I lay out the yield on the kitchen table like I’m dealing cards.
Sara’s pile: a Sierra Trading Post catalogue, something about a bird conference, a credit card transfer offer; another credit card offer (ACT NOW! it says. I quickly move it to Sweet William’s pile. Sara hates to be pressured.), a letter from her mom, an early Christmas card, and an insurance bill.
My pile: a postcard from the Subaru dealership making it clear we need to winterize now, a solicitation from the Equality Federation, a solicitation from the Best Friend’s Animal Shelter and a solicitation from The Nature Conservancy.
Sweet William’s pile: the Shopper Stopper, offers for cable tv, satellite tv and AT&T high speed internet.
The last piece to sort is a bright red envelope with a green Christmas tree shaped seal. It has a computer generated label addressed to both of us. I recognize the return address and immediately know what it is, causing me to groan involuntarily, which causes Sweet William to squawk. Although he doesn’t realize it, his reaction is spot on. I am holding a Christmas letter --an impersonal, mass mailed announcement outlining the successes and accomplishments of a given family over the past year. I put it in Sweet William’s pile. Then I take it out and put it in Sara’s pile. Then I move it to a place all on its own: the recycling. I pour myself a glass of wine, a fine Argentinian Malbec, sit down, stand up and take the dreaded thing out of the bin and put it back on the table. These letters are like the presidential debates: even though I know they’ll be painful to see, I just can’t help myself.
When Sara comes home I make her a cocktail of cranberry juice, ginger ale, a twist of lime, and the tiniest splash of vodka. After she’s had a few sips I show her the envelope and encourage her to open it. Like me, she feels bad that she doesn’t want to read it. But still, she uses it as a coaster. I goad some more and she moves her drink, tears open the envelope and reads the letter out loud.
Exactly as we imagined, it’s a boastful account of the achievements of the authors’ talented son, daughters and even pets. The admirable health of an elderly parent is also lauded.
Theoretically these are all good things, so why all the humbug? I’ll tell you why: there’s not anything less than complete success in these letters. They are deceptive. Through embellishment and omission their family is Cleaver perfect.
“Brittany was awarded first prize in the all school spelling bee.” (Not mentioned: she tanked in the first round at regionals.)
“Tyler scored the most goals on her soccer team.” (Not mentioned: The team finished last in the league.)
There’s a holier-than-thou conceit to almost all of these missives. The subtext being: our family is better than yours; our kids smarter; our careers better; our vacations more stunning, etc.
“Craig won salesman of the year for the fourth time in a row -- the prize this year was an all expense paid trip to Bermuda for the whole family. The hotel was fabulous and the water so blue. Little Joshua saw a shark and wasn’t even afraid!”
In case the reader hasn’t spewed by the end of the thing, the standard closing should do the trick. This is where the writer drives it home that their family is so wonderful that they want to share all their God given good fortune by bestowing a blessing on you and yours, because clearly, they have an inside line.
Nobody likes these letters. Anyone who says they do is only being polite. Just once I’d like to receive a Christmas update based on the opposite principle, which I imagine would look something like this ---
Dear Friends, Family and Parole Officers,
This year the Jones family experienced many events. Some were bad because the world just has it out for us. Some were good, which we attribute to just plain dumb luck.
Here are a few of the highlights:
Charlie is still in juvenile detention (he calls it ‘juvie,’ isn’t that cute?). Unless he pulls another stunt like the last one, he should be out next spring.
Celia was blessed with another baby, this time a little boy. Celia says he might look just like his daddy, only time and a DNA test will tell. The principal says she can return to high school once she’s finished breast feeding. She was such a smart little girl, before she got tits.
Danny was rehired at McDonald’s after it was determined that the deep fat fryer fire was not his fault. When he received the news he laughed hysterically. He’s such a good-natured boy.
My divorce was finally final so Mikey and I can get married again. He’ll be my first and third husband. Isn’t that special? His proposal was so romantic – we were screaming at each other about child support outside Warehouse Liquor, when suddenly we both looked down at the very same moment and found a $20 bill. Since we spotted it at the same time we were very adult and decided to buy a case of Schlitz Malt Liquor 40’s and split it. And here’s when it happened – the case of 40’s cost exactly $20. It was a sign. He dropped down on one knee and I said yes before he even asked. I didn’t find out until later that he was tying his shoe. But after we made a serious dent on that case he began to see it my way. By 11am that very day we were once again officially engaged. Even though he’s a d-bag about the child support I know he’ll honor his word and take me to the alter again.
Priscilla, my youngest, was convicted of grand theft auto. Hard to believe there’s a crime named after the video game. The judge accused her of ‘joy riding.’ I stood up and corrected him – nobody fuckin ‘joy rides’ in a Honda Civic. She was just fooling around, as kids do. He told me to hold my tongue and watch my language and of course everybody knows I do exactly the opposite of what ‘the man’ tells me to so he held me in contempt of court and I did a little time. Ain’t so bad, 3 squares a day and I got my teeth fixed.
I’d like to include news of all the rest of the kids, but I have no idea what the ungrateful brats are up to since they haven’t bothered to call all year. The ones in the pen I forgive, but I just don’t understand why the others wouldn’t want to be close to their mama. Kids these days, I swear.
To finish up on a good note, Grandpa Jim does not have the clap. The doctor isn’t sure exactly what it is, but it qualifies him for all kinds of medical experiments so he gets paid for just sitting around on his ass and watching tv.
Well, hell, I guess that’s it. Happy Holidays and all that good shit.
Best wishes,
Debra, Charlie, Celia, Danny, Priscilla, John, John Jr., Trip, Becca, T.K.La and the rest of the Jones/Stewart/Brown family
PS: We’re looking to borrow a little scratch for December rent. Anybody help us out? We’ll pay it back. Honest.
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