Happy Friday! Today I’m rerunning a Holiday Christmas Letter I wrote as a joke for the MurderSheWrites blog back on December 10, 2007. For anyone who does not share my twisted writer humor, please skip today’s post. And please note, no husbands were actually harmed in writing this letter 
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY LETTER
Dear Friends and Family.
What a year it’s been! I can’t believe the holidays are here again. Right away, you’ll notice my return address has changed to Folsom Correctional Institution for Women. I can explain.
It all started because I wanted to write a romance novel. Doesn’t that sound lovely? So I told my husband and kids. My husband said, “Does that mean I’ll get more?” He waggled his eyebrows in the universal male symbol for Me-Want-Sex. Then said, “What’s for dinner?”
My kids looked at me blankly, then suddenly remembered the school projects that were due TOMORROW! They needed poster board, glue, magazines, glitter and they need it all right now!
So I figured I’d start writing my book tomorrow, after I cooked dinner, bought poster board and cleaned up the awful mess from above mentioned glue and glitter.
The next day I got hubby off to work and the kids off to school. I poured some coffee and sat down to write my book. Then my mother called and wanted to have lunch. “Mom, I’m busy. I’m going to write a romance.”
A tirade unfolded in my ear, “I had a wonderful career as a dancer until I got knocked up with you. Then it was four months of morning sickness, four days of horrendous labor, colicky screaming day and night so that I couldn’t keep a sitter to work…my career was ruined! And all I want in return is to go to lunch with my daughter!”
So I’ll start writing my book tomorrow.
The next day, I got hubby off to work, kids off to school, and barely turned on my computer when my husband called and said, “Guess what! Mr. Big is in town and I invited him to dinner tonight. I told him you make the best homemade lasagna. We’ll be there for drinks at 6:00 pm. Uh, and honey, this time can you straighten up the house before we get there? And tell the kids to be good?”
Later that night, while Mr. Big was draining glass after glass of wine, he asked me what I do (uh, hello? See the home cooked lasagna?), I told him I was working on a romance novel. He waggled his eyebrows, although he was so drunk only one eyebrow lifted and said, “So you write that sex stuff bored housewives like.” I knew then that we didn’t have enough wine for me to get through the night.
The next morning, I snarled everyone out of the house, straightened up and THIS TIME, I got my laptop and went to Starbucks to write. I ordered myself a nice latte and sat down to work.
The gym-moms schlepped in. You all know about the gym-moms right? They drop their kids off at school and go to an actual gym. These women run around with words like “Juicy” on their toned rear ends. I could write the entire states of Massachusetts and Mississippi across my rear end and have room for the state capitals too. One of them asked me what I was doing. I told her writing a romance novel. She looked down her nose, “Oh I don’t read that trash.”
“Honey, you have “You Wish” on your ass! You ARE that trash. Just saying…” I pointed out nicely and tried, again, to work on my romance. I even managed to tune out the gym-moms chatter about their diets (what the freaking hell is tofu?). But alas, I only got a half page written when the school called on my cell.
Both kids had the stomach flu. Desperately wishing I could have a sick day, I picked up the kids and took them home to spend two days in a House of Horrors. Two sick kids and a husband who still thought he should go to poker night. I set him straight! “No way, dude! I’ve tried all week to work on my book. All I want is two hours to myself.”
My husband got a sudden call from his boss saying he had to come into work right away and he took off like the hounds of hell were chasing him. The selfish weasel.
So I guess I’d work on the book over the weekend.
At the kids’ soccer game, I had my laptop going, trying to write my romance. One person after another asked what I was doing. All the men cracked the same joke. “Need any help with the research?” Then they waggled their eyebrows in case I was too stupid to get that they were talking about sex.
I didn’t get one page written. Not one. And the team mom yelled at me because I brought fruit roll ups and juice boxes for snacks, and “They Are Not On The Approve Snack List.”
Just then my husband had the audacity to show up. Think he ever got his sorry hide out of bed and took the kids to the games? Not unless it was snowing at Satan’s house, you hear what I’m saying? No, true to form, he arrived at the very end of the game, acting like he’s the best father ever for making the effort. And to top it off, Ms. “You Wish” Ass tittered around, flirting with him. My husband puffed up like an overstuffed peacock. Ms. “You Wish” Ass, in the long held tradition of trashy women, decided to make fun of me and said, “She’s so involved in her trashy book, she didn’t even bring the right snacks today.”
My peacock husband said importantly, “I have to help her with the research on all the sexy parts.” Then he waggled his eyebrows at Ms. “You Wish” Ass.
In that instant, I saw the light. I didn’t want to write a romance! I wanted, no I needed to write a book about murder!
My husband was my first research subject.
Now I have lots of time to write here in the Folsom Correctional Institution for Women. Oh, and I’ve lost all of Massachusetts and a good portion of Mississippi off my ass.
Merry Christmas!
Just A. Joke
