big deal out of every little mistake?”
Kallan as Mark is asked by invisible strangers again and again what his/her various garments are fashioned from, and again and again, Kallan as Mark reaches awkwardly for the tags of his/her clothing. She pulls the back of her underwear up and around, craning to read the label before announcing (in her best authoritative Dad-voice), “Why, it’s wuhHOOL … of course.”
Mark sighs as Kallan continues. “WuhHOOL for the underwin!”
I swipe at tears as I giggle helplessly.
Kallan then becomes a saleswoman offering Mark and me an imaginary scarf, urging us to run our hands over the softness. “It’s made of the finest wuhHOOL from the rarest of wuhHOOLEN sheep. Caress the wuhHOOL and feel the wuhHOOLEN wonder.” She turns as if to search beneath a counter. “Or perhaps you would be interested in some wuhHOOLEN socks. Socks made of wuhHOOL, and you’ll be the envy of the socken world. People will ask What has put the bounce in Mark’s step? What has given him that air of superiority where his feet are concerned? And you will say …” and here Kallan rests a saleswoman hand of faux-intimacy on Mark’s arm, “… and you will say My feet are enrobed in wuhHOOL and life is very good indeed.”
Mark pulls his arm out of the conversation. “W-O-O-L … I get it. You are insane. I blame your mother …” and he gestures with a hand to indicate the entirety of Kallan, who is still a saleswoman, her lips pursed in slight customer-service annoyance as he finishes his sentence, “… for all of this.”
She sniffs the air of lesser beings and informs him, still as saleswoman, “Not everyone is worthy of wuhHOOL. My mistake.”
From behind her book, where she has been ignoring all of us, Maj changes the subject. “Why is the Christmas wreath hanging next to the front door instead of on the front door?”
Before I can even gather the words to explain, Kallan has raced to the front door to examine the wreath and then wailed her way hysterically back into the room. “WHY CAN’T THIS FAMILY EVER BE NORMAL? NORMAL FAMILIES PUT THE WREATH ON THE FRONT DOOR NOT OFF TO THE SIDE! WHY ISN’T OUR WREATH ON THE DOOR LIKE NORMAL FAMILIES PUT THEIR WREATHS? WHY CAN’T WE BE NORMAL?”
We stare at her, and Maj says mildly as she flips a page in her book, “Yeah, because wreath placement is the thing that keeps us from being a normal family. Holiday décor has always been our stumbling block.”
Sometimes I laugh so hard, I cannot breathe.
22 thoughts on “WuhHOOL for the underwin!”
Not that I can comment on normality, or even the placement of Christmas wreaths—ours usually hangs in the hallway during the rest of the year because every year I find the wreath bag and then lose it again after Christmas. Luckily it is mostly acorns and pinecones, so it doesn’t scream Christmas which is why I then forget about it again once it is in the hallway.
But I digress. Why IS your Christmas wreath hung to the side of the door?
Simple … because we have a glass storm door that hangs just beyond the main front door, with insufficient space between the doors to hang a wreath.
So off to the side the wreath goes.
Since I really laughed out loud, I feel inclined to *LOL*. But I hate doing that. So I’m just gonna tell you I actually really laughed out loud when I read that.
Hee hee. LOL has lost all meaning … I never type LOL … I instead type, “You just made me laugh right out loud.”
Which you did.
SALTS. Smiled a little, then stopped.
Much more accurate most of the time – except, I hasten to add, when reading your words.
Smiled a little, then stopped.
I’m going to have to make a note to remember that. I love that.
Also? Apologies for the delay in response. Idiotic knife mishaps and laptop failure combined to make the last several days quiet ones, internet-wise.
Hope your Christmas was amazing!
“Holiday décor has always been our stumbling block.”
It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish that matters. Just sounds like something that had to be said. Have a great Christmas.
I always end up where I finish.
Wait … what?
Besides laughing, my favorite part of this story is that Kallan is speaking in all caps at the end and Maj is calm. Hehe.
Kallan has lately stepped up her volume just as Maj has calmed.
It is very bizarre.
Yay for laughter!
Your descriptions KILL ME. DEAD. But ROFLing all the way to the morgue. :D
Holly Hippodays! *you must imagine a rotund hippo unashamedly clad in nothing but a wreath around its neck* :o)
You guys leave the best comments. THE BEST.
This: Holly Hippodays! *you must imagine a rotund hippo unashamedly clad in nothing but a wreath around its neck*
As for the death? YAY!
Oh the ironey!
And Merry Christmas to you all!
YOU MAKE ME LAUGH.
One of my bosses orders “viles” of ashes and every time I just have to stop myself from asking “how bad can they be?”
I sometimes wonder what it must be like to just not know how to spell something, but I’ve honestly never felt it (except when I’ve written the same words over and over until it looks wrong and I have to ask my husband to make sure I’m still writing it properly, but that’s different).
Viles?? That’s my new favorite misspelling ever.
I am generally a pretty amazing speller, BUT my injured bandaged index finger is making me type horrifically, and so almost every word I am typing is coming up wrong.
After my unceremonious fall from my Tahoe this morning after buckling my boys in, I needed that laugh.
There should be a rule that Monday’s after a holiday should always begin without mishap because needing to visit a doctor for X-rays after a holiday is a crime. I can’t even blame this on alcohol. Where’s the fun in that?
Also, I think I met the saleswoman that she based her routine on because she literally wiped her hand on her pants after touching my arm like I was dirty or something. I may have laughed and fake coughed into that elbow just to give her something to worry about. Hehehe
There should definitely be a rule about Mondays after holidays. Perhaps just a rule for all Mondays.
Except all my days are lately Mondays.
So are you feeling better?
Because my stupid finger still hurts.
At first I wondered if you were commenting from prison. ‘Knife mishap’ could have many meanings at this cooped up time of year. Sorry to hear about your lanced digit. You might try typing with a pencil between your teeth. Works for a guy I know.
I know, I know … you win any contest of digit or limb sacrifice.
As for my finger? I cut it with a butter knife. While cutting butter.
Because the genius is HUGE over here.
Only you could pull that one off.
From New Zealand.
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