Page 57 of Ho Ho Oh No

In a word, wintery heaven.

Two words. Whatever.

Mia tried to add red and green sprinkles, and it got her banished from my kitchen. Perhaps permanently. Depends on whether she attempts to earn a second chance.

Fucking sprinkles.

What is this? A circus?

It’s possible Mia’s trolling me with the sprinkles. A tactic she’s using to sexually rage bait me.

Gearing up for the holidays, I’ve tried teaching her some baking techniques. Oddly enough, by the time the oven heats up, our clothes are off, and one of us is licking something sweet off the other’s body.

Come to think of it, that usually happens after she starts in with her bratty shit.

Huh.

Oh well.It all works out in the end.

“Lettie,” Tomer comments about the playlist, conveying it was her doing while using the least number of words possible.

Classic Tomer. Unnecessary words serve no purpose for him. Unlike the Tomer of old, this version of him lights up like a Christmas tree when the topic involves his girl.

Shep pointedly looks between the two of us, assessing us carefully. He addresses Tomer first. “Die Hard. John McClane. Nice. Wish I would’ve thought of it myself.”

Tomer’s dressed in a tank top that’s stained with fake blood and grime. He’s got more smudges on his neck, shoulders, and arms. A chain lanyard hangs from his neck with a phony police badge, and he’s wearing double empty shoulder holsters.

Turning to me, Shep clicks his tongue. “No fucking clue who you’re supposed to be. Frank Sinatra?”

I put my hand on my chest and lower my forehead. “I’m flattered, but no. George Bailey fromIt’s a Wonderful Life.”

He rolls his eyes. “Lame.”

I scoff. “Yours is better?”

In truth, his costume is far superior. There’s no way I’m letting him know I think that, though.

Besides, I couldn’t go all out with my costume. I didn’t want to risk upsetting my mother.

Shep’s in a white robe that’s tied around the waist. No shirt underneath it. Since the robe stops above his knees, his legs are exposed down to the black socks that are pulled halfway up his shins. The icing on his costume is the faux fur trapper hat with flaps covering both his ears.

“Sorry, Klein. Shep’s costume is way better,” Aaron offers his opinion.

I feign offense with a glare and curl of my upper lip. “Who asked you, box dick?”

We laugh off the good-natured ribbing and then Shep and Sawyer launch into a competition to see who can do the best Cousin Eddie impression.

Shep goes first, which is only fair since he’s in the costume. “Merry Christmas! Shitter was full.”

Sawyer snaps his finger, pointing at an imaginary dog on the floor. “Snot! You roll over and let Uncle Clark scratch your belly.” Fully embracing the character, Sawyer slants his head to the side and lowers his voice. “You ain’t never seen a set on a dog like this, Clark.”

Shep puts his hands out, palms facing front. “I surrender. You win.”

As the hilarity dies down, Leo strolls up to our group, plate overflowing with his mother’s meatballs and about seventy-two pounds of cheese cubes. He’s wearing dress slacks, a green cardigan, and a green Christmas tie. A Santa hat rests slightly askew on his giant head. He reminds me of my grandfather.

It’s the first time I’ve chatted with him tonight, so after we exchange greetings, I ask, “What’s your costume?”

He uses his free hand to gesture down his frame. “Clark W. Griswold.” Then he points his fat finger at Shep. “Shitter was full.”

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