Christmas Eve in SamSpace

  It's Christmas Eve. 

I blog now, but in social networking of Christmas Past, I remember that after days of diligently Googling, I mastered the art of cutting and pasting HTML code into the "About Me" box of MySpace.  I can write some simple HTML unassisted by any major search engines.  For example, I know that body's must be followed by /body's and that the command "font face =" works much better at making your webpage prettier than does sacrificing an old typewriter to the computer gods.  Still, there are great volumes of HTML that doesn't look a whole lot like English to me. 

Take for instance, "navbar hover."  Is that actual code?  Probably not, but I found it in the About Me box, so I'm running with it.  For some reason, the phrase fascinated me.  Why?  Well, let me put it this way:  Some of the certifiably oddball things that pop into my head and fall out of my mouth often make my wife turn to me and say, "Are you all right?  I mean, really, I think you should be on some sort of maximum strength anti-goober medication, or something."  Hmm. 

Where was I?  Oh yes, "navbar hover."  Okay, so I began to wonder that if it could hover, what would happen if you typed in:

Navbar sit

Or . . .

Navbar play dead

My wife wanted to type in "navbar bite me" but that one made me nervous, especially since the webcam spontaneously activated and started looking around the living room.

            Anyway, it's Christmas Eve.  I'm a little worried.  Not so much recently, but in Christmas Past my son was terrified of Santa Claus.  We have a picture of him sitting on Santa's knee, red faced, and screaming as if the old man had just told him, "Now, this won't hurt a bit."  My wife and I have elected not to tell him that tonight is the annual night that The Claus inevitably prowls around the neighborhoods of the entire planet. 

My wife said, "No, you can't tell our son that an old man with supernatural powers will get inside the house while we are sleeping."

I said, "How about --."

"No," she answered.

"Just that --."

"No."

I smiled and donned my best humble look of innocence.  "I just want to explain to him that Santa Claus will leave behind things -- things that no one knows what they are.  And, that no one will know until the crack of dawn."

My wife crossed her arms and explained to me politely and calmly how my idea needed a little work, and that we should concentrate on heightening the enjoyment of the Yuletide traditions. 

I mean . . . that's not her exact words.  Her exact words were more like, "I know where you sleep."

But I knew what she meant.