The idea behind a Christmas letter is to write it once, put in whatever love you have, and send it to multiple recipients. This way you don't have to spend time on each one. You really should at least sign the thing, but lately that seems to have dropped off the social register. Sign it once; a print will do.
Grandma B was complaining there was no mention of Grandma B in her eldest son's Christmas letter. Eldest Son brought his family South for a get together with the Clan. I was there too, but no one mentioned me. One of the Clan even sent a Birthday card last summer addressed to my son, with his mother's last name. Modern women who retain their maiden names should bear the brunt of the grief, but it doesn't happen that way.
The Christmas card was not the only slight. Where was Grandma B's Christmas present? It was not here. Perhaps it was late. Ben always gave his mother a present.
"Call him up and ask him what happened." I told her. She'd read the first two lines of the Christmas card to me and I had no further interest in it or her missing present.
"I can't do that", she said, "I'll ask his brother to ask him."
I looked at her.
"They've always been very close." She said.
One phrase from the Card stuck. Like a bad pop song. "Audio books sure made the miles fly." Ben's wife had written. They're a highly educated lot, Seventh Day Adventists, Vegitarians, no nonsense, no Teletubies on the Tube when their children were younger. Dr. Dobson cleared all media before use in that household.
I thought of my own Christmas card, the one I should write.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
"We're lounging around, all sofa space taken. Limbs are everywhere, and the TV is blaring. I don't know what's on. Grandma B came to our house for a week and cleaned up. I need her to come back in Spring and do the vacumning. She and her daughter, the female I married, were giving me some hard looks because I played video games the whole time she was here. So I got up and mopped the floor once. About a half hour later Grandma B cleaned the counters and swept all the organic substances she'd built there onto the floor.
"What's this?" I asked.
"I had to clean the counters so I brushed the crumbs on the floor."
That's why I only mop once a week. Grandma B used every appliance, every bowl, cup, saucer, dish, plate and pan she could to prepare our meals. No problem- I was the dishwasher.
We've all Colds now. Grandma B likes to handle personally all the food she lovelingly prepares for us. She'll take the French Toast off the spatula and hand it to you. We had turkey- presliced and handled by Grandma B. She doesn't know she's doing this, I figure it's a sex substitute and leave it alone.
If Ed were here he'd whup her into line. But Ed died.
The year went as years go. My eldest son continues to show academic strength despite my lackluster performance as a Father. The Little One smiles and is adored by the crowd, and the Middle continues on his path towards Deer Lodge State Pen. All love Khukuris and can't wait to go wood cutting. We have no audio books. They demand bedtime stories from me and I've delivered haphazardly up to now. The crow I thought up, Pipperpopper, needs to die soon so I can get off the hook. A couple weeks ago I played the stereo loud. I hope it didn't hurt their hearing too bad.
My wife's hair has finally grown out of the hidieous red triangle she paid good money for last year. Hope and Nature spring eternal.
We wrecked the truck but that's OK. That truck never was any good on snow.
On their way to the Airport my wife ran over the child's trike Grandma B left in the driveway. I didn't say anything because nothing's ever her fault anyway.
Love,
What's his Name"
>>>>>>>>>>>
Well, I didn't send that. I send nothing. People call me and thank me for the gifts. "Uh huh," I tell them, "glad you liked it, but my wife handles all that; what'd you get?"
While Grandma B was here we heard all about her eldest son. I can't fault the guy. He rode across the United States twice on a ten speed. He makes good money. He's thin but could kick my ass. He thinks I'm a dead beat and treats me as such during the family get togethers I attend. So his reality testing remains good. And I can't dislike him for what his mother's favorite topic of conversation is- him.
But I get tired. Ben is thin. Ben built cabinets. Ben built a house. Ben is hyper. Ben never gains weight. Ben never gains weight like Grandma B.
Ben is like Grandma B. And if it's not Ben it's Ben's eldest son; thus the cycle is renewed. Kirby is so smart. Kirby is so smart. Kirby is so smart and well raised he bloodied my son's nose in the first 15 seconds of their initial meeting.
Sometimes, when I'm making love to my wife, I see the similarity in her features to Ben and am sick. I quell those fast. Go down that road to divorce, no matter how great Ben is.
Grandma B is gone. Goodbye, Grandma B. I am glad you came and glad you left. Those cookies you left behind are contaminated with your saliva but I already have the Cold so what the hell?
We are busy eating the whole tray, my sons with their legs thrown over couches, with their toys on the floor, and wood burning stove cooking along with khuk-cut wood.
munk
Grandma B was complaining there was no mention of Grandma B in her eldest son's Christmas letter. Eldest Son brought his family South for a get together with the Clan. I was there too, but no one mentioned me. One of the Clan even sent a Birthday card last summer addressed to my son, with his mother's last name. Modern women who retain their maiden names should bear the brunt of the grief, but it doesn't happen that way.
The Christmas card was not the only slight. Where was Grandma B's Christmas present? It was not here. Perhaps it was late. Ben always gave his mother a present.
"Call him up and ask him what happened." I told her. She'd read the first two lines of the Christmas card to me and I had no further interest in it or her missing present.
"I can't do that", she said, "I'll ask his brother to ask him."
I looked at her.
"They've always been very close." She said.
One phrase from the Card stuck. Like a bad pop song. "Audio books sure made the miles fly." Ben's wife had written. They're a highly educated lot, Seventh Day Adventists, Vegitarians, no nonsense, no Teletubies on the Tube when their children were younger. Dr. Dobson cleared all media before use in that household.
I thought of my own Christmas card, the one I should write.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
"We're lounging around, all sofa space taken. Limbs are everywhere, and the TV is blaring. I don't know what's on. Grandma B came to our house for a week and cleaned up. I need her to come back in Spring and do the vacumning. She and her daughter, the female I married, were giving me some hard looks because I played video games the whole time she was here. So I got up and mopped the floor once. About a half hour later Grandma B cleaned the counters and swept all the organic substances she'd built there onto the floor.
"What's this?" I asked.
"I had to clean the counters so I brushed the crumbs on the floor."
That's why I only mop once a week. Grandma B used every appliance, every bowl, cup, saucer, dish, plate and pan she could to prepare our meals. No problem- I was the dishwasher.
We've all Colds now. Grandma B likes to handle personally all the food she lovelingly prepares for us. She'll take the French Toast off the spatula and hand it to you. We had turkey- presliced and handled by Grandma B. She doesn't know she's doing this, I figure it's a sex substitute and leave it alone.
If Ed were here he'd whup her into line. But Ed died.
The year went as years go. My eldest son continues to show academic strength despite my lackluster performance as a Father. The Little One smiles and is adored by the crowd, and the Middle continues on his path towards Deer Lodge State Pen. All love Khukuris and can't wait to go wood cutting. We have no audio books. They demand bedtime stories from me and I've delivered haphazardly up to now. The crow I thought up, Pipperpopper, needs to die soon so I can get off the hook. A couple weeks ago I played the stereo loud. I hope it didn't hurt their hearing too bad.
My wife's hair has finally grown out of the hidieous red triangle she paid good money for last year. Hope and Nature spring eternal.
We wrecked the truck but that's OK. That truck never was any good on snow.
On their way to the Airport my wife ran over the child's trike Grandma B left in the driveway. I didn't say anything because nothing's ever her fault anyway.
Love,
What's his Name"
>>>>>>>>>>>
Well, I didn't send that. I send nothing. People call me and thank me for the gifts. "Uh huh," I tell them, "glad you liked it, but my wife handles all that; what'd you get?"
While Grandma B was here we heard all about her eldest son. I can't fault the guy. He rode across the United States twice on a ten speed. He makes good money. He's thin but could kick my ass. He thinks I'm a dead beat and treats me as such during the family get togethers I attend. So his reality testing remains good. And I can't dislike him for what his mother's favorite topic of conversation is- him.
But I get tired. Ben is thin. Ben built cabinets. Ben built a house. Ben is hyper. Ben never gains weight. Ben never gains weight like Grandma B.
Ben is like Grandma B. And if it's not Ben it's Ben's eldest son; thus the cycle is renewed. Kirby is so smart. Kirby is so smart. Kirby is so smart and well raised he bloodied my son's nose in the first 15 seconds of their initial meeting.
Sometimes, when I'm making love to my wife, I see the similarity in her features to Ben and am sick. I quell those fast. Go down that road to divorce, no matter how great Ben is.
Grandma B is gone. Goodbye, Grandma B. I am glad you came and glad you left. Those cookies you left behind are contaminated with your saliva but I already have the Cold so what the hell?
We are busy eating the whole tray, my sons with their legs thrown over couches, with their toys on the floor, and wood burning stove cooking along with khuk-cut wood.
munk
And a good guy.
