The holidays fill me with cheer at the fact that the sooner they approach, the sooner they are over, and the sooner we can get on with a brand new unsullied year.

All I Want For Christmas:

1. A literary agent for my recently drafted novel (well, preferably a book deal from an established publishing house, but I’m not one to ask for things I can’t get).

2. A kitty cat (to keep illegally in my new dorm room starting in January–I can fashion her as one of my childhood American Girl Dolls. When the college dean knocks on my door to inquire about the proliferation of cat sounds and fur balls wafting from my room, he’ll think she’s just a regular old Kirsten doll dressed up as the youngest virgin with candles on her head for that Swedish holiday, Santa Lucia.

3. A non Wanker of the Week male to give me a kiss underneath the mistletoe.

Notice that I have ordered things from most likely to receive, to least likely to receive. A cat is unrealistic and out of the question, as I am not sure of my life plans after April 28th (the last day of my senior spring classes). For all I know, my Carney Sandoe application won’t pan out as hoped, and I’ll be uprooted to Minnesota to teach runny-nosed preschoolers. Yes, cats can travel on planes, and certainly ones dressed as hot Swedish virgins, but I still think a cat is out of the question, especially since my college dean reads this blog.

That’s what the holidays are all about: unfulfilled expectations. Since my picturesque early years in New England, the only thing in my holiday season that’s been merry, jolly, happy, red, glittery, and shiny all over was an Elton John album, The Red Piano.

So please please someone alert me to a literary agent who is interested in dark chick literature that is decidedly mistletoe-free.

The above Christmas card is of my sister and me at Edith Wharton’s house channeling Gilbert & George.

Tweet This Post