Dear Santa,
So, I'm on my last trip of the year, and I'm feeling kind of melancholy. I miss Dad. I've been in pretty good shape on that front, but I'm having a day where I feel sort of "less than". Marginalized, if you will. You get it, Santa. You're the go-to man for millions - doesn't it bother you sometimes you give out more than you get back?
Dad was always a good barometer for me on those days. Whether or not he knew it. Whether or not I ever thanked him. I hope so.
Anyway. I'm sitting in my hotel room miserable from overeating. Basically, what happened is I overslept (because I had mis-set my alarm). So I skipped breakfast. And I had a decent lunch, but by dinner I was extremely dehydrated and overhungry, so I inhaled my food (and a ton of bread) and drank a ton of unsweet tea. By the time I got to my room, I felt like I was one of those foie gras geese.
I didn't sleep well last night. Which contributed to the oversleeping.
Can I level with you? I want to go home*.
I'm ready to spend a few weeks in Nashville with my husband, my puppy, my new kitchen.
I keep looking up Monty, the dog I'm convinced it Piper's long lost brother. I keep hoping you'll bring me a lottery ticket, one that would let me quit my job, buy a great place with a little land, go pick up Monty (contingent on Piper approval) and write. Let Matt take pictures. Become artists, of a sort. Maybe I'd get a little gig planning parties and events.
I don't know... first, I need to get the lottery ticket, or comparable.
So, Santa - can you bring me some cold, hard jingle? I promise you I will use my new largesse to make the world a better place. And make some puppy dogs very, very happy.
Sincerely,
Allison
PS - I know you're not in the supernatural business, but I would accept, in lieu of cash, a 30 minute phone call with my father. Just so he could set me right again. Yeah, yeah... lottery ticket it is.
*And to an extent, Santa, I'd like to go home circa 1990 - but Home v2016 would be dandy.
ae
So, I'm on my last trip of the year, and I'm feeling kind of melancholy. I miss Dad. I've been in pretty good shape on that front, but I'm having a day where I feel sort of "less than". Marginalized, if you will. You get it, Santa. You're the go-to man for millions - doesn't it bother you sometimes you give out more than you get back?
Dad was always a good barometer for me on those days. Whether or not he knew it. Whether or not I ever thanked him. I hope so.
Anyway. I'm sitting in my hotel room miserable from overeating. Basically, what happened is I overslept (because I had mis-set my alarm). So I skipped breakfast. And I had a decent lunch, but by dinner I was extremely dehydrated and overhungry, so I inhaled my food (and a ton of bread) and drank a ton of unsweet tea. By the time I got to my room, I felt like I was one of those foie gras geese.
I didn't sleep well last night. Which contributed to the oversleeping.
Can I level with you? I want to go home*.
I'm ready to spend a few weeks in Nashville with my husband, my puppy, my new kitchen.
I keep looking up Monty, the dog I'm convinced it Piper's long lost brother. I keep hoping you'll bring me a lottery ticket, one that would let me quit my job, buy a great place with a little land, go pick up Monty (contingent on Piper approval) and write. Let Matt take pictures. Become artists, of a sort. Maybe I'd get a little gig planning parties and events.
I don't know... first, I need to get the lottery ticket, or comparable.
So, Santa - can you bring me some cold, hard jingle? I promise you I will use my new largesse to make the world a better place. And make some puppy dogs very, very happy.
Sincerely,
Allison
PS - I know you're not in the supernatural business, but I would accept, in lieu of cash, a 30 minute phone call with my father. Just so he could set me right again. Yeah, yeah... lottery ticket it is.
*And to an extent, Santa, I'd like to go home circa 1990 - but Home v2016 would be dandy.
ae
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