Christmas Greet This

I’m having a massive attack of Merry Christmas guilt. I haven’t so much as put up so much as a sprig of holly or a single twinkle light, let alone written one Christmas card. And I still have Christmas shopping to do. Out of 50 vaguely marked boxes what do I find today? The box with the Christmas cards. So my good excuse is gone. Sure, I could have lied about it, but my quasi-Catholic heritage pours on the guilt regardless of good excuses, so I might as well fess up.

At the moment Christmas cards are the bane of my existence. I could just print out address labels and simply sign them, I suppose. Just because Martha Stewart’s secretary would write a personal message to everyone on Martha’s list, doesn’t mean I have to. But that leads me right back down the path of face-burning shame. Just what is so horrible about Christmas cards? It’s deciding what happened in my life last year that a) I would like other people to know about and b) that I think they would like to hear about. Not many people care if you went to Tahiti on vacation last May and that you ate too much pineapple and drank too many Mai Tais and then vomited in the foliage by the pool.

I am seriously considering a sex change so I can get out of any and all obligations to correspond over the holidays. You lucky crotch-scratching, spitting, belching, snorting, smelly gorillas. You don’t know how good you have it.