The Snuggie with which I gifted my father is a hit!
I went home over the weekend to attend a concert with my mother on that very rainy, blustery day, dressed in my high-waisted social x-ray windowpane check wool trousers circa 1990 and was met at the train station by my dad, who said, "what interesting pants, Sade. They look like something from a 19th Century minstrel show."
The concert in question was part of a free series at a local mansion, endowed by an elderly eccentric. My parents are regulars, but this was my first time. The mansion was liberally sprinkled with Hudson River School landscapes and festively decorated, and filled with old people and the loner who's always shooting hoops at the playground. The pianist, who was quite the consummate entertainer, entered in white tie and tails and played some very bravuro Liszt. Then he exited, returned in a red velveteen jacket, played Christmas carols in a variety of jazzy styles, cracked wise, and incongruously mentioned a wife. ("Hark the Herald Angels Sing" in ha-cha-cha rhythm was particularly bold.)
Afterwards, there was a small bar serving wine, hot cider and eggnog and a few poor waiters who were attacked by the hungry oldsters every time they emerged from the kitchen bearing miniature Yorkshire puddings and latkes and tiny ham biscuits. My mother engaged the pianist in intense conversation about the new organ in Alice Tully Hall, which saga my mother has followed closely and about which he, having inaugurated the original organ, cherishes passionate feelings.
Back home, my father called me into their room, where he was watching football. He pointed to the foot of the bed where, sure enough, the Snuggy was lying in readiness! "It's become a very important part of my lifestyle," he said.
"It's true," concurred my mother, coming in behind me. "It's risen to the top of the Pantheon, with Big Boy." (Big Boy is a large square pillow favored by my father for TV-watching.)