Tracking Santa

Remember the radio stations that used to track Santa for us? How they would announce that jolly St. Nick had been spotted in Canada or what have you, and all the kids would dive into bed and fake sleep?  The Middlest Sister captures the very essence of a childhood Christmas eve. If you haven’t checked her out, what are you waiting for? Brilliant, beautiful comic strips created from scraps of cloth and paper.

Anyway, I’m doing my own version of a Santa track. I ordered something from overseas as a Christmas gift. I’ll explain exactly why in another post. The site usually announces the last day to order to get your stuff for Christmas, and this year they didn’t. I ordered fully expecting to receive my package around New Year’s. I was prepared to hand over an IOU on Christmas morning.

And then I got an email saying it has been shipped, and it’s supposed to be here by Christmas Eve. Yippee! And I started to hope. Big mistake.

Here’s how I imagine the postal service working. My package is shipped. Someone buys it an airline ticket, usually first class, and sends it on its way. It is met at the gate (yes, the gate. This is my fantasy, remember?) by a chauffeur who drives it to the next gate and buckles it into its seat belt. This is the long leg of the journey, so it is tucked in with a blanket and it settles in for a 14 hour flight. It has a few drinks, socializes with a couple of B-list celebrities, and it arrives, revived and refreshed, in the good old US of A. It is met by yet another chauffeur who ushers it to a limousine and delivers it to my door. Apparently this is not how it actually works. Who knew?

I got the tracking info on the 19th. My package had traveled all the way from Hong Kong to…Taiwan. I’m not totally up on geography, but it seems like with modern conveniences such as, oh, I don’t know… airplanes? it might have gone further in two days’ time. The next stop on its adventure was Japan, where it spent another couple of days.

I got notice today that my stuff is now in the USA. In Anchorage, Alaska. The tracking estimate still shows it arriving at my house on Monday. Because it never snows in Alaska.Will it get here on time? Doubtful. But I do look forward to seeing what other lovely locations my package gets to travel to.

Frankly, I am envious. That box is having a better vacation than I will this year.

My daily joy: I found my husband the best Christmas present ever. He is going to love it, and I can’t wait to see his face! I’m pretending that I got him boring stuff because he is psychic  when it comes to gifts.

I expect his face will look kind of like this.

I expect his face will look kind of like this.

 

 

Early Christmas Presents

Because I’m in the spirit of the season a little early.

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1) When my son’s Boy Scout pack goes Christmas caroling at the retirement center, I let my shy, sweet husband off the hook and take the kid myself. Merry Christmas!

2) This annual holiday trek across the neighborhood with a pack of wild animals scouts reminds me that my son is actually normal. They all behave like war-mongering chimpanzees. I cut the kid some slack for at least two weeks. Merry Christmas!

3) When the scout master asked for a volunteer to play the piano at the retirement center and my kid, with wild and enthusiastic gestures, indicated I would be perfect for the job, I didn’t kill him. Merry Christmas. For the record, I have taken as many piano lessons as I have flaming-sword-swallowing classes.

4) For the fourth day in a row, Facebook’s top recommendation for me has been an article on someone’s dead or dying baby, but it chooses which of my friends’ Christmas posts is appropriate for me to read and hides the rest. Despite this regular trouncing of my holiday cheer,  I have not gone to Mark Zuckerberg’s house and pooped in his swimming pool. Yet. Merry Christmas. Or Happy Hanukkah.

5) While in line at the grocery store, Squish announced in a loud, Lifetime-Network-Christmas-Special voice “Mommy, I do not want you to hit me anymore.” And I did not stick him in the Salvation Army bucket and leave. Merry Christmas, kid.

*** For the record: Those of you who have expressed concern for Squish need not fear. I apparently had accidentally hit him in the head with my purse, and it displeased him. No Squishes have been harmed or will ever be harmed in the making of this blog, though I may follow through with my threat to sell him to the circus.

6) When my daughter came home wearing enough makeup to audition for The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I really listened to her explanation that she and her classmates were working on their makeup for their Theater Arts performance. Merry Christmas. And then I locked Rapunzel in her tower and threw away the key. I’m not perfect.

An interesting aside: the painting on the wall behind the tree was done by a black rat snake.

There’s less under the tree this year. I’ve already done my best giving, you see.