Dipping My Wick

Posted: January 14, 2009 in kids, parenting, vacation


Shit like this is why I don’t work for the Yankee Candle Company.

Let me explain.

Back in September, the wife and I had taken the kids to Clark’s Trading Post here in New Hampshire.

Clark’s Trading Post slogan:
“Yeah…You think you’re bored now?”

Why am I bringing this back up now?

Well, during the Christmas break, my wife had hung up the “Santa Key” on a hook over our kitchen counter.

For those of you who don’t know what a “Santa Key” is, it’s a key for Santa to get into your house in the event that you don’t have a chimney.

Why all my male neighbors have Santa keys to my house, I’m still unclear on.


Regardless, I wish someone would have thought of this shit when I was a kid, because it would have saved me this trauma:

Me: “Dad, how does Santa come into our house?”

Dad: “He comes down the chimney, of course.”

We lived in a two-family home at the time.

No fireplace.

I wasn’t stupid.

I was fat and out of shape and ate roast beef sandwiches for a ‘snack’ after school, but I was not stupid.

* I look at the chimney

Me: “WHAT?! BUT OUR CHIMNEY LEADS TO THE FURNACE!! HE’LL DIE, DAD!! HE’LL DIE A HORRIBLE, FIERY DEATH!!”

I believe a beating with a belt followed shortly.

Stupid Schlitz.

You made my daddy mean.

I’ve gone off topic.


Regardless, we have a Santa Key…and my wife hung it up on the wall over the counter…

…right next to the homemade candles.

Yep.

Homemade candles.

Ugh.

One of the things we did at Clark’s Trading Post was go into one of the “General Stores.”

They call these stores “General Stores” because they are stores full of “generally useless shit.”


In this store, right smack-dab in the middle, was a bunch of wax where you could pay to make your own candles.

They give you wicks, you dip them in wax, you go home with candles that you will never, ever use in your entire lifetime.

You pay for this privilege.

WE paid for this privilege.

I wasn’t stupid before.

I apparently AM stupid now.

I WANT A ROAST BEEF SANDWICH!!

Sorry. Old habits.

My wife stood on one side of the vats of colored wax with my daughter, Payton.

I stood on the other side with my son, Cam.

* queue porn music

Woops. Wrong music.

* queue Clint Eastwood ‘Hang ’em High’ duel music

That’s right.

IT WAS ON!

Deftly…carefully…we dipped each candle into the many colors.

RED!

* dip

BLUE!

* dip

ORANGE!

* dip

FRENCH!

* dip

mmmm…French Dip. One of my favorite after school snacks.

Not sure why I put little exclamation marks there…it really wasn’t that exciting.

My wife and daughter proudly held up their candle:


Ooooh.

They went the patriotic look…nice division of colors…

…excellent contrast…

…even tone.

Purdy.

Wife: “Okay…let’s see yours.”

Me: “No.”

Wife: “Let me see it.”

Me: “No.”

Ironically, we have this same conversation every Saturday night, but it’s usually me doing the asking.

Wife: SHOW ME THE CANDLE.

She’s mean to me.

Fine.

I showed her our candle:


* cricket

That is our actual candle.

Apparently, we made a piece of wax poo.

I have no idea how we managed to get it this excellent shade of complete and utter blackness…without an ounce of color anywhere on it.

But we did.

Me: “Not too good, is it, Cam?”

Cam: “No. Not good at all.”

I never cease to disappoint my son.

But he ain’t seen nothing yet.

Wait til I start drinking Schlitz.

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