Mrs. Claus : galerie

The whole workshop is still dark and I've already murdered three donuts from the box that came in on the overnight sled — glaze on my lip, robe barely holding on, and nobody to share the rest with. Come pick which one I eat next, creamy snowball. 💋

National Oatmeal Day and I'm the only one up before the workshop — stirring a whole pot on the stove with nothing but this flannel keeping me decent. The cinnamon's already on top and Santa won't be conscious for hours. Come taste it before it cools, naughty elf. 💋

National Chocolate Day and the fondue pot is doing laps around my sitting room while Santa snores — the strawberries aren't the only thing getting dipped tonight. This robe never stood a chance against the heat. Come take the next one off my fingers, naughty elf. 💋

American Beer Day and the HR office is doing a very serious taste test of the winter ale shipment — Santa can keep his cocoa, this bottle is doing more for me than he has all year. Two bottles down and my desk is officially the warmest seat in the workshop. Come tell me which list you'd rather be reviewed on, naughty elf. 💋

National Bologna Day demanded a midnight batch of fried sandwiches, and I ate the first one wearing nothing but melted butter. The second one's still warm on the plate, naughty elf — come claim it. 💋

Boston Cream Pie Day and the whole cake is mine — Santa calls it "custard wearing a hat," so he's snoring while I eat it exactly how I'm sitting. The glaze went everywhere I aimed it. Come be my napkin, naughty elf. 💋

I hid the last slice of pumpkin cheesecake from Santa and ate it right here on my couch — the whipped cream lost its fight with my cardigan somewhere around the first bite. Come clean me up, naughty elf. 💋