I love Sa
nta Claus. He’s my kind of guy. Chunky, yet self-assured. A lover of Coca Cola products. Jolly, outgoing and immensely kind – making him a perfect foil to my less than positive demeanor.
He has a flair for fashion. Could anyone else work that vintage Nordic leisure suit look as well as Mr. Claus? The white fur, the big belt buckle, those boots. He’s got it going on, plus not many people can pull off that shade of red.
His financial acumen is world-class. Just look how long he’s been in business. He’s run an amazing, magical toy operation for centuries and his overnight delivery system is still the gold standard. If he ever gets tired of the Mrs. I could be persuaded to make myself available.
Living on the North Pole would be a dream come true. I’d never, ever, have to put on a swimsuit or even expose my lower limbs and my arm flab wouldn’t see the light of day. I’d be wrapped head to toe in woolens and blankets. Think of the money I’d save on waxing – uni-brow, mustache, the rouge chin hair, all acceptable in the North Pole. I have it on good authority the North Poleans call all that excess hair ”facial warming follicles.” Paradise, I tell you, paradise.
My great love for Santa leads to a flurry of mixed emotions this time of year. I’m excited about preparing for his arrival, but I’m also exhausting myself defending his reputation and ensuring that the population-at-large is adhering to St. Nick’s high standards. Seriously, I’m two issues behind on my Us magazine reading.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a whole lot of Santa Slackers out there. If that isn’t bad enough I’m having to do battle with the Santa Slayers. Thank goodness for Pepperidge Farm Gingerbread Men and sugar cookie dough washed down with a Diet Coke chaser. If it weren’t for my high-octane carb and refined white sugar diet I doubt I would have enough energy to do what I do best this time of year – kicking some serious butt for Santa.
The one group that is really trying my patience and zapping a whole lot of my zest for the season are the Santa Slayers. These are the people who say Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Please note, if you don’t celebrate Christmas because you are of another faith. God bless, high-five your higher power etc. Also, if you do celebrate Christmas, but chose not to believe in Santa that is, indeed, your own personal business. What I’m talking about are the families that do celebrate Christmas, do not celebrate Santa and go around telling other people, specifically children, that Santa Claus does not exist. My holiday greeting for you – Shut Up!
When my son was in kindergarten I got my first up close and personal look at the Santa Slayers. It was the winter party and some children were excitedly talking about what they wanted Santa to bring them for Christmas. Another girl in the class sashays over and tells the kids (in what can best be described as the haughty, bitchy vocal tones of an under nourished 50 something Park Avenue social matron who has just found Jesus being channeled through the body of a 5-year-old), “Santa Claus doesn’t exist! Your mom and dad are liars that don’t believe in the Bible.”
I loudly gasped and sprinted over to do damage control while wearing my Santa hat, jingle bell bracelet, and battery operating glowing Rudolph nose. Another mom beats me to the table. She was the Santa Slayers mother. “Good, ”I thought she’ll take care of the problem. But, nooooo, she puts her arm around her daughter and says in a similar haughty fashion, “Yes, Santa is all made up by people who aren’t good enough to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.”
By this time two kids had tears running down their faces. I quickly blurt out, “different families believe different things and I know at our house we believe in Santa Claus.”
The other mom looks at me and shakes her head in disgust and does that very annoying tsk, tsk, thing. (Really, who tsk tsk, anymore? Even my mother stopped tsk, tsking, a good 20 years ago.) I look at her, shake my jingle bell bracelet in her face, and say, “Perhaps we should we take this outside?”
She quips back a curt, “Let’s.”
Out in the hall we go where I don’t even get the first word in (that almost never happens). Santa Slayer Sr. attempts to get all theological/psychological on me and explains how it’s anti-Christian to believe in Santa Claus AND throws in that I’m doing long-term damage to my child’s psyche.
This is where I had to tell her to shove it and confess that I’m madly in love with Santa Claus, possibly romantically, we’re both currently exploring our options. I added that I consider him a de facto member of my family and to please not forget he’s a saint. That shut her up for about two seconds. Her rebuttal was that you couldn’t believe in Santa and Jesus. I asked the biblical scholar where does it say that in the Old or New Testament?
She didn’t have a quick retort so I went in for the kill by leaning in uncomfortably close to her. Speaking in my version of a sexy voice, that unfortunately sounded like I had just chugged a Quaalude and cough syrup smoothie, I rasp, “Santa is super awesome. Don’t knock the big guy till you tried him.”
To really up the gross out factor I took my tongue and did a disgusting yet kind of sensual licking of my upper lip. She shrieked and took off running down the hall, never to return to the kindergarten party. Oh yeah, that’s right, I taught her not to mess with my Santa.
Just to make sure she never forgets Mr. Red Suit & Black Boots every year I send her the most irritating Santa card I can find (even though I’ve moved three times since the incident). This year I found a great one at Hallmark. You open the card and Santa says “Ho, ho, ho Merry Christmas!” The bonus is that the “ho, ho, ho” goes on for about three minutes even with the card closed. Awesomeness!
Almost as aggravating at the Santa Slayers are the Santa Snobs. Both groups are related by their deep-seated prejudiced against my chubby love bug. The Santa Snobs are the “Jesus is the Reason for the Season,” Keep Christ in Christmas” do gooders. Yes, we all know Christmas is about Christ. Duh, it’s called Christmas.
I’m a believer in that we, as humans with fully functioning frontal lobes, have the brain capacity to multi-task and celebrate primarily, the birth of Christ and secondarily, the arrival of Santa Claus. My decision to include Santa into the holiday mix doesn’t make me a bad person nor does it make you a better person than me because you have a Santa free Christmas.
Yes, I know what you’re going for. You, by scolding others for their enjoyment of Santa, feel superior and infinity more pious. Oh and please, I’m down on my knees begging you, to quit pointing out that Santa can be word scrambled to spell Satan. As I’ve mentioned earlier I have a personal relationship with Santa and in no way does he have hoofs, horns, a tail or carry a pitchfork. He’s more of an extra-large Pillsbury Doughboy kind of guy.
I do have to give the Santa Snobs some props. The whole only three gifts at Christmas thing because the wise-men brought Jesus three gifts – brilliant! Think of the financial and not to mention the time savings with only three gifts to buy per family member (you don’t even have to get stocking stuffers) thus leaving you more hours in the day to enjoy your very merry sanctimonious holiday.
The absolute worst abuse that Santa suffers this time of year comes from his evil twin – the Secret Santa. Mr. Claus has no desire for his good name and legendary reputation to be soiled by the lackluster work of the Secret Santa. One of my life goals is to eradicate the Secret Santa practice from the face of the earth.
Presently, my two kids each have two Secret Santa week-long gift drops and my husband also has a Secret Santa, but his last two freaking weeks. Doing the gift math that means that I’m responsible for buying 30 “little” gifts and five bigger “reveal” gifts. Now, factor in the time spent shopping for the presents, multiply that by the cost of each gift and you come up with the total spent on Secret Santa presents coming in very conservatively at $250.00. Yikes and yuck!
Also, in the grand cosmic design of the whole Secret Santa universe the person who gives really good Secret Santa presents always and I mean always gets the lamest Secret Santa gifts in return. You know what Santa really wants us to do? He wants every group that does a Secret Santa to stop, drop and roll that greedy gift idea right to the nearest trash can and donate to the charity of their choice instead.
While we’re kicking Secret Santa to curb I suggest that the Santa Slackers also be deposited in the trash. I’m talking about some of the men and women who don the Santa uniform and go forth into our shopping malls and other retail establishments as stand-ins, helpers, and assistants for the Big S.C. I have no problem with the worthy individuals who take their responsibility as “Santa Lite” seriously and exercise great pride in their work. I take issue with the faux Santas that are phoning it in.
A couple of pointers that need to be included in every Santa’s employee manual.
1) Santa should not have body odor. He should only smell like peppermint, candy cane or other Christmas scents. I suggest a liberal spritzing of Febreze Holiday spray before reporting to work and peppermint altoids should be di rigueur.
2) Santa’s beard should not showcase what he just had for lunch. A pristine, snow-white beard is required at all times. (P.S. The white beard is going to make your teeth look super yellow which means it Crest Whitening Strips time for you.)
3) Work on that ho, ho, ho. It needs to be robust and friendly. A bad one can really creep the kids and the moms out.
4) Make sure your red suit is suitably rotund. No one likes a skinny Santa. He’s immortal and not worried about his LDL cholesterol or chest pains so plump that big boy up.
5) Bring the magic. Don’t let the real Santa down or you will find yourself eternally on that naughty list or perhaps worse, me, in your face, complaining because I believe baby, I believe!
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**For more Snarky check out my book Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School.
Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good. Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival. If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you.
Snarky in the Suburbs 