CREDITS:

Story by talitavasconcelos

Traduction by Gabriela Silva

 "Dear Santa,

I've been a good girl. At least, I think so.

I've spent the whole year putting up with my boss — that impossible woman, a bag without handles, wheels, or a working zipper — without ever giving in to the temptation of driving my stiletto heel into her throat, or spiking the coffee she asks for seven hundred times a day with rat poison, or stapling her mouth shut...

This winter, I volunteered at the soup kitchen for the poor; participated in a food and clothing drive; made some donations to the Sisters of Mercy nursing home. I sang in the church choir. I even brought chocolates and hypoallergenic teddy bears to the kids at the neighborhood orphanage this week.

Acknowledge my effort! I really try to be a good and generous person.

So, just this year, could you give me the Christmas gift I picked out?

I don't want anything complicated. I mean, winning the lottery would be great, of course! But this year, I'd settle for simply having a perfect Christmas. You know? Without burning the turkey, without tossing the Christmas tree out the window while dancing in the living room — my aunt still doesn't believe it was an accident, but who puts a Christmas tree on the windowsill anyway? — and without getting a Saint Anthony statue as a gift, so I don't have to resist the urge to shove it up some smart aleck's obscure orifice. Yes, I know I'm thirty now; I know the biological clock is ticking, and I also know I'm doing just fine, thank you very much, single as I am.

All I want is a Christmas without any unpleasant incidents.

Is that asking too much, Santa?

With love — and desperation,

Samantha"

I should've had that letter notarized, in triplicate, with certified signatures, and sent directly to the Consumer Protection Agency. Seriously, Santa? Do you have something against me?

I admit it, I'm desperate. But it's just that my recent Christmases have been downright tragic. You know when all you want is a peaceful evening with family, listening to music, binge-watching Christmas movies, sipping hot chocolate — yes, even in the nearly 35-degree heat of December in São Paulo — popping a bottle of champagne, stuffing yourself with all the treats that only Christ's Birthday can offer? That's the Christmas I want, Brazil!

But what really happens?

The Apocalypse!

That's what we get...

First tip for anyone who doesn't want to be completely miserable at Christmas: never, ever, under any circumstances, buy a Christmas tree online! Especially if your feet tend to freeze this time of year.

Well, my intentions were good — and actually necessary. Our family was planning to spend Christmas at Grandma Neiva's chalet in Campos do Jordão. We figured that the mild mountain weather — hopefully even a bit chilly — would be a great way to exorcize the conflicts of the past few Christmases. But here's problem number one: Grandma no longer lives at the chalet. Since a minor accident in mid-November, when she climbed onto the kitchen sink to change the curtains, only to fall and break her leg in three places, Uncle Aurélio decided to take her to live with him — a decision Grandma wasn't entirely on board with — so, naturally, she wouldn't be there to handle the Christmas decorations. That's why we, the children and grandchildren, agreed to buy everything and bring it up the week of Christmas. But since I found a gorgeous, massive tree on sale online — and though I'm far from being a saint, I should've known that such a big bargain was too good to be true — I asked one of Grandma's neighbors, who had the key to the chalet, to receive it and leave it inside anywhere. I bought it at the start of December, and the estimated delivery time was four business days. But the useless seller never showed up to deliver it.

I demanded an explanation, and got a load of lousy excuses — yes, I know it's the end of the year; yes, I know the demand is high; yes, I understand that the delivery truck broke down; yes, I know that Campos do Jordão is nowhere near your store in Campinas; but no, I do not understand why you keep selling online without adjusting the delivery timeline! After a lot of back-and-forth with the store, I managed to cancel the order, and they promised to refund me within seven business days.

Or seven reincarnations! Because so far, nothing.

Putting aside the financial loss, I ended up buying a Christmas tree in person — considerably smaller than the one that never got delivered — and stored it in my apartment, planning to take it up to the chalet myself. That is, if it fits in my car. But it might fit in Bruno's truck.

Which brings us to problem number two: nobody was able to get up to the chalet before the night of December 23rd. Which means we'd have to set up decorations, prepare dinner, and everything else on Christmas Eve itself.

Second tip: if you plan with your family for everyone to bring a part of the decorations to put up the tree right before Christmas, make sure to pester your Uncle Haroldo more than a Jehovah's Witness on a Sunday morning, so he can't show up with the excuse, "Oh, I forgot!"

At least this setback wasn't — entirely — my fault. We'll have to space out the decorations more so it doesn't look like we're missing a lot, but it's the thought that counts.

Third tip: never leave Christmas decorations unattended in the living room if there are mischievous kids and a hungry dog nearby; Santa Claus could become the dog's lunch, and the kids might toss the rest into the neighbor's yard when no one's looking. And because luck never gives us a break, those lead-painted red, green, and gold ornaments that Aunt Constância brought — and I don't even want to know where she got them, unless it's to get the store owner's head examined — might end up hitting someone's window.

Now try explaining to an angry neighbor, accompanied by a pit bull, that it was 'accidentally on purpose'...

On second thought, after taking Elvis — the dog — to the vet for an emergency stomach pump on Christmas Eve, to retrieve a Santa Claus that was not as intact as Little Red Riding Hood's grandma from the Big Bad Wolf's belly, I think I'm starting to understand why Santa completely ignored my request this year. I should probably be grateful he didn't send me a pile of lit coal to burn down the chalet!

My mom, who never had much talent in the kitchen, wanted nothing to do with it: she immediately bailed and went to gossip with the neighbor until dinner time, taking Grandma, Aunt Constância, and Aunt Roberta with her, leaving everything in my hands. Well, mine and my sister Patrícia's.

Which brings me to the fourth tip: if your nephews — the aforementioned mischievous kids — beg you to make their favorite, extremely complicated dessert for Christmas, tell them to go...

Wait a minute, I need another glass of cider before I continue.

Fifth tip: if you give in to the little devils' whims and decide to make that complicated dessert, and you have to run to the grocery store last minute for the ingredients, make sure not to leave Uncle Haroldo — who you already know is scatterbrained — in charge of watching the pot of rice on the stove.

The man managed to fall asleep, with smoke filling the entire house!

I'm shocked that no one in the neighborhood called the fire department...

Speaking of which, does anyone know where to find walnuts on Christmas Eve? I had to go all the way to a supermarket in Pindamonhangaba to find them!

Well, after returning from the middle of nowhere with the blessed ingredients to make the Dutch apple walnut pie for my little devils — I mean, my favorite nephews — and managing to put out the fire in the rice pot, which was completely scorched; I don't even know if we can salvage the pot — sorry about that, Grandma! — and after chilling the pie dough in the fridge for the required three hours, and preparing all five steps of the filling, I discovered we had no oven available to bake that monstrosity.

The turkey was to blame! Or rather, Uncle Aurélio was, since he thought the family was so big we needed a twelve-kilogram turkey! It needs an hour per kilogram to roast; they put it in the oven at noon. You do the math for what time dinner will be ready.

No pie, no ham roast, no honey-glazed ham, nothing! The only things that would be ready by eight o'clock were the rice and the chicken salad.

Good thing Patrícia had the good sense to bring a pre-made berry cake. It'll keep us from starving until the bird finishes roasting.

So, the sixth tip is: don't let your overzealous uncle buy the turkey.

Then again, this might have been Grandma's doing. In her mind, even though she weighs two hundred kilos, everyone else looks so skinny...

Seventh tip: if your Christmas is a complete mess and you hear that Grandma's sweet neighbor — the one who kindly offered to receive the Christmas tree that never showed up — is spending the holiday alone and just so happens to have an electric oven available, invite her over; but resist the urge to also invite the oven.

I had such good intentions with that pie...

The ham and roast cooked perfectly. They turned out wonderfully juicy! It was half past eight, and we were about to set the table — without the turkey, of course; we'll save the bird for dessert's dessert. But just as I placed the pie in the oven... The power went out.

I.

Deserve.

It.

"Looks like it'll be a candlelit Christmas dinner, folks," I announced, trying to laugh it off while searching for the candles that I knew Grandma never let run out, since in rainy season, small towns rarely have a reliable power supply, but she almost never remembers where she stashes them.

While I rummaged through the kitchen drawers, and the rest of the family used their phone flashlights to search for candles and candelabras throughout the house, everyone forgot about the delicious, juicy, golden meats sitting on the counter...

And no one remembered that little caramel-colored four-legged creature who had already devoured a plastic Santa, expelled said Santa at the vet, and was still not satisfied...

I didn't even see where the ham disappeared to. By the time I noticed, my sister was frozen, watching as he wolfed down the roast. On the countertop. How he managed to get up there is a mystery...

Eighth tip: where's that dog's leash?

It was half past eight, and the perfect Christmas I'd ordered from Santa had turned into: a pot of scorched Greek-style rice; a replacement rice with hot dogs and sweet corn — because that was all we had left to salvage the disaster —; a black-eyed pea salad that, luckily, Aunt Constância had brought ready-made from home; a chicken salad with only half a jar of mayonnaise, because someone forgot to bring it — I promised not to tell anyone it was Aunt Roberta —; an unbaked pie trying to absorb the leftover warmth — and the smell of ham — from the now cold oven; more candles lit than at a funeral; a turkey that still wasn't done roasting; and a cake sitting in the fridge.

Merry Christmas!

Please, tell me that thing crawling on the chicken salad isn't a cockroach...

"I'll order a pizza," my brother-in-law, Bruno, said, giving up on life. "Any flavor suggestions?"

I was tempted to say arsenic.

Instead, I went for the brandy. To get through this Christmas without killing anyone or smashing my head against the wall, I'd need a drink.

To top off the best Christmas of the century — not — I found out during the Secret Santa gift exchange that the shirt I'd bought for my brother-in-law had somehow turned into a baby-doll.

That's what you get for letting the sales clerk wrap the present while you go pay at the register.

Tip number... I lost count: don't take your eyes off the clerk until she hands you the package!

And because nothing is ever so bad that it can't get worse, guess who got me this year? Aunt Roberta! The same one who gave me a Saint Anthony statue last year.

This year, an exorcist would've been more useful.

I seriously considered leaving the gift unopened until next year, just to avoid getting even more annoyed this Christmas.

"I'm with you, Sam. Rip off the Band-Aid," my sister whispered, giving me moral support as I slowly tore the wrapping paper.

This time, I have to admit, Aunt Roberta was a bit more considerate. She gave me a his-and-hers towel set — subtle as a brick to the face — and the phone number of the vet who treated Elvis, whom she swears is handsome and single.

"I need another drink," I whispered to Patrícia, screwing a smile onto my face to pretend that Aunt Roberta's gift was perfect. As always...

Well, we can say we survived another family Christmas. Uncle Haroldo, as usual, grabbed both turkey legs — the bird was finally ready around midnight, and this time Bruno practically welded Elvis's leash to the stair railing; after all, you've already had dinner! Haven't you, dear? Aunt Roberta complained that the turkey was dry; Aunt Constância told her to go somewhere decidedly un-Christmas-like; Grandma Neiva, with her casted leg up on the sofa, nearly had to belt out the National Anthem for someone to remember to serve her plate; Patrícia, Mom, and I had to fight over the wings; and the turkey tail ended up on Uncle Aurélio's plate.

At least the pie turned out well... Finally baked in the gas oven, free at last from the turkey.

And when the power came back on, almost at dawn, we discovered that the neighbor's electric oven was done for. Burned out.

Another Christmas completed successfully...

I'll keep wishing for that dream Christmas. It wasn't meant to be this year.

For next year, I can only say I'm done with Santa. I'm writing to Saint Jude. Or to Tom Cruise.

Because a perfect Christmas, apparently, is a lost cause — or a mission impossible.