Hi, Santa, It's Me, The SJG

Gee, Santa, that hurts my feelings.

Dear Santa,
Hi, it's me, the SJG. I'm living in Sherman Oaks now. When we first met, I had a Beverly Hills zip code. Those were the days, eh, Santa? I was living the good life up there at the tippy top of Beverly Drive, communing with the lizards and a bunch of shrubbery and trees that made me sneeze my little tush off. I think I asked you for a Barbie Dream House, not an endless supply of Kleenex. But listen, Santa, it's okay. Everyone makes mistakes. I am not bitter. Well, maybe a little. But enough about me, Santa. Do me a favor, would ya? Travel safely around the globe. I worry about you, Santa, schlepping around in that open sleigh, with only some red-nosed reindeer to guide you.  That sounds pretty dicey to me, big guy.  It must get chilly up there, too. Make sure you bring a sweater, and maybe some Advil. God forbid you get a headache or altitude sickness. I know, most people write to you and ask for something. But I gave up after someone in my house mentioned we were Jewish, and told me to stop writing to you. That was a buzz kill, Santa. I'm still not over it.  In fact, I've changed my mind. I would like to ask you for something, if it's not too much trouble. I'd like a gift certificate. Westfield. Visa. American Express. At this point, I'm not that picky. The amount is up to you, of course. $75 dollars worth of calm would be terrific, but I'll settle for $50.
xo The SJG