Dear Santa,

It’s been a long time since I wrote to you. Probably since that Christmas I watched my mom do her hair in my grandmother’s bathroom and said to her out of the blue, “I’m starting to think Santa isn’t real.” She neither confirmed, nor denied it, so I pretty much figured it out.

It would be nice if you were real, though. If I still believed so fiercely that you would grant my holiday wishes. I mean, you came through with the ruby slippers I asked for once. And the dollhouse. Those were great gifts, mom Santa.

Sometimes I wish it was still that easy. That I could write you a letter and place it next to some cookies and the next day the cookies would be gone but under the tree would be a pile of wonderful things.

I wouldn’t ask for a lot from you this year. Up until the end, 2008 was pretty damn fantastic and even after the one blow of the year, I’m still so happy. So instead of gifts, how about I ask you for a equally fabulous 2009? A year that will hopefully bring a job, maybe a pregnancy, the first draft of my book and health and happiness to all the people I love.

And maybe, just maybe, a pair of Christian Louboutains. (They’re shoes, Santa. I’m pretty sure they’re not manufactured in your workshop so if you have to call the distributor direct I won’t think anything less of you.)

I’m virtually leaving this letter out for you, Santa, along with some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and wishes for a happy new year.

Fly safely, dear Santa. We’ll talk next year.



What are you asking Santa for?