I love getting Christmas cards. LOVE them. I especially love the newsy letters, and of course I love getting pictures of all the little kids. I like it even better when my friends include themselves in the pictures, because, let's face it, little kids are cute as hell, but nothing beats seeing how fat your friends got this year.
Everyone knows that women only include themselves in the Christmas card photo if they are looking fabulous, so if you send me a card and you're not in the picture, I know what's going on. I know you probably sit on the sofa eating Cheetos and weeping while you watch The Biggest Loser. That's OK. But don't think you're pulling one over on me, girlfriend. I can read the code. Instead of sending a picture of your beautiful children, why don't you make a copy of your Weight Watchers progress card that shows you haven't weighed in or been to a meeting since last February? Send that around.
Also, mailing a picture of just your children to a husband-less, child-less, boyfriend-less woman is kind of uppity. Why not send me a picture of just your big house, or better yet, cut the crap and email me a PDF of your most recent joint checking account statement? "Merry Christmas, loser. Look at the shit we have that you don't. Suck it!"
Maybe I'll send out pictures of myself doing all the things you can't do. It must be such a drag, the being married, having a built-in friend, stability. YOU didn't get to spend half of 2013 living in a Prius. I don't MEAN to rub it in, but it's so hard, when you have a life like mine. And I already do that on Facebook, so let's get back to the Christmas cards...
I look fabulous again this year, but I don't have a husband or children, and single women don't typically send pictures of themselves as Christmas card photos, which is why, every year in September or October, I start to think how funny it would be if I sent a Christmas card photo of myself with my pets. It would be a really close-up picture of me and my dog. In past years, I had a dog and TWO cats, and if I got dressed up, like, make up and a blow out, a tasteful blouse, the whole thing, and sent you a picture of myself with these animals crawling all over me, and you opened that shit up, would it not cause you to say to your spouse: "Is Jules really sending us a picture of herself and her pets? Is this a joke or isn't it?" And that would be funny, the not knowing.
Also, it would not make any sense, as I do not even have a dog.
But then it's two days before Christmas, and I realize that I never did go to Sears or Olan Mills to get this serious/hilarious picture taken, so then I have to decide whether to send regular boring Christmas cards. When so many people send pictures with their cards and now most people just send pictures and do not even write anything on the cards, you realize that you're kind of a fool if you hand-write all your Christmas cards. People only want to see the pictures anyway, so if you send a card with no pictures, it's not going to win any awards. And, as you know, I like to win awards.
I have considered writing a holiday newsletter, but every year when I start to put that together, I realize that most of the "news" I'd have to share would not be very Christmas-y: "I got laid off. I have no health insurance. My mental health is tenuous. I'm hanging on by a shoestring. The 12-step program really helps. Merry Christmas?" I don't want to send a letter that would upset people.
Or do I?
I've recently been informed by my sister-in-law, and via Facebook nonetheless, that I can't even wear my favorite Christmas hat this year, because it freaks my nephew out. Screw you, Parker. Your poopy diapers freak me out, but I don't get all whiny about it. Just let me wear my damn dancing/singing hat. It isn't even my hat. I just wear it better than anyone else, and you know that, Parker. Just because you're the baby doesn't mean you have to hog ALL the attention. Don't be a hater. Christmastime is crummy enough when no one gives you any toys, and everyone is constantly haranguing you about how you're too gorgeous to have ANY fathomable reason to STILL be single. So I don't feel like writing Christmas cards this year, and I'm not going to try to do something shocking with photos or a newsletter.
But here is a Christmas card that I really DID send in 2001. I printed it and put it in the actual mail, and some of you received it. There are, of course, some updates to this Christmas card from many years ago: (1) My brother has been married for 7 years and has two beautiful sons, so my parents' dream of becoming grandparents has been realized through no effort on my part at all; (2) I no longer practice law, which is part of the reason I really did live in a Prius for longer than anyone should live in a Prius; (3) Dad retired in December, but we still don't know where he lives or what he was doing during the 40 years prior; (4) the Easter Egg thing is still very real; (5) Grandpa died.
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[While we were on vacation in Mexico, my mother announced that she was torn as to whether she ought to send out her usual holiday newsletter, or hand-write the Christmas cards this year. Since she typically sends out the newsletter without first consulting us, inevitably misstating and embellishing the facts, Michael and I attempted to thwart the newsletter idea by pointing out that neither of us accomplished anything or had anything good happen to us this year. Mom got pissed, threw up her hands, and said, "Fine! Why don't you just write the letter." Bad call, Ma, for we took up the challenge. Ergo, was born, on a cocktail napkin and over a great deal of alcohol]:
The Incredibly Morose 2001 D- Holiday Letter
Hiya! Another year, another 365 days of the same old crap, and once again, the kids have proven themselves to be un-marriageable, giving us zero grandchildren and zero hope of a wedding (unless Mike knocks up some hooker, which is unlikely, since he doesn't even have the wherewithal to sleep around like a normal, good-lookin' guy in his mid-twenties).
Julie managed to bamboozle a guy into paying for exactly one meal during the year 2001. We’ll see if he calls. (Don’t hold your breath.)
Julie set Michael up on a date, which was a miserable failure. If we've said it before, we'll say it again: Michael is unlucky in love.
Tom, for the 17th year in a row, did not live within a 300-mile radius of his wife and children. He worked in Seattle for the first half of the year (incidentally, Tom wishes us to note that he is a Seattle Earthquake 2001! survivor), and currently works in Indianapolis. As usual, who cares? Keep sending the checks home, Dad.
Paula, having over-committed to numerous book groups over the course of the year, finally had to prioritize her book-reading obligations. She pared down from three book groups to just one, and stunned the Naperville book-reading community by standing up at Mary Jane Doody’s house and announcing, “Enough is enough! I can only read ONE book a month. Not three, not even two. I will NOT read Bee Season AND A Prayer for Owen Meany at the same time. I CANNOT! I WILL NOT!”
Michael got a hair cut!!
We have NO grandchildren.
Julie, who is still clinging lifelessly to her job as an “attorney”, performed approximately no legal services for anyone this year. We don't expect her to be employed come February. (Should we have saved that for next year's letter?)
Incidentally, about Paula, we all acknowledge that she is a wonderful mother and that she did nothing but scrimp and sacrifice in the raising of the children and taking care of Tom all those years, but none of us feels too bad for Paula now, as her lifestyle consists of shopping for over-sized jars of shrimp cocktail and bags of frozen dinner rolls at Sam's, planning her and Tom’s quarterly two-week vacation, going on vacation, and letting the cleaning lady in.
Tom swept the 2001 D- Easter Egg Decorating Contest, dominating such categories as "most stupidest", "most dumbest", and "most jerky". (While this tidbit may seem like a joke, rest assured, it is not.)
Julie ran the Chicago Marathon in October. She has only 8 of 10 toenails still attached to her feet and wakes up screaming in the night complaining of phantom limb pain.
Grandma died.
Our 26- and 27-year old children are on vacation with us as we write this, so is it any wonder that we have no grandchildren?
Merry Christmas.
