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Another Christmas past
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As Sunnybuns was making out his Christmas wish list, I decided that maybe I’d better make one out for myself. I mean, what’s that old adage about if you don’t ask, you don’t get, or something like that? I figured if I wrote it down on paper and read it a couple of times a day, my noble wishes would eventually work their way through the ethers and slide into Santa’s ear like a wisp of steam from a mug of hot chocolate.

I clutched my list to my breast and murmured, with eyes tightly shut, “Please, Santa, please, I’ve been a really good girl this year.” I’d re-read my list and made sure I had what I wanted in just the right place. It’s important to have your priorities straight when making out your wish list!

Mind you, my list was nothing fantastic, nothing out-of-this-world, and certainly only took up a couple of lines of paper.

Wish number 1: A big poster of Gerard Butler in “300.” Lifesize, please.

I wanted it big enough to see the fake beads of sweat on his brow. I’ve got a home for it on the wall beside my bed. I really wanted one of him done in molded plastic so I could run my fingers over those pecs every night before I went to bed! Purrr-rr-rr-rrr.

Wish number 2: A wig. I wanted a nice colorful wig to wear around town, so that when I went into a store and got crappy service, I could just say whatever I wanted to and no one would be the wiser. You know, my “alter ego” of sorts. Wigs have a funny way of making you come out of your shell — scary, but true. And fun.

Wish number 3: Lifetime maid service. Once a week. Man, if I could get maid service once a week, I’d be the happiest woman alive. I absolutely hate housekeeping, and yet I do it every day. I’m not great at it, but I do it. Who wouldn’t love a sparkling clean house at least one day out of the week? I live with two of the most jumbled up, disorganized males on Mother Earth.

Don’t ask me how that sock got into that box of cereal — I have no idea. Nor can I fathom how that Bic shaver ended up in the candy drawer — I suspect someone had to have a tootsie roll whilst shaving off their mustache (coulda been me, I mean, I do have a mustache at this stage in my life).

Hubs’ messiness I can chalk up to old age and early dementia, Sunnybuns is still only 8. I am a beaten down hausfrau. Hence, the request for weekly maid service.

That was it. Items 1, 2 and 3. See? Nothing glamorous, nothing that would cause mortgage rates to jump thru the roof, just some simple fancies from a middle-aged chick with a crush on Gerard Butler.

I laid out my wish list on Christmas Eve, with a note asking Santa to check it twice as I was not naughty, but awfully nice. I had slaved over some seven-layer bars for his treat, and left an ice-cold Coke in a drink cozy by the yummy sweets.

I toddled off to bed, with my good ear (the one that actually works) turned up toward the rooftop, anticipating the click-click-clicks. Down through the chimney would come St. Nick.

Dawn broke and rays of sunshine spilled thru the blinds in my bedroom. Hubs was still sawin’ his Yule logs, and Sunnybuns was still dreaming of dancing sugarplums.

I padded softly down the hall toward the Christmas tree, wringing my hands in nervous anticipation of finding Mr. Butler standing large in my living room.

I glanced down at the note I’d left for Santa and he had scrawled across the bottom of it, “Ho!Ho!Ho!”  One “Ho!” for each item on my wish list.

I looked over at the tree and didn’t see anything faintly resembling a life-sized poster of anyone.

No box with a Styrofoam mannequin head sporting a fashionable hair-do.

No envelope containing my year-long gift certificate of maid service.

Dang that Santa!

I did find, however, a box wrapped up gaily with a big glittery bow. I opened it up and lo and behold — maid service. A new dustpan and brush.

They’ll come in handy next year when I sweep his charred whiskers out of my fireplace.