It had never crossed Muriel’s mind that this selfie might attract unwarranted attention. But as she gazed lovingly at herself in the hand-crafted mirror, she noticed Mrs. Claus rushing up behind her, bellowing something about Santa delivering presents where he shouldn’t, as evidenced by the familiar North Pole headgear left incriminatingly on Muriel’s leg.

Muriel decided to play it cool, as she supposed everyone did at the North Pole, not having a choice. “Hello. Are you here about the leaky plumbing?”

Mrs. Claus, also intimately known as Isadora, if you adhere to one of the more obscure Spanish conceptions of Father Christmas. “Well, I suppose that I am, you wretched tramp, as your plumbing has once again befouled my husband.”

Muriel, setting aside the mirror, as she had satisfied her narcissistic quota for the day: “Your husband spends most of his days in a sweaty workshop where lots of short little men bang on things with hammers whilst wearing tights. If that doesn’t say homoerotic, I don’t know what does. If you are truly looking for the wellspring of the befouling, I’d start there.”

Isadora, also known as Helga according to certain German folklore, sighing: “Oh, so you noticed that as well. I’ve often wondered if I should pursue such a line of inquiry any further. But the one time I asked Nicky about it, he grew quite angry and threatened me with a sub-clause in our prenuptial agreement.”

Muriel, baffled: “You agreed to sign a pre-nup with a man who willingly likes to get behind reindeer, if you’ll allow me to be so bold with my imagery?”

Helga, also known as Ice Woman of Faraway Land in Navajo oral history, but that’s as far as we’re going with the cultural comparisons, as it’s becoming increasingly hard to remember that we are still talking about Mrs. Claus: “Oh, I don’t mind the boldness. I wish I had more of it. I’ve had questions for so many years, like why is it that every time Rudolph’s nose lights up, my husband claims to have a headache later that night and we don’t get to play what can I do with this icepick, fair maiden.”

Muriel: “That is entirely too much information for me to process at this moment.”

Mrs. Claus: “I suppose it might be, as my therapist, Mr. Heath Miser, also said the same. And I suppose I should leave you to your vanity. But do you mind if I ask one more question?”

Muriel: “Well, since my obvious disdain for you being in my house hasn’t stopped your blithering yet, I fail to see how you can be restrained. Proceed.”

Mrs. Claus: “Why are you naked? We can practically see your jingle bells. Are you sure my husband hasn’t been here? Because he certainly enjoys navigating snowy peaks. Or at least he did before those men in tights showed up and the livestock started having shiny noses.”

Muriel: “I can completely assure you that I haven’t slept with your husband. At least not during the timeframe of this blog post.”

Mrs. Claus: “Oh. Okay. Well, I suppose I should get back to the Pole and bake another batch of cookies. Which I do all day, every day. Because that’s the only checkmark in my skill set. My life is a meaningless blur of sugar and mixing bowls and nobody ever wanting to hide the icepick. I’m really lonely. Can we be friends on Facebook?”

Muriel, scribbling something on a bit of paper: “Strong no on that. But you do seem to be a decent person, despite what your… despite what somebody said. Here. Go to this website, sign up, and move on with your life.”

Mrs. Claus: “Website? I don’t know. Doesn’t that still involve cookies?”

Muriel: “Trust me. It’s very empowering, you’ll learn to love your jingle bells, and none of the men are very short, if you get my drift.”

Mrs. Claus: “Hmm. Well, then. I suppose it’s worth a try. I guess I’ll be going now. Have a good evening.”

Muriel, smirking: “I already did.”

Mrs. Claus: “What was that?”

Muriel: “Nothing.”

The door closed.

Nicky, from under the bed: “Is the coast clear?”

Muriel: “Yes. But you’re not. What’s this I’ve been hearing about you and the reindeer?”