(Background on the Christmas Letter Files here. Again: These are actual fake Christmas letters that I once sent to family and friends. They’re a fictitious version of my life, featuring invented relatives and pets.)
“Never! Not in a thousand years!” defiantly cried Felicity DuMain, her porcelain nostrils flaring with anger. “I will never sell Mellow Spires. The dirt of this land flows in my veins!”
“Then I’ll wed you! Or if I can’t wed you I’ll have you!” challenged Chase Blackmore threateningly yet sensuously. He yanked her ardently to him, his cruel breaths landing hotly on her white neck like a campfire on a toasting marshmallow.
Spat Felicity, “Ha!” struggling to free her crystalline waist from Chase’s manful embrace, but also not really wanting to. Why, oh why was she drawn to this man she despised, this Wall Street Wizard, opera star, and suspected pirate, and why did her once shimmering, now tattered and dirt stained satin ball gown feel so damp? Pearly bosoms heaving, she hissed in her willowy drawl, “I’ll die first. Or you will. In which case I wouldn’t.”
So begins “Sin’s Savage Sweat,” my first novel. What an incredible, releasing experience it was to write! In a former life I must have been a ravaged Southern Belle. (Never mind that when I was hypnotized at that Elks Club “Occult Nite” I claimed to have been Richard Nixon.) I’ve finally found my niche – but you who’ve been getting these letters for years could (tee-hee) see that writing on the wall. And I found the most wonderful publisher, who charged me quite a reasonable rate for printing the books. Yours is in the mail!*
I’d hoped that Violet would star in the “Sweat” miniseries, but of course since her conversion that’s out of the question. I don’t understand the lure of the ascetic life, but Vi — I mean, Sister Mary Pectoralis — is wonderful happy with the Sisters of the Bench Press, finding serenity in their discipline of fasting, chant, and weight lifting. And their brochure does sound uplifting: “High above the Hollywood hills, cloistered voices greet the dawn in praise. ‘Miserere gluteus maximus!’ ‘Donna nobis abdominalis!’” Imagine, my Vi pumping iron for Jesus!
This has been a real rebound year for us. Paul, thanks to the president’s recently declared war on obesity, has found a satisfying new career in the Calorie Police. His “Refrigerator Raids” are pretty exciting – last week he and his compadres kicked in our neighbor’s door and caught her flushing a German Chocolate Cake down the toilet. And sure, today she’s screaming about the suspension of the Bill of Rights, but next year she’ll thank him. Paul hopes to be commissioned to the cavalry within six months.
No word from Jimmy, of course. He’s been “underground” since the coup attempt in Carta Blanca. The poor kid – apparently the other
mercenaries freedom fighters turned tail when the Generalissimo’s checks started bouncing. No wonder Jimmy didn’t get past the Palace marching band. Still, if he calls in we have a nice surprise for him – a Mr. Cheney called in October and is holding a job for him in the underground bunker at his Wyoming ranch.
Janie has developed an interest in hairstyling and is training as a beautician. She uses us as her Guinea pigs, which has been an adventure. Especially when she realized, after giving us all “Poodle Perms,” that she’d ordered a pet grooming textbook by mistake. So, no family photo this year.
Our littlest scamp, “Spike,” spent the summer at pre-pre-pre-pre-Harvard Business School. Excerpts from her report card: “Hypercompetitiveness indicates aptitude for investment banking…” “… easily grasps concepts such as ‘takeover,’ ‘powerbroker,’ and ‘offshore banking.’” Pretty good for a one year old, huh?
That’s it for this year! As Felicity pants on page 647 when her parachute lines tangle and she plummets toward Yankee bayonets… but you can read it for yourselves.
Meg, Paul, and offspring