Dearest C,

Well, I have taken my own advice and absconded from all the Holiday madness for a week – as a matter of fact, I am sipping champagne in Business Class on the day flight to Heathrow even as I write – leaving the oldballandchain and girls to fend for themselves.  God Bless Air Miles!  Clearly, my masterly plan of behaving like a raving bitch ever since the first artificial snowman appeared on your front lawn has paid off, as they seem to be handling the prospect of my absence with admirable stoicism.  I was expecting to have to shake the odd husband and child from my leg as I departed, but in the event no-one even roused themselves out of bed to bid me farewell.  Indeed, last night, the youngest even offered to help me pack!

Do let me know if the facade crumbles.  The obc was adamant I shouldn’t arrange for him and the girls to have dinner at his parents’ house while I’m gone, but if you happen to notice any waifs or strays nosing around your garbage cans at night, do please toss the odd chicken bone their way – you can say it’s from Mom.

Must go.  The flight attendant is tucking napkins around everyone’s lap in preparation for lunch.  Do you think she’d mind if I called her Nanny? 

Merry Christmas!

P.

P.S.  Sorry not to see you at the Neighborhood Luncheon yesterday.  Actually, the only thing you missed was an all too uncomfortable vision of ourselves in decades to come.  Talk about Christmases Future!  Good thing I left before the Secret Santa, as I doubt very much the festive thong underwear I had supplied would go down very well among the matrons who dominated proceedings…. Another very good reason for making myself scarce this coming week!

P,

Muddled through the Village holiday bash without you.  ‘Fraid the obc wasn’t allowed as much freedom of movement as he may have otherwise enjoyed without the presence of his second wife.  Noticed he and hubby were completely fascinated by everything the neighbor’s twenty-year old au pair had to say, yet again.  Reached my limits of tolerance when I was balancing two kids on my hips (I do think your eldest may be too old for this honor now) and hubby asked the obc whether he would care to join him in the buffet line. 

Rather than make a scene, I wandered over to the woman in the dreadful red holiday sweater (which didn’t flatter her rather chunky thighs, by the way) and commented that I didn’t appreciate her pushiness when all my children wanted was a little quantity time with the Santa on duty.  Loathe to admit it, P, but without your good and dissuading influence, I fear I let the children run a bit amok and have a rather elongated photo session with the old chap.  Seems this was quite off-putting to several village residents who found themselves having to wait (WAIT!) for an audience with the man in red.  Dearest P, I hate to tell you how their cherubs’ bows were drooping by the time they sat on the old man’s lap.  As you can imagine, this is not at all what their doting parents had in mind.  The good news is I fought for the honor of all of us on the wrong side of our little town, and though I imagine many of this quite WASPY set won’t speak to us, I can’t say anything has changed.  And I feel like a super hero.  I’m only glad hubby isn’t in the mob, however, as I fear the woman would most certainly wake up with a horse head in her bed or worse. 

Alas, dear P, you may have to cut short your journey to the homeland before the turf wars begin.  I hate to declare myself outed as the least WASPY in our little ‘burb, but I am feeling, once again, the heart tug suggesting I would be oh so much better off as one of the chosen people.  Do you think R’s husband is willing to convert?  He must now have a sense of the faith with all his attendance at synagogue with R and may be willing to start over with me.  And he saved me just last night from an embarrassing "toilet paper on the shoe" incident we’ll not speak of again.  Sure it can never happen, but you must allow a girl to dream.

Faithfully,

C. 

P,

Ah, it’s that time of the year again: decorations are abundant, the smell of pine is in the air and the sound of my annual wailing has begun to permeate our household.  I worry a bit about the cherubs as I make my usual journey to the darkness, dearest P.  They may try to forget my brief but yearly dabbling with hell and only remember that their father helped them decorate the tree, hang the boughs of holly and sing the inevitable carols. 

These good children may mistakenly conclude everyone should be happy this time of year, based on the excessively cheerful nature of the man in the house, instead of recognizing the deep and tortured angst they have inevitably inherited from me.  They need to know this brief but annual legacy of ill will can usually be drowned in excessive participation in sex, shopping and alcohol.  How will they learn, dearest P, if their father insists on joining the hordes in fun? 

The legacy of happy family traditions is not one with which I want to burden them.  If only hubby could understand the potentially detrimental effects of his encouraging behavior, perhaps he too could be persuaded to join my funk, one that he is clearly comfortable with the rest of the year.

And how are things at your abode?

Faithfully,

C.

Dearest C,

You forgot to mention my two favorite ways of spending the Holiday Season: shopping and abroad.  The first provides you with an invaluable excuse for absenting you from hearth, home and esp. hubby at this relentlessly cheerful time of year – and who is to know that the all the ‘gifts’ you are out busy buying are all for yourself, and not the cherubs, who frankly have too many toys anyway?  The second is even better, provided you actually do pony up presents (Thank God for Harrods Duty Free!), by way of a peace offering upon your return…..Speaking of which, do let me know if there is anything I can bring you back from Blighty; the cab comes at seven.

One other therapeutic approach, before I go, is to force hubby to don his sexiest Santa hat and nothing else, next time he proposes coming down your chimney.  Think of it as the perfect way to break in the new video camera you bought yourself – I mean, hubby – the other day, and act on your deep-seated desire to F**k Christmas at one and the same time.

Faithfully,

P.