Scare the crap out of me.
As a child, I was absolutely TERRIFIED of Santa. I hated everything about him. I didn't want to sit in his lap. I didn't want to tell him what I wanted for Christmas and I didn't want to bump into him when he was dropping off my gifts.
You can imagine my fear when I would go shopping with my mom around Christmas. One of the department stores in Baton Rouge, Maison Blanche, would set up larger than life moving Santas along the roof that laughed jollily and slowly moved their heads from side to side. They still haunt my dreams. During these shopping trips, my anxiety would start to build as we turned into the parking lot. I could see the red donning bastards above the rows of cars. I would avert my eyes as we made our way in but ignoring the real Santa set up in the middle of the store was a different story. He was situated perfectly in the middle of the aisle. I knew he was there before I saw his bearded face or his black boots. I felt him. He was inevitable. As we would make our way from one end of the store to the other, my anxiety would pique as we approached the line of idiot children waiting to meet him. I never understood it. I would position myself so that my Mom would block my view and, with my head down, would push by the crowd. I always feared that he would look out amongst the kids and call me out of the crowd. "Little girl- you- the one who is trying to pretend I'm not here... you- yes- you, come tell me what you want for Christmas."
It still gives me chills.
Unfortunately, my yearly encounters with Santa extended beyond just seeing him. He would call me, too.
My Mom's family got a kick out of the Uncles calling the nieces and nephews on Christmas Eve and pretending to be Santa. During our meal, I would tensely sit and wait for the phone to ring. I would hope that I would be in the bathroom the moment he called or that he would just forget about me for a year. It went on for a while but ended the year I hung up and, a little confused, looked at my parents and said "Santa sounds a lot like Uncle John."
While I hated being on the receiving in, I think my Dad enjoyed being on the giving end (of this and more practical jokes--- you can find them all in my parent's book Funny Things to do to Your Kids When You are Slightly Buzzed--- all proceeds go toward my therapy).
One year, my Dad busted my cousin. The conversation went something like this:
Dad (Santa): Have you been a good girl this year?
Cousin: Oh, yeah Santa.
Dad: Are you sure? I think I see something on my list here.
Cousin: No, I was good.
Dad: Wait a minute- I see a note here that you kicked your dog, is that true?
Dad: So you never kicked your dog, Latke?
Cousin: Here Momma, I'm done talking to Santa.
Another year, my Dad messed with the adults more than the kids. I think he had enough of playing Santa and decided to put in a special request. When he made the call to the family in Pensacola, he let them know that instead of milk and cookies he would need Dixie beer and white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. Yep.
Who knew Santa had such fine taste?
Much to my Uncle's chagrin, he acquiesced to the cries of his children and went on a Christmas Eve hunt for Dixie beer and white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies.
I think they got another Uncle to make the call the next year.
Moral of the story? You should never get a Jew to play Santa.