It’s me, again, Jen Glantz. Do you remember me? I recently sat on your lap at a Boca Raton mall after my middle school pal Jamie, and I got a little too tipsy off dollar margaritas at Chilli’s and decided to have some words with you.
Why don't you ever swing by my crash pad on the 25th of December?
I know I am of a religion where Christmas is exempt from our calendar, but still. I used to leave out kosher rugelach for you when I was a child, and for a while, I believed when they were gone in the morning it was because you came by, ate them, and just rudely didn’t give me a gift. But one year, I stayed up all night, and when I heard footsteps in the kitchen, I ran down the stairs only to find my dad eating the rugelach.
I love you, Santa, and I’m just wondering why we can’t be friends.
I can forget about how you ghosted me every Christmas for the past 29 years if you can just add me to your gift list. This year, in particular, I’d like a little cash to put toward my New York City rent. The fourth floor, rat-infested walk-up that I live in is pricey, Santa.
I’m writing you, this year, because last week, I found myself walking the streets of the modern day wonderland called Fifth Avenue, feeling left out. I want to celebrate Christmas! I want to hang red and green lights all over my apartment, watch plotless Hallmark Christmas movies that make me cry and find myself standing underneath mistletoe kissing someone who makes my heart flutter. I want to get deep into the holly jolly spirit and wish random people a Merry Christmas, as I listen to Christmas songs on repeat.
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After finding myself, eight days post-Hanukkah, suffocated by chunks of wrapping paper and nails clogged with multi-colored wax from the menorah, I want to get my latke-stuffed butt off the couch, and try to keep the holiday cheer going.
For what it’s worth, I believe I’d belong on your “Nice Jewish American Princess” list.
You’ll be proud to know that I refrained from elbowing strangers as I strolled down 5th Avenue today trying to take a glance at those Holiday window displays. I let the old lady jabbing the back of my knee with her cane cut in front of me during Black Friday shopping. And when I called the bank to find out why the heck they were charging me an extra Benjamin this month, in what they call “not hidden hidden-fees,” I wished them “Happy Holidays” instead of telling them to go...well, you know what I wish I said.
You’re probably really tight with our mutual friends the Tooth Fairy and Passover’s Elijah, whom I’m sure can vouch for me. After that fairy stole a tooth, I always left her a sticker from my Lisa Frank collection under the pillow. And every year, I always leave Elijah a chocolate covered macaroon next to his glass for whenever he decides to show up. I’d do the same for you, Santa.
So how about you pop in tonight? Perhaps, over a dish of Moo Goo Gai Pan from Chinatown, I can tell you about the four feature films I sat through while picking popcorn out of my dentures at the movie theater, or about the Matzah Ball (a Jewish singles party on Xmas Eve) that I attended where the guys just wanted me to light their Menorah’s and play "find the Akifokem" with my fragile, potato pancake heart. One guy even offered to take me on a date with a 50% off coupon he scored during a raffle at work. Another, I hadn’t seen since he gave a very pitchy rendition of his Torah portion during his Bar Mitzvah.
Let’s get crazy, Santa! I’ll tune up my guitar, and we can jam to some "Hava Negilah" mixed with "Silent Night" and make a mashup.
P.S. I left you a plate of hamantaschen and a glass of warm Manischewitz wine.
P.P.S. For best taste, just wipe the first layer of freezer burn off the top. For all I know, these cookies have been hanging tight next to the pastrami in the freezer since March.