All I want for Christmas is world peace

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Dear Santa,

I can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure it was to see you at the mall, warehouse club, discount store, tire outlet, pharmacy, one hour photo, Thanksgiving day parade(s), and mall kiosk hawking hot dogs recently.

It goes without saying that I really appreciated your helping Halloween get off to a good start. And where would Thanksgiving be without you?

Why, it seems like only yesterday that it was early September and we were bumping into you again.

On backorder. Speaking of days gone by, big guy, I had a chance to cast my mind back some two decades and realized that backorders not withstanding, I still have a few things coming to me.

I don’t mean to criticize Santa, but perhaps, if you stayed home a bit more, you could be more careful with the whole making a list and checking it twice schtick.

Granted, you came through with those wacky weebles (and I have the “weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!” jingle running in an endless loop in my head to this day).

Barbie’s Fun Lovin’ Van with the orange shag carpet was a dream come true. And I played the Grease album until it mysteriously disappeared. Funny how my mom could never really identify the guy who broke in and stole nothing from our home but that album.

Really wanted it. However, as even a cursory glance at the 1977 archives would show, I wanted a Marie Osmond doll something fierce, and to this day have not received one.

Surely, somewhere in a dusty, forgotten corner of the North Pole there lurks a purple rhinestone jump suit clad, 11 inch fashion doll with my name on it.

You may recall, oh jolly one, from all your time spent stalking, er … seeing me when I was sleeping and knowing when I was awake, that I never missed The Donny and Marie Show (having, I’m ashamed to admit, something of a crush on little Jimmy Osmond). That, however, can remain our little secret.

Gifts gone bad. Speaking of secrets, Santa, I know you cannot technically be held accountable for gifts gone bad. I’m confident that the wickedness that is the Chia pet does not originate from the North Pole.

I understand that for the most part, you simply fulfill wishes and try not to pass judgment. That said, I would like to think that Mrs. Claus, at the very least, tried to talk you out of delivering the leg warmers and “moon boots.”

Yes, I know, I insisted I could not live without just these items in the early 1980s. I was a teenager Santa and, thus, technically insane. You should have known better.

Fashion. Of course, you are a man and as such, cannot be expected to understand fashion. I suppose that the average woman’s insistence that no man ever buy her clothing begins with you, after all.

Nonetheless, I really do appreciate all you have done over the years, particularly in light of daunting prospects such as the great Cabbage Patch shortage or the Tickle-Me-Elmo debacle.

Simpler wishes. Look, we both know you dropped the ball on the doll old man, but now that I am older my wishes are simpler.

You could easily make it up to me with a little peace on Earth, goodwill toward man, and, at the very least, in lieu of Marie, the monetary equivalent of a mint-in-the-box doll.

Of course, I’m a reasonable woman and I know you have your hands full this time of year. If you can’t send a check, I’ll happily settle for the peace. I’m not picky.

Come through this year. I ask only that you come through this time. When it comes to peace, another 25 years is far too long to wait.

(Kymberly Foster Seabolt still believes in Santa. She welcomes comments c/o P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460 or kseabolt@epohi.com.)

About the Author

Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless. More Stories by Kymberly Foster Seabolt

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