Tag Archives: Santa Claus

Dear Santa, please bring us a gift that really sucks this Christmas

My wife wants a new vacuum for Christmas. Before anyone mounts their “this-is-the-21st-century.-How-could-you-think-of-giving-a-cleaning-appliance-to-your-wife-as-a-Chritmas-gift?” ponies and rides to the sound of the guns, let me explain. She doesn’t normally ask for cleaning equipment for Christmas, and I don’t usually get her such gifts. Cleaning is as non-festive an event in our household as it is in the households of people eons more enlightened than we are.

Vacuuming is different, though. She vacuums every day, if she can manage it. It’s a comfort chore. It’s like certain types of yard work to me. I don’t necessarily look forward to the work, but I can be alone with my thoughts when I’m doing it, and I feel better knowing it gets done on a regular basis.

Our old vacuum has suffered many infirmities. One of the wheels keeps falling off. I tried to fix it with that crazy putty stuff they used to hawk on TV all the time until they convinced my wife to give me some one Christmas. Now, when the wheel comes off, as it does quite often, it leaves crumbs that look like gray, dried Play-Doh.

the wheel keeps coming off

Anyone know if we can extend our Triple-A coverage to our vacuum? We seem to be plagued by “flat” tires.

The hose from the floor unit to the canister leaps free of its connections at random times. This would greatly affect the vacuum’s usefulness, except that it doesn’t really pick up much when the hose is firmly in place. Any lint or crumb that is big enough to be seen with the naked eye has to be carefully hand-fed to the machine. What happens to dirt too small for the naked eye is anybody’s guess. I’d say our vacuum just plain sucks, except it doesn’t, and that’s the problem.

The one thing our vacuum does pick up is cat hair. This is no great accomplishment, considering that anything in the same house with a cat picks up cat hair, regardless of how sincere are its attempts to avoid it.

The hook that the cord wraps around is broken off. We have to wrap the cord around the shoulder and torso of the machine like a bandolier. Add a sombrero and our vacuum might have ridden with Pancho Villa. Whomever it rode with, there can be no doubt that it got shot off its horse a few times.

villa directing battle

“The enemy line is crumbling. Send the vacuums around the flank to mop up. Also, make a note to bring mops to the next battle.” (Image: Wilbur H. Durborough)

 

I would have bought a new vacuum at the asking, but my wife has been too wise to ask for one. She knows I would have picked up another $84.99 model and presented it as if it were the end of her worries for all time. She’s sick of burning through these Fisher Price vacuums, and now she wants a good one. And if you want a good one, you’d better get somebody reliable, like Santa, involved.

vacuum wears his cord like a bandolier

With his bandolier firmly in place, he’s ready to ride. Before he accomplishes any marauding, his horse will throw a shoe and he will limp humbly back to his village to recover.

My wife has been a real trooper, putting up with our shameful vacuum for far too long. I just hope Santa has been watching to see how good she’s been. It’s out of my hands now. All I can do is point out the need and the deservingness. By the way, Santa, if you’re reading this, please consider it a letter to you.

Your Christmas presents have been diverted to Bolivia

Santa Claus was always good to me as a child. He brought me some awesome toys over the years, and I didn’t even really deserve most of them. I never set out cookies for him or left hay outside for his reindeer, or any of that stuff a grateful kid would have done. My older siblings had done those things, and I kind of just rode on the coattails of the good will they built up with jolly old Saint Nick.

The only time I ever had reason to feel let down by Santa was not Santa’s fault. It was a cruel joke played upon me by my older brothers. They had replaced all the goodies in my Christmas stocking with a single onion before I woke up on Christmas morning. I was very likely scarred for life by this incident, but they got a good laugh out of it, so it must have been the right thing to do.

Then I got too old for Santa Claus, and Christmases started to run together. Before I knew it, tens of Christmases had flown by. That’s what happens when Santa isn’t there to give each one its special magic.

Now, I have a three-year-old son, and Santa Claus is suddenly back in my life. The odd thing is that I think I like Santa now more than I ever did before. This is the first year when my son is putting together all the relationships between Christmas and Santa, and most importantly, presents. This is a wonderful development because it has turned Santa into a huge parenting ally of mine.

My son is in awe of Santa’s immense powers, which gives him a bit of a fear of the man himself. This is as it should be. The boy is afraid to sit on Santa’s lap, and even shy about writing a letter to the All Powerful One with a list of toys he’d like to have. He’s modest about asking Santa for presents; on the other hand, if Santa is determined to bring them, well, that’s Santa’s business. Indeed, anything that might encourage Santa to bring presents, short of outright asking for them, is all to the good. This is all the rope I need to use Santa as a means of manipulation in pursuit of my iron fist policy of fathering.

It is well known that there are things a boy can do to dispose Santa toward bringing him some top-flight toys. A boy can do what his father asks him to do, without putting up a stink; he can refrain from throwing tantrums in public; he can pick up his blocks when he’s done playing with them; he can go to bed at bedtime; and he can quit punching Dad in the crotch because he thought it was hilarious when he saw a bad kid do it on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Santa appreciates all these examples of good behavior. Moreover, Santa has eyes on the ground all over the world. He sees every misbehavior and he keeps meticulous notes. For every tantrum, a toy gets shifted away into the column of some good kid in Bolivia. For every punch in the crotch, two toys go. That’s just the way it is; you can’t fight it, so you’d might better go to bed extra early to avoid the temptation to be bad.

Every child knows these things, none better than my son. Under my careful tutelage, my son is learning perfectly the math behind the ledger of Santa’s accounts. During the months of November and December, no opportunity will be lost to teach him the toy-value-consequence of every misdeed I see forming itself up in his shifty little eyes. I love Santa more than I ever did before. I may even bake him some cookies this year. Sorry reindeer, I don’t have a recipe for hay.

Some people may believe that this use of Santa to regulate a child’s behavior is an abuse of parental power or cruelty toward the innocent child. To these people I say two things. First: you haven’t been punched in the crotch lately, have you? Second: by January, Santa’s influence will have faded to the point of no longer being a useful tool. At that point, we will return to our normal regimen of spankings to keep the kid in line – like the good parents do.