I haven’t written in quite awhile!
You may remember me: I’m the one who started sending all those pesky (and slightly stalkerish) letters, beginning in 1969. You say harassing chain letters, I say brilliant direct mail marketing strategy. By the way, sorry I referred to you as “Dear Satan” at the time I had some adolescent issues with transposing letters. Anyway, I guess the whole thing backfired pretty potently because that’s the year I started getting really disappointing Christmas gifts like soap-on-a-rope and an egg timer.
Once I turned 16, you’ll note my letters stopped abruptly because it was just getting a little weird for the both of us. Nevertheless, I forgive you for all the oversights throughout my childhood, including the disregard for my requests for a souped-up doll carriage (Christmas 1970), the Mystery Date Game (Christmas 1972) and the platform shoes (Christmas 1975).
By the way, I was so saddened when you refused to bring me a Giggles doll when I was 7 that I wept into my Raggedy Ann pillow case until the new year. And, in the spirit of absolving, we won’t even discuss your misstep of bestowing the coveted Easy Bake Oven upon my sister, Jennifer, instead of me one painful Christmas. She baked a stinking cupcake while I had big plans to recreate pierogies in that bad boy.
I’m writing to tell you that I really have been a very, very mediocre girl this year. And if you knew me, you would realize that means very, very good. For instance, the day after Thanksgiving, I was speeding to my OB-GYN appointment and blew through a really poorly-placed stop sign. I received a big, fluffy citation, and I not only admitted my mistake, but I didn’t even cry, like I usually do. Plus, I didn’t insist that I was in labor and rushing to the hospital (That only worked once and I started my diet the very next hour). I actually thanked the policewoman. Why? Because I’m a moral, upstanding girl, Santa! That’s gotta be worth something more than a lint ball in my stocking. Although — full disclosure — I hid the ticket from my husband and won’t confess until New Year’s Eve when he is good and happy. He should just be grateful I wasn’t actually in labor.
Now, I’m thinking, since I’ve not been on the Exceptionally Naughty List since peeing on your lap in 1966, I have some leeway here. And honest to God, they need to introduce a Santa Lap Cover with Scotchgard. I wasn’t even remotely trained.
This Christmas, I feel I should receive a good gift for not killing anyone during menopause. For instance, please don’t let my husband give me a treat like he gave me last year. Let’s relive that gem:
Me: “Oh. A Laser Tape Measure. Did I want this?”
Him, snatching it from my hands: ”Heck, yes you wanted this! Just like you wanted the Electronic Stud Finder last year!”
Under my breath: ”Well, next year I’ll find a stud, alright, and you can bet your sweet candy cane he’ll surprise me with something that doesn’t end up in its final resting place on the never-used ‘workbench’ in the basement.”
So Santa, I’m begging you, please, can you steer my husband clear of the appliance and electric drill aisles at Home Depot and perhaps assist him in navigating his sleigh to a nice jewelry store instead?
Don’t make me pee on your lap.