It has been a while since I have actually sat down and wrote a “Dear Santa” letter. I assume that ever since I was let in on the big St. Nick conspiracy, it automatically transitioned from “Dear Santa” to “Hey Mom, I want this for Christmas.”
So, when Susan Marshall first came to me with the idea of writing a letter, I was excited and a little bit wary. How do you make such a thing as writing a classic letter to the jolly man in a red suit something adults enjoy reading?
Therefore, my letter is a little … unorthodox. I set no boundaries for myself and I’m telling Santa what I really want for Christmas.
It may be a tad more complex than a doll whose eyes actually open and close, but it’s worth a shot I suppose.
For starters, I would like to apologize for the lack of cookies that will be at my house this year. The FDA asked that we stick to carrot sticks and bran muffins. As a very marketed individual, I assume they just want you to be photogenic. Look at the bright side; you’ll be slim, healthy, and regular.
I don’t have too terribly much on my list this year but these things are really important to me, so please come through.
I would like for the unemployment rate to decrease in America. Perhaps if we returned to the American value of hard work it would boost the economy and no one would even need to be laid off.
For the sake of my family’s well-being, Santa, please give my mother some magical Christmas lights that work just how they are supposed to every year to avoid the yearly meltdown and tirade.
I would like a new car. Nothing too special — just something that has all of its rims, mirrors, and it doesn’t feel like a roller coaster ride when I go over an acorn.
Please give my father and sister the ability to have one complete dinner with the family without the word “basketball” entering the dialogue, and if you are feeling dialogue, and if you are feeling super nice, Santa, you could give the Lady Warriors a win this season.
I want the right to self-police the youngins again. Give me a minute with the kids tearing stuff up — they won’t do it again.
Bring all American soldiers back home so they can be with their families for the holidays.
Give Rick Turner an endless supply of wall clocks.
Endow the women who work at Peabody Market, including myself, with an endless supply of make-nice. Last year’s supply didn’t cut it.
I want an ample supply of mistletoe in my grandparent’s kitchen — so they have an actual reason to be making out. I’m still recovering from mental images of Thanksgiving.
Last, but not least, can you please send me to college for free?
P.S. Forget the FDA, Santa. I think you’re hot.