Raise your hand if you think the title of O.J. Simpson’s book should have been : LIVING IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: MURDER MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU’RE SORRY.
Title of a book out for the holidays: Cats Letters to Santa. I’m struggling with plots, conflicts, motivations, and lacks thereof—and there sits, in all its Christmas hardbackgiftable glory–this book and, of course, there is one for dogs letters to Santa. So, I’m thinking, why am I making publication so complicated? Geez, I’m from New Orleans. I could write letters to Santa from flying cockroaches whose backs won’t snap even if you stomp on them with steel-toed boots or letters from any assortment of boilable seafood. Sigh.
One of my new heroes is Moses. This is a man who, for forty years, wandered around in a desert with Jewish mothers. Forty years. Oi Vay.
I am seriously contemplating placing a menorrah in my window so that I won’t have to compete in the neighborhood unofficial Christmas decorating contest. You know, it’s just not enough at Christmas to have Jesus in your heart. Oh no. The weekend before Thanksgiving, it started with lights. We’re now up to lights trimming lawns, gardens, sidewalks, roof tops, and small deer whose skeletons are outlined with lights and whose bony heads seem to follow me as I pass by, and bloated plastic outdoor snow globes holding twirling snowmen (or should that be the more gender unbiased snowpeople?) and small choraling children captive, and decked-out to party mailboxes, and dancing lawn decorations of sleighs with packages and candy canes and nutcracker-type soldiers and bears, oh my. This is my personal version of Fear Factor, having to expose my decorating disabilities to the entire residential block. I am certain that some pharmaceutical company has manufactured a drug for this anxiety. But, in the meantime, I discovered a wreath with an unsmushed bow and greenery not yet chewed by the cats and hung it on the front door. I’m polishing the menorrah, just in case some misfortune falls upon my token decoration.