Big sister Amanda (age 14) piped in, saying, "How could Santa deliver a fish?" Evidently, his sleigh is not properly equipped for transporting them.
"Well", I suggested, "think about how Santa gets from Scotland to Nova Scotia."
"He crosses the sea," Amanda replied, warily.
It was then generally - albeit reluctantly - agreed that he could at any random moment just swoop down and scoop a fish out from the drink. "Actually," I said, "I was thinking more of a squid."
The look of disdain on Samantha's face was worth the price of admission, all by itself.
Pressing on, I asked, "If you got a squid, what would you name it?"
After a moments thought, Sam replied, "Squidward." I thought that was quite good; but her dad interjected, "What about Squidney?"
On that cue, I started riffing about the squid's long, flexible tentacles. Middle sister Rebekka (age 11) was sitting next to me on the couch, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the light bulb go on over her head. We looked at each other and said, in perfect unison: "Squid don't have any knees." The infamous Bumba-Bekka mind meld was in full force.
Then we high-fived amidst the groans. It was fabulous.
After all that quieted down, I told Sam to call me on Christmas morning (but not too early) and tell me if she got her fish. (In my exalted position of bumpahood, I had some inside information.)
When the call came she was one excited little girl. Santa brought her an aquarium, and all the required accessories, along with a gift card to a pet shop, where she could choose her own fish.
That Santa - what a guy!
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2 comments:
Dear JzB,
As you know, last year was a close call. The End Time prediction was a bust, but the Mayan Apocalypse folks are predicting certain doom. According to my calculations, we have only 361 days left.
My humble community has been making preparations. Our venerable Captain Fogg has a boat, and we are building a barge to ferry our beloved and scholarly RBD (‘Really BEEG Dinosaur’) to safety. When the dreaded event arrives, our plan is to sail across the Blue State horizon until we reach our fabled Progressive Promised Land.
Here is my dilemma. When the welkin-eyed critters of the Earth filed two-by-two aboard the original Ark (Version 1, Release 1, Beta 1), how did Noah prevent the wolves from devouring the sheep and keep Cheetah’s paws off the lovely and alluring Gisele Thomson?
The Good Book doesn’t say. Did Noah use tranquilizers? Saltpeter? Even our liberal-socialist-elitist community has been unable to agree. How will we keep the critters of the Swash Zone docile through the long voyage?
“Yo, Cabin 16. Behave yourself.”
May I prevail upon the clever Samantha, Rebecca, and Amanda for some ideas?
P.S. Save yourself before it's too late. There is room aboard for all (assuming the girls find a solution).
Octo -
"Holy Coleoidea!" was an exclamation, not a prayer.
Thanks for your comment.
Cheers!
JzB
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