New Years Family Game Night: Bingo!

The other day, I decided to do some grocery shopping. Before I left, I asked my dogs if they wanted anything from the grocery store.

FREEDOM: Pick up some bacon.

 

ME: Anything else?

MACKY: More bacon.

ME: Anything else besides bacon?

SARAH: Pick up some scratch tickets.

I mentioned in a previous blog entry that me and my dogs play the lottery.

Coulrophobia and other

fears will be covered in

a future blog entry.

ME:P Which ones?

 

SARAH: Any of the $1 is OK, except Money Madness - they haven't been paying good for me.

 

ME: OK

 

SARAH: And no Clowning Around.

 

ME: Those not been paying good either?

 

SARAH: No, I just hate clowns.

According to Wikipedia:
The first recorded signs of a lottery are keno slips from the Chinese Han Dynasty between 205 and 187 BC. These lotteries are believed to have helped to finance major government projects like the Great Wall of China. From the Chinese "The Book of Songs" (2nd millennium BC.) comes a reference to a game of chance as "the drawing of wood", which in context appears to describe the drawing of lots. From the Celtic era, the Cornish words "teulel pren" translates into "to throw wood" and means "to draw lots". The Iliad of Homer refers to lots being placed into Agamemnon's helmet to determine who would fight Hector.

 

The first known European lotteries were held during the Roman Empire, mainly as an amusement at dinner parties. Each guest would receive a ticket, and prizes would often consist of fancy items such as dinnerware. Every ticket holder would be assured of winning something. This type of lottery, however, was no more than the distribution of gifts by wealthy noblemen during the Saturnalian revelries. The earliest records of a lottery offering tickets for sale is the lottery organized by Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar. The funds were for repairs in the City of Rome, and the winners were given prizes in the form of articles of unequal value.

Our dream of going to the Caribbean and becoming pirates is being delayed by our inability to pick the six numbers needed to win the state lottery.

Our dream of going to the
Caribbean and becoming
pirates is being delayed by
our inability to pick the six
numbers needed to win the
state lottery.

I mentioned in Lottery Tickets, Giant Redwoods, and Pirates that me and the dogs play the Lottery. We rarely win and when we do it isn't much. So far this year, we purchased $89 on tickets (including Sarah's scratchers) and won a total of $55 which means we are down $34.

So, if we don't expect to win, why do we play?

For the fantasy aspect.

Purchasing a lottery ticket allows us to fantasize about what we would do if we actually did win a big jackpot.

Our current plan is to by a RV and see the country, starting with the Redwoods in California. Or move to the Caribbean to become pirates. We haven't finalized out plans just yet.

So, you may ask, couldn't we still do that without wasting a dollar on a lottery ticket?

We could, but it wouldn't be the same without the possibility (however remote) of winning.  And the odds are significantly better if you buy a ticket.

 

Let me tell you a story:

There was a minister who presided over a poor but honest congregation in a small Midwestern town. The church building, originally erected in 1821 was in need of much repair, but (sadly) there just wasn't any money to make the repairs. So he prayed on it. And what he prayed for was for God to let him win the lottery, so he would have the money to make the badly needed repairs to the church. And he continued to pray on it week after week, and week after week, he did not win the lottery. Finally, in exasperation, he fell to his knees and cried out "Lord! Why do you not answer my prayers? I am not asking to win the money for myself, but for the church. Your church. "   There suddenly came a rumbling, thunderous, and a voice from above spoke: "My son, you must work with me. You have to buy a lottery ticket first."

 

A lot of people in my family play lottery. My Uncle Dave, however, doesn't. He is mistrustful of lotteries. According to him, the last time he "played" a lottery, he got sent to Vietnam.

For those of you who didn't understand, it was a reference to the military draft.

Neither does my cousin Clara. Being a Baptist, Clara disapproves of gambling.

And a lot of other "immoral" entertainments.

But she does play Bingo, (another lottery-type game).

So if gambling is OK to raise
money for the church, what
about other "immoral" forms
of entertainment?

Cousin Clara won't play cards (even for fun) but goes to "church" Bingo religiously (pun intended) every Wednesday night. Apparently gambling isn't immoral, as long as the church benefits. Although gambling is a sin according to Baptists (and a few other denominations), playing Bingo for money is allowed if it is sponsored by the church. Clara would condemn gambling (and other so called vices), but would proudly announce how much she won on Wednesday Night Bingo at the church. I guess as long as the church is the one profiting, its OK?

Jesus had a word for this, I think... What was it?  Oh, yeah: hypocrisy!

 

Roman soldiers gambled for Jesus' garment at the Crucifixion. Can you imagine how much it would be worth on eBay?  Lottery is mentioned in the Bible: And they crucified him, and parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, They parted my garments among them, and upon my vesture did they cast lots. (Matthew 27:35) Other reference to lots can be found in the bible. There is no reference to Bingo in the Bible. Chances are, Jesus would not have approved of church sponsored bingo. He was not pleased with money changers in the temple, so I doubt he would have tolerated Bingo.   And can you really envision Mary going to Bingo once a week?

 

 

 

Me and my dogs will be playing Bingo on New Years Eve.

A couple of years back, we stayed up until midnight New Years, eating dog treats and watching Time Square on TV. When midnight came, I blew a horn and said "Happy New Years!" The dogs watched at me as I sang Auld Lang Syne (They didn't know the words, so they couldn't sing along) and when I finished, Freedom, (my oldest dog) ask "Now what?"  

Sarah, my female, snorted and walked off, mumbling "I can't believe I stayed up for this."

After this, we took a different course. Instead of staying up until midnight, we only stay up until 9pm.

Why 9pm?

Because we live on the west coast, and we watch Time Square on an internet feed - Midnight there is 9pm here.

Hey, it's New Years somewhere. 

This way, we can go to bed at a reasonable hour, because we need to get up early in order to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade.

My dog's like parades.

 

Oh there ain't no bugs on me.
Oh there ain't no bugs on me.
There may be bugs
on some of you mugs.
But there ain't no bugs on me.

I mentioned in an previous blog that me and my Canines do family nights from time to time. In addition to movie night, we also have game night (which I will cover that in more depth in a future blog entry) and one of the games we play is Bingo.

 

Awhile back, I found a home Bingo game at a flea market. I thought the dogs might enjoy that. They like games. They don't like flea markets.

My dogs will not go to the flea market with me.  

They are suspicious of the term "flea" market. I have tried to assure them that they do not sell fleas there, but they don't want to risk being contaminated.

Being dogs, they just don't want fleas.

So I bought the game, and brought it home with me. Macky noticed the box in my hand and asked what it was. I told him it was a Bingo set. (I didn't tell him I bought it at the "flea" market - no point upsetting him.)

MACKY: Hey, I know Bingo!

ME: You do?

MACKY: Yeah!

He then stood up on his hind legs and started singing while doing a little dog dance.

MACKY: There was a farmer had a dog, And Bingo was his name-o. (clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap) (clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap) (clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap)-(clap) And Bingo was his name-o. And Bingo was his name-o.

If you are truly unfamiliar with Bingo
and how it is played, click here.)

Most of us at least know what Bingo is, and the basics of play. Many of us were exposed to it grade school, like in Mrs. Frothingslosh second grade class. I'm not sure what we were suppose to learn from playing Bingo, but we were obedient children and listened as she called out the numbers (B-7, G-55, I-22, etc.) until someone got five in a row and called out Bingo! (followed by grumbling from the rest of the class). After having his or her card checked by Mrs. Frothingslosh, he or she would receive a prize, usually a piece of cheap candy.

 

Typical Bingo Card

Bingo is a game of chance played with randomly drawn numbers which players match against numbers on their card(s). The matrices may be printed on paper, card stock or electronically represented and are referred to as cards. Many versions conclude the game when the first person achieves a specified pattern from the drawn numbers. The winner is usually required to call out the word "Bingo!", which alerts the other players and caller of a win.

 

In the Bingo halls, there is usually more to calling Bingo than just 5 in a row. Usually there are patterns with cutsie names like "lucky clover" and "the kite" and the first person to forn the prescribed pattern on his or her card wins.

 

Alternative methods of play try to increase participation by creating excitement. Since its invention in 1929, modern Bingo has evolved into multiple variations, with each jurisdiction's gambling laws regulating how the game is played. There are also nearly unlimited patterns that may be specified for play. Some games require only one number to be matched, while cover-all games award the jackpot for covering an entire card. There are even games that award prizes to players for matching no numbers or achieving no pattern.

 

 

The Friend

My first experience with Bingo occurred when a friend decided that we (myself and a few other friends) needed to Bingo...

We (myself and a few other friends) wanted to go drinking.

The friends was adamant about wanting to go Bingo (we never completely understood why). We were equally adamant about going drinking.

The compromise was that we would go drinking after Bingo. 

So we went to the local bingo hall.

The first thing you notice upon entering the Bingo hall is that the clientele is primarily elderly ladies, and rednecks. And elderly rednecks.

We paid our price of admission, and were give a stack of assorted Bingo cards (actually paper). We then went to the concession stand and  purchased drinks (non-alcoholic), munchies, and Bingo daubers (a necessity to play), and then found a spot at one of the tables and set up as best we could. We weren't exactly sure of how to play, but we were seated next to an elderly grandmother-type who was quite helpful and explained exactly what we needed to do during each of the games.
 

@#$%!!!

Basically, the game begins by the caller drawing and calling a number from the Bingo apparatus, and if you have that number on one of your cards, you daub it with your dauber. This continues at a medium pace until someone gets a Bingo - and you know that game is over when someone yells BINGO! which is followed by @#$%!!! from 2-3 dozen elderly ladies.

I kid you not. These elderly matrons, who no doubt were baking cookies that afternoon were swearing like sailors. Worse, like rappers. I was shocked by there language, and I was in the miliary! There lady who was sitting across from me, who looked as old as yoda, dropped an F-bomb that reverberated in the Bingo hall and lingered in the air for several minutes. 

I kid you not. When I recovered from the shock of granny's expletive, I asked her "Do you kiss your grandchildren with that mouth?"

These old ladies are ruthless. They do not like to lose.

I used to drive by the Bingo hall and see the rent-a-cop walking in front, and I always thought he was there to keep the place from being robbed. Now I realize he's there to make sure the winners make it to their cars without getting beat-up by the losers.

We played through the series of games, after which we proceeded out of the Bingo hall in order to go drinking.

And, in case you are wondering, I won $200 that night.

And the nice rent-a-cop escorted me, and my winnings, to my car after Lady F-Bomb threatened to beat the @#$% out of me.

Angry Seniors at Bingo Night.

Bingo is good recreation for elderly rednecks, or the elderly in general. Many of them are afflicted with arthritis or rheumatism, but despite their shriveled hands they can still play, because the Bingo dauber is designed to fit right into their gnarled, curled fingers.
 

And you wouldn't know that they had arthritis the way they play Bingo. There was one old lady I saw who came into the Bingo hall very slowly, using a walker. She bought quite a bit of extra tickets, about a dozen, and had them laid out in front of her. And for being a slow and arthritic, that grandma had no problem keeping pace with the caller. Her little wrinkled arm became a blur as she stamped all of her cards.

I was having a problem with the three I had. 

My dogs enjoy playing Bingo. The first evening we set up in the living room on the coffee table. Each of the dogs got a card and a ink pad. We had to make an adaption to accommodate the dogs: There was a plethora of small, plastic chips (about the size of dimes) that were to be used to cover the numbers on the cards. However, lacking opposable thumbs, the dogs were not able to utilize them as effectively as humans.   So what I did is went to the dollar store, and bought some ink pads (for a dollar.) Speaking of the dollar store, why does the dollar store have all those buttons on the cash register? Everything is a dollar, so the only need two buttons: One Dollar and Tax. Each of the dogs got an ink pad. When I called out a number (and if it was on their card) what they would do was put their paw on the ink pad, then stamp the number on the card with their paw print. Sort of a built in Bingo dauber. I was the caller. We played the simple version of Bingo (like in Mrs. Frothingslosh class) where all you had to do is get five in a row. The prize was a dog treat. The first dog to get 5 in a row got a treat... And unlike the grandmas, the others did not turn nasty when they lost. They enjoyed Bingo, especially stomping on the Bingo cards. They said we could do this again on another family night, especially if they could stomp the Bingo cards (they liked that part).   And when we were done, they got their paws cleaned off with a wet wipe.



Troll dolls were originally created in 1959 by Danish

fisherman and woodcutter Thomas Dam. Dam could not

afford a Christmas gift for his young daughter Lila and

carved the doll from his imagination. When other children

in the Danish town of Gjøl saw the troll doll, they wanted

one as well. Dam's company Dam Things began producing

the dolls in plastic under the name Good Luck Trolls. The

dolls became popular in several European countries during

the early 1960s, shortly before they were introduced in the

United States. They became one of the United States'

biggest toy fads from the autumn of 1963 through 1965.

One might assume from observation that good luck charms are as essential as Bingo daubers, but this is not the case. Good luck charms are not an essential for Bingo play, but they are (apparently) an essential part of the Bingo experience, judging from the plethora of talismans and amulets and other juju present at the player tables.

 

There were numerous rabbit foots, lucky clovers, and other pieces of luck. There was also a lot of small photos in frames, presumably family members (children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren) of the Bingo players. I saw assorted Beanie Bears

And Good Luck Trolls.

And I never noticed, until I went to Bingo, just how much some old ladies look like Good Luck Trolls. 

 

In the US, the game is primarily staged by churches or charity organizations. Their legality and stakes vary by state regulation. In some states, Bingo halls are rented out to sponsoring organizations, and such halls often run games almost every day. Church-run games, however, are normally weekly affairs held on the church premises. These games are usually played for modest stakes, although the final game of a session is frequently a coverall game that offers a larger jackpot prize for winning within a certain quantity of numbers called, and a progressive jackpot is one that may increase per session until it is won.

And someone yells Bingo!!!

And 2-3 dozen old ladies start swearing. 

 

There are some other variations to the basic (and advanced) form of bingo, some of which include:
 

Buzzword Bingo also known as bullshit bingo, is a bingo-style game where participants prepare bingo cards with buzzwords and tick them off when they are uttered during an event, such as a meeting or speech. The goal of the game is to tick off a predetermined number of words in a row and then yell "Bingo!" (or "Bullshit!").

I used to work at Wal*Mart, and I mentioned this game to a co-worker. A short time later, the general manager came around to our section of the story. She needed to "touch base" with everybody in order to "stay in the loop" and "etc." and "etc."

My co-worker began to giggle, then could not stop laughing, and eventually had to excuse herself under the excuse of "needing to powder her nose."

Cow Patty Bingo, also known as Cow Pie Bingo or Bovine Bingo, is a fundraising favorite at village fetes the world over.  An enclosed area in a field is marked off into a grid of squares. Each square is given a number. People buy a square. When enough of the squares are sold a cow or other farm animal is allowed onto the field. Spectators wait "with bated breath" until the cow splats. The owner of the square that receives the first dollop wins.

I did find an article where a person used

Puppy Poo Bingo to let his new dog

name himself.

FREEDOM: Do they have Dog Doo Bingo?

MACKY: Yeah! Me and Freedom could be callers!

SARAH: That is just gross.

ME: Yeah? Well how about this one: 

Roadkill Bingo is a game in which the pictures of 24 different animals are placed randomly in a grid, printed on paper or cardboard. The game is traditionally played in vehicles during long distance travel. When a dead specimen of one of these animals is spotted by a player, that square in the grid is marked off with either a Bingo blotter or some other writing instrument. Small poker like chips may be used to designate spotted dead animals, however the jarring due to bumps in the road make this a less viable option. Only the first person to spot the roadkill is entitled to mark off the corresponding picture. As in regular Bingo, the object of the game is to spot a sequence of five dead animals which are in the same row or column on the Bingo card, after which the person yells "Bingo!!!"

SARAH: That is wrong, on several levels.

 

So as I am writing this, my dogs are preparing for our New Years party. Macky Rae is currently in the kitchen microwaving some popcorn. Freedom is printing up Bingo cards. Last year, Macky Rae printed up the cards, and this did not work out so well. On the first game, all three dogs called Bingo! at the same time. Yes, he printed up several copies of the exact same Bingo card.  So this year (not that he would repeat the same mistake, but just to be safe) we assigned Macky Rae popcorn duty.  And we have our party spread on - meats, cheeses, and crackers from Hickory Farms (of Ohio). Sarah is preparing the platter. And (of course) dog treats. And I will make up a batch of my holiday eggnog. And at 9pm (12 midnight EST) we will count down... Five - Four - Three - Two -One - Bingo!!! ...sing Auld Lang Syne. I taught the dogs the words, so they will try to sing it with me this year.

MACKY: Hey, Dad. What is an Auld Lang Syne?

A good question.

MACKY: I know, that's why I asked it. 



Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and days of long ago?
                             
For days of long ago, my dear,
for days of long ago,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for days of long ago.

Auld Lang Syne is a Scots poem written by Robert Burns in 1788 and set to the tune of a traditional folk song. It is well known in many countries, especially in the English-speaking world, its traditional use being to bid farewell to the old year at the stroke of midnight. By extension, it is also sung at funerals, graduations and as a farewell or ending to other occasions. The song's title may be translated into English literally as "old long since", or more idiomatically, "long long ago", "days gone by" or "old times". Consequently "For auld lang syne", as it appears in the first line of the chorus, might be loosely translated as "for (the sake of) old times".

 

"Auld Lang Syne" is traditionally sung at the conclusion of New Year gatherings in Scotland and around the world, especially in English-speaking countries.

MACKY: What do they sing in non-English speaking countries?

I don't know. 

 

 

 

To friends, family, and loyal readers:

Have a Happy and Prosperous New Years

Christmas 2014: Waffles and Eggnog

One Christmas, when I was on the street, I received a gift bag full of assorted goodies from a charitable group of people. It included toiletries, candy, and a bag of microwave popcorn.

For be it for me to be ungrateful, but who gives microwave popcorn to homeless people?


Some years ago, I wrote a winter haiku:

Cold wind and gray sky
Snow that falls and turns to slush
Tri-Cities' half-ass winter

For those of you who live in the Tri-Cites (Washington) area, you understand this.

Carol of the Dogs

On the night of the 21st, around 6:30 or so. There was a knock on my door, and when I opened it, I discovered my dogs.

They were waffling, which has become a tradition in our household.

Regular readers of this blog are aware from a previous blog entry (The Bureau of Holiday Affairs) that that waffling is actually wassailing (or caroling). Macky Rae couldn't pronounce wassailing when he was younger.

This year instead of tinsel, wrapping paper, and lights, the dogs wore there Gay Pride shirts, gifts from our neighbors Alice and Gertrude last June for going to the Gay Pride parade.

Your dogs were at a Gay Pride day?

Now we don our gay apparel
fa-la-la fa-la-la la-la-la

Yes. They are very social conscious, and they went in support of their friend, Max (yes, a dog friend), who came out this spring.

So what does Gay Pride shirts have to do with waffling?

I had the same questions, and like I fool I asked.

SARAH: It's the only "gay apparel" that we own. 

The dogs serenaded me (and the neighbors) with there repertoire of holiday favorites. This year's selection was:

• Bark, the Herald Angels Sing
• Joy to the Squirrels (the dogs have come)
• God Rest Ye Merry, Gentledogs
• Good King Whats-His-Name (my dogs can't pronounce Wenceslaus, but neither can I)
• Oh, Christmas Tree  (being dogs, they like trees)
• Santa Paws is Coming to Town
• We Three Dogs (from West Richland are)
• and the always popular We Wish You a Merry Christmas

We Wish You a Merry Christmas is popular with my dogs, as it entails a treat ("now bring us some figgy pudding"). You may recall from last year - The Bureau of Holiday Affairs (Part 1) - we were unable to procure figgy pudding so we substitutes beef jerky.

This, also, has become a tradition.

This year, the "figgy pudding" verse was substituted with the following:

Now bring us some beefy jerky
Now bring us some beefy jerky
Now bring us some beefy jerky
And a cup of good cheer.

So after the singing, I invited the dogs in for "beefy jerky" and a "cup of good cheer".

The cup of good cheer was my homemade eggnog.

They consumed the Jerky, and several cups of good cheer eggnog, and promptly passed out.

And that's when Joi (the girlfriend) showed up.

I gave her a "Cup of Good Cheer" to warm her up.

JOI: Why are the dogs asleep?

ME: They're passed out from too much eggnog.

JOI: You gave the dogs eggnog???

It wasn't the eggnog that worried her, it was the liberal amount of rum I traditionally put into my homemade eggnog. 

ME: Relax. They didn't get any rum in theirs.

JOI: Then why are they passed out?

ME: They think they got rum in their eggnog.

The power of suggestion.

Wassail, Wassail, all over the town.

  

Instead of sharing my recipe for Eggnog, let me share the recipe of our first president:

Party on, George! George Washington's Christmas Eggnog Here is a recipe from our first President, in the exact words they were written by George Washington himself. "One quart cream, one quart milk, one dozen tablespoons sugar, one pint brandy, 1/2 pint rye whiskey, 1/2 pint Jamaica rum, 1/4 pint sherry—mix liquor first, then separate yolks and whites of eggs, add sugar to beaten yolks, mix well. Add milk and cream, slowly beating. Beat whites of eggs until stiff and fold slowly into mixture. Let set in cool place for several days. Taste frequently."

Wassail (Old Norse "ves heil", Old English "was hál", literally 'be you healthy') refers both to the salute 'Waes Hail' and to the drink of wassail, a hot mulled cider traditionally drunk as an integral part of wassailing, a medieval southern English drinking ritual intended to ensure a good cider apple harvest the following year. The phrase found first use as a simple greeting, but the Danish-speaking inhabitants of England seem to have turned "was hail", and the reply "drink hail", into a drinking formula adopted widely by the indigenous population of England. How far the tradition of wassailing dates back is unknown, but it has connections with Anglo-Saxon and Danish traditions - thus wassailing likely predates the Norman conquest in 1066.

In recent times, the toast has come to be synonymous with Christmas, but since Christianity gradually replaced the indigenous Anglo-Saxon religion around the 7th and 8th centuries, there is no evidence that the traditional ceremony of wassailing is Christian in origin.

A Traditional Wassail Recipe Recipe makes 12 servings 2 quarts apple cider 2 cups orange juice 1/2 cup lemon juice 12 whole cloves 4 cinnamon sticks 1 pinch ground ginger 1 pinch ground nutmeg In a slow-cooker or a large pot over low heat, combine apple cider, orange juice and lemon juice. Season with cloves, ginger and nutmeg. Bring to a simmer. If using a slow cooker, allow to simmer all day. Serve hot.

We had a wonder Christmas time. Everyone (including dogs) met at Amy and Brian's for Christmas dinner (and the traditional pumpkin pie).

There was actually more canines at this dinner than humans.

We all had a good time.

And with that thought, I sign off.

To family, friends, and loyal readers of the Dancing with Dogs blog:

Yule and Noel, and a Happy New Year!

from my dogs: Freedom, Sarah, Macky Rae, and (our newest addition to the crew) Reba.

On Being Santa

Skyping Father Christmas? Things have
changed from the days when I was a kid.
 

Perhaps skyping is better than
Macky's "encounter" with Santa
last year. (You can read about that
from a previous blog entry:
A visit with St. Nick)

Now that Thanksgiving has passed, we may now turn our attention to the Christmas Season.

Provided, of course, that everyone adheres to the holiday guidelines established by the Bureau of Holiday Affairs.

I came home and found Macky Rae (my youngest dog) busy with something on the computer.
 

ME: What are you doing?

 

MACKY: Getting my Christmas list ready for Santa.

 

ME: Are you going to send him a letter?

 

MACKY: No, I'm going to email it to him.

Making a list and spellchecking it twice, no doubt.

ME: I suppose you are going to want me to take you to the mall.

 

MACKY: For what?

 

ME: To see Santa.

 

MACKY: We do not need to go to the mall.

 

ME: You don't want to see him?

 

MACKY: I do.

 

ME: Then how are you going to do that if we don't go to the mall?

 

MACKY: I'm going to Skype him.

 

 

 

I don't exactly know what Macky Rae wants for Christmas. His "list" is on the computer, but I don't know his password, so I will need to go in through a backdoor (thanks to administrative functions) and see if I can extract his list. But I do know that he would really (really) like the expansion pack for

ZombieLand™

Regular readers of this blog are aware the Macky Rae likes computer games. His favorite is ZombieLand™ which he has been playing for over two years.

The other dogs are easy. Freedom (my oldest) wants some R&B CDs. Sarah (my female) wants an MP3 player (with dog friendly earphones).

 

When I was a child, I wanted "Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time."

I never got one.

My mother told me I would shoot my eye out.

1881 illustration by Thomas

Nast who, along with Clement

Clarke Moore's poem "A

Visit from St. Nicholas",

helped to create the modern

image of Santa Claus.

Believe it or not, one year I was actually hired to be a mall Santa Claus.

It's true!

The people in charge of Santa in the Mall approached me and offered me a seasonal job as Santa Clause. As it paid better than my day job, I accepted.

Those of you who know me (in person) know that I am nowhere near what anyone would expect St. Nick to look like. Although I am not exactly skinny (I am 6'3" and weight about 170#), my body hardy resembles the traditional depiction of St. Nicholas as a portly gentleman.

But with the assistance of stuffing removed from several pillows, the Head Elf and her assistant (Elf #1) managed to inflate the Santa outfit that I wore on duty, molding the foam into something that closely resembled the traditional visual of Papa Noel.

The first and main rule of being Santa is to remain in character. That meant keeping the fake beard on my face when in view of the public. We (me and the elves) did not want to do anything to dispel the notion that Santa is real. Some disgruntled parent might actually sue us for ruining their Christmas, or inflicting emotional damage to their child. That also meant not using profanity within earshot of young children.

There was a rough Script: Ho Ho Ho and Have you been a good boy/girl? and What do you want for Christmas? After a while the routine of asking if the child if he/she had been good all year seemed lame. After all, what child is dumb enough to confess past indiscretions to Santa?

So I decided to deviate from the script - with interesting results:

Two siblings a brother (age 4) and sister (age 7) came together, and after they had situated themselves on Santa's lap, I ask "So, who is the naughty child and who is the nice child?"

The answer surprised me.

The boy quickly raised his little finger, pointed at his sister, and said "She is! She's naughty. Our mom says she has a bad attitude!"

Bad attitude? This is not a word your typical four year old uses. I wonder where he learned that?

I'd have loved to hear what mom had to say on the subject

The sister tried to remained cool, but you could sense the guilt in her eyes.

The boy, using the logic of a four year old, reasoned that there was only going to be one child receiving a gift in that household, and he was going to make darn sure that Santa knew who did (and who didn't) deserve a Christmas gift - by snitching on his sister.

The first problem that we encountered was the heat. That much foam made the Santa suit warm. Quite warm. In order to not fall over from heat exhaustion, Santa needed a break about once an hour or so. The elves inform the assorted children (and their parents) that Santa needed to go check on his reindeer, but would be back in 5 minutes. Elf #1 would lead me out the side door so I could open up my Santa suit and cool off. Restroom breaks were more problematic. As Santa, I was not allowed to use the public restroom and I understand why. One year, I saw a Rent-a-Santa bell ringer taking a whizz in the restrooms. I knew this wasn't really Santa, but the visual remains with me to this day. So under the guise of feeding the reindeer, we wandered back to the empty room we used as a dressing room, then (after Elf #1 verified the cost was clear) I was allowed to use a small bathroom across the hall in the "Employees Only" part of the mall.

Another "cute" child was a boy, about 5 years old, who had the most angelic smile I had seen. He was nicely (warmly) dressed in a holiday sweater and slacks, and his hair was nicely combed (with dippy-doo hair gel).

So I asked the usual question: "Have you been a good boy?"

He assured me he had.

"All year?" I asked.

Again I was assured of his good behavior

"SO" I asked, "If I were to ask you mother, what would she tell me?"

The smile vanished from his face, and I swear I saw fear in his eyes.

He hadn't figured on this. He turned his face towards his mother (who was chatting with the Head Elf about the different photo packages), no doubt contemplating the information that his mother would reveal upon Santa's request. He hadn't counted on that, and he didn't have a back-up plan. He looked back at me, and I could see it in his eyes.

In his little heart, he knew he was getting coal in his stocking.

Sweat began to form on his forehead.

OK, I'm making that up.

I waited a moment then let him off the hook.

"Have you been mostly good?"

He assured me he had.

I then asked him what he wanted for Christmas, to which he told me several items that he would prefer to find under the family Christmas tree rather than coal.

To this day, I wonder just what "Dennis the Menace" might have done to fear receiving coal.

Growing up, my Santa smoked a pipe. My Uncle Theo said when he was growing up, Santa smoked Lucky Strikes.  One of the problems was smoking. At the time, I smoked and after an hour or so, Santa needed a smoke break. The problem was one of the "rules" was that I could not be seen by the children smoking. Which seems odd, at least to me, because growing up all the depictions of Santa Claus I saw showed him smoking a pipe. But heaven forbid these days if we have a smoking Santa. Like Joe Camel, this might cause children to start smoking - which leads to other drug usage, premarital sex, and listening to devil music. We can't be having this. So what we had to do was go on another "reindeer check." Near Santa's Magic Kingdom was a side hallway (marked employees only) which led outside, behind the mall. Elf #1 would go out first and look around, and if the coast was clear (i.e. no children) Santa would hide behind the dumpster, remove his beard, and smoke a cigarette. And open the suit to cool off. Elf #1 would keep watch (just in case).   After Santa finished smoking, Elf #1 spritzed Santa's mouth with breath spray, so he didn't smell like Marlboros. He smelled like Christmas Mint. And Chanel #5. Elf #1 also spritzed the Santa suit with her perfume so it didn't smell like smoke One of my co-workers from my regular job just happened to be coming to work one time when me and Elf #1 were smoking. He commented later that it looked bad to him, and wondered what Santa and a cute female elf were doing behind the dumpster. "Get your mind out of the gutter" I told him. "Santa doesn't do things like that." Not behind a dumpster, anyhow. This Santa had more class than that.

As a mall Santa, you had to be ready for some clever questions:

One child asked me where were my reindeer.

A good question.

Upon arriving at the mall with her mother, she no doubt noticed that there were no reindeer in the parking lot.

So where were they?

I had to think quickly

"They're on the roof" I told her.

And that made sense to her. After all, if you have flying reindeers, why park in a crowded parking lot, when there was all that space available on the roof.

Another child asked me what makes reindeer fly.

Another good question as deer, rein or other, are not aerodynamic.

Being a child of the 70s, and having listened to Cheech and Chong, my first thought was to say magic dust.

If you were a child of the 70s and/or listened to Cheech and Chong, you will know that reference.

If not, here is a YouTube video of Santa and His Old Lady:

In that his (the child's) parents were within earshot, and the chances were good that either one of them may have also been children of the 70s and/or listened to Cheech and Chong, I thought it wise not to go with my first impulse.

I had to think (fast) and then I recalled from a Rankin and Bass stop animation Christmas special (Rudolph) that the deer learned flight at reindeer games. They practice jumping, going higher and higher until finally they are able to remain airborne.

I told this to the boy, who accepted this (he no doubt had also seen the special).

Myself, I still believe the magic dust explanation.

I was also told no flirting. I wasn't flirting with the mothers, but with the woman who ran the gizmo shop near the Winter Wonderland. She was rather cute. I even offered her a candy cane. The Head Elf told me to quit flirting in the Santa Suit, as it was inappropriate.

 
While wearing the Santa suit, you would not immediately recognize me.

So when a young couple to whom I was acquainted showed up with their son, I had a little Christmas magic trick.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Actually, I never Ho! Ho! Ho! when I was Santa.

"Well, look who has come to see me: My little friend Liam"

Liam, smiling, came over and sat on my lap.

His parents looked confused and startled. Nobody had mentioned the child's name, yet Santa called him by his name. His correct name.

This mad perfect sense to Liam. After all Santa know everyone, right? He proceeded to confirmed his goodness for the preceding year, and then tell me what he wanted for Christmas.

The parents were puzzled. Liam isn't that common of a name, so the chance that Santa happened to guess it was unlikely.

To this day, they still don't know just how Santa managed to do that.

Sorry to inform you, but
you are on the naught list.

You are the reason Santa
even has a naught list.

Bill was working at a Christmas kiosk to earn a bit of money during the season. I knew him from here and there.

It was a slow time an Santa's Toyland (there were no children waiting to see Santa) when Bill walked past , on his way out of the Mall for a smoke break. Elf #1 and Elf #2 (who was hired as a part time elf) called to him, flirtingly, inviting him to come visit with Santa. He smile, verbally declined their offer, and continued on his way to the doors.

"Not so fast, William" I boomed out in a Santa voice.

Bill stopped in his tracks, and turned around, and re-approached the North Pole mini-station.

"How does Santa Claus know my name?" he asked

"Santa knows everyone's name, and he also knows what you were doing this weekend."

And I did, because I was at the same party.

His face turned white.

Let's just say that what he did that weekend would not be appropriate in this blog.

For a brief moment in his adult life, Bill believed in Santa (because Santa knew specifically how naught he had been.)

 Santa Claus and the reindeer work the graveyard shift in the middle of winter. You know they be drinking some coffee! Another issue was coffee. I've mentioned a few times that I'm a coffee drinker. Another one of the Santa rules was that I could not patronize any of the stores while in uniform. This (unfortunately) included the mall coffee shop. Ok, I understood about the restrooms, and the smoking, and I realize that it might not look good if Kris Kringle was patronizing a retailer (it might look like an endorsement). But coffee? So, in order to get a Raspberry Mocha, I had to send Elf #1 to the coffee shop. It was OK for the elves to go get coffee, but not Santa. So I gave Elf #1 my debit card and she headed out to the coffee shop. After a few moments, a thought occurred to me: I go to that coffee shop frequently, enough that I am on a first name basis with all the baristas. Knowing me by name, they are going to know that Elf #1 is not me, and (possible) have her detained for theft. So I grabbed my cellphone and called the shop. ME: Hey Debbie, this is Doug... DEB: Hi Doug. ME: I got someone coming over to pick up a coffee for me. DEB: Your usual? ME: Uh, yeah. Raspberry Mocha. I told you they knew me. DEB: I'll get it started. ME: Thanks. She moves away from the phone and tells the crew to start a Raspberry Mocha. In the background, I hear someone ask "Is it for Doug?" I told you they knew me. ME: The reason I called is that the girl will be using my debit card, and I just wanted you to know it was OK to accepted it. DEB: It's Christmas. Do you think we have time to read the names on the debit cards? ME: Probably not. DEB: We'll have you drink ready by the time she.. A sudden pause of silence ME: Are you there? DEB: Uh, yeah. An elf just walked into the shop. ME: That's her. She's got my debit card. And if she wants something, put it on my card.

So this young couple come to Santa's Kingdom, carrying a baby. Now, I knew this would happen eventually and I knew eventually I would be forced to pose with at least one.

Might have been the team captain.

I don't like to hold babies. It's not that I don't like babies, its just that I am afraid that I might break them. I'm told that this is an irrational fear, that babies are (despite appearance) quite durable and about the only way to break them is to slam them against a brick wall or drop then from a third story balcony - although you should never do this.

But I don't want to chance it.

What I'm afraid of, is some years later going my high school alma mater to watch the homecoming game (Go Bombers!) with some parents. As we watch the game, some kid with a bad leg is limping around and passing out sport drinks to the player.

"Look" my friend says. "There's my son, the waterboy. He would have been the quarterback except somebody broke him when he was a baby!"

That's more guilt than I want to carry through my life.

So this young couple come to Santa's Kingdom, carrying a baby. Now, I knew this would happen eventually.

And it was about to happen.

I braced my self, and readied myself to hold (and not break) the small child. The proud parents trustingly placed their progeny into my arms. I looked down at the baby, a girl (judging by the pink clothing) and intoned the traditional mantra of "My, what a lovely baby" that is often spoke upon examining a small, human infant.

But wait. There was something wrong. This was a small baby - my dogs are bigger than this baby was.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"She was born 10pm Saturday night."

It was now 11:38am on a Wednesday, which meant the baby wasn't even four days old yet. You could still faintly smell womb on the child.

OK, I am exaggerating here. I know that you can't smell the scent of female reproductive organ on a newborn infant. Please, nobody e-mail me about this.

I froze and did not move out of fear that the slightest movement on my part would break the child (and forever deny the child the opportunity to become a cheerleader). The proud parents, both wearing matching holiday sweaters that were (in my humble opinion) tacky, knelt on either side of me, and smiled their Christmas smile as the Head Elf took the picture.

Somewhere out there, there is a photo in someone's family album (labeled Baby's First Christmas) in which, years later, people looking at it are puzzled by how stiff Santa looks, and the nervous expression on his face.

According to Macky Rae: On Christmas Eve, people can easily track Santa as he makes his journey all around the globe. Norad Tracks Santa Macky Rae is planning to utilize this.

And it wasn't just the young that came to see Santa. One afternoon, a resident of a local assisted living facility were brought to Santa's Toyland to have her pictures taken, perhaps to be given to family members or possibly used as a picture Christmas card.

And that was OK. I like old people.

The woman was old, and I mean old (She later mentioned she was 93). She was confined to a wheel chair, and the caregiver wheeled her up to me (in order to pose for the camera).

I was not fond of her caregiver.

The caregiver, who was a young woman no older than 25, was talking to the older woman like she was a child.

"Now Claire, tell Santa what you want for Christmas."

Claire rolled her eyes.

In my family, disrespecting the elderly was not allowed.

So with this woman treating Claire (who was obviously still in complete possession of all her mental faculties) disrespectfully, Santa was not pleased.

Let's just say the Santa wanted to give the caregiver a peppermint enema, and let it go at that.

But I digress

I turned my attention to Claire.

ME: So, what do you want for Christmas?

CLAIRE: I'm ninety-three years old. What would you suggest?

ME: I don't know. You're probably to old for a Barbie doll.

That got a pleasant smile out of her.

CLAIRE: How about a twenty year old Frenchman?

ME: Do you think you can handle him?

The mischievous smile of a twenty-three year old Claire appeared on her lips.

ME: I'll see what I can do.

My time as Santa was some years ago, so I am almost certain that Claire is no longer with us (if she is, she is now over 100 years old). She made my Christmas Season brighter with her attitude. Physically, she couldn't handle a young lover, French or otherwise.

But she wanted to at least try.

I want to be the ornery when I'm that old.





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In memory of
Amanda Marie Stueckle

When I decided on this entry, and began writing it (about two month ago), I meant for it only to be a simple Christmas story.

Sadly, it has become a bit more.

Amanda, who was the Elf #1 mentioned repeatedly in this story, died November 24, along with her life partner Jason McCready and their dog Buddy, the result of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Both of them left children, family, and friends who will miss them.

She was preceded in death by her Mother, Juanita, who was the Head Elf (also mentioned in the story)

Merry Christmas to both of you, wherever you are.

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