While I waited at the vet for Daisy's medicine today, Santa Claus is Coming to Town was playing over the loudspeaker. A family was there to board their cat for the holiday, but things were backed up so they had to wait. The mom kept her little girl occupied by singing along:
You better watch out
You better not cry
Better not pout
I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town
He's making a list
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out Who's naughty and nice
Santa Claus is coming to town
He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake!
O! You better watch out!
You better not cry
Better not pout
I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town
Santa Claus is coming to town
How is it that I've celebrated 37 Christmases and I've never noticed that this song is about a stalker?
While you and yours are busy getting a restraining order against good ol' Santa (aka St. Nick, aka Kris Kringle) I want to take you back in the wayback machine, when pictures had rounded edges and we wore plaid suits sans irony.
A young slackmistress, around four or five years old, was getting ready for bed on Christmas Eve. I was about to crawl into bed when I realized that I hadn't put out anything for Santa.
I ran downstairs.
Mom! Mom! We have to put out cookies and milk for Santa!
Without turning around from the mixer where she was whipping up a batch of cookies, my mother replied
I think Santa would prefer a beer and a salami sandwich.
This sounded suspect.
Are you sure? I asked skeptically.
Positive, my mom replied. That's what Santa really wants.
I ran downstairs to the beer fridge in the basement, retrieved a Schlitz, and then ran back upstairs. I slapped a couple of pieces of salami between two slices of Rosen's rye and placed the sandwich plate and the beer on the table in front of the tree.
It's gonna be the best Christmas ever! my mom yelled after me as I scrambled up to bed.
And it was.
