Dear Santa

santa

Dear Santa,

If your reindeer really can fly…then women nearing 40 can still write you a letter.  I’ve made big strides in the past year; I’ve only cussed once on the freeway that I can remember and I only mildly lost it last week when the check-out boy kept calling me “Bud” and “Buddy.”  All I said to him was, “I am not your “Bud” or “Buddy.” “I’m not some little boy at little league game!”  Surely you remember the Tina of old?  She would not have had that much patience.  Would you let your elves call Mrs. Claus “Bud” or “Buddy?”  I’m guessing you would take my side on this issue after the first time an elf in retail was condescending toward her and said, “Hey Bud are you ready to check out?  Sure thing Buddy, I can gift wrap that for you!”

I am writing to you because Christmas is the season of miracles and I still believe.  Here’s the thing, I need an electrolysis machine.  Have you priced those?  They are outrageous and so are the procedures.   I need one for the new blonde hair that sprouts every few weeks from the center of my chin.  I can usually catch it in time and pluck the damn thing before anybody notices but it’s getting harder to keep up!  I need you to help me zap it and the ones I fear will follow.  The way I see it, my ancestors were sailing around the same time as the Vikings… my guess is, that blonde hair is a mutant gene determined to remind the others that it still exist and is strong enough to keep sprouting.   I’m guessing an ancestor strayed onto the boat of a hot Norseman at some point in my lineage.  Just a guess, but I do tend to find Scandinavian men attractive…it’s all coming together the more I think about it.  Did I mention I am a brunette?  This hair is not white Santa, it’s downright BLONDE!   If you bumped some snotty nosed kid off of your list this year, I hope you can find it in your heart to squeeze me onto the list and bring me a toy capable of hair removal.  I promise to share it with all of my other friends in need and to use it to spread Christmas joy!

I should probably tell you that there will not be any cookies out for you, I am on a diet. (Or I ate them all. One can never tell how these things will go— once the spirit of the season hits you.)  However, I never give up on whiskey, so you feel free to help yourself to some Jack and there are diet 7-ups in the fridge.

All My Love,

Mo