What I think happens in that Kay Jewelers commerical where that guy talks to Santa Claus:
Wife: [Briefly runs her fingers over a faux velvet material and opens a rectangular box to reveal a pair of diamond earrings.] Oh, Stephen. I love it. Thank you.
Husband: Santa told me that you would like them.
W: [She smiles at Stephen.]
H: Really! I talked to him last night. After you were asleep, I came downstairs to put your gift under the tree. He was standing right there [points to a custom-made credenza that, upon purchasing, Tilda believed would “complete” the family room and provide the earthy tones which she felt were lacking.]
W: This was very thoughtful of you, dear. Thank you. [Not allowing herself to participate in what she believed was yet another of Stephen’s impromptu improvisational (and ultimately meaningless, she thought) conversations, she leans to kiss her husband.]
H: [Avoiding Tilda’s approach] I’m serious! I understand how it sounds, but I literally spoke to Santa. Santa Claus! Last night! Right here. In our family room. I didn’t know what to think, exactly. I thought…
W: Stephen.
H: Tilda! It was incredible! He was incredible. He was just like you would imagine. Red coat. White beard. The whole thing. We spoke briefly. At one point, I lost eye contact with him, to, you know, gather myself, I guess, and then he was gone. Disappeared. Can you believe it? Totally bizarre.
W: [takes a sip of coffee and stares into the paper cup] What time are the kids arriving?
H: Jesus Christ, Tilda! I spoke to Santa Claus! In our home! He told me that you would like the earrings!
W: Santa Claus? Must you? Now?
H: [placing his hands on Tilda’s shoulders] I realize what I’m saying. It’s unbelievable. But, it’s the truth! Right here! We talked for a few minutes about the earrings, the kids. I really didn’t know what to say. And then, gone.
W: [patronizing him] What did he have to say?
H: Fuck. Forget it, Tilda. Christ. I’m trying to share this with you, you know. Trying to have a conversation. But, that would require some effort on your part. You may need to actually engage with another person. God forbid.
W: Stephen, do you actually expect me to believe this? To engage with this? This nonsense - this nonsensical shit? I will be happy to have a conversation with you if it’s not on the topic of my husband having fucking breakfast with a fictitious children’s character.
H: [rests on the edge of the credenza] I realize…
W: Please don’t sit on the credenza.
H: Jesus. [stands] I realize, again, what this sounds like.
W: Do you? Because it’s sounds ludicrous.
H: That’s the whole fucking point! That’s why I’m telling you this, because it is! Being ludicrous does not equate to being fictitious. Why would I make this up? And, when did you start using that word so often?
W: Excuse me?
H: Fictitious. I’ve heard you say it about fifty times since that dinner party last weekend. Did you pick it up from the “doctor”? That pedantic prick. You and he seemed to really hit it off. Fucking dick, with his goddamned pretentious stammering.
W: Dr. Isdole is a delight. Did you know he spent six months in Paraguay? Repairing cleft palates.
H: Did you know that I talked to fucking Santa Claus this morning? For six minutes? Maybe the next time you and Charles are fucking each other’s egos, you can bring that up.
[Door bell rings. The children have arrived.]
