Tart and Soul

Dear Santa,

Sorry, I haven’t written in ages.  So much has happened since my last correspondence – I didn’t get that part in the Christmas play but my bottom tooth finally came in!  Thanks for the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, by the way.  That was awesome.

Santa, 2009 has been rough.  We’ve had corporate bailouts and escalating wars.  Religious weirdos praying for the president’s death and private health care companies being favored over the public.  Empty-headed boobs like Levi Johnston and What’s-his-face Gosselin made headlines while spoiled superstars continued to debauch and philander, self-destruct and die.

Then there’s life down here with us commoners where we’ve lost our jobs and homes in this tanking ship of an economy.  We have identity crises and depression galore.  Everyone seems lost.

And here I am getting jazzed with the rest of ‘em, watching Tiger Woods’ fall from grace.  Maybe feeding on the man’s carcass nourishes the sense of insecurity and anger we all feel.  Just yesterday, I was reading about the women who keep coming out of the woodwork to sleaze up the golfer’s rep.  “Ha ha,” I cackled, discovering Mr. Squeaky Clean’s predilection for porn stars and casino hostesses, and the raunchy things he asked them to do.  Then I saw an article about the 911 call made from the house the night his wife whacked him with a golf club.  In the call, an old woman had collapsed and a child was crying in the background.  A desperate husband, a panic-stricken wife, a mother sent to the hospital and a child watching as his world crumbles.  Not so funny anymore.

Kinda makes you feel icky.  Kinda makes you wanna chuck it all and go tend rabbits on a farm in Kansas.  Kinda makes you wonder, ‘where’s the love?’

So, Santa, rather than asking you to fix health care and make husbands nicer, I’ll just ask for compassion.  Maybe you could pack love into a giant cloud that moves across the land sprinkling raindrops of kindness.  It’ll get into our water source so we won’t even know you’ve duped us into being better people.  Thus, the environment, the economy, our relationships and souls will be fixed of our own accord.

‘Course, you may have to put people like Bernie Madoff, Rush Limbaugh and anyone who works for Fox News in a hot air balloon that crashes into some remote island in the Bermuda Triangle.  I wish these people no harm (I’m kindhearted, y’see).  But I don’t think they’ll be very comfortable in the United States of Compassion.

In fact, feel free to put all reality television and celebrity gossip rags into the balloon, too.  Pop culture may not be to blame for our nation’s psychological ills, but it sure isn’t holding up the best mirror.  How are we supposed to be decent folk when we’re constantly reminded what self-promoting, malicious shitbags we can be?  Maybe you could just have good shows like Mad Men run non-stop all year.  While you’re at it, feel free to have Don Draper step off the screen and sidle up to me on the sofa.

Speaking of my own Christmas list, it’s pretty short.  I want a fondue set and one of those chairs you can sit in and get a total body massage.  And I would love for this to be the year I finally get a book contract.

But really, I’ll stick with love and compassion.  I’ve learned a lot about both this year.  I’ve chosen to show kindness and tolerance to everyone I come in contact with – even the jerks – and think I’ve had a better year than most because of it.  And this year, I’ve loved another person more than I ever have in my life.

So, I get it.  There’s nothing more important than love.  With love, none of us would have to make Christmas wish lists.  None of us would have to wish for world peace.  We wouldn’t have to wish bad things on Sarah Palin because she would already be a kind, generous broad.

Santa, you’ve watched the story of love in my life evolve in new and interesting ways this year.  You know what I want, you’ve heard me asking for it.  And I know you’re making me work for it because it’s special.  Love is the Holy Grail.  You can’t just stumble upon it like a quarter on the sidewalk.

So all I want next year is more and more love.  Keep it coming.  Give me more work to do, I’m getting there.  Hopefully, we all are.