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Remember the good old days, back when there was snail mail, and your mailbox was filled with Christmas newsletters from friends near and far? I believe it was the 80s when those Christmas essays were all the rage, mailed to the masses, included in cards filled with photos of expensively dressed rich families in their matching sweaters -- including the dog.
I always hoped at least one dog bit the photographer.
I haven't gotten any in recent years. And that's because we're all entering our dotage. Those massively successful kids? The ones who went to good schools? Unemployed, divorced and living in the basement.
But some of the families are still out there. They're the ones who inherited cottages from their parents.
Anyway, I miss those cards and letters. So I thought I'd write one this year. You'll have to read it here -- like most Canadians, I cannot afford stamps.
Hello! Bonjour! Friends:
How are you!!!
We are fine, and enjoying a green December. When will it snow??
I was looking at the Sail ads, and they have some very nice snow shoes. Alas, neither of us have knees, so we'll just have to settle with sitting in front of the television, sipping our Ensure, while watching an endless loop of Trump tv, peppered with ads for heart failure, incontinence, and financial planning.
We do have our fun!
It's been an exciting year for us. Scott is working at a stereo store selling speakers to RedBlack players and hipsters. He has spent most of his wages on a very nice turn table and bins of old records, which makes me feel like I am still living on Ontario Street in St. Catharines, with all my friends sitting cross legged, and drinking beer on burnt orange carpet.
When he first brought home those records, I rebelled. But now, I'm down with listening to Eric Clapton -- the Wonder Years. And Poco, after Timothy B. Schmidt.
Scott is convinced that the future is vinyl. I can't wait to whip out the halter tops and bell bottoms. Thank goodness, pot is making a comeback!
I'm pretty much retired now -- I used to be just unemployed.
I am looking after my daughter's toddler, the well documented Squishy.
Babysitting was my first job, and it appears that it will be my last. Still, I am grateful to be in her life, as her grandma, using my time tested child rearing technique -- free range. In other words, I let her do whatever she wants. She's reached Level 2,305 in Angry Birds -- and she's only 20 months. There is a real future for her in technology!
LOL! LOL! LMFAO!
Even though my career is going gangbusters, I am also volunteering, helping my good friend Jennette with her cancer. I blog about Jennette often -- telling people that she's in good spirits, essentially lying, which is what everybody does who looks after a cancer patient. Jennette has oral cancer, and her face looks like a balloon at the moment. I suggested yesterday that she could use herself as a piñata at the annual Christmas party. She laughed, but I think secretly she wanted to reach into that cupboard behind her, the one with all the End of Days needles and stick one in my spine.
Cancer does that to people. It makes them grumpy. Go figure!
Fortunately, Jennette appears to have found the cure for cancer.
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Lots, and lots of vodka.
It goes with everything: Ensure, Carnation Instant Breakfast, Jello.
And she doesn't have to worry about drinking and driving!
You see, vodka makes the tumour too sleepy to kill her.
But not to sleepy to kill me!
The kids are doing fine. Nick lost his first tooth yesterday, and he's only 32!
Don't worry, Nick, it's growing in Squishy's mouth!
Ah the circle of life.
A lot of people wonder what I do all day, now that I've given up blogging due to depression. The answer is, I like to watch television, just like Donald Trump. I watch CNN 24/7 just to make sure there isn't a nuclear bomb headed our way. You see, I'm all about FOMO -- fear of missing out -- and I want to be ahead of the curve in case we have to head for the hills.
Come on, people.
It's not all gloom and doom.
We will always have Justin.
We might be on our way out, but Justin will be in a bunker someplace, smiling and mugging for the camera, hopefully with his shirt off.
But who, exactly, will see all those photos?
If a Trudeau strips in a bunker, will anybody see?
That must give him pause.
Well, gotta go. We have trees to trim, dogs to walk, and opiods to take.
In case I don't talk to you -- let's face it, do I ever talk to you face to face anymore? -- have a Merry One and go easy on the Lyrica!
Love and kisses, Rose and Scott, and the whole damned family.
BTW, the furniture is still the furniture from Regina in the 80s!