December 15, 2014 6 Comments
When I was just a wee kid who looked up to people because I was too short to look at them straight in the face, I believed in Santa Claus. I wrote him a wish list every year and I mailed it to the North Pole. I asked for big-ticket items like a bike, a phonograph (I’m dating myself here), a tape recorder (I thought I wanted to be a reporter but I really just wanted to use the device to snoop on people) and such.
Every year Santa always got it wrong. When I asked for a pink bike I got a puke orange bike with no basket, but he did include a little honker. I knew that Santa wasn’t perfect but he always came close. One year I asked for a Baby Alive, a doll that ate, drank, pooped and peed.
Imagine my surprise when I received a letter back from Santa:
Dear Petit Lafemme,
You have been a good girl this year. You reduced your pouting to every other day and you only stuck out your tongue behind your mother’s back once a week. What an improvement! You always get good grades even though you never do your homework and you only hit your siblings with an open hand. So this year I thought that I could finally give you the toy of your desire. Read more of this post