For a few too many years I asked Santa for weird stuff, and I’m pretty sure he took me off his gift list.
For example, after my butt fell around age 35, yes, I did request a new, perky hind end. Actually, I asked for a cute butt for more than a decade. But I never got it.
For several years in a row I also asked for culinary skills.
Then I asked for a passionate need to make my bed every day, mop the floor and stop piling everything I own on the kitchen table.
Well, the big guy in red never came through with any of those domestic wishes. I still need a front loader when I am looking for two shoes that match. And every type of frozen food falls out of my freezer onto the sticky kitchen floor. Plus, my tax papers are still stored in the oven.
I also wanted Santa to change my bad habits. I wanted to wake up Christmas morning with a sudden aversion to donuts and Little Debbie cakes.
“I can’t even look at that sugary trash without gagging!” I wanted to say. “Give me carrots!”
Because I have dish towels a lot longer than I ever have a husband, I secretly begged Santa to bring me a good man. You know, the kind of guy who would cherish the fact that I rarely sleep, hate to wash dishes and prefer to spend my life in pajamas. I wished for a man who worked hard, stayed loyal and worried every day about losing me, the love of his life, his soul mate.
Hmm. Santa never left a man like that under my tree.
I only got weasels ... one a little bit more awful than the last one.
This year, I want Santa to turn me into a fairy princess with a magic wand. But don’t assume I want to be a sissy type of princess. I don’t want my hair pulled up in a bun. I ain’t wearing a long, flowing dress, either.
Nope. I prefer to use my roller derby queen approach. I will spend hours whacking brats over the head with my cool wand.
When I hear gossip and critical comments, I will simply knock the negative right out of that person. I will konk them on the head so hard that they will see stars. And then they will see blessings.
For those who like to argue and judge, my magic wand will serve as a special glue to close their nasty lips. One little bonk over the head with my wand and – whoopsie – silence. Mean people will slowly figure out that their mouths just won’t open anymore if they only want to spew hatred.
Santa, if you’ll just make me a princess with a magic wand this year, I promise to use it responsibly. I’ll get busy bonking some sense into the people who think they know so much when they actually know so little. Each time I give a temporary concussion to a toxic person or a dishonest person or a snotty, better-than-you type, I will also give confidence and peace to those who have been damaged by the hurtful stuff of others.
One more thing, Santa. Please make sure my wand is pink. I will be using it a lot to remind breast cancer survivors everywhere that they are warriors.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.
For example, after my butt fell around age 35, yes, I did request a new, perky hind end. Actually, I asked for a cute butt for more than a decade. But I never got it.
For several years in a row I also asked for culinary skills.
Then I asked for a passionate need to make my bed every day, mop the floor and stop piling everything I own on the kitchen table.
Well, the big guy in red never came through with any of those domestic wishes. I still need a front loader when I am looking for two shoes that match. And every type of frozen food falls out of my freezer onto the sticky kitchen floor. Plus, my tax papers are still stored in the oven.
I also wanted Santa to change my bad habits. I wanted to wake up Christmas morning with a sudden aversion to donuts and Little Debbie cakes.
“I can’t even look at that sugary trash without gagging!” I wanted to say. “Give me carrots!”
Because I have dish towels a lot longer than I ever have a husband, I secretly begged Santa to bring me a good man. You know, the kind of guy who would cherish the fact that I rarely sleep, hate to wash dishes and prefer to spend my life in pajamas. I wished for a man who worked hard, stayed loyal and worried every day about losing me, the love of his life, his soul mate.
Hmm. Santa never left a man like that under my tree.
I only got weasels ... one a little bit more awful than the last one.
This year, I want Santa to turn me into a fairy princess with a magic wand. But don’t assume I want to be a sissy type of princess. I don’t want my hair pulled up in a bun. I ain’t wearing a long, flowing dress, either.
Nope. I prefer to use my roller derby queen approach. I will spend hours whacking brats over the head with my cool wand.
When I hear gossip and critical comments, I will simply knock the negative right out of that person. I will konk them on the head so hard that they will see stars. And then they will see blessings.
For those who like to argue and judge, my magic wand will serve as a special glue to close their nasty lips. One little bonk over the head with my wand and – whoopsie – silence. Mean people will slowly figure out that their mouths just won’t open anymore if they only want to spew hatred.
Santa, if you’ll just make me a princess with a magic wand this year, I promise to use it responsibly. I’ll get busy bonking some sense into the people who think they know so much when they actually know so little. Each time I give a temporary concussion to a toxic person or a dishonest person or a snotty, better-than-you type, I will also give confidence and peace to those who have been damaged by the hurtful stuff of others.
One more thing, Santa. Please make sure my wand is pink. I will be using it a lot to remind breast cancer survivors everywhere that they are warriors.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.
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