Imagine the pressures of living in a secret Arctic compound with several hundred picky elves and twelve arrogant reindeer (so they can fly... whatever). No visitors, no phone calls, and all the mail is written in crayon. Now, add a husband who does nothing but make toys – all day, every day – just so he can give them away. How do you run a household like that?? And balancing the checking account? Forget it. This is the wretched plight of Mrs. Santa Claus. All year long, day after numbing day, she mends tiny elf socks and cooks tiny elf meals, serving them on tiny elf plates, and for what? A great big “Ho-Ho-Ho!” is about as good as it gets for a girl stuck at the top of the world without cable. Unlike everyone else at the North Pole, Mrs. Claus is only human, and come December she is tethered to sanity with a loose knot. In quiet desperation, she waits for her annual night off – Christmas Eve. It’s the one night of the year when her man is far, far away. The one night when she has no responsibility whatsoever. But this year something is amiss. This year, Mrs. Claus is beyond a good book. She’s beyond a warm comforter and a nice cup of cocoa. Way beyond. Nothing too serious mind you. Nothing you couldn’t mend with a sip or two of chardonnay, but nonetheless difficult to explain when Santa returns home, because this Christmas Eve... Mrs. Claus Runs Amok!