… on my heels like so many barking, braying, hunting dogs as I skip along darting in and out of shops and websites thinking: turkey, cranberry, gifts for the ex-in-laws, coal for the Ex, a necktie for lousy lover from EHarmony with ego the size of the Transamerica Pyramid.
Bake cookies for therapists, Life Coach, trainer, and running partners.
Order pencils with names emblazoned upon them for writing group.
Like wolves howling at a full moon: threats of holiday madness – scratching at my door.
The frenetic and the frantic and I’m so freaked
There are the cards, the cookies, cranberry, the dreidels, the Christmas Carols, Ted and Alices, for dinner parties. Book club gifts, Stitch and Bitch trinkets to buy, tchotchkes for the Pilates pals (all those overachievers with Botox- so much Botox.)
Purchase Papyrus holiday cards for clients and Ex- clients and commence with the annual scouring the address book for once a year pals – they are the Hallmark friends- the list grows longer every year.
Do I compose a Christmas letter one filled with fallacy and fol der rol? Embellished to the max to make a dull life look like Florida perfect, sunshine, beaches, lush gardens, multiple beaus, and a social calendar ablaze with what’s haute and hot?
I have a cadre of fans– who long for my Sunshine State life and they are buried in snow in dull times three Pennsylvania and Upstate New York, Wisconsin, and Montana. They want to read about my romances and rendezvous -my glamorous weekend jaunts to the resorts, the Keys, San Diego and Beverly Hills.
There is no way I can tell them the truth.
I’m not a well-rehearsed, practiced, fiction writer for nothing!