![Holiday Memory Lane: Seasonal Assistant edition
I was a lucky teenager. My parents didn’t make me get a job. But every December, I signed myself up for THE job of the holiday season. A prized position. A job with Santa. Because I’m festive, filled with Christmas spirit and a friend’s mom could set all of us up with temporary holiday jobs helping the big guy in red.
Anytime this gem of a memory comes up, my ass clown friends find it hysterical. They ask repeatedly if I was an elf. If I wore a pointy hat and green shoes. Reply:
“No you idiots, that shit’s for movies. I wore black pants, a white blouse and a seasonal patterned vest. I had a name tag. I scheduled appointments, operated a cash register, wrangled sugar-buzzed children and their bat-shit parents, took photos and video of the special day, spread holiday cheer for crying out loud. And, thanks so much, I prefer ‘seasonal assistant.’”
It never works. And then they ask if there are pictures. But there aren’t. Sally, 1. Ass clown friends, 0.
We had a special group at this mall because we had two santas: Santa Nash and Santa Johnson. Santa Nash had been santa-ing for 21 years when he finally retired. And his wife had one arm. Sure, it would scare the hell out of some of those kids when she’d show up in full Mrs. Claus ensemble. Because they never read THAT in “A Night Before Christmas.” But it’s not my fault that their parents didn’t teach teach them not to stare.
Santa Johnson was 6 foot 5, played the banjo and had an affinity for dental hygiene. He liked to fire up the strings when he came on shift and never let a child get by without a firm but kind reminder to brush after every meal. What’s worse than coal in your stocking? Dental decay.
Call me crazy, but I liked being in the mall at the holidays and working with my friends, even though I witnessed more “holiday stress” [read: blatant acts of rampage] than the average teenager ever should. Amazingly, I never killed anyone in retaliation or in a momentary act of seasonal insanity. Never dog-cussed any parents. Never slapped a small child. Never threw my pasta salad on a fighting couple in the food court. Never assaulted a security guard. Never decked that misogynistic, greased-up Greek bear who worked down at the cart selling wood sculptures from the Dead Sea.
However, I did experience all that and more after 4 Christmases of employment (sometimes more than once):
Entire families who had visited Santa Nash every year since their 20-year-old was born. Here they came, back with all 600 of their relatives, for the family Santa photo. Wide. Angle. Lens.
“Can you tell Santa to ask her about the doll she got for her birthday? The dog ate the blue dress and she wrote him about it and I can’t find a damn one in the entire metro area. So could you have him tell her that he’ll bring her green.” Get a job, lady. Or a hobby. Or a bottle of gin.
SCREAMING toddlers. The kind of screaming that makes your entire nasal cavity freeze up and fall out of your skull. The kind that makes your right eye twitch and your left eye tear. I’d prefer a direct stream of pepper spray.
Shaaaaaking our cheerful weapon of choice, the bell-laden stuffed reindeer, until I developed carpal tunnel just so little Johnny would shut his snot hole and smile big at the camera.
Sleeping, precious, cherubs. I swear it, angels sang when they hit the lap. Little Christmas miracles. Mostly with young parents who had no idea what was coming in 2 years when that kid would wake up and realize how scary it is to sit up there and tell your dreams to a strange, old, bearded man dressed in red velor. They always took the most beautiful solo baby Santa photos, though. Melting my stone cold heart even now.
The lists as long as the 2-hour line they waited in. You’re not getting a Play Station, dude, you’re, like, 4. And, ugh. Yep, he’s picking his nose now. Great. Who the hell is Chrissa? An American Girl doll? Sweetheart, in my day, you could pick the one with glasses or the blond with braids. NEXT.
Parents who go ape shit when they realize they need an appointment. Yeah, he’s a pretty big deal, sir. And I keep his sched, so watch your tone of voice.
“Shawn. Shawn, look at mommy. Shawn. I want you to thank this lady for ruining your Christmas. She’s the one who won’t let you see Santa.” Just great. I bet she slits my tires. Merry Christmas, Beelzebub and son.
Old-enough-to-get-it boys getting their arms yanked out when they’d mosey into Spencer’s Gifts across the aisle from us to check out the life size “girlfriend” doll in the window. Location, location, location.
The interrogation-like line of questioning from smarty pants kids on the cusp of non-believing. But I did my part to salvage their childhood by yanking them before Santa could get stumped by a Ph.D. level physics analysis regarding the time continuum or chimney size. I liked to leave them with this as I flung them at their parents: “Sure, he’s my boss, but I’m a grown up and I believe in him. So don’t forget to floss. He’s always watching.” Cha-ching! Another honest day’s work.
Of course, I don’t work there anymore, but I’m thinking about dropping by this year. Just a little visit to see if things have changed. I doubt they have. This time, it’s some other teenager’s gig, but I like to think I’ve still got a direct line with the big guy for a last-minute Christmas miracle. Well, both of them.
Sincerely,
Seasonal Assistant Sally B.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kslowgupwx1qa44x0o1_r3_400.jpg)
Holiday Memory Lane: Seasonal Assistant edition
I was a lucky teenager. My parents didn’t make me get a job. But every December, I signed myself up for THE job of the holiday season. A prized position. A job with Santa. Because I’m festive, filled with Christmas spirit and a friend’s mom could set all of us up with temporary holiday jobs helping the big guy in red.
Anytime this gem of a memory comes up, my ass clown friends find it hysterical. They ask repeatedly if I was an elf. If I wore a pointy hat and green shoes. Reply:
“No you idiots, that shit’s for movies. I wore black pants, a white blouse and a seasonal patterned vest. I had a name tag. I scheduled appointments, operated a cash register, wrangled sugar-buzzed children and their bat-shit parents, took photos and video of the special day, spread holiday cheer for crying out loud. And, thanks so much, I prefer ‘seasonal assistant.’”
It never works. And then they ask if there are pictures. But there aren’t. Sally, 1. Ass clown friends, 0.
We had a special group at this mall because we had two santas: Santa Nash and Santa Johnson. Santa Nash had been santa-ing for 21 years when he finally retired. And his wife had one arm. Sure, it would scare the hell out of some of those kids when she’d show up in full Mrs. Claus ensemble. Because they never read THAT in “A Night Before Christmas.” But it’s not my fault that their parents didn’t teach teach them not to stare.
Santa Johnson was 6 foot 5, played the banjo and had an affinity for dental hygiene. He liked to fire up the strings when he came on shift and never let a child get by without a firm but kind reminder to brush after every meal. What’s worse than coal in your stocking? Dental decay.
Call me crazy, but I liked being in the mall at the holidays and working with my friends, even though I witnessed more “holiday stress” [read: blatant acts of rampage] than the average teenager ever should. Amazingly, I never killed anyone in retaliation or in a momentary act of seasonal insanity. Never dog-cussed any parents. Never slapped a small child. Never threw my pasta salad on a fighting couple in the food court. Never assaulted a security guard. Never decked that misogynistic, greased-up Greek bear who worked down at the cart selling wood sculptures from the Dead Sea.
However, I did experience all that and more after 4 Christmases of employment (sometimes more than once):
- Entire families who had visited Santa Nash every year since their 20-year-old was born. Here they came, back with all 600 of their relatives, for the family Santa photo. Wide. Angle. Lens.
- “Can you tell Santa to ask her about the doll she got for her birthday? The dog ate the blue dress and she wrote him about it and I can’t find a damn one in the entire metro area. So could you have him tell her that he’ll bring her green.” Get a job, lady. Or a hobby. Or a bottle of gin.
- SCREAMING toddlers. The kind of screaming that makes your entire nasal cavity freeze up and fall out of your skull. The kind that makes your right eye twitch and your left eye tear. I’d prefer a direct stream of pepper spray.
- Shaaaaaking our cheerful weapon of choice, the bell-laden stuffed reindeer, until I developed carpal tunnel just so little Johnny would shut his snot hole and smile big at the camera.
- Sleeping, precious, cherubs. I swear it, angels sang when they hit the lap. Little Christmas miracles. Mostly with young parents who had no idea what was coming in 2 years when that kid would wake up and realize how scary it is to sit up there and tell your dreams to a strange, old, bearded man dressed in red velor. They always took the most beautiful solo baby Santa photos, though. Melting my stone cold heart even now.
- The lists as long as the 2-hour line they waited in. You’re not getting a Play Station, dude, you’re, like, 4. And, ugh. Yep, he’s picking his nose now. Great. Who the hell is Chrissa? An American Girl doll? Sweetheart, in my day, you could pick the one with glasses or the blond with braids. NEXT.
- Parents who go ape shit when they realize they need an appointment. Yeah, he’s a pretty big deal, sir. And I keep his sched, so watch your tone of voice.
- “Shawn. Shawn, look at mommy. Shawn. I want you to thank this lady for ruining your Christmas. She’s the one who won’t let you see Santa.” Just great. I bet she slits my tires. Merry Christmas, Beelzebub and son.
- Old-enough-to-get-it boys getting their arms yanked out when they’d mosey into Spencer’s Gifts across the aisle from us to check out the life size “girlfriend” doll in the window. Location, location, location.
- The interrogation-like line of questioning from smarty pants kids on the cusp of non-believing. But I did my part to salvage their childhood by yanking them before Santa could get stumped by a Ph.D. level physics analysis regarding the time continuum or chimney size. I liked to leave them with this as I flung them at their parents: “Sure, he’s my boss, but I’m a grown up and I believe in him. So don’t forget to floss. He’s always watching.” Cha-ching! Another honest day’s work.
Of course, I don’t work there anymore, but I’m thinking about dropping by this year. Just a little visit to see if things have changed. I doubt they have. This time, it’s some other teenager’s gig, but I like to think I’ve still got a direct line with the big guy for a last-minute Christmas miracle. Well, both of them.
Sincerely,
Seasonal Assistant Sally B.
