Congo the Christmas Dinosaur

My niece, let's call her Addi (because that's her name), recently got her picture taken with a Christmas dinosaur in June.  She spotted him at a swap meet on a mountain in Arkansas.  And I'm jealous.

Addi and Congo.  (Congo is the green one.)

Apparently Addi's parents think going through other people's junk is fun (and they're right), so they drove Addi up a mountain to do just that recently.  They probably promised her they'd get her something, just as all parents who've been to a yard sale with children do.  Addi wanted this Christmas dinosaur, because she has exceptional taste.  Addi's mom said no because, according to her, "It's two-thousand dollars.  And concrete.  And two-thousand dollars."  I don't think that's the real reason, though.  I suspect it has more to do with the fact that she didn't have enough Germ-X in her purse to properly wash Congo.

When it was apparent that Addi and Congo wouldn't be BFFs, I decided it was okay to try to make him mine.  I started with a text to my husband Cy.  

"Can I have two grand?"  I asked.

"No."

"You don't even know what it's for.  Maybe I'm saving someone's life!  Aren't you going to ask?"

"No."

"What if I told you it was for Christmas?"

"Wife, you don't shop until December.  I'm trying to work."

"Okay, then I'll be quick and to the point.  It's for a Christmas dinosaur.  He's well made and green.  I call him Congo.  If you give me two thousand dollars, he'll live on our porch ... after you load him up and bring him down the mountain.  (I'd suggest a truck and some friends.)  I love you."

And he said ... nothing.  Because he doesn't care about my wants.  Typical.

I called Addi's mom and told her I couldn't take Congo for two-thousand bucks, but I'd give a solid forty dollars for him.  I'd go sixty-five if he was wearing a Christmas vest -- maybe something with bells.  She told me she didn't think the seller would go for that, but she knew where I could get some pretend deer that I could dress up myself.  Unfortunately (very, very unfortunately) most of my neighbors already have fake deer in their yards, and I wanted something more.  

Defeated, I shot off another text to Cy:

"It's not for me.  It's for the Mennonites that live in our backyard.  I'm going to sneak him into their garden, and when they see him, they'll be so damned excited that they'll be all 'Holy shit!  Our neighbors are cool!  We'll forgive all the naked swimming they do and bake them some bread in appreciation of Congo.'  I may even paint him black first.  They like black."

Then I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And ate a fruit bar and waited some more.

Eventually, I got tired of waiting on a text from the man who promised to love, honor, and cherish me, so I consulted with my eleven-year-old son.  He said, "Mom, just because the Mennonites live behind us doesn't mean they live in our backyard."  And then he put his headphones on and walked away.  

I suppose I'll have to proceed with Plan B:  Fundraising.  I wonder how much the three-year-old has in her piggy bank?