Not by The Hair on My Chinny-Chin-Chin

So, at work, outside in the garden center, I have a spiffy toothpicks-and-saran wrap shelter for the register. The fact that they've spared 2 square feet for my fat butt is incidental. And fabulous.

It's a great place to work, no really. I mean that. *snark*

Anyway, while I'm sitting there, with my obligatory 3 layers to keep myself moderately warm, I'm trying to think of a way to explain this without seeming too sarcastic. Because, I've noticed, sarcasm is lost on the decision makers of the world.

Now, on the particular day I'm writing this (not typing it) I'm thinking seriously of the Three Little Pigs, and that this is, truly, a glorified twig hut. Given my choices, I'd take the straw house, because that, at least would hold the heat in, even if it did smell like cows.

I'm thinking of Little Pigs and the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin. And then a miracle happened. An infinitely better idea on how to explain this situation than I could have made up--it really happened. There is a God, and He, too, is laughing.

I'm sitting there, in the twig house, huddled up over the heater, practicing saying, "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin" in my best "and your little dog, too" voice, when I hear some shifty shuffling.

Occasionally, my co-workers think it's funny to *scare* me, and they'll come out, and be all sneaky-sneak and tap on the saran wrap or jiggle the toothpicks. Because it's funny to tease Dorothy about the tornado.

My natural response is, "Helloooooooo." I do not recognize the answering, "Helloooooo." The shifty shuffling is still happening.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"Where ARE you?!" is what I hear. It's practically a shriek.

"I'm INSIDE here, trying to keep warm." And this dumpy sort of woman stomps around towards my pseudo-door. I think she missed the midget designation by mere inches. (Remembering that I am wearing flourenscent hunter ORANGE, and confined within my twig house, there's NO WAY she didn't notice me in there, all things considered.)

So, Gretel comes 'round to where she can actually SEE me, even with those huge bugeyed glasses, and she says, "I need a roll of plastic!" still shrieking, because, well, obviously, I'm deaf. That's why hunter-safety orange is worn often by the deaf.

I tell her where to go (HAH! aisle 18, not where you were thinking) and off she rolls.

It occured to me after she left that what the shifty shuffling was. She was going to dismantle my pathetic attempt at weather protection!

Sweet gingerbread houses!

I have been assured, however, that our policy is that I can roast any midgets who try to take apart my twig house.

(Which is a much better ending than it getting blown away by a wolf.)

I've entered this in Scribbit's Write-Away contest for December.