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Santa drools, Santa Lucia rules
By Ellen Snortland Pasadena Weekly Columnist
Lest you think I’m simply a curmudgeonly Santa-phobic crackpot, let me give you some background about why I go on yearly rants about Santa:
I was 5 and cute as a Norwegian fairy child: tow-headed, stubborn and prone to extreme displays of merriment or temper. Appropriate for the season, the only moderation I had was while sleeping. It was Christmas Eve and mommy gussied me up to wait for Santa. My dress featured gray, black diaphanous material; flocked dots; a red velveteen belt with accents; and a red satin petticoat. It had kind of a hooker vibe, now that I reflect on it.
We lived on a small farm outside of Denver. We had chickens, a few horses and Shad, my beloved German shorthair pointer. My family was not doing well. Daddy had been unemployed for months due to rumors about being a communist. (He wasn’t.) Nonetheless, my parents were house-proud, and they did what they could with very little. The house smelled like pine and roasting meat.
The tree was lit up with bubble lights. My two sisters, who were also dressed up, sat on the couch. Alane, the eldest, was bored; Mary, the middle daughter, focused like a shark on the chum of gifts already under the tree. She liked presents. Mommy was herding us around to get pictures of “the girls” in front of the tree.
Then hark! The yonder sleigh bells did ring.
“Ho, ho, ho!!! Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!” The bells are now in the house. Those awful bells. The soundtrack of my horror.
The door to our living room and eating area opened, and in walked the ugliest, saddest, scariest creature I’d ever seen. It wore nasty, stretched-out and faded red long johns, a phony beard, a flaccid red pointy cap, some kind of belt and those horrible sleigh bells. As soon as he showed his face, I let out a bone-shattering scream. Think Drew Barrymore in “E.T.”
Never one to hide behind my mother, I launched myself at this monster that had breached our home.
“Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy?” I screamed. I beat on his chest. My mother is frozen while my sisters convulse with hysterical laughter.
“Santa” runs out, jingling all the way with those horrible bells. Then he comes back, throws the bag into the room and runs back out again.
This gives you a little taste of why I find Santa such a wretched symbol of Christmas. Now, as an older person, I attack him whenever I can. You’d be surprised at how many people tell me, “I thought I was the only one who hates Santa.” Trust me: You are not alone.
Attention, grown-ups! If your child is creeped out by Santa, do not force them to take a picture with him. If you do, I will haunt you in my own version of the Ghost of both Christmas Present and Future.
News flash: Not all children think Santa is wonderful. Just think for a minute — stand back and let go of your emotional attachment — what this fellow represents without all of the sentimental baggage. As a naughty-andnice control freak, who is he to be judging good and bad? That “jolly” red face and nose? These are checklist items for chronic alcoholism. And then there are the mixed messages from my parents, who exhorted me to never, ever talk to strangers. But Santa was the strangest person I’d ever met, let alone spoken with. So not only was I thrust upon his lap so he could breathe his nasty, alcohol-laced breath on me, I was supposed to let him know what my fondest wishes were? Yikes! And those nasty whiskers and his hands on me while bouncing me and taking pictures? Eeewww.
Don’t get me started about his human rights abuses! He enslaves elves that work in his factory. As our family were die-hard union supporters, I felt terrible accepting toys knowing they were made on the backs of children. Organize now!
I say, “Instead of ‘ho, ho, ho!’ say ‘no, no, no!’ to Santa.” Really. What does he teach us by example? That Christmas is all about gifts and delivery; it’s OK for little children to sit on the lap of a man they’ve never met if he’s in a shopping mall; it’s OK to be loud and rude if you have a big bag of gifts; breaking into homes through backdoors or fireplaces is exemplary behavior; being dangerously obese gets you on cards, decorations and in movies; it’s OK to smuggle expensive items in bags; public drunkenness and smoking is acceptable; it’s OK to exploit short people in workshops, etc.
So, my friends, I come by my Santa contempt honestly. Join my Santa Stinks Facebook group to join other Bah-Humbuggers and Bah Humbug with the best!
Other than that? Merry Christmas… soon.
Ellen Snortland has written “Consider This…” for a heckuva long time, and she also coaches first-time book authors! Contact her at ellen@ beautybitesbeast.com.
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