Dear Santa...
Nov 24, 2014 05:03PM ● By Tom Mailey
I don’t want a tie for Christmas; or a coat or a shirt or pants or socks, or especially underwear; I don’t want a gift card to Home Depot, Sportsman’s Warehouse, Cheesecake Factory or In-N-Out Burger.
I definitely don’t want gadgets or things that take batteries. I don’t want stuff I have to put together or take apart, or anything that comes in that damned bulletproof packaging that requires a chainsaw to open. I don’t want a chainsaw.
I don’t want a weekend getaway or a round of golf. I don’t want cologne named after athletes, rappers or thick-shouldered animals with horns. I’ll skip on magazine subscriptions and the complete first season of anything on DVD. Like Clark Griswold, I am vehemently opposed to membership in the Jelly of the Month Club.
I don’t want electronics—no iPhones, Androids, pads or tablets. No smart watches either, and I definitely don’t want Google Glass, if it’s even available, which I hope it isn’t, and never is.
I don’t want books—although I love them. I don’t even want beer—though I love that, too.
I don’t want gear from my favorite sports teams—no jerseys, jackets, hats, commemorative balls, bats or bobbleheads. I don’t want anything autographed, framed or limited edition-ed. No tickets to a game, either (have you seen what they want for parking?).
I don’t want an espresso maker, a French press or that thing that makes soda when I can get it at the store, already bottled and ready to drink. I don’t want anything that comes with the words “As Seen on TV” or has “Chia,” “Sham” or “O-Matic” in its name.
I don’t want novelty gifts. Whoopee cushions and fake dog poop are funny, yes, always, but no. I don’t want toys or tools. No fishing rods or a new tackle box. (Even though I need one. And no, that’s not a hint.)
Nothing from Brookstone—no polished-steel pneumatic toenail clippers, motorized grill cleaning brushes or ceiling projection alarm clocks.
I don’t want a drone.
I swear to all things holly and jolly: There isn’t a single material thing under the dim winter sun that I want—not one gift I could unwrap that would have me regretting anything I just typed.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want anything for Christmas. I do. One thing. My family. I want to be with them, laugh with them, argue with them, eat-until-everyone’s-drowsy with them. I want to sit at the kitchen table and play a game of Monopoly that takes way too long. I want us all lolling on the couch watching A Christmas Story and It’s a Wonderful Life and then maybe The Hangover or Superbad. I want us to go for a hike or a bike ride or up to Homewood and ski until our legs are wobbly. I want my daughter visiting from L.A. to hang with her mom, and I want them to hit the mall, grab coffee—or a drink (she’s 22 now)—and come home with armfuls of oversized retail bags. I want my boys to flop down in the back room and play Call of Duty until they can’t blow up another zombie. I want a ragged game of touch football in our cul-de-sac. I want the house so loud I’m longing for quiet.
I want us all together—in the house we raised our kids—for just a little while again. The presents under the tree can be for them or their mom, because if we’re together, as trite as it may sound, I already have everything I need.
Although, OK, an In-N-Out Burger gift card would be nice. If you insist.
I definitely don’t want gadgets or things that take batteries. I don’t want stuff I have to put together or take apart, or anything that comes in that damned bulletproof packaging that requires a chainsaw to open. I don’t want a chainsaw.
I don’t want a weekend getaway or a round of golf. I don’t want cologne named after athletes, rappers or thick-shouldered animals with horns. I’ll skip on magazine subscriptions and the complete first season of anything on DVD. Like Clark Griswold, I am vehemently opposed to membership in the Jelly of the Month Club.
I don’t want electronics—no iPhones, Androids, pads or tablets. No smart watches either, and I definitely don’t want Google Glass, if it’s even available, which I hope it isn’t, and never is.
I don’t want books—although I love them. I don’t even want beer—though I love that, too.
I don’t want gear from my favorite sports teams—no jerseys, jackets, hats, commemorative balls, bats or bobbleheads. I don’t want anything autographed, framed or limited edition-ed. No tickets to a game, either (have you seen what they want for parking?).
I don’t want an espresso maker, a French press or that thing that makes soda when I can get it at the store, already bottled and ready to drink. I don’t want anything that comes with the words “As Seen on TV” or has “Chia,” “Sham” or “O-Matic” in its name.
I don’t want novelty gifts. Whoopee cushions and fake dog poop are funny, yes, always, but no. I don’t want toys or tools. No fishing rods or a new tackle box. (Even though I need one. And no, that’s not a hint.)
Nothing from Brookstone—no polished-steel pneumatic toenail clippers, motorized grill cleaning brushes or ceiling projection alarm clocks.
I don’t want a drone.
I swear to all things holly and jolly: There isn’t a single material thing under the dim winter sun that I want—not one gift I could unwrap that would have me regretting anything I just typed.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want anything for Christmas. I do. One thing. My family. I want to be with them, laugh with them, argue with them, eat-until-everyone’s-drowsy with them. I want to sit at the kitchen table and play a game of Monopoly that takes way too long. I want us all lolling on the couch watching A Christmas Story and It’s a Wonderful Life and then maybe The Hangover or Superbad. I want us to go for a hike or a bike ride or up to Homewood and ski until our legs are wobbly. I want my daughter visiting from L.A. to hang with her mom, and I want them to hit the mall, grab coffee—or a drink (she’s 22 now)—and come home with armfuls of oversized retail bags. I want my boys to flop down in the back room and play Call of Duty until they can’t blow up another zombie. I want a ragged game of touch football in our cul-de-sac. I want the house so loud I’m longing for quiet.
I want us all together—in the house we raised our kids—for just a little while again. The presents under the tree can be for them or their mom, because if we’re together, as trite as it may sound, I already have everything I need.
Although, OK, an In-N-Out Burger gift card would be nice. If you insist.
Find more of Tom's Takes here, and make sure to catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1 or follow Tom on Twitter @kncitom.