Dear Santa. Again.

Dear Darling Santa,
You seem to have misplaced my letter. I'll remind you what my wishes were.
I had wished, in case you didn't read it at all -  that I could eat all those Christmasy things I love without fear of getting fat - especially since I am working on bringing to fruition one of the wishes contained in my daughters Santa Letter, sent to you in confidence, which specifically asks you to make me stop smoking.(I see how complicated this can get for your, Dear Bearded One)

As much as I would like to fulfill this cute little request and make you look good, Dear Pot Bellied One - I'm afraid that I don't know what to do with the extra 85 pounds I put on in the last week, gorging on those Sape cookies, Bosnian pita pans and moms' glorious ham that I have never enjoyed until this year - the year I stopped smoking for Christmas.

Smugly, I stopped smoking, might I add, knowing full well that I would be the envy of all the other women in my neighborhood who did not have a direct connection to you. Knowing full well, with your reputation to uphold you would do what I bloody well asked in the letter.

I'm just saying that the not smoking thing is not working as well as I had hoped - as each day it seems I begin to resemble you (in girth at least) more and more.

It's not making us look good, dude, in front of the Girl. Her wish was 'mom stop smoking'. My wish was don't make me fat if I do. Let's move on it, huh?