Tantrum Warehouse
Tact Free Since 2003

Santa George

Word to sundry. I too totally hate the elitist bullshit that people pull about living in Seattle. Eat me fucksticks, I live on the north end.

Got through the first Sunday of the football season. 49's beat the crap out of the Bears. I am taking all the credit. Sure, Jeff Garcia had a good game and so did Terrell Owens (or TO as I have now been taught to call him). But really, it was me being such a damn good luck charm that sealed the deal. Don't ya think?

Unpacked a bunch of my crap in the office/massage room. I have so much shit it is amazing.

Found my suite picture from Dottey of all of us on Santa’s lap. Santa was played by George, the President’s husband. Other than play Santa each year George’s main function around campus seemed to be gardening. In all seasons you would find him on campus or in the yard of the President’s house planting, weeding, whatever. When you went to their home for events, George would have decorated the house with flowers and plants of all types and would have a story for each. George could whip Martha Stewart’s ass in a Marthaing contest.

On Halloween we were all in class when it started snowing. BIG, HUGE flakes of snow and it was sticking. I had lived in Seattle long enough that I didn’t even own a winter coat and wasn’t planning on buying one until after Christmas. And here we had a mini-blizzard on Halloween. The thing about Dottey is that girls from all over the world go to school there so there were many girls from places like Kenya or the Bahamas that had never seen snow before. When afternoon classes were over George was out in the main part of campus in front of the chapel, he was dressed in his Santa suit and was pelting as many girls as he could with snowballs.

My pal TT was from Wyoming, not only did she loan me a lovely winter coat but she and I kicked as and took names in a serious snow battle to the death that lasted all afternoon. I was fairly worried about no presents at Christmas because I nailed Santa in the face with a slush ball that slid down into his coat. I know this because he started jumping around screaming about slush in his shirt. Whiney Santa.

The night of Hanging of the Greens (Dottey’s Christmas dinner and dance) each suite had their picture taken with Santa. Our suite, in grand Wild Wisconsin Women fashion, had been drinking since noon. We were more glamorous than the occasion probably required, reading even dress and decided that we must wear feather boas, too much eye makeup and tiaras. The ten of us pushed and shoved and found our places next to Santa. And George complimented our finery. And promised to dance a dance with each of us.

Come the dance we are having entirely too much fun. With so many girls from far away, almost no one had a date and even the gatecrashers from town don’t even out the numbers. It’s not a high school dance where people stand on the edges or a college dance where people dance formally. It’s more of a headbangers’ ball with southern belles and femme fatales ripping the tulle off their dresses and waving it over their heads.

TT and I hear our favorite song (Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”) and immediately bully everyone around us into dancing with us. And there is George, singing and dancing along with us. When we break out the Supreme-like dance moves he follows along.

Somehow in the dark ballroom, with girls in ball gowns and sparkling lights overhead. The evening had morphed into a very bizarre Christmas special. The Year Santa Drinks too Much Champagne and passes out in the hallway.

I know, because my date and I passed out down the hallway from him. And were able to wake up before morning because he was getting roused up first. I have a feeling he wasn’t allowed to be Santa the next year.

I just miss George.

8:14 a.m. :: comment ::
prev :: next