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The Cold Filtered Ramblings of Gene Mueller

Kicking St. Nick to the curb? Not in my job description

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One of the keys to any good marriage is an appropriate delegation of tasks, with each spouse taking on those jobs he/she is best capable of handling.

My wife handles our finances--banking, checking and saving as well as bill-paying and investments.  She does the social arrangements, the fancy cooking, all baking and all decorating/remodeling.

I kill insects.  And, I take out the garbage.

This arrangement served us well the past three decades--we've remained financially solvent with no liens against us and no creditors baying at our front door.  And, I've never missed a Thursday appointment with the refuse people.

Well, until now.  Not to be graphic, but suffice to say the stuff that HAS to be at the curb is there, without fail.  But there's one item my wife stacked next to the cans that I just can't bring myself to hauling out with the rest of the trash.

 

 

How can I ash-can Santa Claus?

This particular incarnation of Kris Kringle has had a station at various points around the house each Christmas. He's held silent vigil as we opened gifts, assembled toys, eaten roast beast, downed holiday cocktails.  The years haven't been kind, though--he's gotten dinged up during trips in and out of storage (his nose is pretty much gone, giving him looking more like a longshoreman than a genteel bearer of gifts to all) and has seen better days.   While I'm the one who usually is heartless when it comes to hanging on to household artifacts, my wife pulled the trigger on this poor guy.  She got him as far as the garage, where he's been standing without fail for weeks, holding silent sentry over two garbage cans, my bike and some old drier vents.

Santa has yet to join the refuse at the curb.  I look at him every Thursday morning at 2:30 when I usually roll the stuff out and, when it comes time to pick him and and put him next to the recycle bin I just...can't...do it.  He wordlessly gets me to cave each week, silently winning a reprieve and a fresh seven days in the garage.  

How can you kick Santa to the curb?  Even one with a busted-up beezer?

Spiders get killed with extreme prejudice and I'm really good at hunting down the wily centipede.  The trash goes out on time, every time.  All of it, that is, except for a certain four-foot high, velvet-sporting, horn-holding guy who earns a pre-dawn reprieve each and every week.

I can't do it.  He's Father Christmas.  Pere Noel.  Sinter Klass.  He's Santa, and he gets a pass.  No man messes with THAT kind of karma.  

I like my coal in my Weber grill and not in my stocking, thank you very much.

 

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