It’s that time of year for the obligatory, oft-painful portrait with a wrinkled, disgruntled retiree whose wife makes him don a red velvet suit to pay for a HoverRound. I had been priming Chooch for this for the past few days, and he was fully prepared to march in there and demand Hotwheels and train tracks, maybe a nice bottle of merlot for mommy and some copies of Butt Love for daddy. We picked Blake up on the way because, well, a scene kid on the lap of Santa might be pretty funny.
We got there and Chooch was pissed because there was a family of three kids in front of us and God forbid, Chooch had to wait. How dare anyone hold Chooch back. I was annoyed because all three kids wore clad in matching Steelers jerseys. In case you didn’t know, I hate the Steelers. Seeing this was more of a monstrosity to me than those corny crocheted sweaters adorned with festive pins that blink and play tinny renditions of Jingle Bells. The kind of sweaters home ec teachers wear, you know the ones.
When it was Chooch’s turn, he balked. Henry had to push him up the plank to his sudden death. Briefly, Chooch’s face gets all contorted, his cheeks flush with horror, and he lets out a helpless wail. Henry and Blake calmed him down (I was busy being a deadbeat mother and stood off to the side, laughing inside my hands.
Blake was all ready to join Chooch, but then Santa told him to pull his pants up. Blake obliged, but it pissed him off so he came back and stood by me. I had to turn around because I was cracking up so bad. Later, Henry admitted that he agreed with Santa, going on to add, “He’s my son, I don’t want to see his junk hanging out.” But only because he’s his son. So if it was another sixteen year old boy, it would be OK? Perhaps Henry should consider a seasonal gig as Santa for next year. The extra money would be nice; mama needs some supplies for the meth lab.
In the end, Chooch acquiesced and perched on Santa’s sleigh (I’ll use that in my Santa slash at a later date). I think he started to understand the concept, that this was one of those circus acts performed mainly to make mommies happy, one of those occasions where kids get to make a small payment to the Mommy Carried Me For Nine Months loan. Yes Chooch, this is about Mommy, not you, so suck it up and smile for the fucking camera.
I like how Chooch and Santa both have the same posture, kind of like the holiday variation of the gangsta lean.
(As I’m writing this, Henry is walking around in his boxers, conducting business on his cell phone. I keep waiting for a Risky Business-slide, but I think he knows he could very well break a hip.)