Dear Friends and Relations,
The Yule Log is alight, and it’s time again to catch up on the McMurder clan’s accomplishments this past year.
You’ll be happy to know that, despite this season’s Artic chill, we made the trek down to the pound and adopted a lovely Yorkshire Terrier. The puppy is very well behaved. We each put a suggestion in a hat and my husband, grumpy Old Laz, won the blind drawing to select a name, and I can tell you that everyone already loves ‘Yappy Little Shit.’ (Yap, for short.)
Unfortunately, our eldest, Joey, will not be home for Christmas due to a minor disagreement with his employer. (Work issues never end, I suppose.) While I’ll miss him during the festivities, I take comfort in knowing that the FBI is very experienced at protecting mob informants, and our homeowners insurance covered the bullet damage to the front room.
Clementine, now twenty, will be joining us this holiday! We’re so very proud that she’s continuing her university education while still working full time. She’s a film major, and despite her very demanding schedule, she still finds time to write home and ask for money. Her first film (Haven’t seen it yet.) was just released, but Clementine says she won some sort of prestigious award for Boobalicious Bunnies #4.
Little Evelyn, our youngest, appears to be slowing her pursuit of all things Goth. She still wears that horribly dark eye makeup, but it’s been at least three days since she’s had something pierced. She has a boyfriend now! I think Vicious is a nice young man, but Old Laz eyes him suspiciously whenever he’s around Evie. I guess that’s a father’s natural instinct, but it’s driven a wedge between Evie and her dad—one argument after another. Frankly, I’m tired of reminding her not to throw my good china at her father’s head. There’s no reason a young person can’t express themselves with everyday crockery.
Speaking of Old Lazarus, he’s gardening again, and he won the county fair’s Blue Ribbon for his ginormous and genuinely delicious tomatoes. Wouldn’t you know, he flashes that damn ribbon in everyone’s face, and while I try to be supportive, it’s caused more than a few disagreements between us. I say his tomatoes grew so large and tasty because our backyard gets lots of sun, but Old Laz insists it was the stray cat fertilizer.
Quick update on my in-laws: Still dead.
My parents are much the same. Even with his new medication, dad’s dementia hasn’t improved. Still, his doctor insists that I report even minor changes, but the only thing I’ve noticed is that he no longer asks what happened to his Social Security check.
Mom is spry as ever. Her nymphomania has taken a Latin turn this year. I caught her at the Hilton in flagrante with the male membership of the Mexican American Caucus and an overly flamboyant Mariachi band. What a shocker! I was truly horrified at her liberal stance on immigration reform.
Ancient and feeble Uncle Mortimer is still disgustingly wealthy and a childless bachelor, thank God. I love my elderly uncle dearly, but, damnation, he’s a lot of work! We had an absolute panic when his day nurse arrived one morning driving a new Lexus, and our hidden microphone in his bedroom recorded several references to “very special sponge baths.” Hussy! I swear, professionalism in healthcare is dead. Naturally, it was left to me to protect dear Uncle Morty’s weak heart and the family’s inheritance. I fired the brazen gold-digger immediately, and Uncle Morty finally told me which temp agency was supplying these jezebels, so, as promised, I turned his oxygen back on.
I almost forgot myself! I’ve given up decorating the house ala Martha Stewart—so tiring! However, I did join The Kickapoo County Ladies Auxiliary on an impromptu pilgrimage to Martha’s grave. Boy! Were they angry when they found out the fastidious bitch isn’t dead! However, I remain optimistic since more and more overworked, over-stressed suburban housewives are packing and self-medicating. We’ll try again next year.
Well, that’s about all that’s new. As usual, please skip this year’s Christmas gifts and send cash.
Special Note to Harriot Milken-Heifer: I see from your Miami vacation pics that you found the ten pounds I lost. How nice!
Wanda B. McMurder