With much fanfare, pomp and circumstance we traversed the mall last week to meet with the man that wears tiny-rimmed glasses, has a beard full of white, and a belly the size of a pot-bellied pig. Indeed, Mr. Santa Claus himself awaited our introduction in his overly plush, velvet throne of green.
In all honesty, we were the first in line, there was no drama involved, and Mr. C. was calm, cool, and collected even joking with Steve about his arm in a sling, imploring him to come up with a creative reason for his current malady. Hardly menacing.
Cutter was timid and I wasn't about to force him to sit simply for a picture. We talked with the bearded man, gave high-fives, "pounded" fists, and pointed out every piece of adornment on Santa's outfit - gold-studded belt included. We settled for a deceiving picture of Cutter on my lap leaned in close to Mr. C while cunningly cropping me out of the picture (save for my hand which Cutter clung to, endearing me to him all the more). We donned our "free" cardboard reindeer antlers and waved bye-bye to a successful visit with The Claus.