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.