Michael McLeod
Ok so here is a story for the season:
I have a friend named Santa. No, seriously: I have a friend named Santa. Her father gave her that name so people would remember her. (He needn't have done so: she is just one of those beautiful, heartfelt, funny, trustworthy, non-judgmental and altogether likeable people you feel very fortunate to have in your universe.) She was the award-winning page designer and artist at the magazine I worked for and we've been friends for years but had not seen each other for quite some time.
Something else that is unique about Santa is that she once designed birthday cards, valentine cards, and I have to assume Christmas cards for Hallmark. And several times over the years, when I've had serious tragedies in my life and was in grief and confusion and pain, I would recieve from her a personal, hand-made card - one that looked absolutely like a store-bought card but clearly was a homemade, one-of-a-kind on closer inspection, often including our personal greeting - "Hey, pal" - that had sprung up between us over the years.
She also sent me handmade cards on happy occasions - but it's the ones that came through in the clutch that meant the most. Safe to say she lives up to her name. She makes a damn good Santa. And that is how I have her listed in my cell -- simply, as "Santa."
Therin lies an amusing problem.
I keep forgetting this, because over the past few years we haven't stayed continually in touch, but if I just call her the way I call anyone else on my cell phone and say her name out loud - "Siri, call Santa" -- as I just did a few minutes ago, Siri gives me crap. But of course she does. Instead of connecting me, she assumes I am just messing around, kicks into smart-ass mode as she is programmed to do, and says:
"I can't. But don't worry. I'll put in a good word."
Try your own phone and see what she says. She won't connect you to my dear friend, Santa Choplin, I'll tell you that much.
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