In my never-ending quest for Mother of the Year (which I'm sure I've clenched since I'm the mom who lets them take the cushions off the couch and jump on the springs... it wears them out and they go to sleep earlier (making my life easier, and this is really all about making my life easier)), I decided that these children simply MUST see Santa, so last night George and I took the kids to see Santa. Oh, what a magical kingdom the mall can be!
"Is this Santa's house?" asked Maren.
"No, sweetie. This is his office. This is where he goes to get out of the house to escape from Mrs. Claus." I explained.
"Oh. Is this his house?"
*sigh* I love the circular conversations of a three-year old's mind.
When we found the festively decorated area where Santa had supplanted himself, we were thrilled to see that there were only about twenty kids in line--if that! What luck to have gotten there at such a time! Excitedly we took Maren to the line and explained how things would go:
"Here's how it works: you sit on his lap, he asks what you want, you tell him, they take your picture." Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing. Done.
After about fifteen to twenty minutes of standing in line and repeating the instructions, in several (or was it just one continous?) circular conversations, they started to sound more like:
"Okay, just tell him you want a Barbie. Okay. Smile when you say it and they can take the picture at the same time." (Smart thinking, eh? That way we'd be done faster.)
After the next FORTY MINUTES, I'm afraid I might have gotten a little less patient. Heh. I believe that I might have said something to effect of:
"You tell that fat, fucking, stealer of evenings to give you a Barbie. And you make him understand that you expect your skinny bitch of a doll after standing in line for a fucking hour: You EXPECT your Barbie. You don't want it. You wouldn't like it. You fucking expect the goddamn thing!"
After an hour of watching a small train go around an even smaller track, and listening to the world's most hateful bastard of a child (I mean, someone's lovely angel who was not quite as patient as my child) ring the bell of the train until the clanger was nearly ripped out by all on-lookers, we finally got close enough to actually see there really was a Santa. And as a bonus, he brought a helper.
Oh, Santa's Little Helper. Apparently when she was looking for jobs at the temp agency, she had talked about her experience with poles and laps and pictures and they confused Santa's Little Helper with Porn Queen/Stripper. Really, when you think about it... it's an easy mistake to make. North Pole - "South Pole;" Lap Sitting - Lap Dancing;Taking Pictures - Posing for Pictures. The similarities go on and on... okay they don't. They don't at all.
Didn't anybody tell this dirty whore that she shouldn't wear pants that show her fucking hipbones and that go UP HER ASS when she's working with children? And they were sweat pants. And her shirt, did it need to stop at an inch above her belly button? And why, really did she need to have a little sweatsuit jacket zipped in such a way as to accentuate her boobjob? Oh, yeah, because she's a tasteless slut. Stilletto heels? Because what else would you NOT wear with that outfit (apparently, suprisingly(?), they hurt her feet so she had her shoes off)?
And the goddamned thing of it all is that I didn't have any fucking one dollar bills to stuff in her g-string for a tip.
Thankfully, the fine, upstanding citizens (much like George and Georgianna Popplewell) were appropriately appalled. This little strumpet left the parents chuckling, dismayed, and mostly feeling good about ourselves (for having the good taste to not be her), but most certainly not feeling good about choosing this particular mall for our children's Santa Visit. So, to answer Maren's previous question:
"No, sweetie, this isn't Santa's house, this is his office where he gets a lap dance and has his pole waxed."
Silly girl, thinking this is Santa's house, like Mrs. Clause would ever let Santa have a stripper in the house.