Nobody has ever told me I can’t do something because I’m a guy. At least not at anything that matters. There were a few times women told me I wasn’t invited to a baby shower because I’m a dude, which was, by far, the best kind of gender discrimination. Me and the other husbands and boyfriends all got trashed on a golf course while the wives and girlfriends watched some pregnant lady unwrap cute onesies. Team Boy came out ahead on that one. That’s why I wasn’t on the lookout for gender discrimination toward my own daughters. It caught me off guard, then, when my now-ten-year-old, Mae, asked me years ago if a girl could ever be the pope. I had to tell her with embarrassment that actually our religion barred women from the top spot. It seems a little silly. Who cares what reproductive organs you have under those robes? Thanks to the Church’s celibacy policy, those are the parts you’re not supposed to use anyway. But those are the rules, nonetheless, and that’s the world we live in. It was the first time I became consciously aware that, in certain industries, the deck is stacked against women. Since then, I’ve been noticing it everywhere.
To be clear, I don’t want any of my daughters to be the pope. The hours are bad, and the pay isn’t great. Also, I don’t want them in any job that usually requires you to do it for the rest of your life. It seems like a way for companies to weasel out of paying for your retirement. Mae later told me that she wanted to be a construction worker. I don’t want her to take that job, either. She loves math more than all else in the world, except maybe Squishmallows. I mean that she loves Squishmallows more, not that Squishmallows love solving equations. If there were a stuffed animal that enjoyed doing your math homework, stores wouldn’t be able to keep it in stock. I realize it’s not up to me, but in a perfect world, I’d prefer for Mae to be an engineer or some kind of scientist. Those jobs come with higher pay and a better safety record, unless she takes on the niche role of being a mad scientist. In that case, she better buy insurance against superhero attacks.
If she decides to be a regular, non-mad scientist, though, she has the best role model in the world. My wife Lola can show her how to make her way in a male-dominated STEM field. Well, she could have before she got her new job. Lola recently and unexpectedly changed to an entirely new industry. Now she’s not just in a field dominated by guys; she’s literally the first woman ever to lead it. She shattered the glass ceiling and used the broken shards to build her seat of power like the Iron Throne in George R.R. Martin’s master work. That analogy got out of control, but the point remains that Lola now has a whole new lesson to teach our girls about being a woman in the working world, and I’m not sure they’re ready for it. Things are about to get very intense.
While I haven’t polled all 3.97 billion females on earth, I know a few dozen of them. From that limited sample size, I can say for certain that none of them have ever had the title Lola has now. It seems likely she is the first woman to hold that role in the history of the world. The pay is bad and she has to work night (singular), but the vacation time is, quite frankly, incredible. I’ll reveal her new position in a moment, but first, some context.
Those of you who read my highly controversial but 100 percent accurate article “The Grinch Did Nothing Wrong” know how I feel about the charlatan known as Santa. Long story short, he’s a fraud. Short story longer, he’s basically a war criminal. He must have read the article, too, because he didn’t show up for my side of the family’s belated Christmas celebration. The nerve. It’s just like him to retaliate against me for telling the truth. I wasn’t the real victim, though. After all, I’ve spent my entire life on the naughty list. The people he actually wronged were my kids and their many cousins. Perhaps it was inadvertent. If you want to give him the benefit of the doubt, Santa isn’t malevolent; just lazy. He works exactly one night a year, and if your family celebrates the holiday a week later due to travel and scheduling conflicts, you’re simply out of luck. We adults did our best to make up for his absence. We handed out thoughtful, age appropriate gifts, but it wasn’t the same. At the end of our annual gift exchange, we could all feel that something was still missing.
We retreated into the kitchen to plot our next move. Okay, we actually went to drink and play board games, but when that much alcohol is involved, plotting is the inevitable result. Enlightened by liquid courage, we decided that if Santa wouldn’t show up for Christmas on New Year’s weekend for the sake of the children, he was no Santa to us. He had abdicated his position by omission, and we accepted his resignation. That didn’t solve our core problem. If Santa was out, who would take his place? We needed a new Santa. Better. Faster. Stronger. Okay, none of those were factors we considered. Not once in our discussions did we mention max bench press or times in the forty-yard dash. Instead, we did the scientific thing and turned it into a popularity contest.
Predictably, I lost. In fact, I was never even nominated, leaving me with a grand total of zero votes. That was a little hurtful. It was like the race for class president my senior year all over again. In hindsight, I’m super lucky nobody voted for me that time. The “winner” of that unpaid position is tasked with scheduling class reunions for the rest of our lives. Sometimes it pays to have nobody like you. Lola had the opposite experience Saturday afternoon in my parents’ kitchen. Without ever campaigning for it, support began to grow for her to be the new Santa. The move was unprecedented in the real world, but not in entertainment. Gender swaps are all the rage these days. If Doctor Who and Ghostbusters can do it, why not the Breakwell family Christmas? A drink or two later, it was settled. Lola would be the new Santa. The world would never be the same.
We quickly got down to logistics. Lola didn’t have reindeer or a sleigh, but she didn’t need them since the old, terrible Santa had already gone down every chimney in the world except for the one at my parents’ house. We could work out the transportation issue before Christmas next year. Then there was the outfit. Fortunately, my mom already had a Santa costume. We’d used it in previous years when one of my siblings or friends would play the big guy in red. During all those times, we weren’t claiming to be the real Santa. It was more of a franchise situation where we paid for the rights to use his image and likeness. I shudder to think of how much my mom forked over to Santa in licensing fees. But with Santa out of the picture by his own abdication, the suit was no longer an imitation. The next person to put it on would be the real deal. This was now Lola’s work uniform.
There was still one other minor issue to solve. Unlike Santa, we didn’t have a toy factory run by elven slave labor. We did have the clearance rack, though. My mom had built up a supply of stocking stuffers for the kids. Lola would hand those out. The kids wouldn’t get any big gifts from Santa, but it was good to set their expectations low. This was more of a soft open. Next Christmas would be the real show. I’m not sure why my mom was so prepared for the old Santa to drop the ball this year. It’s like she knew he was going to quit. I think I found the puppet master behind Santa’s sudden, ignominious departure. Do not mess with her if you want to stay employed.
Lola went into the basement to put on the Santa costume. Then, she went outside and snuck around the house to ring the front doorbell. My own kids are pretty jaded on the Santa issue (I’ve raised them well), but my nieces and nephews are still young enough to be super into the whole concept. They were very excited to see Santa walk in the front door. “Ho ho ho!” Lola boomed. Okay, so maybe it was more of a regular speaking volume. Her deep baritone could use some work, as could her bowl full of jelly. She was the leanest Santa I’ve ever seen, and also the prettiest, although that’s not saying much since the old Santa wasn’t known for being conventionally attractive. If I’m being completely objective, I have to say putting on a thick white beard isn’t Lola’s best look. Maybe she can revise Santa’s standard outfit now that she’s in charge. She’d have more mobility in a red and white Kill Bill-style full body motorcycle outfit. Scratch that. She would definitely prefer a large hoodie and some leggings. That would keep her warm and comfortable all night.
Lola handed out presents to the assembled nieces and nephews as well as our own daughters. Our girls didn’t raise any objections. They’ll go along with any lie if it gets them free stuff. As for their younger cousins, I heard one whisper afterwards that he thought Santa was Lola. As far as I can tell, that claim never caught on. He’s now the crazy conspiracy theorist of the grandkids. Lola’s secret identity is safe for now.
I’m not sure how our kids feel about the new job. After years of telling them not to believe in Santa (I am NOT sharing credit for all the presents I paid for), I now have to admit the old Santa was, in fact, real but just a jerk. Now there’s a new Santa, and it’s their mother. I had hoped she’d serve as a shining example of the power of math and science to draw the kids away from making the same horrible choice I did. You could pick a worse major than English, but it would be hard. Not many schools offer degrees in erotic pottery. Then again, Lola isn’t entirely done with science yet. She’ll have to master physics to figure out how to visit every house in the world in a single night. Also, she plans to keep her chemistry job for the time being as a cover story. Being Santa doesn’t exactly pay a lot, so we still need that second income. As for our home, obviously we’ll have to relocate eventually. I’m not sure how that will work if the old Santa refuses to leave his current lair. I don’t want to be that guy who evicts a senior citizen, even one with a criminal record as long as Santa’s, but the North Pole hideout clearly comes with the job. Shoot me an email if you own a truck and can help me move. I’m free pretty much every weekend between now and December 2023.
Next Christmas Eve, don’t forget to leave out Lola’s favorites. She likes chocolate chip cookies well enough, but they’re not her top dessert. If you really want to win her over, offer ice cream and margaritas. That’s how you get a pony.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.
James
Lola's New Job