Crushing Santa
Violet’s upward inflection which begins with my question:
“Where are the little books I made you?” I’m in the mood to reminisce.
She stops. “Wait, are you Santa?”
I realize I’ve made an error. I didn’t make those Shutterfly books. Santa did.
“Nooo?” I say, which is a lie because I AM Santa, but I also don’t feel like this is the moment to break Santa.
“So…where is the book Santa made?” I try again.
She eyes me with suspicion but pulls out the book so we can have a look.
We are realists in this household—except when it comes to Santa, where we exist in an utter suspension of disbelief, all of us playing along. Santa is behind the miraculous Christmas of the iPad (Santa’s so generous), also the year of the hair brushes (Santa was weird that year) and the year of the Shutterfly photo books.
“Where did he get all the pictures?” she says after a while.
“I don’t know,” I say, keeping my eyes low.
“It’s very suspicious,” she says again, but then picks up another thought: “If it were you, you would have had to save up a lot of money every Christmas.”
Apparently that’s unlikely!
“This year, I’m asking Santa for Peachie Baby slime,” she says with a glint in her eye. “It’s expensive.”
Phew. Truth of the world avoided once again.
The colour purple.
On Writing and Failure by Stephen Marche—my much needed kick in the butt when I start to whine about making a living as a writer/artist. He writes:
No whining. The next time you're rejected from some grant or some job, remember James Joyce in 1912…He couldn't get a job as a low-level lecturer at a technical college. Joyce's biography is one failure after another, a combination of bad luck and total ineffectiveness. He was not dishonest or weak or lacking in cunning. It's just that things never seemed to work out. He was the kind of guy who couldn't win for losing. He ended up teaching English as a second language as a private tutor, the equivalent of putting up flyers on the street offering guitar lessons…Anyone with the desire to make art with words should be aware that James Joyce—James fucking Joyce couldn't make a living at it.
I like her simple but interesting recipes from I Dream of Dinner (so you don’t have to).
I need a tangible product to stare at these days in order to cook. ‘Cause the amazing 7-spice mix I put my mom onto and other delicious things I USED to make: total amnesia. Apparently, I’m starting fresh.
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Starting fresh. I’m feeling that!
It IS very suspicious! Good save!