It was a typical Sunday afternoon in my childhood home. His head tilted back, my dad's slack figure dented the cushions of the couch, his abandoned sports page dangling as he snored. My mom was off roasting or blending or kneading something in the kitchen. And my band of siblings and I were on the carpet, arguing over the comics and floor space because we had nothing better to do.
Inexplicably, my dad shot up and looked around wide-eyed as if a numchucks-wielding ninja had just invaded our living room.
The kids. The crime.
"The napkins!" he cried. "They're… everywhere!"
We looked at each other, perplexed.
"What napkins?" one of us asked. But his head had already sunk back into this delightfully dreadful dream.
Suddenly, we were bored no more.
"Get the napkins!" I whispered, scurrying to the kitchen.
"Yeah, the dangerous ones!" one of my brothers snickered, sending us all into mouth-covered hysterics.
Twenty minutes later, our pops was an unconscious paper products promotional, covered head to toe in gingerly placed little white blankets.
Giggling, we then turned our staging skills to the living room, where we transformed the entirety of our traditional L-shaped settee into a winter wonderland. That poor floor lamp never had a chance. When our work was done, we lay in wait for the man of our house to awaken to his worst quilted cotton nightmare.
And he did... READ THE REST:
Cracking Up: Attack of the killer napkins - OC Moms - The Orange County Register
