Jingle Bell Bop

While it is a situation probably seldom pondered, the fact is it can be very lonely being Mrs. Claus. Her husband, through no fault of his own, often steals the show. One can only make so many cookies for the big guy in red before a hint of resentment festers into an ugly sore.

So when a certain, rather handsome elf named Oliver caught Mrs. Claus’s eye, when he complimented her cookies on a daily basis, when he furtively snuck in a little backside pat as she walked away, perhaps we can understand the little flutter in the old girl’s heart.

And perhaps it is even understandable that after Mrs. Claus had her bit of fun (and it was only a bit; Oliver was an elf after all), she felt a prickling of guilt and fear and decided she must put this mistake away from her in some way. That was easy enough. A quick planting of a mutilated toy in Oliver’s locker and a brief whispering in Santa’s ear concerning rumors of a destructive elf was all it took to get Oliver placed far away from the workshop, far away from Mrs. Claus, on snow plow duty.

Oliver was never the wiser about his mistress’s plot. His thoughts centered on the one individual whom he saw as responsible for his demise--Santa, who he just knew had discovered the affair and decided to put Oliver in his place. The secret died with Mrs. Claus when she collapsed in the kitchen one evening, her face falling forward into a rather large container of icing. It was seen as a wholly appropriate way for the latest Mrs. Claus to go the way of the hereafter.

But now, now preparations were underway for Santa’s next marriage. The Christmas hoopla had died down for another year, and the story was that Santa had met an attractive lady on a street corner in one of the bigger cities. When she offered some services right there in the open sleigh that made his red cheeks blush an even darker shade than usual, Santa asked her to be his wife. The big guy was nothing if not honorable.

When Oliver heard of the soon-to-be new Mrs. Claus, his small elvish heart burned within him. How could Santa have replaced his former love so easily? It was inexcusable, but Oliver would set things right. He’d destroy the wedding along with Santa and Mrs. Claus’s replacement. Oliver and his snowplow. What poetic justice that would be!

He plotted, he planned, and he jumped in his snow plow and headed to the ceremony, which was to be held outside on the lawn of the workshop. He was just in time. Santa and his bride-to- be had just approached the altar, and Oliver had a perfect path to scoop them up and hurl them off the cliff just down the way.

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was so many elves. So many elves that, when they saw him coming, that well-known toy mutilator, they formed a line in front of their beloved Santa. Oliver had no choice; he had to stop. These were his friends, his possible relatives (sometimes it was hard to keep track since elves breed like rabbits), and they had no idea of Santa’s deviousness, his maliciousness toward Oliver.

Behind the line of elves, Santa spoke up, “What is the meaning of this, Oliver, great mutilator of toys?”

Oliver stood up on the seat of the snow plow and puffed out his chest. “I never mutilated a toy, you big red ball of jealousy! You know what you did! Mrs. Claus preferred me, so you got rid of me! You sent me away!”

“Mrs. Claus told me herself you destroyed a toy, Oliver. She got it out of your locker and brought it to me. I had no choice but to let you go. The proof was right there!” Santa looked truly bewildered.

“What are you saying, Santa? That you didn’t know that Mrs. Claus and I had done the, as you so fondly like to call it, the “Jingle Bell Bop”?”

“Well, ho, ho, ho!” Santa exclaimed.

“You got that right, Santa!” shouted an elf from the back.

“Oliver, I had no idea about any of that, I assure you. And I probably should be upset about the “Jingle Bell Bopping” but it sounds as if you’ve had a much rougher time of it than I have. Come back, Oliver. Come back to the workshop, and let’s start over. Let bygones be bygones. Maybe Mrs. Claus will whip up some eggnog for us tonight. Do you make eggnog, dear?”

Santa’s bride shot him a look. “I only make Manhattan’s and martinis.” She turned her attention to Oliver. “Yes, Ollie. Come back and join us. It’ll be a new start for everyone,” she purred.

Oliver took a moment to observe this new Mrs. Claus. While she wore the traditional colors, she had obviously made some modifications to the wardrobe. She clearly wore nothing under her red angora sweater and had left buttons open that any former Mrs. Claus would have been sure to close. Her skirt sat well above mid-thigh and black boots crept seductively up over her knees. Oliver pulled his gaze back to her face, and she shot him a quick wink.

Well, well, well. Oliver thought. Santa sure knows how to pick ’em.