As I have not heard from you since we broke up, I thought I'd be the grown up here and contact you.
This year I'm going to make it very easy on you with regard to my Christmas wish list. Feel free to forget things like jewelry, shoes and ponies. I've got plenty of all those things already. Hell, I've been through so many lucrative divorces, I've even got ponies wearing shoes and jewelry. (I keep them locked in the bathroom when I'm at work so they don't tinkle on the carpet.)
Nope. I don't need any fancy presents to open on the 25th. What I want isn't anything you can buy in a store.
More than anything else this Christmas, Dear Santa, I'd like to find a big pile of those magical corn snacks you feed your reindeer in my stocking.
The other night while I was watching your authorized biography "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" on the Family Channel, I started thinking how weird it is you don't hand out magic corn each year. I mean seriously, SC. You gotta know kids would go crazy for vegetables that make you fly.
Of course you know the vegetable lobby in this country is almost as powerful as the NRA. If you got kids to thinking eating corn might even possibly result in flying, corn futures would go through the roof.
(I have no idea if I correctly used the word "futures" there, but it sounded right and that's really all the matters.)
But I digress. Whether or not you make flying corn available to the general gift receiving public, I deeply desire some for my very own personal use. You'll remember I'm terrified of heights, but I figure if I only fly inside the house and never while drinking, I'll be OK.
Frankly the idea of floating over my sofa for no good reason sort of tickles me.
At least once before I die, I'd like to be able to fly to my refrigerator, back to my bedroom and maybe on a clear day, take aerial photos of my washing machine.
My son would be like, "Hey, where's Mom?" and I could be all, "Here I am. I'm just chillin' up here by the ceiling".
Look Santa, I don't especially want to bring up any of our history here, but we both know you owe me. Don't forget that I know stuff about you. Potentially embarrassing stuff. Stuff that involves Brittney Spears, two drunk elves and Danny Partridge in a pear tree.
Just drop a Ziploc full of spiced up corn under my tree and nobody ever has to know.
Until next year.
Merry Christmas to you, over and out, good night and good luck,
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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