Friday, November 17, 2006

Post #91
In Which I Make A Terrible Confession

Alas, this secret has weighed heavy on my soul for many years. A few knew the truth, but like other scandalous family baggage, never divulged it in public. The shame of it drives them undercover every year about this time.

I write Christmas letters. And not only that. I love them like the last kitten in a box.

Usually, after Thanksgiving Dinner, I sit somewhere comfy with a glass of wine and compose my yearly missive which I then print on holiday stationary after digitally affixing xmas gifs from all over the Net. If those Christmas cards bearing my annual Christmas letter aren’t in the mail day after Thanksgiving, something has gone dreadfully wrong at my house.

Over the years, I’ve treated Friends and Relatives to various news tidbits and stories, which, even if I do say so myself (and I do) have never been the little-Earlene-graduated-1st-in-her- class-of-1,247-plebes type.

One year, the first year we spent as urban homesteaders, I wrote about the wonders of caprine reproduction as we bred our first livestock for homemade milk and cheese. In other words, goat sex.

Then, there was the year I took up archery to join Earl elk hunting, and since elk are sensible creatures, avoiding humanity if possible, we never saw any elk. Spent the whole long trek up the mountain and back discussing elk “sign,” the whys, wherefores and such which ended up as a Christmas letter story. Yes, I included in my holiday missive that year, a lengthy discussion of poo.

Of course, between animal husbandry and wildlife biology, there were graduations, moves, promotions, and the occasional trip, but nothing to compare to the year everybody and the dog got pinkeye just before Thanksgiving. I remember writing, At least I’m not pregnant.

When that familiar urge came upon me that is was time to decide if I had any news worth throwing at the family tree, it felt oddly fresh and familiar. Why’s that, I wondered? It felt the same as when I sit down to –


Now, I’ve read those important essays about the burgeoning web-writing culture being a reaction to social ills from too many Republicans to the death of individual responsibility.


The blogsphere is a Christmas letter, from everyone, to everyone, every day, of every year, 24/7. Merry Christmas.

Dear Friends and Relations,

Little Earlene would have won 1st prize in the rock-throwing contest for the third time in a row if she hadn’t stopped to watch a goat with pinkeye have sex with an elk.

So, what have you and yours been up to this year?

Happy Holidays.


  1. Now that's a Christmas letter I want to receive!

  2. Careful what you wish for. Others have had to die to get off my Christmas card list.

  3. I was ROFLMAO at the post, and now at your answer to Pooks' comment, too! Too funny!
    Oh hell, somehow this is showing that I'm Scruffybutt. If I log in as myself, I'll lose this whole durn message. What to do. Oh, I know -
    Woof. Mommy says she was ROFL her AO at the post, and -
    You know what? Mommy's lazy.

  4. Blogger tries to confound everyone of us at some time or another. Have pity on us mere humans, Miss Scruffy. Not everyone can be a terrier.

  5. My deep dark black secret is that not only do I write yearly Christmas letters, I now post them on the internet and e-mail links to all my friends. Oh the horror!


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