Santa's Last Chance

Dear Santa,

As I sit here, wrapped in crumpled piles of swaddling tissue, packing away voided warranties and random battery compartment doors, it occurs to me that I didn’t ask you for the right thing this year.

Sure, I loved the foot bath with the detachable comfort pads that can double as missiles in the hands of untrained guerilla warriors, and the electric carving knife you must have used to hack your way out of the jungles of the North Pole.

They were ideal gifts, if not exactly what I specified on the order form, but I understand your strict no-exchange policy is based on a platoon of elves who have given up a season of toy-making extravaganza for a heady round of celebratory drinking on a southbound ice floe.

However, gazing around at the faces of my family members in the soft glow of candlelight, I’m reminded that I am surely part of a group somewhere that knows not to plug three space heaters and a Dragon Master’s ring into the same power strip.

I’ve thought about it a long time and I’m sure that somewhere there is a family wrapped in individual lamb-print Snuggies, perched on a fluffy couch devoid of a protective coating of animal fur, watching Partridge Family reruns and humming “Come On Get Happy” in resonating harmony.

I still have faith that it is possible to watch an entire television show without missing the first ten minutes because you have to get to the next level before you can save your game. Surely even the Black Ops guys can hold their focus while I watch Wheel of Fortune.

My real family doesn’t have video games. They play interactive card games for entertainment on Friday nights and nobody makes the yukky face and pouts when they draw the Old Maid. They can share snacks without shooting uncooked popcorn kernels through a straw to see who can put out the living room light first. And they never slop chocolate pudding onto anyone’s exposed flesh and scream, “Look what the dog did!”

So, dear Santa, I am writing an advance letter for next Christmas. For now, I will keep the family who finds it entertaining to spend three days of an expensive beach vacation in the hotel room watching Shark Week on public television.

I understand that the child who asked for the titanium Spork for Christmas could be under the influence of unnatural substances beyond my control, such as science fiction, but apart from joining forces with Dr. Every Which Way But Loose or Bill Gates or one of those other bizarre alien creatures, there’s really nothing I can do. Besides, I’m sure the Captain's influence is strong in that one.

But next year, Santa, I would like to find my real family, the people who do not consider a group viewing of the Monty Python movie, "Searching for the Holy Grail" to be a religious experience, who do not convulse into hysterics when someone utters the word “nutcracker,” and who does not claim ownership like a terrorist group when there is a blatant disregard for sensitive personal airspace.

So, Santa, I’m writing in advance so that you have time to complete the paperwork. If you could arrange a transfer, I’d be most grateful. I’ll have my purple flannel puppy dog pajamas and my original issue Partridge Family albums all packed and ready to go.

There’s just one thing. The Dachshund only likes the red bits out of the kibble and the ankles of UPS delivery men, but there’s none better for tracking errant rabbits or undelivered parcels full of Christmas cookies. The Labradors take turns helping to load the dishwasher and riding shotgun on the way to the dump. They need a sense of purpose to be happy; a job other than licking stray butter wrappers, unlike the tribe of children who can live happily with a refrigerator full of empty milk jugs, eating cereal with gardening implements when all the spoons are dirty.

So when you find my new family, would you find one for the puppies as well? You might consider a sled dog team instead of reindeer. Bo can jump over two recliners full of sleeping cats with the right encouragement, and while I’m not one to divulge personal secrets, a fast-moving tennis ball at nose height that just stirs the whiskers is a powerful force to resist. I’d keep the cookies hidden, though. He gets a little sluggish after a dozen or so shortbreads.

Thanks for listening, Santa. Sometimes a chance to express my frustrations is all I need for peace and contentment. Not this time though. This time I want action. Don’t even think about not granting my request, or next year your trip will be mighty short.

I’ve told the Dachshund that you’re really from UPS. Resistance is futile.

Amy

Santa's Special Forces

I don’t know if all the recent news feeds about America raising a nation of obese children is true, but from the looks of things at the mall this past weekend, Santa’s gonna be opting for knee replacement surgery after Christmas.

One kid in line looked like an egg in a snowsuit. It took three elves and two recruits from Mall Security Special Forces to hoist him on to Santa’s lap. If that Humpty Dumpty had fallen off the wall, there’s not a frying pan in the kitchen at IHOP big enough to make an omelette with the remains.

And I don’t know what kind of insurance the Elves’ Union has, but I hope it’s not an HMO. It’s hard enough to get a letter of referral in the North Pole, much less finding an orthopedist with access to load bearing replacement joints.

Of course, Santa isn’t exactly a graduate of the Jillian Anderson school of fitness either. I don’t know what he does during the off season, but he might need to consider having one of the elves whip him up a Wii Fit for the North Pole break room. Before long he’s not going to need magic reindeer. He’s going to need a magic forklift with a widescreen GPS and axles that handle extra jolly loads.

And let’s get real. Who among us believes that any animal with a name like Dancer or Prancer is going to make the cut for a team of high-performance reindeer that has to fly around the world in one night? Those guys might make the top three on Dancing with the Stars, but they aren’t the go-to alpha males for endurance muscle.

I’ve checked all over Amazon.com to find the real story of Santa’s team, but the closest I found was Reindeer Games for Dummies featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle, which sounds a lot better than Prancer and Dancer. In the South, those are the sort of names that get you beat up every day at recess. Sooner or later these guys are going to have to bulk up or risk losing their Sponge Bob lunchboxes to disgruntled reindeer outcasts.

I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back.

So you might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When Biggie Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at the Hannah Montana doll in Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program.

Rest assured that come Christmas morning, all will be well. Because as sure as there’s not a mouse stirring in the land of Nod, there’s nobody better making sure a sleigh full of packages get to their destination overnight.

But make it easy on Santa and leave him a spot in the driveway. Those chimney landings are tough on the knees. And Prancer's already wearing a wrist brace for carpal tunnel.

Crime Scene Christmas

I thought it be would tough Christmas shopping for the boys once they got past the Toys R Us stage. I used to be able to mark the days until Christmas by how many pages were left in the big toy catalog. Most of the pictures had long been shipped to the North Pole for use as instructional material by elves specializing in sophisticated foam weaponry.

The boys are now in their second decade of intense and dedicated toy shopping. These days they want electronic games that feature goal-oriented ninjas, indiscriminate assassins, and more than a few species of vengeful undead.

Nothing says Happy Holidays like a man in black greeting passersby with a six inch throwing knife and a hearty handgun.

When I was a kid, we’d strap on holsters with six shooters and clap cowboy hats made of felt on our heads. You’d have to chase the bad guy clear down to his front porch before he’d admit that he was dead. These days you’re a virtual assassin who can wipe out a planet with a rapid fire Remington and a hamster wheel of death.

As the guys rent newer and more sophisticated video games to see which ones they want for Christmas, the sounds of the season fill my house: swords ring out in duels, gunshots ricochet through quiet villages, gleeful laughter meets the brother who triumphs in the zombie apocalypse.

It reminds me of lunch with the relatives.

It’s never safe to venture into Uncle Joe’s airspace after he’s had his fill of giblet gravy. Even the Labradors avoid crossing into enemy territory at half past pumpkin pie.

So this Christmas we’ll deck the halls with a turkey leg fired high tight toward a platoon of retreating relatives. And if anybody tries to get away with the pumpkin pie, they’d better watch out. I’m a killer with an assault drumstick.

And I’m sitting next to Uncle Joe.

Dragons Ho!

“You’re a thief and a rogue.”

“I’m a people person!”

It’s kind of a glass half full discussion between species. The guys are playing Dungeons and Dragons with Bill Dear, a Dragon from way back.

One has lost an arm, one has been tenderized with a meat cleaver, and one has suffered a paper cut while filling out his character form. It doesn’t look good for propagation of the species. If Darwin’s theory is accurate, this planet is going to be populated by broadsword-wielding elves before I have grandchildren. Of course, if they look anything like Orlando Bloom’s Legolas in Lord of the Rings, I don’t have a problem with this plan.

So far it’s taken an hour to decide who’s who. The same thing happens every day with Hollywood royalty. If everybody there is two degrees from Kevin Bacon, these guys are all related to Mr. Ed, the talking horse. Here in the kitchen, I haven’t noticed anybody that’s liable to end up with a star on the Adventurer’s Walk of Fame.

One player gathers up all the dice and rolls. They hit the table and there’s more numbers scattered across the imitation woodgrain than on all the tombstones in a country graveyard. Everyone groans. Apparently the luck of the roll left our rogue out of the gene pool when it comes to strength. What we have is a tough guy that would lose in a street fight with Richard Simmons.

Another roll of the dice and the character has approximately the same IQ as a cabbage. I think the same thing happened with my Aunt Edna. She was always terribly sweet, but let’s just say the needle on her compass never pointed True North.

The characters are gathered around the table, eagerly poised on the edge of a great adventure.

I just hope they have a better compass than Aunt Edna or they'll never get out of the kitchen.

The Right to Assemble

Never mind Mars and Venus. There’s nothing like a do-it-yourself project to bring out the beast, er best, in both men and women. This one came in a long, flat, heavier-than-it-looks box full of parts marked with letters of the alphabet. In my euphoria at finding just the right desk for my computer after months of stalking office supply stores, I assumed everyone in the house (Bill Dear) would share my joy and jump at the chance to put my new desk together, whistling a happy tune like so many dwarves in a diamond mine. It turns out this particular mine was missing more pieces than a yard sale jigsaw puzzle.

“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.

“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”

Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.

“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”

Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.

“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.

“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.

“Great.” More face rubbing.

I smiled contentedly.

“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”

He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.

“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”

“Well, take these instructions and. . .”

“Watch it.”

“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”

Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.

“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”

About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.

Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”

“Star?”

“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”

Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.

The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.

IMPortant Turn of Events

I’m pretty sure there’s an imp inside the dryer that turns all the shirts inside out. While everyone is spending their time looking for nonexistent sock snitchers, the real culprits are scurrying around like hamsters on a wheel saying “Quick, grab the washing label and run toward the neck!” and slipping down my new washable silk like sand down a sliding board. By the time they’ve whirled through the spin cycle and survived the “fluff and puff” stage of the dryer, the little imps have had ample time to make sure they’ve left no tag unturned. And a few extra seconds to pry a button loose on my new blouse.

Sometimes to fool them I’ll turn the shirts inside out myself before I launch them into the agitating vortex of the washer. I can just imagine their impish anguish when they find out the job’s done. Or perhaps it’s more a case of The Elves and The Shoemaker, and they’re gleefully performing a Playtime Polka in the washwater while I’m clinging to the machine during the presoak cycle, straining to see if there’s any action below the bubbles.

It’s not just shirts. Underwear invariably dives label-outward from the dryer into the hamper, and I have to execute the “arms through the legholes reverse maneuver” before I tuck them safely into the dresser drawer. I was perfectly aware of the tedium of housework when I signed up for this tour of duty, but if I had checked out the job description for Underwear Reversal Technician, I’m not sure I would have accepted the position. It’s not that I don’t have the qualifications or experience, but that’s a chore that ranks right up there with Shore Patrol for the Tidy Bowl Man.

Now when it comes to socks, I’m afraid I have the opposite problem from the rest of the population. I grow extras. Odd socks appear randomly and with abandon in my laundry room like I’m Matchmaker.com for lonely footwear. Once, after the children were grown, a bootie climbed carefully out of the lint trap and nestled in the palm of my hand. I didn’t have the heart to turn it away. It’s still curled into a tiny ball in the sock drawer where every now and then, Bill Dear will run across it and snort “Why do we keep this thing?” and tuck it carefully back under the argyles. I’m afraid that one day I’ll run across a single-socked baby at the Super Wal-mart and he’ll wiggle one set of bare toes meaningfully in my direction and demand the return of his fuzzy footwear. But I can’t help it if my home is a clearinghouse for every stray item in the universe.

I won’t even touch on my track record for acquiring lost kittens. They show up in the laundry room, too. But at least they use the door.

Key Issue

This afternoon as I fished hysterically in my purse for my stupid car keys that were hiding from me on purpose, I had an idea.

For me, having an idea is a bit like giving birth to a ten pound porcupine. It’s a tedious process, fraught with peril, but quite sharp in the end. What I need is a Global Positioning System that can tell me where in my Super Organizer Bag to find my car keys.

That way I won’t be late for the school pick-up line while I thrash around unsuccessfully in my purse for twenty minutes sifting through stale M&M’s and used Kleenx before attempting to unlock my door with a Number Two pencil and a Twinkie wrapper.

The GPS KeyFinder is sure to be a moneymaker if properly engineered, using language that normal people who don’t factor pi for a hobby can understand. None of this “proceed north past the checkbook for 6 centimeters, turn east at the lipstick, circumnavigate the compact” sort of thing.

My basic concept of direction is this: North is up, South is down, East is left, and West is right. My WWII Navy Dad cringes whenever people ask me for directions. He says if I were in charge of Japanese navigations, Pearl Harbor would have remained untouched. But those elves at the North Pole would still be rebuilding reindeer pens.

I need basic directions. “Plunge hand into the middle compartment with the zipper that’s jammed with the soccer sock. Bypass the garage door opener and orange TicTac, turn left at the chewed cinnamon gum wrapped in foil, continue for the length of the nail file, then shake purse twice firmly. Keys are affixed to the melted Snickers bar by hardened caramel.

I’m not even going to charge the GPS people for this millionaire-making idea. A simple thank you and the knowledge that mommies everywhere will make it to school pick-up on time will be my reward. That and some pizza coupons. And a car with keyless entry.

Now, if I could only find my cell phone, I’d call and tell them. I know it’s here somewhere in my purse. . .