"So that, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas. As the song says "May your days be merry and bright and all your Christmases be white." With those final words, she hit the save key on her laptop. "Done," Samantha sighed in relief. Then she re-read it.

"Holy crap," she murmured afterwards. "This is the worst piece of drivel I’ve ever written. Talk about trite and cliché-filled. For crying out loud – I’m a professional. I get paid to write this bull?" She sighed, rubbing her temples. "This reads like a 3rd grade essay that the teacher puts up in the hallway for parent's night. The one that gets the gold star and then a place of honor on the refrigerator door." Another sigh. "It’s god-awful, but I just can’t think anymore tonight. My brain is fried. Maybe tomorrow, in the cold harsh reality of that 10:00 AM deadline looming on the horizon, things will come together.

"It’s a Christmas column, for pity’s sake!" Sam continued, regaining her tangent. "How hard can that be to write?" Apparently very – since she had written and re-written it way too many time to count. If her computer screen had been a piece of paper, there would be holes in it from all the erasures. She normally could write these in her sleep. Actually, she had the bad habit of writing and fine tuning her columns in her head before going to sleep and then losing them in the morning. Sometimes, she figured that a tape recorder by her bed would be the solution, but so far, she hadn’t acted upon that idea. Some of her best works were lost to the ages.

Looking over the column one more time, she realized that her first assessment of it was correct. Sure, some parts were okay with just the right amount of saccharine sweetness to bring a tear to the eye and a lump to the throat. The sugar plum fairy, peace on earth, good will toward men, blah-blah-blah that was expected at this time of the year. It wasn’t like she "hated" Christmas. She wasn’t worried that the ghost of Christmas past would show up at the stroke of one…she just had no time for Christmas this year.

Samantha closed the lid of her laptop and set it down on the coffee table. She would re-write, spell-check, and proof it in the morning. It doubtlessly also had numerous grammatical and spelling mistakes as Ninja, her new black kitten, had "helped" write the article. The kitten mewed in protest as the action of placing the computer down had caused her to be squished when Sam leaned forward.

"Sorry, little one," she cooed softly, stroking the cat’s ears. Ninja responded by purring and bumping her nose against Sam’s with her paws resting on her shoulders. Absentmindedly petting the cat, Sam thought about all the things she had to do in the next few days before Christmas arrived. This was her second Christmas without her parents and the first without Ace.

She sometimes wondered if things could get any worse. Yes, actually it could: she was living in Los Angeles at Christmas time. La-La Land, whose Christmas trees were pink, sometimes blue and Santa wore shorts. Where palm trees were strung with Christmas lights and poodles were dyed red and had green toe nail polish. Where the excess of Christmas was evident in spades. Christmas was snow and pine trees and, well…just not LA. At least, that’s what all the cards depicted. Not that she had ever seen snow at Christmas, being from Mississippi and all. It just seemed wrong out here.

Mississippi…how many years had she been gone? It would be seven in June. That last year, she had been staying at her Grandma’s house until the end of the school year. She was moving out to Los Angeles to join her parents; successful, free-lance writers who had written several scripts which had been made into TV shows. Being there would allow them to be closer to the action. Also, since this was going to be Sam’s career path, they figured it would be a great opportunity for her. Although only sixteen, she’d had enough credits to graduate, and she’d be entering college when she got there.

She hadn’t minded leaving Clinton. She’d had never been accepted there, being the "weird" writer chick. The one that didn’t fit in. Writing had been her escape and salvation…still was, to tell the truth. She hadn’t been popular or talented. Well, not in the musical and theatrical sense. Sometimes, she’d written for the school paper, but most people didn’t understand it. Not that they were hicks or dumb, it was just that she had a very unique and unusual style that they just hadn’t "gotten". One reviewer in the school paper had called her stories childlike and excessively over-written.

Oh, she’d had a few close friends, but they’d been on the outside fringe like her. She was tall, gangly and shy with braces, thick glasses and oily skin. The perfect geek; a straight-A student, in the Honor Society and completely unaccepted by the popular kids. She remembered how someone had once said, "These were the best years of your life!" "If so," she had thought back then, "just shoot me now."

All this time, the radio had been softly playing Christmas music in the background. She wasn’t really even listening when "The Only Gift" came on:

"Holy…" Sam trailed off as she whirled towards the radio. That was Lance Bass. Talk about a blast from the past; to use a tired old cliché. He had been one of the popular kids and hearing his deep voice brought back the End of the Year Dance incident. Or, as she liked to refer to it, the "Why I wish I’d had Carrie power that night" dance. They’d been in school together since first grade; in fact, his mother had been her teacher one year. They weren’t fast friends or anything like that, since they ran in completely different circles.

Anyway, the End of the Year Dance (such an original name) was held the day before the last day of school and was semi-formal. She hadn’t been planning to go (she was leaving for California as soon as school was out) until she started getting notes in her locker signed by Lance. Looking back now, she couldn’t believe how naïve and gullible she’d been. The notes said that he wanted to take her to the dance, but was too shy to ask her in person. If she wanted to go, she should just respond with a note. They had communicated this way for a week. She was hesitant at first, but the notes got more and more insistent, so she figured what the heck; it might be fun. Besides, it beat staying home and ridiculing the people who went, like she had done each previous year with her friends.

The last note said that he would pick her up at her house in a Iimo. Plus, she mustn’t tell anyone; it would be their little secret. All would be revealed at the dance. Sam had been so excited, she couldn’t believe how much it meant to her to be going. Her grandma helped her pick out a special dress, do her make-up and fix her hair. She hadn’t even told her close friends.

That night, she had waited nervously on the porch for him. The note had said he would pull up and honk the horn twice. He arrived right on time. As she was walking towards the Iimo, the door was flung open and a bag of dog food and a corsage of dog bones was thrown onto the sidewalk. She heard laughter as the Iimo door slammed shut and sped away. The card on the dog food said, "Here’s our dinner out; hope you enjoy it." The "corsage" card said "The perfect flower for the perfect dog. Woof Woof."

She stood there for the longest time, stunned, as tears streamed down her face. Running into the house, she didn’t even stop to explain to her grandma why she wasn’t going to the dance. She had just wadded up the dress and thrown it in the trash. The dog food and corsage were inside it. She didn’t go to school that last day. Instead, she stayed home and packed; no sense in giving them more fuel for their fire. Leaving the next day, she never looked back. Grandma moved out soon afterwards to be with them until she passed away. Sam had vowed never to return.

Now he was a big "poop" star, as she liked to say. It seemed fitting – she liked the canine analogy. Switching off the radio, she decided that sleep was what she needed and headed to bed. Ninja following closely on her heels.