Minneapolis is a funny place. All these white people freak me out, but I am managing none the less. There is about one show a week I actually want to see, which i keep missing. I have not been in a bar in weeks. Meanwhile, my books and friends treat me nice. I bought a bike, I guess that means I am not leaving for a while still.
Last night, my mother told me a story about my childhood that does not even sound vaguely familiar to me. She says I was obsessed, year round, with Santa. That I would make her write out and revise extensive lists of what I wanted, but that the list always included walnuts and a nutcracker. That I had a red plastic phone on which I would "call" Santa, daily, to check in and tell him of my goodness, and then hand the phone to my mom so she could verify this with Santa. When Xmas would come, and we would go to the mall, for my Santa visit and polaroid-opp, she says I would panic, and freeze, and sit mute on Santa's lap, unable to do anything but whisper "Barbies". None the less, I carried my pictures of me with Santa in my purse, like he was my boyfriend, and had the others in frames decorating my room, along with my minor collection of nutcrackers.
I think this is only slightly less telling than my sister's Xmas list from age 4, which is still posted on my mom's fridge, where she asks Santa for "Chapstick" and "love".Posted by Jessica at September 21, 2004 02:52 PM | TrackBack