The Grinch (Or, Perhaps the Bank) Stole my Christmas Spirit

Plan for the day:

I’m going to see Volver.

I’m going to throw all financial solicitations into the trash.

The most shameless:

Sacred Heart Prep School, which cost us almost $20K a year for four years for son’s tuition (At least, I think to myself, alma mater Stanford has never sent me direct solicitations, only annual invitations to join the Alumni Association for one-time fee of $450, which to date I haven’t had the nerve to cough up. Waiting until I’m a famous published author!).

The private Catholic school which hires me to teach part-time, charges students $28K a year for tuition alone, and pays me a measly $3K per course for one semester.

Oh my God, it’s Christmas? Why am I being so nasty?

Son emerges from bedroom, blithely informs me he’s going to partake of magnificent breakfast buffet at Sharon Heights Country Club, courtesy of friend Kramer. You know what, those are the kinds of friends a writer needs. How in the world do I get one of those? Maybe by not being a grinch — ha ha ha ha!

Just before he steps out the door, son turns to me and says, “Feel free to use my comp, at your own discretion.”

Oh my God!! What luck!!! Promise that I will not think like a grinch anymore, it is totally unproductive and, furthermore, counter to the season.

Thank you, son, for always showing me the way to a purer, higher plane and for always anticipating my needs! No wonder you switched majors to psychology. Dearest mum in the Philippines says it’s my fault that you’ve chosen a career path “with the highest suicide rate” among all professions. But this is what happens when a writer marries an engineer — your children turn into psychologists.

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