A call from Santa is comparable to that once-in-a-lifetime call from the President, reserved mainly for terrorist-fighting Navy Seals and Little League champions from the hood.
So, when the jolly fellow called our house, what did my “I’ll-talk-to-anyone” kid do? Hang up.
“Why didn’t you talk to Santa?” I asked Savannah, recalling how the day before she cornered a Whole Foods stock boy like a wild animal with a 20 minute monologue about her dance recital.
“He had a weird English accent,” she claimed. “I thought it was Selena Gomez’s bodyguard.”
I would have asked for an explanation but didn’t have 20 minutes.
Unfortunately, for the construction worker at the local pizza place, she didn’t hang up the second time around.
“Did you know that Santa thinks Rudolf is getting fat because he eats too many marshmallows?” I hear from behind me in line.
I recognize the voice. Another poor fellow cornered by a chatty 7-year-old. This will be another 20 minutes.