Life. In Chewable Chunks. - December 19

CARD ME OUT.

I’m a mean one, that’s for sure.  A Grinch.  Scrooge.  That jealous little reindeer that called out Rudolph.  Because this year, for the first time in more than thirty years, I am NOT sending out Christmas cards.

It might come as a shock to most of my friends and family, but certainly not to my husband.  He’s heard me complain loudly and often as the calendar ticks down to December 25th nearly ALL of those more than thirty years.  Which is the perfect Christmas card?  What possessed me to buy the one that shed glitter all over my dining room?  (Which one of my OCD friends can I send THAT one to?!)  Why are these lines so damn long at the post office for Christmas stamps?  Why do the Charlie Brown stamps go so quickly while the Three Wise Men linger?  What do I say in my Christmas letter?

Yes, I write a Christmas form letter —  a concession I made a number of years ago when I thought writing every card in longhand was giving me carpal tunnel syndrome.  Still, I spend days on that letter picking the right pictures and verse and I hope they’re as entertaining as I think they are!  Because I can’t stand to let one card go out without something personal inside, I STILL write notes.  Something a little special or funny.  I still address each card by hand and lick every seal.  (By the way, when did envelope glue get so nasty?  I have to take a big gulp of wine and swish it around my mouth after each lick — just to get that horrible taste out of my mouth.  Which explains why folks whose last names begin with the letters P through Z tell me my personal notes are hysterical.  Though they do inquire about the reddish brown smudges on the card.)

Finally, after this three or four day production, my cards are done and in the mail.  Now the fun part.  Waiting for cards in return. 

 Soon, a stack of cards shows up in my mailbox!  (Okay, three.  I’m not the only one with this brilliant idea.)  I grab a cup of hot chocolate, curl up on my couch and get ready to catch up with friends and family.  What could they be up to?  I open the first — from a cousin I don’t get to talk to often enough — and what do I see?  Love, Sally.  That’s it.  No handwritten “Dear Laura.”  No note.  Not even a “Merry Christmas.”  Simply:  Love, Sally.  Well, at least I got the Love.  The second card I tear into does contain a photo — of nearly adult children whom I do not recognize from parents I WOULD recognize if they had joined their kids in the photo.  Again.  No note.  Nothing personal.  (The third card, by the way, was from my insurance agent.)

So my Christmas card boycott is a success! Well, sort of.  I’m already starting to feel guilty and, quite frankly, don’t know what to do with all this extra time on my hands.

I think this might be just a break.  Especially since I discovered two boxes of crazy, glitter-heavy Christmas cards on sale at Target yesterday!