Category: 2020-December

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

My love. I never imagined a life quite like this. I certainly never dreamed of being Mrs. Santa Claus.

I thought of a June wedding in my parent’s backyard. A honeymoon in the Italian countryside. The Junior League. Babies.  Growing old together and dancing in the rain.

Then you happened. We happened.

The North Pole? Who lives in the Arctic Circle? With flying reindeer. So much for summertime.

So much for babies. I was ready for two or three. We get letters from every child in the world! Our children.

Growing up without brothers and sisters – I never had to share. I liked being the center of attention. I like standing beside you even more.

I love watching your eyes twinkle when you make another child smile. I love the way you listen to children when they share the secrets they hold so close. I don’t mind sharing you with the world.

I’m thrilled to know we’re the only couple that never fights about money. I love the fact that you believe in miracles. I am privileged to know my best friend’s job is spreading joy.

I’ve never seen you angry. I’ve never known you to disappoint. I’ve never heard you say “I can’t” or “I won’t.”

I think a lot of women believe they can change the man they love. I’ve never doubted you.  I’ve never wanted to change you. I like you exactly the way you are.

I’ve never wondered how you feel about me because you tell me every day. I don’t worry about my dress size. I don’t worry about wearing heels. I don’t worry about anything. Being your wife is the highlight of my life.

I love cooking together. I love watching movies together in front of the fireplace. I love waking up in the middle of the night and watching you breathe. I love holding hands in our own winter wonderland.

I am so proud of you. And all you do to make the world a wonderful place.

I need you. I want you. I like you. I love you.

Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.

I love you. Always have. Always will.

Always,

Me

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

It’s me. Jenny. This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. 

Do you remember when I wrote the paper and the man at the Sun wrote back and it was this huge rig-ma-row thing?

“Yes, Virginia – there is a Santa Claus.” Hhhmmm.

First off, my name is Jenny. I have never been “Virginia.” My father insisted I sign every letter as Virginia. My name is Jenny.

This is stupid. I hang out with the same group of friends now as I did when I was eight. And it’s the same conversation we’ve always had. It used to be boys and school.  ow its men and work. Same thing.

It used to be ice cream. Now its happy hour. Yes – that’s right. I drink. OJ and vodka at breakfast. A bloody Mary for lunch. Wine with dinner. So what? What? My time. My life. My money. I work.

I am so freakin’ tired of this. One little wreck. It wasn’t even a wreck. It was a love tap. A fender bender. OK – it was a little more than that but it wasn’t a big deal. 

Went to court. I did not agree. I do not agree. The judge and my lawyer (my brother) decided it would be best if I went to rehab. What the hell. 

So, here I am. 

The forever optimistic and gullible Virginia O’Hanlon. In rehab. Are you serious?   do not belong here! 

Group therapy. One-on-one sessions. If I have to take one more “nature walk” for fresh air, I am gonna lose my ever-lovin’ mind. 

And no – my mother doesn’t visit. I haven’t heard from my father since I wrote that letter. He disappeared the same day it was published – September 21^st. Great day.  Great day. 

Oh God – its the same conversation everywhere I go… “Oh – you’re that Virginia! I love that story. I bet Christmas is your favorite holiday.  o you still write Santa?” 

Yes, I am.  I don’t.  No, it isn’t. And hell no, I do not write Santa. Why would I? I mean – it worked out so well last time… Until now.  

My counselor. My shrink. My therapist. I don’t know what she is. My life Nazi… thinks it would be a good idea if I wrote Santa another letter so I can find some closure for that part of my life. I got your closure. Right here. 

Know what I’d like? I’d settle for some closure on this part of my life. How about that?  hat a crock. 

So – here Mr. Claus. Here’s your letter. 

Dear Santa, I’d like my life back. I’d like to be rid of Virginia. My name is Jenny. I want to be left alone. Oh – I also have a “faith counselor.” Whatever that is.

Her name is Ginger. So yes, God has a sense of humor.  Ha. Ha. Anyway – Ginger says miracles are everywhere. 

So, Santa Baby, get on your sleigh and find me a miracle.  Can you do that? I’ll be waiting. Waiting. Right here.  In my little room. You know what they – “yes, Virginia.  There is a Santa Claus.” 

Sure thing. Sure thing.

I’m waiting,

Jenny O’Hanlon

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

Hope this letter finds you well! Life is… busy. I’ve not written in some time and I wish I had a good reason. I don’t. 

I graduated, completed my residency, worked a couple years with Doctors Without Borders. That was good.

I got married. You probably know that. Her name is Kathy. We’re expecting our first child – in February.

We moved to Boston and I work at the Children’s Hospital. Boston’s a lot like home. 

We don’t get back often. That’s why I’m writing. My dad. Well, it doesn’t feel like Christmas. My dad died this year. You know – he got the company when Uncle Scrooge passed away.

He was working. I was working. He and mom were supposed to come for the baby and now… I don’t know. 

I asked my mother to move here but she’s got friends.  She’s got a life. And my sister bought a house close to home. 

I miss my daddy. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everybody’s got lights and trees and – I mean, they play carols at work. But I don’t feel any of it. I don’t feel anything. 

We go to parties and I sit in the corner. We go shopping and I don’t see one thing I have to have.

I save sick kids every day. I used to feel called. Now, I feel unneeded. 

My dad and I used to go shopping with my sister every Christmas Eve. We’d walk the streets and I’d sit on his shoulders. We called it “walking with Bob.” That was funny. He would buy wine. We’d find the perfect turkey. And we’d stand in front of the toy store for hours. And church. 

What am I supposed to do Christmas Eve? We don’t walk. Anywhere. I belong to a wine club so it just… arrives. Every month. Toys R Us went out of business. They didn’t t have windows anyway – so there’s that.  

I don’t need toys. Our child doesn’t need toys – my mother has seen to that. 

I guess I need to believe. In something. In Christmas. In you. I know you’re busy. I know you probably don’t “do” adults. I don’t know if you really exist. 

But I know this – when we had nothing, we really had everything – and you were there. Now I have everything, and it feels like nothing – and maybe you’re still there. 

Maybe. I miss you. I miss my daddy. I need Christmas. I need you.

Much love,

Timothy Cratchit, M.D.

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

We are writing with hopes we can avoid attorney’s fees and arbitration. We appreciate the diverse work environment and the sensitivity training – especially for the Italians!  If Johnny keeps checking out our collective backside, we’re gonna go Columbian on him.

Santa – Santa!  We know you want us to get along and experience each other’s culture – but do we have to eat with the Greeks? I mean, who eats lamb? The baklava is OK but the sooflaki and the pooflaki and the moolaki?  That’s just nasty. Nasty.

OK, about the housing. The Chinese girls have put a fat boy Buddha in the living room and there’s a gigantic goldfish in the jacuzzi. Really? Really? The statue can stay but the fish has GOT to go.

Alright. Can you do something about the noise? The Irish workers sit up every night and drink and play cards and then Bobby starts singing about 2 o’clock. Every night.  And you should see the mess. We don’t know if they think we supposed to clean up after them just because we’re Latino – but we’re not.

Inga and the Norwegians don’t do nothing. Or anything.  They flirt all the time and are you aware they sunbathe on the roof during lunch?  In bikinis! Yes – the French guys are so busy watching them they don’t do nothing.  Worthless.

The Canadians spend all day playing air hockey. The Samoans are trying to start a fight club with the reindeer.  The Japanese won’t stop bowing. The British think every kid wants a tea set. (And they don’t.) And the Russians are scary.  Nikita actually made Lola cry the other night.

Which brings us to the Americans.  I don’t how to say this – but the Americans are the worst. That’s right. They show up late. They leave early. They’re loud. They’re messy. They think they’re better than everybody else. Will you please talk to them? And the TV is ALWAYS on an American show. Grey’s Anatomy or This Is Us or The Voice. It’s ridiculous.

So, Senor Claus, we try to get along, but we feel like we’re the only ones even trying. Please do something. And Feliz Navidad!

Gracias,

The Union of Little People of the North Pole

The Union of Latino Little People of the North Pole

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa. 

O Captain, our captain. 

Master of the Arctic. 

Lord of the Tundra. 

Prince of Toyland. 

Saint Nicholas. 

Kris Kringle. 

Santa…

As our contract expires December 27^th, we’re writing to negotiate our benefits package for the 2021 calendar year. 

Housing shall remain the same with common living, cooking, dining and recreational areas as well as private sleeping and bathing accommodations.

Annual salaries and the pre-determined longevity increases will be sufficient as long as our 401K retirement plans continue to receive a 6% employer match. 

Major medical coverage should continue at no expense to the employee with optional riders available for vision, dental and catastrophic cancer coverage.

We request the continuance of access to an on-site psychotherapist, at no cost, for individual, family and group therapy sessions. 

We encourage His Royal Ho-Ness to eliminate mandatory workouts with trainers in exchange for unlimited access to a 24-hour fitness facility and a climate-controlled aquatic center. 

We are also asking for unlimited access to the corporate condominium in South Beach.

Regarding parade appearances – we respectfully request the elimination of all parade appearances with the exception of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, in exchange for a 25% discount on all Macy’s purchases.

It is our humble hope the patron saint of milk and cookies will agree to provide new laptops for every reindeer, including those in the Flight Apprenticeship Program. 

In addition to the laptops, we are submitting requisition forms for iPads, iPhone 12’s and the Beats By Dr. Dre headphones. 

We anticipate the requisition forms will be approved and signed without delay. 

We also believe the Reindeer Arm of the North Pole Collaboration for Holiday Festivities merits a marketing manager. 

This position will be responsible for streamlining social media interaction including Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, YouTube and Instagram as well as our personal blog and web sites. 

We wish to dismantle the Reindeer University football program as, due to lack of competition, we were forced to schedule games against the Banana Slugs, the Fighting Pickles and Notre Dame.  Enough said. 

And one final issue to be resolved – we respectfully request that all practice runs over the southern United States be canceled until Duck Dynasty is no longer in syndication as several team members sustained buckshot injuries requiring extensive physical therapy and narcotics. 

And Twinkies.  We want Twinkies.

Respectfully,

The Reindeer of the North Pole

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

I can only say to the man so fat,

I wish I had a baseball bat!

To swing and break and stain and tear,

Each painted and padded, red work chair.

Everyone thinks you’re oh so nice,

Not knowing your snowballs are made with ice!

How can you, how dare you – bring so much joy?

With one little ball or a doll or toy?

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – it’s true.

I hate you so much, I’ve turned green and not blue!

Why do you fly all over the place?

I wish a penguin would land on your face.

You go to the mall and talk with the kids,

I bet your underwear has lots of skids!

Even your reindeer are stupid and dumb,

I hope their leashes break both of your thumbs.

You’re kind to the young and sweet to the old,

You promise and lie!  Or so I’ve been told.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – and such.

You can’t possibly know how I hate you so much!

Frosty the Snowman’s your personal pal,

I hope he melts and the sun’s out now!

Your wife’s so mean and she looks like a witch,

Let’s cut to the chase – she a first class – Oh, never mind!

I hate Christmas.  I hate snow.

I especially hate your “Ho ho ho!”

I hate presents, I hate bows,

I hate eggnog when it gets on my nose.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – I do.

I don’t want you to wonder – I hate you!

Hatingly,

The Grinch

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear, dear Santa,

My old friend – we must get together soon! I have news, my good man. I have news! 

You surely recall dear, sweet George Bailey from New York? I am delighted to report, George has joined me.  That’s right.  George is in Heaven.  AS2, of course. You remember I was an AS2 until George gave up. That was a glorious night – I got my wings! Been flying ever since! 

We love to talk about the night Bedford Falls prayed…  Old Man Potter hoping George would land in jail and everybody else hoping he wouldn’t.

Even you!  Prayers were floating in and all of a sudden the red phone lit up.  Kris Kringle asking the Creator almighty to help George Bailey.  I’ll never forget that. 

Anyway – George is here.  Such a feast, such a feast!  Mary’s been here. And George’s parents. Uncle Billy too. Bert and Ernie. Oh me. His little brother Harry.  Sam Wainwright (Hee-Haw). Even Potter got in. (Between you and me – I’ll never know how that happened!) 

As for me, I’ve been promoted! I lead my own brigade of Angels, First Class. We’re in training now. Our team name is Oddbody’s Godbodies. Can’t wait for our first assignment! 

But enough about me. If you can, I know George’s children are upset and I’m hopeful you can do something. 

Tommy is President of the Building and Loan and Janie is the CEO. Peter is a Congressman! And Zuzu – precious Zuzu, is married with five babies.  Five!  They certainly could a use a visit from you! 

You remember…  every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings. Perhaps you could jingle jangle a bit more than usual and they’ll know their father just got his. Just a thought. 

Your friend,

Clarence Oddbody

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

Oh, good grief.  Where to begin?  I grew up.  I still try to dread only one day at a time!  I enjoy life enormously. 

Yes, Snoopy is still with me. Kind of. Technically, he’s Snoopy the 5^th but he looks and acts and smells just like Snoopy the 1^st.  Good dog. 

Woodstock passed on long ago.  Good bird. 

I’m a pastor now at a non-denominational community church in North Carolina.  I love it here.  The church youth group has a history of selling pumpkins on the front lawn every October and everybody calls us the “Pumpkin Church.”  Lots of pre-school groups visit the patch and I sneak out when I can and tell the story of “The Great Pumpkin.”  It keeps me in touch with my childhood. 

In case they don’t stay in touch – Sally and Linus got married.  Didn’t we always know they would?!?!  Linus teaches third grade and Sally volunteers at about 25 different places.  They really love each other. 

Schroeder went to Julliard and now he teaches at Indiana.  My famous friend!  He and Lucy are still dating.  Can you believe it?  One of these days – it’ll happen. 

We get together every summer at the beach. The whole gang. Our neighbor, Mr. Schulz, was really good to us. He left money to pay for college for each of us. Schroeder got a full ride for piano so he took his money and bought a house on the Outer Banks. That’s where we gather. Good times. It was one of those trips I fell in love with North Carolina. So, here I am.

The reason I’m writing – one little thing bothers me and maybe you can help.  Every time somebody talks about an ugly Christmas tree… too small or too crooked or not enough ornaments or something – they call it a “Charlie Brown Christmas tree.”  I gotta tell you – that hurts.  I really don’t mind the comments and the jokes.  Being Charlie Brown has its moments.  But – enough with the Christmas tree.  “Aaaggghhh!”  It’s true – some nights I lie awake and wonder, why me?  And a voice answers, “nothing personal.  Your name just happened to come up.” 

Dear Santa, can I please have a great big, beautiful Christmas tree this year?  Please. You don’t have to bring it.  I just want to be able to find it.  If you could “make it appear.”  That’d be neat.  Really neat.

Fondly,

Pastor Charles Brown