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.

Wailing Away in Mousketeerville

Our cats are indoor cats. To them mice are pink and fluffy and stuffed with hallucinogenic drugs. The Christmas catnip toy is still making the rounds through the living room, around the laundry basket, and under the kitchen table. Showing these guys a real mouse is like showing me a Prada bag. It’s fetching when compared to say, a wheelbarrow full of biological recyclables, but basically impractical for every day use.

So imagine my surprise, this year when I got a mouse for my birthday.

He wasn’t exactly a gift; more of a petite party crasher with a Hulk-sized case of the munchies. I was suspicious when I found the bag of Meow Mix under the sink had enough holes chewed in it to look like paper bag chicken pox. But when I saw a furry little flasher dart across the top of my kitchen cabinet, the festivities began.

I realized right then that “The Night Before Christmas” book is pure fiction. “Not a creature was stirring” is the biggest bundle of propaganda since the “new improved McRib” travesty.

It’s not that I have anything against mice. I’m Mickey’s biggest fan. But if a furry little guy dashes through my kitchen without benefit of red shorts, white gloves, or even a T-Shirt endorsement contract, I’m not going to be chiming in with “Why? Because we like you!”

In our house we favor the catch and release program for nature’s little trespassers. That’s because we are benevolent rodetarians. The Captain of our little drydock ark calls it something else under his breath as he’s balancing on a kitchen chair to capture random moths, grasshoppers, and lady bugs with a paper cup. He greeted the new visitor with appropriate felicitations.

Then off he went to the Big Store on the Corner to bring home a humane trap. Humane is another word for living off h’ors d’oeuvres at our expense. He brought home enough groceries to feed the mouse masses in Hell’s Kitchen. I suspect some of the items are for the hunter as well as the hunted.

Just now this little guy is pushing the limits of our hospitality. So far he’s turned up his whiskers at every item we have on the menu known to entice little mice appetites, and I’m losing patience, not to mention the few ounces of water weight from the first sighting. If I want to Give a Mouse a Cookie, I’m going to get a picture book, not a reality show.

I realize it’s my birthday, and if excitement is what makes a party, one tiny mouse will do the trick.

But all in all, when it comes to special occasion seek and destroy missions, I prefer a nice card to shock and awe.

Teachers R Us

I recently experienced an awesome and somewhat startling revelation. And it doesn’t even have anything to do with how to chop onions without crying or the best way to clean a soiled linen tablecloth if you’ve had the bright idea that it would be educational to let the children eat at the adult table, or even a new and economical way to cook Brussels sprouts so that everyone likes them.
This is an actual revelation from life experience. Not the kind of life experience that other people have and submit to women’s magazines for fifty dollars, although if I had a really great Brussels sprouts recipe that would actually cause people to eat them instead of hide them under the potatoes, I would certainly be willing to accept fifty dollars for it. My revelation is a great discovery that came about when I was talking with my niece who is an actual elementary school teacher. Upon the occasion when a child in her class had an unexpected and thunderous attack of gas in the classroom, she, the teacher, wanted to laugh. She did NOT laugh (out loud), but it took an episode of strict self-discipline and positive reinforcement to maintain her composure.
So it turns out that teachers are people just like you and me. Well, maybe not like me, because I’m still convinced that they can add numbers in their heads and figure out the answers to story problems without looking up the answers.
If one example isn’t proof enough, listen to this. I work at a church in a job which, unwise as it may seem, I am expected to do math. I am responsible for writing people’s paychecks and for paying taxes to the government, which is a pretty tricky procedure owing to the fact that the government is very particular in believing that you should pay them the right amount. Oh, they don’t really mind if you go overboard and send them buckets of gold, but short them by a doubloon or two and they’ll charge you interest.
Anyway, the first thing my employer did after he witnessed me thrashing my way through frightening things like bank reconciliations and trial balances; well the first thing he did after he regained consciousness, was to provide a helper, a mentor if you will, to guide my little ship through the deep and storm tossed waters of fund accounting. And this helper was, if you please, a teacher, and not just any old teacher, but the wisest owl of the lot—a college professor who instructs others in the art accounting! And can you imagine what this most venerable of all educators said the very first time he saw me perched on the edge of my chair at the computer, attacking the evil forces of fund accounting with a shredded bank statement in one hand and a computer mouse in the other? He sat right down and said, “Let’s make a back-up just in case we make a mistake.” A mistake! He allowed for a possibility that, even as a team (And this is a man who is smart enough to grow tomatoes and corn and other yummy things without having to give them all to overzealous crows or neighbors.), we could conceivably forget to carry an integer and get in trouble with the IRS (I Require Supervision) people. I expected the heavens to open up a send down a dove that very second. He sat with me patiently and kindly day after day and, even though he developed a disturbing habit of slamming his right foot to the floor like a driving instructor trying to stop a runaway car, he never gave me a failing grade on a day’s work. And he brought me tomatoes.
And if that kind of compassion isn’t proof that teachers are human, there’s not an equation in the world that would do the trick. But I can’t help but wonder if he has a good Brussels sprouts recipe.