Just North of Whoville Turiskylie, Joyce (smart books to read .TXT) 📖

I wanted to see the reindeer. They were on the roof.

Permanent Wave leaned in and explained, “Sweetheart, the reindeer aren’t on the roof. They’re in the park.”

A bit of information Kendall’s Department Store might have shared.

“That’s right, honey,” my Mom agreed. “Santa keeps them in the park.”

I wiped the tears from my face and thought for a moment about this news flash.

“Is that so they can play reindeer games?”

Of course!---everyone agreed. Even the security guard, who’d obviously been intent on taking me away to the Big House, was sure of the location of the reindeer games. Within moments, I was sprung. I wasn’t sure what sort of bail money was paid, or how many lawyers it took to clear things up, but I’d learned a valuable lesson that day.

The reindeer were in the park.

As a child, I was ready to believe pretty much anything I was told about Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy---despite what a few bad kids at school seemed to say. In fact, not long after that, Jimmy Trumbo, who was certainly the worst boy in school, kept saying that there was no Santa Claus. That it was your parents who were Santa. It was your parents who brought all the toys.

Well, I had a mountain of evidence to support my side of the case. Hadn’t he seen the television shows documenting the life of Santa and his elves? Hadn’t he heard the songs written in praise of Santa’s wondrous deeds? The pictures of Santa on Christmas cards? The famous poem written about The Night Before Christmas? Hadn’t he himself seen Santa at Kendall’s Department Store? And, the most damning piece of evidence of all---If there was no Santa then who’s getting his letters at the North Pole? Hmmm?

Before Jimmy could even attempt to answer any of my penetrating questions, I ended my argument with best closing statement every made:

“You’re just a jerk! Santa’s not going to bring you anything!”

I believe I also added something about Jimmy pooping his pants in Kindergarten, an incident Jimmy had just recently stopped getting teased about. Looking back, perhaps Jimmy had been a mean kid because he pooped his pants. After all, once you poop your pants, you’ve got to come up with some line of defense. But I felt no guilt over declaring Jimmy a jerk, or for reminding the rest of the class that he had indeed pooped his pants. A young man who had pooped his pants was not to be trusted. After all, if he didn’t know when he had to poop, how could he possibly know anything?

I rest my case.

Jimmy grew up to become a Public Defender for the city of Milwaukee. I ran into him a few years ago when I flew back home to visit my family for the holidays. He was tall, well-groomed and handsome with a very pregnant wife who was due any day. It was their second child. The first, a little girl named Megan, was almost five years old and was dressed up like a little Christmas doll in preparation for her visit to see Santa at the local mall. He was so nice.

“We’re taking her to see Santa today. She’s so excited.”

I hesitated to remind him that it was his words to me years earlier that had tried to steer me away from my belief in Santa. In fact, I have to admit to a sick temptation to bending down and telling the adorable little tot that there was no Santa. It was all just Mommy and Daddy.

But I knew she wouldn’t believe me; any more than I had believed Jimmy’s blasphemous ranting. But the oddest part of the meeting was when the tall, dark and now extremely handsome Jimmy Trumbo introduced me to his pregnant wife with the words, “This is Dorrie Krakowski. I had a huge crush on her in grade school.”

What? This came completely out of left field.

“I would do anything to get her attention. I was such a dumb kid. I used to pull her pigtails. Anything.”

“Don’t feel bad,” his wife chimed in, “when we first met, he pulled my pigtails, too. Just kidding,” she added, as if the joke needed pointing out.

This was certainly a shock. I suddenly saw myself in his wife’s shoes. That could have been me. Standing there in a designer maternity dress, with my adorable little tyke and my blazingly handsome lawyer husband. That could have been me taking my daughter to see Santa while patiently waiting for the next miracle of life to shoot out of my vagina.

But there I was: my hair all greasy and my eyes burning red from the lack of sleep the night before due to the late-night flight and (due to lost luggage) wearing my mother’s sweatpants and a sweatshirt that said “Golden Girls Mall Walkers”.

This was a fork in the road of life I wasn’t even aware I’d screwed up.

Until now.

I took solace the only way I could. At least I wasn’t married to a man who’d pooped his pants.

Thankfully, I was now on my way to see a psychiatrist.

But first, I needed coffee.

For some reason, I’d forgotten that while there was a warm November rainstorm outside----they were rockin’ around the Christmas tree inside.

I folded up my umbrella as Little Miss Sunshine stepped up to the counter.

“Would you like to try our special Christmas Blend?”

“No. Just coffee.”

“How about one of our Cranberry Sleigh Ride Bars?”

“No. Just regular coffee.”

In line behind me, a fifty year-old woman wearing a snowflake sweatshirt waited her turn. I guess I looked too closely, because she gave me that typical New York “What are you looking at?” look.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I was just noticing your shirt,” I tried to laugh it off. “On a day