December 24, 2017
Before I give you my Christmas list, I just want to get this awkwardness out of the way. You, legit, never came to my home when I was a kid. I’m just going to assume it was because we lived in walk-up apartments with no chimneys, and you knew if you tried to come through a stranger’s door in the hood you would’ve for sure been shot. That’s fair. And I’ve never taken this personally…well at times…it’s just that…ok I may have taken this extremely personally. It may or may not have become my mission in life to destroy your reputation.
Full disclosure, in the first grade, I told my best friend that the only reason you gave her presents instead of me was because her parents bribed you. The term “crooked Santa” was possibly thrown around with reckless abandon. Things got a little out of hand and before I knew it, my entire class was convinced you were a member of the mafia. I wanted to apologize for the messiness.
Around the second grade I had taken to calling you a pervert. The whole sneaking into people’s homes while they were sleeping and making sure you left evidence that you were there, never really sat right with me. Again, I’m sorry. (But, while we’re on the subject, strongly implying that people need to leave out cookies and milk to appease you while you’re trespassing on their property is basically extortion.)
Anyway, after that, I went on believing- and quite loudly vocalizing- that you were simply a manufactured fairy tale meant to scare shitty children into behaving. Jury’s still out on that one, big guy. But I will admit posting “Santa isn’t real, suckers” on Christmas morning, to the millions of children that follow me on Twitter, wasn’t exactly the nicest decision I’ve ever made.
So I guess that puts me on the Naughty list. I know anyone using that sentence over the age of 18 is normally implying something dirty, but that’s not what I’m getting at. You’re married, I’m married- we could never be. Even though, sure yeah, your insistent refusal to acknowledge my existence is right in line with the behavior of every crush I’ve ever had…I’m getting off track.
The point is, I’m probably getting coal for Christmas. But just in case you’re feeling forgiving, I’ve written up a short, completely reasonable list of requests for Christmas this year.
- Let’s get real here, Mama makes her own money and DON’T NEED NO MAN to buy her what she needs. But Christmas is about getting things you wouldn’t normally get yourself…or things that were way too heavy to carry home from Target by yourself. Or it’s about giving, or something-or-other. My point is, I’m not gonna kick a 70 inch 4K TV out of bed.
- I’m a hardcore feminist who also enjoys a dust free office. So when I told my husband I wanted a cord-free vacuum for Christmas he wasn’t sure if I was being serious or setting up an inescapable trap. I’ve gotta be honest, watching him struggle to figure out this minefield is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. But in case he gets tired of my torture, cuts his losses, and just leaves me before the 25th, it’s the Dyson with the 40-minute runtime.
- I’ve been working on several writing projects and it would be amazing if you could help me wrap up deals on them. You specialize in putting boxes under trees and not business dealings, you say? Oh, silly Santa, we both you know you break thumbs to get shit done. I have an entire first grade class who will back me up on that.
- I want every rescue dog and cat to find a warm, loving home that will provide desperately needed safety and stability. Especially the older ones. Every animal deserves to know what unconditional love feels like, at least once in their lives. What? Are you that surprised I have one altruistic bone in my body? It should be obvious by now how much I prefer animals to humans. In fact, pass this particular request over to Rudolph. I bet he secretly resents you for taking all the credit while he does all the damn work.
There are some humans I do enjoy, though. And I’d appreciate if you could get a message to them. I prefer the freaks, the geeks, the island of misfit toys. The people who dread the holidays because, much like my younger self, they are met with disappointment. Some families don’t have enough money to celebrate like Hallmark cards and made for TV movies tell us we’re supposed to. Some people are alone, either by choice or by circumstance, and the “togetherness” of the holiday season can feel foreign and overwhelming. Some people struggle with depression, which can be significantly amplified by our solitude, especially during cold weather, darker days, longer nights- all while the world tells us this is supposed to be the happiest time of the year.
Tell these people I am with them. Let them know I understand because I have been in their shoes more years than I have not. Let them know that over time it gets easier. They’ll figure out how to celebrate on their own terms, eventually. And please, remind them, they are not alone. Because I am more than willing to be their creepy uncle in spirit every holiday season. Just tell them to imagine me cursing inappropriately in front of the kids and then falling asleep at the dinner table because I started drinking at 10am. Tell them they are a part of my family, whether they like it or not.
And let my wonderful weirdoes know that they have already made all of my wishes come true. Everything I work for now is to remind them, they don’t need a Santa. They don’t have to rely on anyone else to get them what they want. All the magic they need is right inside of them.
I’m just realizing you might find this offensive as hell. But quite frankly, you’ve made your shady ass, cookie crumb-filled bed and now you have to lie in it. Of course, I mean, after you hook me up with that sweet vacuum.