A quickie multiple choice question for you:
It’s Christmas Eve. What am I doing right now?
- Standing in the middle of my kitchen, trying to determine if the white powdery substance I placed in an airtight container is baking soda, baking powder, corn starch, confectionery sugar or cocaine.
- All of the above
Since we typically leave a feast of desserts for Santa and his reindeer on Christmas Eve, together with some doggy bags for the elves and the Mrs., I think it’s pretty important that I not kill him or his family or turn any of them into strung out junkies. Most importantly, I’d rather Santa not hurl all over my living room. I’ll have enough to clean up in the wee hours of the morning without adding vomit onto the list.
By the way, did I ever tell you about the Santa upon whose lap Zoe sat when she was five? She asked him what he would like her to leave him as a snack on Christmas Eve. Apparently, this Santa had had enough of indulging children and their moms so instead of answering cookies and milk or maybe a big piece of dessert like any normal, sane Santa who actually likes moms and doesn’t want them to have seizures which force their eyeballs to pop out of their sockets and roll down the entire length of the mall, he answered homemade spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread and a big glass of soy milk in a blue sparkly plastic cup. Because apparently, not only was Santa batshit crazy and sadistic, he was also lactose intolerant.
As I dragged Zoe out of there in an effort to catch my eyeballs before they went bouncing into the fountain, I tried desperately to convince her that Santa was either kidding or having a senior moment and that he’d be perfectly fine with a piece of cheesecake and regular milk out of a glass and yes, he might have a little gas but that would just help make his sleigh fly faster. Zoe, who could not have cared less about Santa’s presumed intestinal woes, was all SPARKLY BLUE CUP! SPARKLY BLUE CUP! Because she was absolutely certain that if Santa did not quench his thirst from a sparkly blue cup, he would drop dead in our fireplace and then all the children in the world would be mad at her for killing Christmas. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Santa would probably stuff her stocking with a big ol’ hunk of coal before he croaked since, as all five year olds know, He sees you when you’re sleeping, He knows when you’re awake, He knows if you’ve been bad or good so you better get him that sparkly blue cup he asked for or CHRISTMAS WILL BE CLOAKED IN DISAPPOINTMENT AND SHATTERED DREAMS, MISSY.
Making such an elaborate, separate dinner for Santa’s snack was hard enough but searching for a sparkly blue cup was an exercise in poking my eyes out with a really dull fork because Hanukkah was over and done with and there wasn’t one sparkly blue cup left in the whole United States by that point. So that year, Santa ate his homemade spaghetti and meatballs and drank soy milk a/k/a UGH BLECH YUCK out of a plastic cup coated with a thick layer of blue glitter glue. That was also the year Mrs. Claus got a nasty letter of complaint from the northeast region, quadrant four, sector 6, advising her that she either needed to give her chubby spouse more fiber or more sex because he was in dire need of an attitude adjustment.
I’m about to call my local FBA crime lab and ask them the difference between a pantry staple and an illegal narcotic. I’ll leave you with Christmas Canon Rock from Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I saw them live last year and it was one of the best concerts I have ever experienced. I blogged about that concert HERE if you’re bored with absolutely nothing to do, in which case, can I be you?
Merry Christmas, everyone! May your stockings and stomachs and hearts be full.
See you soon.