Annual Christmas letters. I mentioned them yesterday because I got a chance to edit my sister’s. It passes muster in my book because 1. it’s funny and 2. it mentions her daughter’s ear infection in Hawaii. But we’ve all received them: the hyperbolic records of children’s achievements, professional successes, and dreamy vacations on which everyone behaved and no one hyperventilated when the Amex bill arrived.
Not long before I met Husbot, I sent out my First Annual Christmas Letter. I will copy it here, in case you’d like to use it as a model for yours at the close of 2012. Its virtue is that it won’t make anyone hate you.
Apologies for the mass-mailed “Christmas Letter,” but so much has happened this year that it seemed the most efficient way to go.
Abruptly single again last November, I started drinking an extra glass of wine every night (my friend Solveig said it was okay to start in the morning, but I rarely rose before noon). Seeking a more fulfilling life path, I applied, again with the help of my friend Solveig, for several jobs as far away as northern Idaho and New England. I did not get them. Nor did I finish my novel.
Meanwhile, I began plucking a growing hedge of gray hairs from my temples and upper lip. The good news is that many of my new hairs are hidden in my deepening wrinkles. My friend Solveig says that these wrinkles are my fault; that if I had used sunscreen in my youth, I would still be smooth as the top of a fresh pumpkin pie, but I disagree—it is genetic, as is my progressive hearing loss.
Solveig told me that traveling would help, so I visited San Francisco. I looked for the parrots of Telegraph Hill but did not find them.
As for the pets, my cat, Tesserwell, didn’t seem to mind moving four times after we hurriedly left the yurt that came with the job I had to quit when my boyfriend left me. My dog, June, didn’t mind the moves either except for the last time, when she had explosive diarrhea for three days. We’re in a nice townhouse now, and Solveig says that it’s healthy that we’re no longer in the basement with the vermicomposter, or the condo with the unemployed Vicodan addict, or the guesthouse of the rich man who kept asking for blowjobs (he did not get them). And unlike the yurt, the townhouse has plumbing!
I have high hopes that the new year will bring a wonderful man into my life. Solveig says I deserve someone with whom to share my unique outlook and way of facing life’s challenges.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
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What’s your Christmas letter look like?