The Post of Christmas Past
written by: Michele Alouf
December 15, 1995
Dear Ladies,
This year has been full of adventure, surprises, and a few hardships. Though my fashion career at The Limited came to an unexpected end, new opportunities are on the horizon. Despite my noticeable weight gain (thank you for pointing that out, Mary Grace), an inexplicable change in the texture of my hair (see the attached picture of me on Santa’s lap), and the not-so-slight humiliation of moving back into my parents’ house, I believe 1996 will be my year to shine. I appreciate all your holiday letters—particularly Tina’s in rhymed couplets (watch out, Will Smith!)—and am over the moon about your husbands’ work achievements and the many ways your children excel in preschool.
Being home for Christmas is magical—like I’ve traveled back in time to our youth. How I wish you were all here with me! My mother still notoriously answers the phone on the first ring, and you still have to figure out her riddle of the day before she’ll put me on the phone. I completely understand why you don’t call—even I don’t know what Superman, Moses, and Cabbage Patch Kids have in common.
My mother also continues to sing songs wrong. On my first day home, she sang along with Christmas carols on the car radio. Did you know Frosty the Snowman was a jolly, happy troll, and Jack Frost is roasting on an open fire? I know—I should be used to it. She’s butchered lyrics for years. Remember her “cool-mom” phase when we were in high school? I wrote to Aerosmith begging them to stop making music.
Last week, my dad removed the car radio and told her it was stolen. She stopped singing but then became obsessed with local security. In one week, she started a neighborhood crime watch, bought a fake dog with a Beware-of-the-Dog sign, and made everyone take self-defense from Mr. Crumblie—yes, the old security guard from the Piggly Wiggly on Main.
During Mom’s rule as the self-appointed head of her makeshift Department of Suburban Security, she bullied neighbors into cooperating until someone revolted by kidnapping baby Jesus and Rudolf from her Christmas yard display. We received a ransom note demanding Mom to “let our people go” from neighborhood-watch duties and late-night security drills. The note came with snapshots of Rudolph being tortured with hot coals and Breathe Right strips. Baby Jesus was treated better, though, and captured comfortably resting in a Pittsburgh Steelers bean bag chair while snacking on Cheetos. Mom cried more for the orange ring around his holy mouth than the charred hide on Rudolph’s bottom. Fortunately, Dad confessed about the radio, which ended Mom’s crackdown on crime. Appeased, the terrorist safely returned Rudolph and baby Jesus to their designated dead grass spots on our front lawn.
With all the excitement, it’s hard to say what the high point of my holiday season has been. Maybe it was helping Mom make dozens of beaded Styrofoam ornaments or her famous tuna-salad yule log for Dad’s office party. Or was it when she asked me to squat near the window when a stranger knocked at the door? Her fake dog was getting groomed, and she thought my new hair would be a good stand-in. The “stranger” turned out to be the postman with a box from Rootin’ Wigs that my mother whisked upstairs, wrapped, and tagged with my name before I could say Dolly Parton. It’s under the tree by my other awkwardly shaped gift, which I can only imagine is a used ThighMaster.
Well, dear ladies, the time has come for me to put this pen to better use. The promise of the new year awaits! There are stacks of classifieds strategically “left” about the house, with a few circled for me. Apparently, they need a skin care consultant at Pores-R-Us by the Piggly Wiggly. Maybe I could practice by giving baby Jesus a much-needed facial.
Oh, I almost forgot—the mall Santa asked me out. He has a nice laugh and doesn’t seem to mind my extra pounds. Mary Grace, let me know if you need a used thigh master. Holiday weight can be a real bitch to lose.
Merry Christmas with all my love,
Lydia
- The Post of Christmas Past - December 15, 2025
