Christmas a la Bean

Christmas was fast approaching, and the little Beans were expecting sticks and coal from Santa.  Moose had been pulling hair at school and Jax had taken to telling highly embellished stories, a genetic trait passed down to all Beans, but one nonetheless that we didn’t wish to encourage. 

Besides, brightly colored toys that talk and sing make Papa and Rooster very nervous.

Still we decided to decorate.  Papa and Jax bought a Christmas tree upon which we hung paper chain garlands and curled ribbon—decorations that could easily be replaced if Moose went on a rampage.  Three days before Christmas a visitor arrived.  It was Algernon, my friend Kat’s significant other—a lean, muscled 165-pound English mastiff , a pussycat of a canine who was unfazed by the little Beans, even Moose who tried to ram a matchbox car up the poor dog’s nostril.

Kat was headed to Hong Kong with the boyfriend du jour for Christmas, and we were puppysitting.  At 10, Big Al isn’t much trouble, except that on walks you scoop with a Hefty giant-sized garbage bag instead of a sandwich baggie.

On Christmas eve we all settled down early for a long winter’s nap.  It was cold and I was worn slap out from a week off of work with the little Beans.  Papa fixed me a brandy Alexander and I crawled in my bed where Moose, who just learned how to climb out of his crib, had taken up residence and was slumbering with uncharacteristic sweetness.

Unfortunately, Santa Claus had gotten off to a bad start.  He knew that it was going to be a bad day when he realized that the extra 30 pounds he’d gained in the last year weren’t going to fit into the suit he hadn’t worn since last Christmas.  Mrs. Claus was no help.  She was in Arizona at a health spa sipping green tea and having her karma cleansed. 

After he donned a red sweatsuit, Santa had to round up the reindeer and issue a very stern lecture about the mission at hand.  Mistletoe, a new little filly with curly antlers and a sashaying gait had recently moved to the North Pole, and the boys had all gone hormonal.  With the lecture delivered and the reindeer focused, Santa still wasn’t ready to begin.  The elves had formed a union and had gone on strike when negotiations for improved health care coverage had reached a deadlock.  Bereft of toys, Santa had to make a quick detour to China to load up the sleigh.

By the time he got to North America, Santa needed a drink, and he knew just where to go.  The Pularskys next door to Maison Bean are famous for their wicked eggnog which features more nog than egg.  Santa settled down in Mr. Pularsky’s recliner and helped himself to some sugar cookies and a big tumbler.  By the time he left the Pularsky house, Santa had consumed a plate of cookies and the entire contents of Mrs. Pularsky’s punchbowl, and walking a little unsteady, he decided to forgo the chimney in favor of the front door. 

When he got to Maison Bean to deliver the sticks and coal, the front door was locked, so he climbed into the chimney where he wiggled and he squeezed and he grunted and he stretched and he groaned and he finally plopped down to the fireplace where he thought he was home free until he tried to get out and discovered that Papa had jury-rigged the screen shut to keep Moose from playing in the ashes.

After considerable tinkering, a lot of un-Santa-like swearing, and several prayers to the baby Jesus, Santa broke free from the confines of the screen and rolled onto the hearth where he banged his nogged befuddled noggin and passed out cold. 

Big Al, who had never made the acquaintance of the bewhiskered old man, lumbered over to investigate, and whether it was Big Al’s breath or his copious drool or just his sheer size, but less than a moment after opening his eyes and discovering Algernon, Santa scurried up the chimney of Maison Bean more rapid than eagles and certainly more rapid than any plus-sized man I’ve ever seen, and sprang to his sleigh and drove out of sight, leaving behind him a enough toys to supply an entire orphanage.

At least this is the story I told to Papa when he asked why the hell two little naughty Beans had managed to acquire another 75 pounds in brightly colored, talking plastic that we don’t have room for.