A few days ago I was putting my daughter's clothes in the wash. "Check the sleeves of her hoodie", calls my wife from upstairs. So I pull the hoodie out of the hamper and inspect it. This is a cute little item of clothing; really it us. It's white fleece with a white faux-sheepskin liner, white hood and a white faux-fur trim around the hood. It's white.
Actually it's more difficult than that because it's not pure white, it's off-white. You know the colour. It's not so off-white as to be cream-coloured, but it's not white either. It's just off white.
Anyway, during the inspection of the off-white hoodie I notice that the cuffs - both of them - are essentially black with sweaty-hand grime and it fades gradually back to off-white as I move up the sleeves. There is also something that looks vaguely like strawberry jam or red candle wax on the left sleeve. And see, if it was white, I might be able to just bleach it. But, as I mentioned, it's off-white. No bleach. Just lots and lots of scrubbing, cursing and (manly) tears are all that are in my near future.
So I stare at the little off-white hoodie and imagine all the adventures that went into creating the mess that it has become. What fun it would have been to root around in the sand under the jungle-gym at school. How amazing to pick up the last, visible fall leaves and show them to your friends. Oh the excitement in squirting a full juice-box up into the air like a beautiful, pink fountain.
As much as I am enthralled by these fanciful thoughts, I really only have one question rolling, ever so incessantly around in my brain. That question begins to burn it's way into my consciousness, demanding an answer. The question begs for an answer, and much as I might be afraid of the answer, I holler the question up to my wife: "What kind of brain-dead, moronic idiot buys an off-white hoodie for a seven-year-old?"
The answer is more painful than I imagine: "Santa."
Honestly? Really? The guy who knows everything about you - when you're sleeping, when you're awake, bad vs good, Santa? Santa brought the hoodie? The omnipotent guy in the red suit decided that it was smart to bring a white article of outer-clothing to an active, seven-year-old girl?
If that's how great Santa's judgment is, then this year instead of milk and cookies, the jolly fat man is getting a snack of scotch laced with Xanax. Then, when he's out cold on the living room floor, I'll tie him up, get those spooky flying ungulate friends of his airborne, and fly his crazy ass to the loony bin.
Sorry kids Christmas is cancelled. Why? Well, because Santa proved that he doesn't have the sense it takes to not lick the frozen flagpole, much less the intelligence needed to safely navigate the planet, passing judgement on children. So, we've taken him out and put him somewhere he can't hurt himself, or cause extra laundry trauma to unsuspecting parents.
Let this serve as a warning Santa - if that's your real name. One false move this year - one ill-conceived notion of getting my kids a puppy, one mis-placed dirt-bike, one false gift-giving move and your festive rear-end won't know what hit it.
You're an idiot. I've got enough problems in life without you deciding how long my laundry should take.