December 19, 2009
Every Christmas at least one of our overactive friends puts out a Christmas letter. They’re the couple nobody likes. They make their own clothes and annual stock of zucchini relish; their children never scowl and are kind to grasshoppers and strangers; they donate to charities regularly and still have enough left over for a weekly bowling night. And yet, each year we read their saccharine diatribe and silently yearn to be them. Or at least to send out Christmas cards of our own this year.