I apologize for sending you my letter at the last minute. It seems to be a theme with me this year. Although I have not missed a deadline, I’ve squeaked in just under the wire on a few. This year has been crazy; I feel like I’ve sprinted through the entire twelve months. I wonder—is that why the year went so fast?
I’ve been a very good girl this year, Santa. I haven’t been the least bit snippy when I’ve been interrupted, I’ve balanced my time perfectly, and I never neglected my family because of writing. No, you don’t need to ask my husband to verify that. He is B-U-S-Y. Unlike me, he cannot be interrupted.
Snarky? No, I’m not being snarky.
I understand that some of my past gift requests may have challenged you because I never received the pet dragon to guard my office door or 10-year calendar roll-back I asked for in 2011 (If Walmart can roll back prices, surely you can roll back the clock. Just sayin’, not being snippy). And last year I was quite disappointed to not receive an elf to serve as my gopher.
So this year, I’m going to pare down my requests. Dear Santa, could I pretty please with a shot of whiskey have a personal chef? I cook dinner every—single—night and do it without any whining. Sometimes with wine, but that’s different. Anywho, my personal chef should be handsome, muscled, and sexy. He should look like one of my erotic romance heroes. Give him an accent. He should like to cook (and serve) shirtless—and if he likes to give massages, that’s a bonus. No, you don’t need to check with my husband if it’s okay. I’ve already asked him. I’m sure he heard me. He was only pretending to be asleep.
I’ll be sure to leave you a snifter of brandy and some rum balls on Christmas Eve. I’m so excited! I look forward to receiving Jacques. That’s what I’m going to name my personal chef.
Hugs and kisses,