Hi Santa. I wrote you last year and asked for a couple of things. Well, I got them, kinda sorta, but I have a feeling your delivery guy lost them in the shuffle.
The most important thing I asked for was a job. A real job. Well, it took until September for the job to finally arrive after 2 1/2 years without one. And part of it came true, part of it didn’t.
I did go back to a place — my previous place of employment, actually — where people are decent and respectful, and the bosses have treated me like a human being. And I have felt useful again. And human. But it’s still a precarious living, I’m still on shaky ground, with no benefits, and through nobody’s fault, my hours are gonna be cut again after Christmas. And I’m not sure I can make it through the winter without something better coming along.
I also asked for a car, since I’d been nursing my ancient Celica to the bitter end. I finally got it a month ago, with the help of the job. But the Camry’s 16 years old and gave me problems right at the get-go. Had to replace the radiator two weeks after I got it.
Lousy delivery, but it’s a start.
So anyway, Santa, I’ve been hearing — and editing stories about — how the economy is getting better. So here’s what I want this year — again, things you don’t have to pack in your sleigh, and hopefully, they won’t take 9 to 11 months to arrive. I’m not asking — I’m envisioning. I’m putting out the feelers to the rest of the universe. These will make me happy and not use up any batteries:
I want a steady job. (Unless you have a winning MegaMillions ticket waiting for me already.) A job where I can get paid enough to not have to worry about living paycheck to paycheck anymore, a job with good benefits and good people around me, where I can make a living and make a difference doing it. Benefits are important because if I get terribly sick, I’m really screwed. Badly.
I want the love of my life to appear — or, if she’s in my life already and I don’t know it, for her to make herself known. Even Al Green didn’t have to be this tired of being alone. I’ve been blessed with a kazillion friends, but I’m always No, 2, 3, 6, 17, 38 on everyone’s list. Never No. 1. I’m pretty, witty, sharp as a razor, caring, good-hearted and have great tastes in music and shoes, and there’s rarely a dull moment with me — I think I’m pretty good No. 1 material, y’know? I don’t have this L on my forehead. I’ve been a really good girl these past few years. I think I deserve a soulmate.
And, unless you have this terrific job waiting for me in the Bay Area that I don’t know about, I want to go home. Anywhere nice between New York and New Haven. It’s time. I think my purpose for being here has run its course.
I’m writing you from in a room in a house in a very uncomfortable and unfriendly situation — I’d say downright passive-aggressive hostile — in the middle of godforsaken, isolated Fresno because that’s all I’ve been able to afford these past 2 1/2 years. This was supposed to be the nurturing cocoon from which the butterfly emerged. The butterfly is getting tired from dragging around the remnants of the cocoon that she can’t shake off her leg.
I need a place that says “home.” Where I can be comfortable, where I can bring my music back out of storage. Where I have friends over and can put up the Christmas trees again and throw parties the way I did before it all went bad. And where I can be close enough to be of some use to my elderly parents in case they eventually need me.
That’s what I want. I don’t need toys, and I think the car will hold up. I need to know I’m worth it, Santa. I think so — what about you?
Anyway, I hope all the kids get what they want — or, more importantly, need — and that you’ll be able to deliver, and on time, this year. Thank you in advance. Have a great day after Christmas.