Monday, June 17, 2013

A flu remedy for Mrs.Claus


 

Got in a little trouble with my boss, Julie, last week after she saw the article about my exclusive interview with Santa Claus. I guess she was looking for a little more human-interest type stuff, and she said I should have talked to Mrs. Claus too.

Well, how am I supposed to know what questions to ask if nobody tells me? I'm a reporter, not a mind reader.

I grumbled a little about how unfair it all was, then retreated to my cubicle to try again. I figured I could do a phone interview this time. No sense making the Clauses make another trip to Lebanon, and I knew my car wouldn't make it to the North Pole.

I reckoned I could get the phone number from Santa's agent, but the fellow wasn't returning my calls, so I looked it up on the Internet. That Internet is the handiest thing. If you haven't tried it, try it.

I typed "Mrs. Santa Claus" into the search thing and a bunch of different things came up. I was surprised she had so many websites. I figured any one of them would probably have the Claus phone number, so I clicked on one.

Well, I have to tell you, I was a little surprised. There was a picture of Mrs. Santa Claus there in a nightgown. I reckon it must get warmer at the North Pole in the summertime than I had thought, because that nightgown looked more like a bathing suit than anything else.

But I had guessed right. There was a phone number right there. Even better than that, there was a price right next to it that said how much the long distance call would cost. It was $3.99 per minute, which seemed kind of high, but the North Pole's pretty far away, I guessed.

Sometimes it surprises me that people think investigative journalism is so hard. You just have to be canny.

The website wanted me to have my credit card ready when I called. I figured this was official business for the newspaper, so I went over and got the company credit card out from under Julie's phone when she wasn't looking.

I wrote down the phone number and closed the window that showed the website on my computer. I know I shouldn't judge the standards of other countries like the North Pole by my own, but that picture of Mrs. Claus didn't seem decent somehow, and I didn't want somebody passing by my cubicle and getting the wrong idea.

I picked up the phone and started to dial it, but then I realized I didn't know if "900" was a country code or the area code. I tried it with a "1" in front of it and it worked the first time. Mrs. Claus answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

She sounded a little different than she did last week when she and Santa came to town to talk to the little kids about their Christmas wishes. Her voice was kind of deeper and breathy-like. I wondered if she had picked up some kind of a bug here in Lebanon.

"Hi, Mrs. Claus, this is Ken York. Remember me, from last week?"

"Oh yes," she said, still talking funny. She reminded me of our cat, Eureka Stripe, purring. "How could I ever forget?"

"Well, I wondered if it'd be OK to talk to you a little bit more," I said. "Just a couple of questions. It won't take long."

"I'd love to," she said. "First, do you have your credit card?"

I gave her the number. She made me repeat it a couple times, then tell her what kind of card it was, what the name on the card was, what my name was, what my Social Security number was, my birth date, where I lived and other standard stuff like that. I assumed it was all required by the North Pole Phone Company.

"OK then," she said eventually.

The call had been going on for 14 minutes at this point. "All right," I said. "Can I ask you some questions now?"

"Of course you can," she said. "But first, let me ask you some questions."

Well, I guessed that was fair, although it wasn't usually the way the interview process worked, in my experience. "OK," I said. "Shoot."

"What are you wearing?" she asked me.

I thought that was a pretty strange question, but there didn't seem to be any harm in telling her. "Well, I've got on a Bill's Farm and Home cap, a plaid shirt, some blue jeans and my shoes," I said. "Oh, socks and a belt too."

It sounded like she sighed. "Oh my," she said. "Wouldn't you like to get a little more comfortable?"

I laughed. "Would I!" I said. "I've had this same chair since I started here five years ago. It's all right for typing, but the arms are so low if you try to take a nap in the afternoons your elbow sits too low for your hand to support your head and you get a crick in your neck. I have to keep aspirin in my desk."

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then, "Tell me about the things you like to do."

It seemed like I was the one being interviewed, but I reckoned North Pole customs must require some kind of exchange to be polite. Truthfully, I've kicked around the world some in my life, but until last week I never had any experience with North Polers. Maybe that was why I didn't exactly hit it off with Santa when we talked.

"What do I like to do? Well, I guess my favorite thing is eating fried chicken and watching Star Trek," I said. I tried to regain control of the interview. "So what do you and Santa like to do for fun?"

"Oh, Santa and I have a lot of fun," she said. "Sometimes we invite the elves to join us."

I was willing to bet that was a good time. I had never met an elf, but by all I had read, they seemed like happy people. I could picture them all around the table in Santa's house, having dinner or playing a board game or just telling elf jokes.

"We don't have any elves around here," I said with regret. "I guess the climate's too warm for 'em."

"Oh, it's pretty hot here now," she said, sounding like my cat again. I wondered if they had a Casey's or something where Santa might go and get her some cough drops.

"Well that's weird," I said. "I would have thought it'd be pretty cold up there."

"No, it's warm, so wa-a-arm," she said. "I feel like I should take off my dress."

"Either that or turn down the thermostat," I said. "On second thought, if you're feverish, you might want to bundle up."

"I have SUCH a fever," she said.

"Sounds like you got a pretty bad cold, maybe the flu," I said. "Do you have any honey and maybe a Kool-Aid packet of lemonade mix?"

"What?"

"This is something my grandma taught me," I said. "It's kind of a family secret."

"Your grandma," she said. "Well, I've had weirder calls. OK, I've got the honey and the, um, Kool-Aid mix. What do you want me to do with them?"

"Well, I know this sounds weird ..." I hesitated. Would Grandma really want me to reveal this to a stranger? But this was Mrs. Santa Claus, and she needed help. "Take three tablespoons of the honey and put it in a cup, then add half the packet of lemonade powder," I said. "Mix it up. Now, put the cup in the microwave and set it for about 20 seconds."


(Editor's note: This remedy is not recommended as a treatment for a cold and/or the flu. The newspaper denies any liability resulting from its implementation and strongly cautions readers to remember this writer is the same guy who says he has Bigfoots living in his ravine.)

After about $2.99 worth of long distance, she was back. "Oh, it's so gooey and hot," Mrs. Claus said. "Should I rub it all over myself now?"

"No," I said. "Now, this is going to hurt a little, but you have to inhale the rest of the lemonade mix."

"What?"

"You know," I said. "Kind of snort it. I know it sounds stupid, but it works. Then, as soon as you do, drink the honey stuff."

"You want me to snort the lemonade powder?"

"Trust me," I said.

She sighed, and I didn't hear anything for another $1.50 or so. Then there was a scream. It sounded like it was working just like I remembered from my painful youth.

"Drink the honey stuff now!" I yelled.

"You are a sick, sick man," Mrs. Claus said to me, sobbing. She hung up.

Well, that went pretty well, I thought. A lot better than the interview with Sen. McCaskill.

 

 

 

 

 

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