Well, here we are. It’s nearly Christmas Eve once again. This year, Dec. 24 falls on a Sunday, so not only do you get to read my column, but you might even have time to get those last few holiday chores done before Santa tries to squeeze his portly carcass down your chimney.

Now that the AQMD has banned wood-burning fireplaces, you have to wonder what impact that will have on Santa’s arrival. Do we have to leave a key under the mat for him? Or the back door unlocked?

I’ve finished all my holiday chores, I’m happy to say, mainly because I no longer make myself crazy with too many of them. Sorry, neighbors, you’re not getting any home-baked cookies from me. Though you might get a bottle of wine leftover from Curly Girl’s wedding 18 months ago. I’m trying to get it out of the garage. I can’t vouch for its drinkability, but I’ll put a cute bow on it.

If you’re holding your breath waiting for a Christmas card from me, well you’d better give up before you turn blue. You’ll get a cheery little text from me tomorrow morning, with a funny emoji attached.

Some of you people may actually remember those things called “letters,” which we used to send each other way back before Google was invented. In those days, you could lie your tushie off about your life, because no one could actually check up on you, unless it was your mother.

I only got a couple of Christmas cards this year, and only one of them contained the legendary photocopied Christmas Letter, which people used to send to update everyone annually about their families.

These fabulous pieces of history usually told the truth, but not the whole truth. Just enough to make you envious of their perfect lives, such as:

“Junior started at Harvard University in September, and we’re all mighty proud of him.”

Well, OK, if you insist on prying, Junior’s working as a custodian like that Will Hunting character in that movie with Robin Williams. But we’re hoping he’ll get upgraded to making sandwiches at the campus cafeteria soon.

“Grandpa has landed an all-expenses-paid gig with the state government, and he’s enjoying the hospitality.”

Wait, you heard he went to prison for backing into a police car after downing 18 boilermakers at the bar and threw up on the officer who approached him? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

“Our beautiful daughter Heather graduated with honors from her Ivy League college in June, and we were thrilled to welcome her back home.”

Oh, you saw her working as a barista at Starbucks the other day? Yes, it’s true. A degree in English literature trains you for nothing, but, hey, she got to read all of Jane Austen’s novels. Even the unfinished ones. We didn’t mind paying $45,000 a year for that.

“Little Eddie was elected to be senior class president this year, and we’re just so excited.”

Sure, he was embroiled in that vote-counting scandal, but his lawyers say he’ll get off with a slap on the wrist.

“Great-Aunt Tillie has made it her goal this year to read the Bible cover to cover. The large print edition.”

Yes, we’re all worried about her.

Nowadays, of course, you don’t hear these types of humble brags once a year. You read them every day on social media, accompanied by photos: Little Audrey grew up and won the Nobel Prize, while also growing a show garden admired by all, designing and sewing her own clothes and authoring 17 books in her spare time.

The only thing to do with this information is to post your own photos, with captions like, “My child was inmate of the month at county jail. Here she is, picking up trash by the side of the freeway.”

Now that my kids are young adults, Christmas Eve has changed dramatically. I no longer have to sneak out into the living room in the middle of the night and noiselessly try to assemble a bicycle, keeping one ear peeled for the sound of a bedroom door opening.

It’s hard to curse in a whisper when it becomes clear that there is no flipping way you’re going to figure out how to put this stupid thing together. I can’t even figure out how to replace the back of the TV remote after I change the batteries.

At a certain point in our house, Santa no longer delivered any presents assembled. They came in the box, with some assembly required.

When Santa stopped coming to our house, I went through a period of mourning for all the fun we used to have. And then I realized I could go to bed whenever I wanted on Christmas Eve, and sleep in until 11 a.m. when I could get up and make myself a Bloody Mary while the kids woke up slowly. In fact, I started leaving Bloody Marys for Santa instead of cookies.

Now that I have a baby grandson, I imagine Christmas will change again. But he’s still too young to do anything but drool, so I won’t have to give up the Bloody Marys any time soon.

So Merry Christmas to you, and keep your eye on the Santa Tracker. You don’t know what time he’ll get to your house tonight.

Related links

Frumpy Mom: How to survive your family at the holidays
Frumpy Mom: I need houseguests to make me clean up
Frumpy Mom: Ho, ho, ho, it’s almost the holidays
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I must be crazy for going on a diet in the middle of the holiday season
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I may have cancer, but you’re not getting rid of me

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