Each year, I receive at least one Christmas letter from either a family member or a friend and it always throws me for a greedy loop. My initial excitement of realizing there is something stuffed into a Christmas card quickly disperses once I realize it's "one of those" letters and not a gift card or cash.

I must admit that I almost always read the letters I get. I do so mainly because I'm nosy but also because I've come to enjoy the pretentious June Cleaver voice that emanates through my head as I read along. She's quite entertaining and puts a wonderful little closet alcoholic spin on the words I read - even if I could care less about the content.

If you haven't guessed it, I'm not a huge fan of the Christmas letter phenomenon. The people I know and love keep in contact with me, so a letter really isn't needed. With most of my friends and family, we already e-mail and make phone calls, so a letter on top of that is a bit, well, weird. More oftentimes than not, the letters I receive mention people I don't even know - people I don't even have a vested interest in and really could care less about.

I'm not knockin' you if you enjoy creating an annual Christmas letter or like receiving them. Just remember, should a copy be sent my way, June will receive it. I can guarantee you that she'll be sipping on a dirty Martini and wrapping her bright red lips around a Virginia Slim, alternating her puffs with a husky voice, reading your family's Christmas letter.

Here are some June Cleaver approved Christmas letters I found on the 'Net:

Martha Stewart's Christmas Letter to Erma Bombeck

Hi Erma,

This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to. Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom and made a blanket in peaches and mauves.

Then, to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room. By then, it was time to start making the place mats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I'm serving the old standard Stewart twelve-course breakfast, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand.

Before I moved the table into the dining room I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling.

While the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.

Well, I must run. I need to finish the hand-sewn buttonholes on the dress I'm wearing for breakfast. I'll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I'll be making.

Hope my breakfast guests don't stay too long. I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves before my speaking engagement at noon. It's a goodthing.

Love, Martha

P.S. When I made the ribbon for this typewriter, I used 1/8-inch gold gauze. I soaked the gauze in a mixture of white grapes and blackberries which I grew, picked, and crushed last week just for fun.

Response from Erma Bombeck

Dear Martha:

I'm writing this on the back of an old shopping list. Pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains. I'm 20 minutes late getting my daughter off for school, packing a lunch with one hand-on the phone with the dog pound, seems old Ruff needs bailing out again. Burnt my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries, how DO they do that? Still can't find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes, tried using an old disposable razor . . . trashed the tablecloth. Tried that cranberry thing; frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave. Oh, and don't use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute in that Rice Krispies snowball recipe unless you like food that resembles puke! Smoke alarm is going off, talk to ya later.

Love, Erma