Naughty is Nice

I’ve found a flaw in this whole Santa thing. Not Santa himself, mind you. He’s all right, living it up at the top of the world, drinking hot chocolate and refereeing reindeer games. It’s the whole being good theory. Quite by accident I found an inconsistency. Kind of like the state of Illinois found in the Governor's office recently, but on a much grander scale. I didn’t want to say anything until I performed conclusive scientific testing in an environment where the integrity of my research could not be skewed by scientists or other cult members, but after several years of receiving actual gifts from Santa, I could hold my silence no longer. See conclusive test results below:

Year One (2006)

I forgot to pay the pastor’s water bill resulting in an untimely discontinuance of water service at the parsonage (although flushing privileges did resume shortly thereafter), I wore dirty socks several days in a row, and I faked a serious bout of semi-consciousness so that Bill would bring Lo Mein for supper.

I should have been sentenced to at least six months of intensive labor as Class Mom in Charge of Cupcakes, but I evaded charges and never even preheated the oven. This course of events could be due to the fact that the teacher was previously acquainted with my cupcake making skills and had a preparedness plan already in place, but for Christmas I received a generous amount of musical CD’s, clothes, and assorted goodies. This incident smacks of loopholes in Santa’s operating procceses.

Year Two (2007)

I bought tickets to the circus with the grocery money, forced my son, “Undeclared Major” to take a job, and ate all the candy that well-wishers brought for the office staff to share. Santa rewarded this display with a foot spa and an attendant elf to refill the water when it got chilled. (Bill Dear still refuses to wear the green elf-support tights, but you can’t beat him as a water bearer. I’m convinced he was born under the wrong sign.) Looks like Santa has a bug in his software, or he’s slipping. What is the mandatory retirement age at the North Pole?

Year 3 (2008)

It was a banner year for naughty at my house. I sideswiped hubby’s car and laid the blame on his lack of parking skills, I tried to pass fried liver off as sirloin on at least one occasion, and I took in another stray dog, thereby breaking the “one more animal in this house and we have to give up a child” dictate.

Santa outdid himself. Such piles of chocolates and treasures surrounded me on Christmas morning, I thought the Jolly Old Man had gone completely off his sleigh bells. He even brought me new pajamas dotted all over with clever pictures of smiling puppies with pink collars. Clearly something has to be done.

I suggest we give Santa a raise.

From Hot Dogs to Handcuffs

Once upon a time, as the newspaper accounts tell it, there was a whole pile of parents with nothing better to do than sit in the school pick-up line and talk about life and love and what to wear to Wal-Mart. As time went by, they came to school earlier and earlier until they started getting there before their grits were even cold, and since it’s just natural to get hungry doing all that waiting and talking, they began bringing snacks. Everybody knows a sausage dog is no good unless it’s been sizzling on the George Foreman for a little bit between the Pledge of Allegiance and Recess. So these folks lined up in the elementary school pick-up line four hours early, popped open the campers, set up the grill, and tailgated til the cows came home. Or until school let out, whichever came first.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about tailgating. I’m not above getting out grandmama’s stainless and grocery store china and grilling corn dogs from the back of the Toyota whenever there’s a high school football game worth going out in the cold for. Nothing says “party” like Hi-C punch in a Dixie cup. But there’s a time and place for everything, and it’s just downright tacky to pull out your cocktail weinies while you’re waiting on your first grader to get out of show and tell.

For some reason, the principal of the elementary school felt it wasn’t conducive to good study habits to have the students’ parents giving each other high fives and downing SteakUms in the parking lot all morning. Maybe if the parents had invited the principal to join them, the police wouldn’t have got involved. A little tact and adherence to good manners might possibly have headed off the jail time, or at least cut down on the assault charges. When school let out and the principal headed off to shoo the partiers away, one of the Mamas took it personally. Threats regarding the principal’s future health plans filled the air, phrases full of colorful adjectives and a more than a few unseemly nouns were exchanged, police came to visit, and a whole pile of bright-eyed grade-schoolers just getting out for the day learned some new words. And all the while there was the naughty woman’s husband, rubbing his face and shaking his head, saying, “I TOLD her to get in the camper.”

I’m just glad it wasn’t me. If the police were leading me away from the scene in a set of fancy bracelets, all the members of my family, from Dad to Dachshund, would queue up in a nice receiving line by the squad car to witness the festivities. As I drew near, Son Number One, who at 19 has his priorities firmly in order, would lean out to me and whisper softly in my ear, “Mom if you’re not cooking, we’re going out for pizza. Where do you keep the coupon's for meat lover’s?”