All Things Santa

A friend and I were discussing shortfalls the other day. Specifically…our own. Like being overweight, the credit card debt thing, no love life, and jobs we forced ourselves to face each day. In other words, it was a first-class pity party. “What’s wrong with this picture?” I asked. With tongue in cheek she answered, “Oh nothing much, if you don’t mind extreme difficulties, depression, and torture.”

My friend said, “Look, instead of whining about it, why don’t we write a letter to Santa?” I just stared at her. I waited for the laughter, the rest of the punch line, the joke…something, anything. She was looking serious. “You’re kidding, right? I mean you DO know he’s not real, right? And that Elvis is dead, right? ” Like I don’t have enough to worry over?

She held up her hand. “Now wait a minute. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t mean the REAL Santa for Pete’s sake!” At that she rolled her eyes and started laughing. The REAL Santa? That would be as opposed to? Good grief, more worry…however, I decided to hear her out. Besides, this could get entertaining.

She started with, “there’s this contest see, and all you have to do—“ “Ohhh no you don’t,” I interrupted. The last time you talked me into entering one of those ‘all you have to do’ contest to meet men, I ended up singing “I’m Too Sexy for My John Deere” in front of 30-some odd Shriners. Mother’s words kept ringing in my ears, “Don’t pick that up! You don’t know where’s it been!” The highlight of the evening was when we played “Pin the Toupee on the bald guy.”

“This contest is different. There’s this group of Santa Helpers meeting down at the Doo Drop Inn every Tuesday night. They’ve got a contest that’s offering $100.00 to the person writing the best letter to Santa. How hard could it be? You’re a writer, I’m a writer…we put our heads together and viola! It wouldn’t take us anytime to compose the winning letter. Well? We can use the stuff we’ve been griping about today!”

I look at my friend in a new light. She’s definitely one brick shy of a load.

I’m thinking, “uh huh…sure. I know I’m gonna pour my heart out for 100.00 bucks about tummy tucks and debt to a fictitious guy who’s even bigger than me and goes around wearing “red” which everyone knows, makes you look twice your size. He works one night out of the year (qualifying him for bum status) and spends the rest of the year snooping on people and reading fan mail. And what about Mrs. Claus? She cooks, cleans, and waits on him hand and foot while he hangs out with animals and elves. Hell-O? Can you say therapy?

It was then I heard her say, “Whoops! Did I say 100.00? My bad…I meant $1000.00”

Dear Santa,
Can we talk? Queen Jaw Jaw here. I’ve been a pretty good girl this year…