It's true, I've seen many strange things in my neighborhood. An abandoned piano. An abandoned scrunchie. An abandoned poopy bag. But yesterday, I saw something really memorable. Allow me to set the scene. There I was, stiff back and all, needing a nice walkie to remind myself that I could still function as a human. "Who wants to walk with me?" No takers. So I guilted the eldest. "Let's check out that open house." "I'm watching football." "Please! It'll be fun."
Oh what fun it turned out to be. Two blocks away, I spotted him.
"Look honey, it's Santa."
"He's probably dragging his drunk ass to the mall."
"You think he's drunk?"
"He's weaving."
"So? His suit's probably heavy, and it's not easy to walk in those clunky boots."
"He's drunk, Ma. Santa's a drunk."
"Okay, fine, whatever. Just hurry up and take a photo of him with your fancy iPhone."
"I don't have it."
"You always have it."
"I left it at the house. You take it."
"@#$%! I don't have mine, either."
The perfect Instagrammable moment, worthy of countless "likes," so out of context on a 90-degree Sunday. Without photographic evidence, how could I prove, once and for all, that Santa lives, not in the North Pole, but right here in Sherman Oaks? Thank God there were no little kids around to see Santa climbing into a crappy old Toyota, as opposed to a sled, without the requisite reindeer and big red bag of gifts. It would've ruined their entire belief system. Think of the therapy bills. Even though I didn't achieve the Cutest Selfie Ever, or muster the mobility to catch up and offer Santa a nice cold glass of lemonade, I did get to wave hello and get a jolly wave back. And as he drove away, I couldn't help noticing his license plate:
So, maybe not the real Santa. But close enough for me.
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