Right Down Santa Claus Lane

Isabella is 9-years-old with an older sister and wise-beyond-their-years friends.

She knows that the only fat guy putting gifts under the tree this year will be Daddy.  She has actually said that: “fat guy,” “gifts,” “tree,” “Daddy.”  Words in that order.

But still, she can barely contain her excitement for Santa.  For weeks:  We’re 20 days from Christmas!  12 Days from Christmas!  4 Days Away!

She has developed a Classic case of Santasomnia©:  She can’t sleep because of the anticipation of Santa’s gift delivery on Christmas Day.

Tonight, December 21st, at 11:45pm she hijacks a groggy daddy in the kitchen.

Iz: Daddy!  I’m so excited.  It’s almost Christmas!  Snuggle with me!  I can’t sleep.

Me:  Really?  I already did that.  Crap.  Ok.

Into bed we crawl.  She rests her head on my shoulder.  Her eyes are wide open.  If you could, imagine a Norman Rockwell portrait. With me as the father. (stop laughing.)

Iz: Santa’s coming in a couple of days.  But, really, I know it’s you and Mommy.

Me: I never said that.

Iz:  But, is Santa lactose-intolerant?

Now, there’s a curve I didn’t expect.  Because, clearly it was aimed at Daddy.  It was a question that was partly inquisitive, and vaguely diagnostic.  Almost like a medical commercial (“Have you asked your doctor about LactoXmas?  See what LactoXmas® can do for you.”)

Me:  Um, no.  Honey, I’ve never heard that.  But, we can leave a glass of your special tummy milk out if you’d like.

Iz (sternly):  Ok, good.  I’d like that.  Now, as to the cookies.

Me:  “As to the cookies.”  Shouldn’t I get a lawyer?  How much TV are you watching, Sweetie-Pie?

Iz: As to the cookies:  Shouldn’t we leave out more cookies than he can actually eat so that there will be leftovers?  For, like, in the morning.  Idunno.

Me:  Ok, I should have bought cookie dough at the grocery store.  Your criticism is heard and registered.  You were there.  You maybe should have said something then.  In Aisle 5.  When you mentioned that Santa likes Chocolate Chip…  Oh, wait.  Crap.

Iz:  And how does “Santa” deliver gifts to 100,000 houses every second.  I mean how does he wrap them?  The paper, the tape.  What powers those reindeer?

Me: Your quotation marks on “Santa” are duly noted.  It all happens because of, wait for it…:  Christmas Magic.

I say these things as Isabella is clearly growing weary,  but…

She giggles with me in the most wink-wink way.  And I can’t help but scoop her up and squeeze tight. Because of Christmas Magic.

And, on Cue (and this is absolutely true):

Me: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me Happy….

Iz: Like you used to sing.  Zzzzzzz.

Summer Santa

Since November 9th (the day after the election), the radio station has been wall-to-wall Christmas music.  Isabella (she’s 9) is all about the music.  I have been subjected to countless versions of Carol of the Bells (really, David Foster?  Really, Manheim?  Really, Trans-Siberian?  Where the hell is Trans-Siberia?), Multiple versions of Wham’s “Last Christmas.”  Why is that Special?  (Special).  When did that become a classic?  Crappy, crappy song.

And, even Sir Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime.”  Good god!  It’s so awful that exactly no one has ever covered that song.  (And, I love Paul!  But, it’s crap.)

Julianna (she’s 12):  This song sounds like summer.

Me:  Because that is the Beach Boys.  Little Saint Nick.

J:  But why does it sound like summer?

Me: It’s the Beach Boys.  Think about it:  Beach.

J:  But they sing: Christmas comes each time this year.  Can’t Christmas come in the summer?  Like July the 4th?

(I sense you can tell I am annoyed.)

Me: Honey, you were born in Los Angeles, at Cedars-Sinai Hospital.  Where all the famous people go to die.  We dip our toes in the Pacific every year.  You absolutely need to know the Beach Boys.  They were America’s last gasp against the tide of British Invasion bands.  Who poisoned our ears with crap like “Wonderful Christmastime.”

She, like you, is tuning me out.

Me:  The Beach Boys sound like summer because they are summer.  Even at Christmas.

Iz (from the back seat):  Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.  The very next day you gave it away.

Me: British!

Iz:  Special….  Special.




Let me go ahead and copyright © the terms “troll-cast” and “trollcast”  (similar to broadcast) to mean any Internet misinformation, abuse, or hate-speech that is promoted immediately or within a limited time frame in a wide variety of contexts to impugn, denigrate, or cause emotional distress, without relevant evidence, to a subject or subjects, their posts, or their persona via media or social media contexts.. ® coming soon.  But, I’ll need some lawyers.

Meet George Jetson

On the drive in to gymnastics, 9-year-old Isabella is philosophizing.

Iz:  Daddy, are there ever going to be flying cars?

Me:  Someday, I hope.  There used to be a cartoon, that…

Iz: Because, they would be very useful.

Me:  I suppose they woul…

Iz: Because, then you could fly straight to where you want to go.

Me: Without all the stopli…

Iz: They already have cars that drive themselves now.

Me: Ye…

Iz: But I think they are probably pretty dangerous.

(She ruminates.  I get a word in.)

Me:  Oh, I don’t know.  They’re probably better at driving than that idiot. (I point.)

Iz: Yeah, but there’s an idiot in the front seat of this car.

Me: I’m a good driver.

Iz: I didn’t say anything about your driving.

I look in the rear view mirror and see that she has that “I’m evil funny” smile slowly grow across her face.

Me: Hey, that’s not ni….

Iz: We’re there, Daddy.  Bye.  Drive safe.

Me: “Safely.”  Not “saf…”  (Slam.)