Mother In Law watches Hallmark obsessively in an attempt to escape the reality of being married to an idiot while raising a pumpkin headed half wit (which is a story for another day), and I’ve started to notice a theme…
Every Hallmark Christmas movie ever:
Writer goes back to their hometown for Christmas… falls in love
Writer buys a castle in Scotland… falls in love
Writer buys an apartment in Paris… falls in love
Seriously? Who are these people that can afford a plane ticket overseas during the holidays, let alone buy a castle? All of the writers and authors that I know are living in their mother’s basements, driving cars with tags that expired in 2019, and printing their unread articles to light their wood stoves full of cottonwood swiped from the village’s tree recycling yard, because it’s December in Nebraska and they can’t afford to turn the furnace above 55.
I’ve got to start leaving the room when she’s got that channel on. It’s giving me a complex. Why can’t I have a castle? Or at least a haunted hotel in Kimball, Nebraska?
Cat Hoskins 