With Christmas so close, I’m having a hard time concentrating on work. Frankly, up until December 12, I had a hard time not concentrating on work, meaning I got more writing done than holiday stuff, and now I’m scrambling to get things done. What’s worse than the presents not being wrapped is the number of presents that haven’t even arrived yet—and even worse is the number I haven’t even bought [and even worse than all that is the number of times I used “even” in this paragraph. Something I didn’t even realize until the post went live, so I can’t even deny it now, I can only acknowledge my love for the word “even.”]

I used to be one of the good ones, you know? One of the efficient women who had all this done by October—the buying, the wrapping, the Christmas card writing—so by the week before Christmas, I could do all the cooking and baking and fudge candy making in a house that’s been decorated since Black Friday. What happened to that woman?

I’ve been getting gradually worse over the years. There are a lot of factors involved in the crumbling of my Christmas efficiency, but the self-imposed writing deadline this year took the cake. How ironic is it that I made the goal and failed Christmas? But let me alter that statement some. The goal was the fourth one set since the previous three watched due dates fly by in a flurry of activity that had nothing to do with writing.

Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is an assistant. And a maid. And maybe someone to do the lawn.

Dear Santa, Clone me—five times.