Who’s Afraid of Mrs. Claus? A Holiday Tale

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, the Mrs. could hear Santa lifting the roof with his snores.

“Get up! Get up! Get up, you old coot!” the Mrs. she wailed. “I’ve had it! I’ve had it, I tell you. I’ve had it to here!”

With that she leaned over fat Santa, nestled too snug in his bed, and she planted two hands on his shoulders and boy, did she shake. The bed started rattling and the floor bent from the weight. And then, wouldn’t you know it, the sleigh started bleeping its annoying alarm.

Meanwhile the old dog beside Santa figured The Big One must have arrived. His canine instincts had long failed him, but he took his cues where he could. Or at least this old dog was always trying new tricks.

So he jumped from the covers and ran for the doorway, far from any breakable glass, waiting for the rest of his world to tumble and fall. He wondered what was happening to the North Pole that he adored.

“Huh? What the. . .” Santa now mumbled, opening half an eye. He reached for the phone, thinking he’d better call 911. His stomach really hurt.

“Good God! It’s you, Martha!” the old man then exclaimed. “What’s gotten into you? Are you nuts? Are you on drugs ? I’ve told you, woman. You’re just supposed to say no!

“My God. You, my own wife!”

“You see? That’s the problem,” Martha, she screamed. “I am not on drugs. And you don’t own me, you slob. I am not one of your toys! You’re so interested in playthings, try Taiwan. Word on the street is they’re making them better than yours!”

Now Santa he thought surely it was all a bad dream. What was the toxin that he had swallowed at lunch? By God, this is the North Pole, he mused, not someplace like . . . La-la Land!

But even Santa had heard some unfortunate rumors about Charles and Di. They were supposed to be living a fairy tale too. No taxes, castles and all those hats. Why in the world would anybody give that up? Had the world gone completely mad?

Still, the thought of The Real World intruding on Santa’s own life, it was way too much. He couldn’t fathom it, not even one bit.

Santa, a-hem, was not a modern type guy.

“Martha, dear, calm down,” he heard himself say. “Could it be, uh, that time of the month?”

“Yes, of course, you idiot! It’s Christmas Eve,” she said in a huff. “And I am sick to death of you hogging all the credit from all those little boys and girls! Santa, I love you. What kind of cookies do you like, Santa? Can I sit on your lap, Santa? My mom thinks you’re cute, Santa.

“I mean, pluuueaze! Why don’t you tell them that it’s me , the Mrs., who does most of the work? That Totally Hair Barbie concept? Mine. Roller blades? Ditto. Let’s see, I think the last idea that was actually yours was Silly Putty.

“Typical male. You’r e not the one who will be digging it out of carpets or cutting it out of some kid’s hair.”

Santa was now wide awake. His head was joining his stomach in pain. He looked at the clock. Yes, it was almost that time. He didn’t feel up to getting in the sleigh for a trip around the world. He wondered if Martha would mind doing it, once again. Nah, this particular mood of hers seemed particularly fierce.

“What’s gotten into the old gal lately?” Santa he thought. Maybe she and her bridge group were back to swapping tales. Still, Santa figured the Mrs. would settle down. She always did.

“Martha, sweet cakes, why don’t you make us some hot cocoa?” Santa he said. “You know how I like mine. Go on. It’ll make you feel better, hippity-hop.”

Mrs. Claus just looked at her husband. She was tired. How many years had it been? 100, 200? It was all a blur. But the man never changed, or not very much. Sure, she was smart. She figured she could turn him around. Har-de-har-har!

Martha hadn’t listened to her mother, of course. Mom had predicted that it wouldn’t be too long before that Ho Ho Ho of Santa’s would begin to get on her nerves.

Why, Martha remembered wistfully how his laugh used to make his stomach jiggle like a bowl full of jelly.

Now the comparison that sprung to her mind was a tub of lard, congealed.

But, then again, there was this Christmas thing. Martha sure was a sucker for that. She loved it, she did. And, like it or not, Santa was the point man here. Martha knew people weren’t quite ready to acknowledge her work as vital to Christmas around the world.

Soon, however, they would. Why, they must!

Over the years, Martha had cooked up her plans. Take over the radio station at the North Pole and broadcast her message by force? Include her business card in every present under the tree? Just keep smiling and being nice? So far, every strategy had its holes.

Martha gave off a sigh, but then she grabbed ahold of herself again.

She had her work cut out for her, she did. But she would triumph! She would open the eyes of Santa and everybody else. She couldn’t give up on Santa, or Christmas, just yet.

“All right, Butterball,” Martha said. “I’ll be right back.”

So the Mrs. delivered Santa’s cocoa, helped him squeeze into his suit and sent him on his way, with a hug. The twinkle in his eye made him look kind of cute.

Then she walked back inside, kicked off her shoes and poured herself a cup, of champagne. She took out her pen and dropped Santa her own little note.

“S.C.,” it said. “I love you, babe. So I’m giving you this reality check. In case you haven’t heard, 1992 was the Year of the Woman. You know what that means, don’t you? There is no turning back. It will be the Decade of the Woman next, then the century and on from there.

“In other words, count on it, big boy. Get with the program, or else.”

“Ho ho ho,” Martha could hear in the distance. Yes, that was her guy, a real bundle of laughs.

But the Mrs., she could crack a smile herself. A new plan had already sprung to her mind. Women could play the game too. Hardball, she thought they called it outside the Pole.

Yes, that was it! And, besides, it sounded like fun.

Merry Christmas, everybody. And to all a magical New Year.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.