My tree is all plumped and pretty standing in a corner of the living room, blue LED lights glowing. Alien tree. Every time I walk by, I can hear these pitiful, little cries of trim me, trim me. I try not to listen.

Dear Santa,

I know I already sent you a letter asking for a replacement iPod this year. Forget that. I thumped the iPod, and it’s working fine now. What I really want is sixty-two days in December, instead of the usual thirty-one. Yes. Sixty-two days in December. That is what I really want. Yes. This is my last letter. No. I won’t forget the carrots for the reindeer.

Elen

p.s. I guess you must have read my twitter yesterday about the squirrels. Thanks. No. I won’t twitter you again.

Mr. G, honey put the laundry away this morning before he ran out the door. I know this because everything is squished and rumpled — squished into the drawers, squished into the cupboards, squished into the closets. I’m going to be wearing rumpled clothes this weekend, drying with a rumpled towel, sleeping on rumpled sheets.

The tone has been set — squished and rumpled, which probably means I don’t have to bother combing my hair after all. See. I can do silver lining.

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Sven.

Sven, who?

Open the door, Elen.

Uh, oh. Gotta go.

Elen