I’ll admit it: I did not write a single Christmas card this year.
Oh, I should have. I should have sat down like a good little girl and wrote out dozens of times “Merry Christmas! Love, Newsbunny!” However, I didn’t. I’ve had two biopsies in the last three weeks and I just didn’t feel like it.
My husband is another story. He is half-elf. He bought Christmas cards, carefully chosen, filled with as much glitter as possible, wrote a personal message in every single once of them, sealed the envelope with his own precious ginger saliva, popped a Christmas stamp on the whole thing, and dumped it the mailbox, mostly likely while Whos from Whoville gathered round him holding hands and singing songs while a gentle snow fell on his dark red hair. Continue reading
