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Areas of heavy traffic congestion could slow down the morning commute

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Dallas swimmers open season with another record

<p>Dear Santa,</p><p>I haven&#8217;t written in quite awhile!</p><p>You may remember me; I&#8217;m the one who started sending all those pesky (and slightly stalkerish) letters, beginning in 1969. You say harassing chain letters, I say brilliant direct mail marketing strategy. By the way, sorry I referred to you as &#8220;Dear Satan&#8221; at the time I had some adolescent issues with transposing letters. Anyway, I guess the whole thing backfired pretty potently because that&#8217;s the year I started getting really disappointing Christmas gifts like soap-on-a-rope and an egg timer</p><p>Once I turned 16, you&#8217;ll note, my letters stopped abruptly because it was just getting a little weird for the both of us. Nevertheless, I forgive you for all the oversights throughout my childhood, including the disregard for my requests for a souped-up doll carriage, Christmas 1970, the Mystery Date Game, Christmas 1972 and the platform shoes, Christmas 1975. By the way, I was so saddened when you refused to bring me a Giggles Doll when I was 7 that I wept into my Raggedy Ann pillow case until the new year. And, in the spirit of absolving, we won&#8217;t even discuss your misstep of bestowing the coveted Easy Bake Oven upon my sister, Jennifer, instead of me one painful Christmas. She baked a stinking cupcake while I had big plans to recreate pierogies in that bad boy.</p><p>I&#8217;m writing to tell you that I really have been a very, very mediocre girl this year. And if you knew me, you would realize that means very, very good. For instance, the day after Thanksgiving, I was speeding to my OBGYN appointment and blew through a really poorly-placed stop sign. I received a big, fluffy citation, and I not only admitted my mistake, but I didn&#8217;t even cry, like I usually do. Plus, I didn&#8217;t insist that I was in labor and rushing to the hospital. (That only worked once and I started my diet the very next hour). I actually thanked the policewoman. Why? Because I&#8217;m a moral, upstanding girl, Santa! That&#8217;s gotta be worth something more than a lint ball in my stocking. Although &#8212; full disclosure &#8212; I hid the ticket from my husband and won&#8217;t confess until New Year&#8217;s Eve when he is good and happy. He should just be grateful I wasn&#8217;t actually in labor.</p><p>Now, I&#8217;m thinking, since I&#8217;ve not been on the Exceptionally Naughty List since peeing on your lap in 1966, I have some leeway here. And honest to God, they need to introduce a Santa Lap Cover with Scotchgard. I wasn&#8217;t even remotely trained.</p><p>This Christmas, I feel I should receive a good gift based for not killing anyone during menopause. For instance, please don&#8217;t let my husband give me a treat like he gave me last year. Let&#8217;s relive that gem:</p><p>Me: &#8220;Oh. A Laser Tape Measure. Did I want this?&#8221;</p><p>Him, snatching it from my hands: &#8221;Heck, yes you wanted this! Just like you wanted the Electronic Stud Finder last year!&#8221;</p><p>Under my breath: &#8221;Well, next year I&#8217;ll find a stud, alright, and you can bet your sweet candy cane he&#8217;ll surprise me with something that doesn&#8217;t end up in its final resting place on the never-used &#8220;workbench&#8221; in the basement.&#8221;</p><p>So Santa, I&#8217;m begging you, please, can you steer my husband clear of the appliance and electric drill aisles at Home Depot and perhaps assist him in navigating his sleigh to a nice jewelry store instead?</p><p>Don&#8217;t make me pee on your lap.</p><p>Love,</p><p>Maria</p><style>
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<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>By Maria Jiunta Heck</p><p>Life Deconstructed</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Maria Jiunta Heck of West Pittston is a mother of three, a librarian and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Life Deconstructed: Better not pout, the big guy is headed to town