Sunday night, 5:40 pm. Harris residence. Christmas trees - fired up. Cats - snoozing.

Blair - relaxing in library. Dena - front room watching TV. All is well on nigh. Until...

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Dena: Blair! Blair, get in here! Now!

Blair: Why? (He no longer reacts to cries of panic, me having cried wolf one too many times during our many years of marriage. Sad.) 

Dena: I'm getting sucked into an infomercial. My powers to resist are fading. Get in here. 

Blair: What's it for?

Dena: I'm not sure. Some sort of face-lift-botox-stand-in-alternative-to-chemical-peel thingee. You can put it in the freezer. Looks cool. 

Blair: You don't need a face lift. (Sound of Wall Street Journal rustling as he turns a page.)