A Christmas Story

A CHRISTMAS STORY
By Tina Mattern



So…I know you want to hear the whole sordid story, about how I ended up drunk as a skunk on Santa’s lap three weeks before Christmas. And about how that fiasco turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me—right?
Okay, here it is: The first rotten thing that happened was that Roger, the only great-looking guy I ever dated, dumped me the day before Thanksgiving. Aside from the fact that I was so happy to finally have a boyfriend that my family and friends didn’t make fun of, I was actually in love with him, sort of. He had some nice qualities, like award winning teeth; my friends called him Mr. Ultrabright, and some other good traits that I just can’t think of right this minute. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the nicest guy I ever went out with….There were a few little things he did and said that were a bit hard to deal with. Like, I had to ride in his back seat when he came to pick me up; of course, he did say that that was only because he had a fantasy about being a taxi driver and definitely not because he didn’t want people to think I was his date. And then there was the weight thing…but I have to say that I would never have lost those twelve pounds if it hadn’t been for his subtle hints: pointing at my dessert and then pointing to my hips, etc.
I wouldn’t have gotten my nose fixed either, which has been a huge improvement on the balance of my facial features. Even my mother had to admit that. The implants have given me a much better self-image too; nobody can call me Titless Toni anymore. Thanks to Roger, I’ve got a pair of jugs that are so big, if I stand on my head, I’ll suffocate.
But in spite of all that, I really did pretty much love him; we had some great times together on the weekends when he wasn’t busy. And so, when he told me over dinner (which I bought—again) that he thought we should see other people (meaning HE should see other people and I should go back to dating homely guys), it hurt. I was very depressed. Thanksgiving dinner sucked. When I showed up without Roger, my father just shook his head, my brother said, “Roger finally got himself some glasses, huh?” And my mother said, “I TOLD you, you should have gotten the D implants!” It’s good to have a family sensitive to your pain.
And then I got laid off. I should have seen it coming but I didn’t. I got into work, hung up my jacket, got my tools out and Mr. Albermarle called me into the inner sanctum, as he likes to call it. I always hate going in there…the organ music is SO depressing—and the smell of lilies and roses is just overwhelming. I suppose I should be used to it by now; it goes with the territory and I’ve been here a year, but some things just bug you, you know? So anyway, the boss says, “Come in, Antonia. Sit down.” Never a good sign when he wants me to sit because sitting means not working and Mr. Albermarle’s tenet is, the only reason not to be doing something constructive, is if you’re dead.
I sighed and sat down on the little casket-shaped ottoman across from his desk, figuring that he was going to ask me to assist him in the inner-sanctum again, as he has for months now.
His theory is that once I spend some time helping him embalm a few folks, I’ll fall in love with the work. Never mind that I get faint when my manicurist trims my cuticles, and even watching someone blow their nose makes me gag.
I’ve finally gotten to where I can do the dearly departed’s hair without throwing up but that’s only because the folks look pretty normal by the time they make it to my service. Most of them look like peaceful, happy, if a bit surprised, life-sized dolls. I can deal with that. And the money’s good, especially considering that I only have to do the front of their hair.
But Mr. Albermarle cleared his throat and ruined the end of an already lousy week. “I think you need to take some time off, Antonia.”
I blinked up at him, “Huh?”
“You maybe need to rest up so you can get over this little funk you’ve been in for the last few weeks.”
“Funk?” The almost-love of my life has left me and he calls it a funk? “I’m fine,” I sniffled, digging in my pocket for a tissue. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Mrs. Dearborn’s daughter said her mother looked like a poodle on crack when you got done with her. And she’s not the only one; Carlos Ramirez almost had a stroke when he saw the cornrows in his father’s hair.”
“Mrs. Dearborn’s daughter is a controlling, anal-retentive shrew,” I muttered. “Her mother probably kicked the bucket just to get away from her. And Mr. Ramirez needed a lift…he looked so….so….DEAD!”
Mr. Albermarle sighed. “Now see, that’s what I’m talking about. This isn’t the Antonia I know. You’re a nice person; you just need some time off.”
“But…”
“No buts, you’re on official leave of absence as of right now. Come back when you get it all worked out.”
SHIT! Things couldn’t get worse.
And then they did.
My cat, Mrs. Haberschnaber, left me. Two years of tender loving care in spite of hairballs the size of ground squirrels, a growing weight problem, two-inch deep trenches clawed in my sofa cushions and her insistence on sleeping draped across my forehead, and then when I need some compassionate, nurturing care…she’s off like a dirty shirt.
What the hell? Am I reaping Karma for some rotten deed in a previous life or what?
Anyway, these undeserved plagues are what led me, at two o’clock in the afternoon, on the first Tuesday in December, to drink six bottles of beer, four of those little airline bottles of tequila and half a pint of peppermint schnapps, which I poured over a quart of Ben & Jerry’s pistachio ice cream.
The next thing I remember is deciding to take a walk to clear my head, which by then was feeling like someone had inserted a balloon up my nose into my brain and then inflated it with helium. I ended up at the strip mall a half mile from my house, where a sign in the window of the Big Lots store announced, SANTA’S HERE!”
“Santa!” I burbled, overcome suddenly with nostalgia over a memory of some classic Christmas movie with a little girl who didn’t believe in Santa and then ended up writing him a letter and getting a new house, or a dad or a nose job or whatever. “Yay! Good old Santa’s here to save the day! Just what I need! If anybody’ll listen to my problems without getting all judgmental, it’s Santa!”
Three o’clock in the afternoon was apparently not this store’s peak shopping hour. Aside from a bored-looking clerk talking to her boyfriend on her cell phone, I seemed to be the only shopper in the building.
I staggered past the canned food aisle, bounced off the pots and pans aisle a couple of times and sat down rather abruptly in the candy aisle (I did NOT fall) but eventually made it to the back of the store where I finally found Santa Claus. He was all by himself in an overstuffed recliner next to a sign that said, Half Off All Furniture, self-consciously practicing his Ho, Ho, Ho’s. I have to say, he was trying very hard to look professional; sitting up all straight and serious in his chair, beard & mustache neatly arranged, hat at just the right angle, and all this despite the fact that there wasn’t one kid around to appreciate how ready he was to dazzle and delight them. Truthfully though, he was never going to win any awards for being the perfect St. Nick…he was too young and kind of deflated looking, like someone had let all the air out of him. It was obvious he was wearing a pretty hefty pillow under his red velvet suit. But what the hell, old and fat or young and skinny, he was Santa and I needed him, so I walked over to the “Line Up Here” sign, picked it back up after crashing into it and waited expectantly for Himself to invite me onto his lap. Santa, however, just sat there staring at me, looking rather confused.
“Hi Santa!” I called, waving shyly at him. I mean, it’d been years since I’d been to see Jolly Old St. Nick, —the whole scene was still a little intimidating.
Santa cocked his head in obvious bewilderment and cleared his throat before saying, “Uh…hello? Can I help you?”
Just the question I was hoping for! I staggered over and threw myself onto his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck and burst into tears.
“Hey!” Santa’s lap lurched, nearly launching me onto the floor but I held on and just cried harder.
To the poor guy’s credit, once he realized I wasn’t going to be easily dislodged, and I was after all sobbing all over his red-velvet shoulder in obvious misery, his human compassion kicked in, he put his arm around me and patted my shoulder. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay…really.”
“No it won’t!” I bawled, and proceeded to tell him the whole sordid story of my horrible month, getting dumped, the forced leave of absence, my cat abandoning me, my cold-hearted family…all of it in pitiful detail. When I got to the part about the boob job, I put my hands under them, lifted them up high for his observance and cried, “Look at the size of these, for God’s sake! Do you know how much these suckers weigh?”
All the while, young Mr. Claus listened very intently, and even at some point began to gently rock me as he murmured, “Okay...Okay.” When I finally ran down to only a few occasional hiccupping sobs, he dug a handful of Kleenex out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I sniffled.
“No problem.” And then with a sweet attempt at lightening the situation, he said, “So, young lady…what can Santa bring you for Christmas?”
I shrugged and shook my head, “A new boyfriend? A breast reduction? Crap, I don’t know!”
Santa squeezed my hand. “Well, if my opinion counts for anything, I think anybody who’d walk out on you is a stupid jerk”
“You do?”
“Yeah. And I’m Santa. I know when someone’s a stupid jerk. I have a list!”
“Santa?” Suddenly a tiny voice cut into our little tableau. We both looked up to see a kid of about 6 standing over by the “Line Up Here” sign. She looked shocked and more than a little worried to see a twenty-something, red-nosed, tear-streaked woman sniffling in Santa Claus’s lap. I jumped up, wiped at my cheeks and pasted on a smile.
“Thank you, Santa! I’ll tell my little girl that you’ll be leaving her lots of presents on Christmas Eve.”
“Ho-Ho-Ho! You do that, little lady! Tell her I know she’s been a good girl!”
The kid looked relieved but still a little wary.
“I’d better get going,” I whispered. “Thanks for putting up with a drunken crazy woman.”
“No problem. Really,” he whispered back. And then, glancing over at the little girl who was still watching carefully, he said loudly, “Watch for me on Christmas Eve! Now, who’s next?”

* * *

Things have a way of working themselves out, don’t they? I mean, especially during the Christmas season, it seems like. Anyway, by the week before Christmas, Mr. Albermarle called and told me that the Ramirez’s cousins, whose aunt died last week, wanted me to come and put cornrows in her hair. They thought I did a nice job on their uncle. Can you believe it? And my fat, runaway cat, Mrs. Haberschnaber? Turns out she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant! She showed up on my doorstep last Tuesday with three baby kitties. I even came to terms with my family, pretty much. I decided to just accept them as they were because they were never going to change. So my life was looking up by Christmas Eve. Not to say that I wasn’t feeling sad and lonely, sitting in front of my tree by myself, drinking a non-alcoholic glass of eggnog and listening to Christmas music on the radio.
I was just thinking about turning the lights out and heading upstairs to an early bed when the doorbell rang. Now who….? I looked at the clock over the mantle—it was 9:30. Too late for UPS or FED-X, I thought. So who else would be here at this hour? I crept over to the front door and peeked through security peep-hole. Santa Claus was standing on my front porch! As if he knew I was peering out at him, he grinned and held up a card for me to see. I looked at it and blinked…it looked like a driver’s license. On closer observation my mouth dropped open. It was MY driver’s license! I opened the door and Santa held it out to me. Taking it from him in wonderment, I said, “Where---?”
“It must have fallen out of your purse when you came to see me at Big Lots,” he said, smiling.
“I didn’t even miss it!” I said. “But you brought it all the way over here for me on Christmas Eve? That’s….that’s…so NICE!” He shrugged and said, “Hey…I told you to watch for me on Christmas Eve!

Then, reaching up, he pulled off the fake beard and slid the red cap from his head, revealing a fresh-faced, nice looking but in no way stunningly handsome guy with light-brown hair and laughing green eyes. Holding out his hand to me, he said, “Hi! My name’s Dave.”
I shook it and said, “Hi! My name’s Toni. Nice to meet you.”
“So…” he said, looking over my shoulder at the Christmas tree twinkling in the living room, “Got any plans for Christmas?”

Dealing With Dude ~ By Tina Mattern

Okay, I know what you’re thinkin. You’re lookin at me and sayin to yourself; “This guy’s some kinda weirded out crack-head, right? Well hey, you are like so wrong; I don’t do crack, it’s not good for you. I do pure, organic weed and that’s it. I care about my body. So you might be thinkin, “No way, is anything this dude’s gonna tell me anything but crap, but listen up anyway cause this story’s true!

Here’s what happened, okay? I’m chowing down over in the Village at that sweet Chinese place; you know…that one the crazy old Jewish couple own? I eat there a lot cause the food’s pretty good and a guy’s gotta eat but I also kinda feel like it’s my duty as a sensitive kinda dude to eat there and be supportive of the cook. I mean, man…the little dude’s got no arms! They prop him up on this stool and he whips up all these tasty oriental dishes with his feet, which is cool but it’s just so weird cause the guy’s like Eskimo or Mexican or something? Don’t be thinkin that you can be feelin sorry for him though, cause he gets real bent if anybody pulls that stuff. He says “I may be missing my arms but half the nitwits I cook for in here are missing a soul.” I have no idea what he means by that but it sounds pretty cosmic, right? Anyway, I feel like it’s like good Karma for me to take my business to the little freak. And another reason why I like to hang out there and eat is because he comes up with these really random fortune cookies; which he hand…er rather…foot-writes, so sometimes they’re like really hard to read? But anyway I’ve gotten ones that say stuff like SHIT HAPPENS ~ DEAL WITH IT and PAY THE FREAKIN ELECTRIC BILL which was too weird cause I hadn’t done that bein as how I spent the money on a lid of primo smoke. And so I ended up in the dark for a whole month until I got paid again. Couldn’t figure out how the little dude knew that! One time I got this one that said SHE’S A SKANK~YOU’RE BETTER OFF WITHOUT HER, and I’m like Whoa…that’s cold! Then I get home and my old lady’s outa there with all my two-week old leftover Chinese food and my last five bucks. Too freaky!

So anyway, I’m done eating and I open up my fortune cookie, wondering what kinda weird message I’m gonna find in there this time and it says DEAL WITH DUDE. I’m like…what’s up with this? I can’t figure it out, I’m stoned anyway so it flat gives me a headache and I decide the little freak’s been smokin too or something, so I give it up. I go home and watch some t.v., cut my toenails, cut the dog’s toenails and while I’m cleaning up all the scraps, I remember that hey…The dog’s name is “Dude! I tried to name him other stuff a buncha different times but then I’d get loaded and could never remember what I was calling him so I’d be like “Here Ralph, or “Here Bozo” and he’d be looking at me like “What’s your problem? Call me the right name or forget it!” So I finally started just callin him Dude. He’s used to it now and he only comes when I’m feeding him anyway so whatever…

I’m thinkin, hey man…that cookie was maybe talking about the dog! Weird! Then I get to wondering about what it means and all until I remember…hey, Dude’s gotta get fixed!

See, he’s one of the reasons my last two girlfriends boged out on me; they both said, “Hey man, this dog’s grossin me out!” because he was getting like way too affectionate, if you know what I mean. I kinda feel bad about takin him in for the old chop-job but lately I’m thinkin…man, I’m gettin lonely!

So I take a toke and put the roach down in my Scooby-do ashtray and go lookin for the phone; I buried it in a drawer or something last week because it kept like ringin and stuff. I finally find it and then it takes me another half-hour to find the phone book and look up the vet dude’s phone number. I’m lookin at the dog while I dial and I’m goin, “Man, you are just bummin my day with all this work,” and the it’s ringin. Dude’s lookin at me with his big old floppy dog-ears all standin up stiff. The vet folks answer pretty soon and I go, “Hey, I need to bring my dog in to get fixed!” The person I’m talkin to is just starting to ask me my name and the dog’s name and stuff when all of a sudden Dude jumps up on his hairy legs and puts his foot down on the receiver. The phone goes dead. I’m lookin at him kinda surprised when he sits down and says, “What exactly do you mean by fixed?”

Whoa!!! This is like too totally unusual! I mean, no matter how much weed I’ve ever done, animals have never talked to me before. Not even the time I dropped acid at that Squirrel Nut Zipper concert. So I’m like, what’s up with this? More’n a little freaked. Dude’s just sitting there with a doggy-DeNiro expression on his fur face…“You lookin at me?”

Finally, I go, “Hey Dude! You talked man!” And Dude scratches an ear and goes, “How remarkably observant of you. Apparently you have at least one or two brain cells that are still functioning.”

“Weird, man! How come you never said nuthin before?” I say. And Dude goes, “There has been nothing worth discussing until this moment. Now, enlighten me as to this being ‘fixed’. I am not ‘broken’ in any way that I am aware of”.

Well, I’m like a little confused by all the long words and stuff, but I figure out that Dude is havin a problem with my callin the vet-folks about him.

“It’s no big sweat, man. They’re just going to put you t’sleep and then –“ but before I can finish, Dude gets all freaky, jumps up, shows me how many pointy teeth he’s got behind his lips and says really loud, “YOU’RE HAVING ME PUT TO SLEEP?”

So I’m like, “No way, Dude! They’re just gonna uh…remove some stuff so’s you don’t act like a perv around my girlfriends anymore. That’s all, man.” Dude squinches his eyes real narrow and sits back down, lookin at me like I’m maybe the rudest piece`a work he’s ever seen.

He says, “I see. What we’re talking about here is castration. Is that correct?”

Well hey, I have no idea what that word means so I’m “Huh?” Dude goes,

“It means, neutered.”

Oh. Well yeah. I heard`a that word, so I go, “Yeah! That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Dude goes, real quiet and hard-like. “So when this little surgery takes place, how exactly do I go about having a normal sex-life, pray tell?”

This is getting just way too heavy a conversation for me, I can tell you that. I’m getting a brain freeze headache and I haven’t even had any ice cream. I shrug, hoping he’ll just go back to bein a plain old dog-speakin dog and I can get back to getting stoned and worryin about my own sex life, but Dude’s not finished.

“Would you like to suggest some way that I can explain my new ah…physical condition to my ladies, “Fifi”, “Belle”, “Lady” and “Twinkle”? Some way in which I can excuse my inability to satisfy their…needs? Hmmmm? Perhaps you feel I might simply refer them to the Rottweiler down the way?”

I go, “Well yeah!…Geez man, I don’t know! Can’t you just, y’know, forget about it?”

And then Dude yells really loud,

“NO, you drugged out little cretin, I can’t just ‘forget about it!’” and all the hair on his back stands straight up like some kinda weird lookin porcupine or somethin. It’s pretty freaky lookin.

The whole thing is just getting way out of control but before I can say “Lighten up, hairball”, Dude’s flying across the room at me like some kinda rocket-launch-dog-bullet, hits me in the chest and I go down with my head getting up-close and personal with the coffee table on the way to the floor. Next thing I know, I’m wakin up, staring at the ceiling, thinkin, Whoa…that was heavy! Who knew Dude could fly, man!

Then, I look down and notice he’s standing over my hips…and he’s got a knife in his mouth…and the pointy-end is like a half a dog-whisker from my family jewels. Too intense! I’m kinda getting the idea that maybe having a girlfriend is something I can live without. I mean, who needs somebody eatin my leftovers anyway?

Dude clears his throat and mumbles something, but I’m like, “What?” Talking with a knife in your mouth makes it kinda hard to communicate. He shifts the knife a little to one side and says, “You might want to rethink this whole neutering idea.” So I do…it doesn’t take more than a nano-second.

I give him a big old peace sign, he puts the knife down on the table and I reach for my roach; but then I decide the situation calls for a whole fresh joint cause man, it has been a really radical day; and then I have a cosmic thought that the little armless cook-dude probably figured out a long time ago…so I say, “Man, life is like weirder than fiction but it all works out cool if you just relax, invest in some good organic smoke, mind your own balls and let it happen. “Right, Dude?”

Dude goes, “Right.”

MY PERSONAL THEORY ON COLDS

Are you fighting a cold? Wonder how your nose can produce so much slimy stuff when you just blew it like two minutes ago? Wondering how come you're so plugged up you can hardly breathe? And what's with all the sneezing and coughing, keeping you up half the night? Fever, chills? Watery eyes? You figure it's germs right? That's what you've been told by the "experts". Well, I have a revelation for you! I've come up with a much more believable theory about this whole upper respiratory infection thing. And I'm going to share it with you, free of charge! Ready? Okay, here it is:
NOSE FLEAS!
Yes, tiny little guys with big families move into your nice, warm nostrils. We're talking BIG families here. Needless to say, your nose fills up with them rather quickly and before you know it...there's not much room left in there for air to get through...the effect of this is what you think of as nasal CONGESTION. Within a few days though, the fleas, who have been sending out letters talking about how great their new place is...are inspiring cousins, aunts, uncles and other distant relatives to come for a permanent visit. But alas, no more can fit comfortably in so the answer is to LUBRICATE. The elders bring in massive quantities of lubricants with a consistency somewhere between motor oil and lard, which of course oozes and drips out as more relatives squeeze in. The effect of this is what you think of as SNOT.
Finally, the inner sanctum becomes too crowded for even these family oriented little folks so there's only one answer: Blasting for more space. The effect of this is what you think of as sneezing. The fumes from the dynamite rise of course and make your eyes water.
Eventually though, the youngest, more adventuresome of the flea inhabitants, get fed up with the cramped quarters and strike out for new horizons. They gather their gear and head down the back of the nasal passages to the throat and beyond. Down, down, down they go until they reach the lungs--a nice clean, clear uninhabited frontier. The only problem is it's a pretty dense area, not a lot of room to spread out so there's only one answer...more blasting. This time though, it takes something more effective than simple dynamite....NITROGLYCERIN. The effect if this is what you think of as coughing. Then, the heat from all that blasting rises of course. This is what you think of as a fever. But of course, after space is made and the blasting is finished, it's pretty hot in the flea's new living quarters too, so they bring in ice to cool things down. You think of this as the chills.

Okay, so that's it...my theory about what the common cold really is. It makes perfect sense to me. But then again, I'm known for being just the slightest bit off center, so..........