Inspired by my friend Simon–who gently mocked my syrupy holiday letter/poem (yes, it rhymed)–I replied with what the real letter might look like, should I be so bold as to send it:
It’s almost two thousand and ten—
And me without a card again.
Should I write a crappy poem
About what goes on at our home?
Cat puke, dog puke, kid puke, splat.
Five-second rule—what’s wrong with that?
My car is old, my face is, too.
And where the fuck’s my other shoe?
Vacation home? Not in this life.
I can’t believe I’m someone’s wife.
The oven’s on the fritz again,
Note to self: Try to go zen.
It’s gorgeous out—what else is new?
“Why is your sister turning blue?”
I paid that bill. I did. I think?
“That cat box really fucking stinks.”
So that’s my life, in a nut-shell.
There’s a chance I’m going straight to hell.
