Dear Santa,
First of all, let me apologize for this letter reaching you so
late. I wanted to write you earlier, but I was so overtaken by the
thrill of being chosen as Time Magazine’s person of the year that I
just didn’t get around to writing earlier.
Dear Santa,
First of all, let me apologize for this letter reaching you so late. I wanted to write you earlier, but I was so overtaken by the thrill of being chosen as Time Magazine’s person of the year that I just didn’t get around to writing earlier. Oh, I know, with them putting the words “You” on the cover for everyone to read, I wasn’t exactly the only one chosen. Congratulations, by the way. In any case, it’s not every day I get an honor like this, and so I’m going to milk it for all its worth. I think I’m going to find my resume on the computer and add it on there. It can’t hurt.
But I’m getting off track, Santa. I wanted to talk to you about gifts. About this time every year, I try to write you. My kids may have given it up long ago, but not me. It always seems like it’s worth a shot to try and ask for a few wishes to come true, even if you have to deliver them a little late or wait until next Christmas. I mean, it’s not like I expect my family to come through for me on these. Oh, my teenage daughter will give me something nice, maybe a book about organizing the house, which I’ll promptly lose, and I don’t think my spouse is going to make the mistake of wrapping up a laundry basket and putting it under the tree again. I’ll appreciate whatever I receive, of course, but still, there are some presents that I have a feeling only you could bring for me.
For starters, I’d like my waist back, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy, about 10 years ago, and I’ve never really seen it since. Sure, I have a waist, but it’s not the same one I used to have. There must have been some mix-up, and I’m hoping you can make a few calls and fix things.
If you’re hauling big-ticket items this year, I’d like a car with fingerprint-resistant windows, a radio that plays only adult music, a television that doesn’t broadcast any sitcoms containing kids talking back to their parents, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.
On the practical side, I could use a talking daughter doll that says, “Yes, Mom, you’re right again,” to boost my parental confidence, not to mention three pairs of jeans that zip all the way up without the use of power tools. I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting, “Don’t eat snacks in the living room,” and “Take your hands off your brother,” because my voice seems to be out of my kids’ hearing range and can only be heard by our dog.
If you don’t mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. And it’d be nice to have a time machine, so I could occasionally zip back to, say, middle school, to bone up on math class, so I have something worthwhile to suggest when helping my son with homework. And since I mentioned my waist, maybe I should say something about my hips, and – Oh. Wait a minute. You could also bring us world peace. Of course, that’s what I meant to say first.
Well, Santa, I need to go run and defrost dinner. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the chimney. If want to start a fire in the fireplace, so you don’t catch a cold, that might be a good idea, too, though you might want to clean it out first, since some of the ashes have been there since the Clinton years. And help yourself to cookies on the table, or any of the goodies in the refrigerator. I probably don’t need any of those, anyway.
Oh, and Santa, you can cancel all of my requests if you can make my kids young enough to start writing letters to you again. Being a parent is exhausting and sometimes thankless, but I have to admit, they are the best gifts I’ve ever received.