My Gift To You Is Finally Here!!

As Ross said to Rachel, "We Were On A Break!!"

After seeing when my last post was, I wonder where the time went. Oh yeah, to the master"piece" I just posted. If you're really fortunate, you'll get a hard copy in the mail with pictures on it. Enjoy.

Peace Out.

The Seventh Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

Consider yourself lucky. Now that postage is 41 cents, some didn't make the cut. First, I'd like to apologize for insulting the late Anna Nicole Smith in my 2002 letter. But I stand by any disparaging remarks about young celebrities who don't spend enough time in jail or rehab, steroided athletes or those who dabble in dogfighting, Michael Jackson after he became white, or O.J. Simpson. In response to those who've threatened to boycott my annual accounting of our enviable lives, I call this a "Holiday" letter not due to any politically-correct fear of offending my many thin-skinned atheist, agnostic, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Rastafarian, Wiccan, or (insert your specific/non-specific spiritual /non-spiritual affiliation/non-affiliation here) friends. "Holiday" simply includes New Year's Eve & Day with Christmas (or Kwanzaa, Festivus or whatever celebration you may or may not observe, unless you're a Satan worshipper in which case you can just go to hell). So don your gay apparel & relax. We survived 2007 without being poisoned by tainted peanut butter or contracting tuberculosis on an airplane & while contaminated pet food may have brain damaged our dog, the kids have yet to show signs of impairment from toxic Chinese toys.

Luke & Katy kept us well-entertained & adequately irritated all year. We're proud to announce that Katy has finally mastered armpit farting. Maybe that's why she told me, "I'm afraid of getting whiskers under my arms like you." Her year's highlight was the Hannah Montana concert. (Miley Cyrus better not get too trashy.) Luke & Katy ride the bus with some older kids, so in spite of our efforts, they're getting a good, old-fashioned public school education. I should've known they were growing up when I had to move their clothes to adult-size hangers. I suspected it when Luke said, "Once you're my age, you just don't care as much about stuff that glows in the dark." It was confirmed when I took Luke & 3 friends out for his 11th birthday & overheard him describe the entrance to the 5th grade class with cute girls in it the Doorway to Heaven. Katy's 2nd grade vernacular now includes the term vajayjay, & she wondered why "If no one's supposed to see your bra, why's it decorated?" Mike was pleased by Luke's disappointment that his Halloween gladiator costume came with a skirt. And while Katy dreaded her recent football cheering season, she insisted on trick-or-treating as a zombie-goth cheerleader. She looked far too comfortable in that getup, so Mike has limited her future costumes to pumpkin suits or burkhas. We take comfort in the fact that they enjoyed basketball, soccer, karate & scouts this year, & that Katy was thrilled to get the Poop-Scooper Barbie (complete with dog & turds that double as food, I kid you not) for her 8th birthday.

Unfortunately, the kids were "bored" for several unbearable minutes in mid-July & again momentarily one afternoon in late August. A rainy summer allowed only one trip each to Schlitterbahn & Fiesta Texas to share close personal space with sweaty, scantily-clad strangers. We went to a swimming party where I negligently allowed Luke to overeat. An upset stomach had him running to the public restroom where he yelled from the stall, "If it doesn't come out the front of me, it's comin' out the back!" (That'll teach him.) In August, the same day Luke got his braces off, Katy started her orthodontic adventure with an expensive, tricked-out neon-pink retainer. When she temporarily lost it, the potential replacement cost made this the Christmas that almost wasn't.

The kids continue to impress us with their expressive skills. Luke gave me a special Mother's Day gift he made at school. I opened the lovely, doilied-up card to see: "When you're angry you make me laugh." Luke's teacher asked what they knew about Samuel Adams & he offered, "Well, they named a beer after him." When I told Katy what "those cone-shaped Thanksgiving things" were, she responded, "Cornucopia? Sounds like a disease." One of my Costco trips led Luke to say, "We now have enough paper towels to survive the next big flood." In Mike's absence, I tried again to make pancakes. Luke said sweetly, "Even the burned parts are pretty good." Still in touch with her emotions, Katy informed me, "I'm feeling under-appreciated." I told her to get used to it. Mike gave Luke "The Talk" during some special father-son time on opening day of dove season. (In Texas, that's when it happens if it's not in a deer blind.) He took it pretty well. (Luke handled it alright, too.) Later on, Katy asked, "What do dads have to do with making babies?" As I tried to weasel out, Luke piped up from the next room, "When you find out, you're gonna throw up."

Mike's year included airshows at the gulf coast & Dover, TDYs to Florida & Arizona, & cross-country weekends to Lake Charles, Reno, & Fort Worth for a fly-by at a TCU game. If he wasn't out of town, he was off riding one of his motorcycles or staying home while I tried to rival him on amount of time spent away. I garnered 2 extended "scrapbooking" retreats, 2 incredible female bonding/therapy weekends (one at a lakehouse, the other at a ranch) & 2 pretend-to-be-a-lawyer trips (one to New Orleans, the other to DC). I also went to more concerts than I thought I could afford either financially or physically. During one of Mike's extended trips, our microwave burned out so we couldn't have home-cooked meals till I got us a new one. When he's gone, our dog Buzz tries to be the alpha male & keep us fed. I found him at the back porch one night offering up a bloody headless rabbit carcass. What a thoughtful yet horrifying gift. Luke stepped up to toss it away after I duct-taped his arms with Wal-Mart bags.

My year was spent on a quest for the perfect purse, a cheap housekeeper & an effective anti-depressant. I settled for 2 out of 3. An infomercial suckered me into investing in an inversion table. It comes in handy when I hurt my back every time I set it up. I knew I had to cut back on flea marketing after I told Katy she needed a new bathing suit & she replied, "Preferably one that fits & hasn't been used." I impressed Mike with my financial savvy by selling the "inventory" from my storage unit when I realized the cost to store that junk far exceeded its value. My veterans' law practice has grown to include extra work from a DC-area lawfirm. I finally found someone desperate or crazy enough to pay me for serious writing. Luke introduced me to his class with this clever jab: "This is my mom. She works a lot." The extra income has allowed us to upgrade to a cordless phone, name-brand macaroni & cheese, & 2-ply toilet paper. I can also maintain my addiction with the answered prayer of a Starbucks right here in Mayberry.

In April, I turned thirty-eleven. When I told my mom I was considering Botox, she asked, "Ever thought about just not frowning?" I'll at least need a shorter haircut soon to avoid being one of those women who look young from the back. I was buoyed briefly to discover that a former client referred to me as "foxy" on a veterans’ website. Mike was quick to remind me that anyone who uses the word "foxy" was our age in the '70's. I was brought back to reality again when my plane landed after a 4-day trip & I got this text message: "milk bread eggs luv u." You know you're old when the only texts you get are grocery lists. At least we're texting. Even though Mike's turning 44 this month & had to read the last Harry Potter book with his new reading glasses, he continues to age more obliviously than I do. If he weren't so proud of his garden, he might pass for 38. He joined the church softball team & only hurt himself once. Luke said we could find him on the field easily because he'd be the one "jogging" around the bases.

In August, we rented an RV for a trip to Colorado. Unbeknownst to us, its toilet was stuck on flush for the first 100 miles, so we drained the water tank before we even left south Texas. Then, as Mike sped over a bumpy highway faster than the diapered astronaut, I had to clean up other people's DNA along with the gallon of milk that went flying out of the fridge. Later, Katy tried to open the motor home's medicine cabinet & the entire door came off in her hand. Luke complained, "What a rip-off!" Katy said, "Yeah. Literally." By the way, a moving RV is no place to apply mascara or shave your legs. Otherwise the trip was awesome.

In October, we marked 16 years of wedded ablyss on a trip to New York City with 2 other couples. The best part was Spamalot (the only musical any of us could tolerate). For our anniversary, Mike & I celebrated the fact that we get along a little better than Donald Trump & Rosie O'Donnell. And after a brief but unproductive revival of the dishwasher-loading controversy of 2001, I accepted his apparently irresistible urge to spend a ridiculous amount of money on pipes for The Harley & he promised to try just to bite his tongue & roll his eyes next time I buy something he deems equally outrageously expensive & absolutely unnecessary.

Resolutions: Katy hopes to keep her Webkinz alive, get an iPhone & overcome what she calls her "lacktoast" intolerance. Luke will continue to pretend he doesn't like girls, try to stop pulling legs off daddy longlegs spiders (sure, it's funny, but we don't want PETA to catch wind of it) & master determining wearability of questionably clean clothing by smelling it. Mike hopes to see Led Zeppelin if they tour, ride both bikes more, play at least one song on his guitar & decide which presidential candidate to vote for. I'll decide which one to vote against, try to understand the attraction of Dancing with the Stars & not panic when I lose my thesaurus.

In 2008, Mike will be pimpin' his new barn with central air & heat, a fridge, satellite TV & a disco ball while I try to make as much money as real lawyers do. I'll also try to keep my blog offensively sensitive yet thoughtfully vulgar. For past issues & more high-quality low-brow musings, behold http://www.exquisitedrivel.blogspot.com/. Mike & I will enjoy the new free cell phones we're getting each other for Christmas & sadly, Luke & Katy will spend the year entertaining themselves with their new Amish-made toys.

Thanks to any of you who had the curiosity, courtesy, or courage to read this to the end. Remember that intangible gifts last far longer than anything man-made & bad stuff happens to remind us to be grateful daily for the good. We wish you all a peaceful, joyful Christmas & a New Year full of more laughter than tears, unless they are tears of laughter, in which case savor every one.

Love,
The Mitchells -- Jill, Mike, Luke & Katy

I'm on a Break--Check Back Next Week

Sorry folks, I have a lot of stuff rattling around in my head that I need to shake out, but I have some work deadlines and more importantly, a Christmas letter to write. My keystrokes must go toward that for now. Trust me, you'll be glad later. And you'll be the first to read it as I'll post it here before I send out the snail mail versions that people are already no doubt camped out by their mailboxes for. Don't expect too much. As my parents used to say, "I'll leave all the bad parts out, so this will be short." (Naah, the bad stuff is the best part. That's what no one seems to get.)

Giving Thanks Our Way (Updated Version)

Apparently, Trish, my blog-prodder as I have just now dubbed her, needs a fix. And far be it from me to deprive her, the catalyst for this work of genius. I needed to purge anyway.
Stella Benson wrote, "Family jokes, though rightly cursed by strangers, are the bond that keeps most families alive." If only other families could swap insults with impunity the way mine does, there would be no petty or protracted estrangements & Jerry Springer would be out of a job.
While we looked forward to it, we all were a little apprehensive as well (because we've done it before). Before we got there, my sister Kelly emailed me & my brother Kenny (or "Ken" as he is known outside the family) to say, "I'm looking forward to y'all getting on my nerves this weekend." That was so sweet.
Picture this. Seven adults, 6 kids & 2 dogs cooped up in a 3-bedroom, 2-bath farmhouse the size of a double-wide. (Well, it may technically be a double-wide, but it's so well-disguised that my dad always joked a tornado could never find it.) It's probably the only 20-year-old pre-fab dwelling in Hico, Texas or anywhere else, with hardwood floors & ceramic tile. However, the Winnebago-style Fiberglas showers have yet to be upgraded to imported Venetian marble. I just realized what a spoiled, upper-middle-class brat I sound like. "Ooh, so many people in a 'tiny' 3-bedroom…" A lot of families in this world probably happily sleep that many in one room. In fact, my Russian sister-in-law, Anya, told me she felt right at home with so many people in what seemed like such a small space.
So when we get there late Wed. night, everyone else is way ahead of us in the celebrating department. They started the party without us. That's the way we roll. You'll be there when you get there, fend for yourself on the food & drink & snooze you lose. So the music is blaring, margaritas are flowing & Anya is dancing as my nieces & nephews run amok. Kenny is vegging on the couch; Kelly & Mom are hiding out in the kitchen probably making sure all the tequila is either gone or well-hidden before I arrive. Mom already looks pale & what my sister refers to as "beat down" while Kelly is in full party mode. Anya really wants to go with Kelly & me to a nearby dive bar frequented no doubt by truckers with more wheels than teeth, bikers (not the Lance Armstrong kind) & leathery tattooed barflies. Sure, it would be a BLAST, but we'd have been torn apart & eaten alive while the jukebox played the theme song from Dukes of Hazzard or maybe some ZZ-Top or 'Skynyrd. To top it off, for some reason, Anya really wanted to pretend to be a deaf mute when we got there. Just for fun. It would have provided some great material, but we wussed out.
Katy's & Mom's birthday was Friday & Luke's is this Friday, so we always celebrate them the day after Thanksgiving. We all also brought gifts for each other's kids. Not so much to keep them from feeling left out as to cover birthdays we forgot or to go ahead & get Christmas out of the way. That's just our way. We're slackers. We did hold off on the real birthday presents for the designated day, but the others were distributed at random when whichever kid or kids seemed to need a new distraction. Thank God one of the girls got the High School Musical soundtrack so we could be subjected to it at max volume while Katy, Lydia (my brother's daughter who is just a couple of weeks older than Katy--8), & Chloe (my sister's daughter who is 6, I think) danced & sang with such pure joy, watching them almost cancelled out the adults' collective desire to beat the stereo to death with a sledgehammer.
Luke & the boys went about their business oblivious to the chaos they were both surrounded by & supplementing. My brother's son Peter is 3 & Kelly's son Ben is 4. They played contently with lead-painted Chinese toys or tackled Luke as necessary. Peter is addicted to the Wiggles. (That's one of those sentences that sound inappropriate, but it's not.) He has discovered these Wiggles videos on YouTube. They're montages of Wiggles clips (sounds like a circumcision, but it's not) put to songs that make for incredibly hilarious & inappropriate videos. Look them up sometime. So Peter watches these having no clue that, for example, the Wiggles dancing to I'm too Sexy or driving their big red car as they are Ridin' Dirty is a RIOT to any adult who can appreciate ironic, sophomoric humor.
At some point, we all "bed down" (Kelly & I always use that phrase in the voice we use for such odd phrases & laugh. Not sure why.)

(I need to take a break here & shift gears back to writing a brief before I get an upset stomach from doing something ostensibly superfluous when I should be a more responsible adult. Clients will start calling, so I need to exercise the serious part of my brain. I'll be supplementing this entry soon as there is a lot more material to share.) Stay tuned.

But wait, there's more!
Kelly & I spent most of the weekend making puerile & vulgar references & gestures (one involving the raw turkey neck & some "giblets"). We were in tears laughing so hard at how funny we were. And we couldn't resist adding "so to speak" or "that's what s/he said" to any conceivably vulnerable word or phrase that popped up (so to speak). Mom & Kenny tried to look down their noses at us, but they couldn't help piping up with their own tasteless jokes at every opportunity.
I forgot to say that Kelly outdid me again on Mom's birthday gift. She probably found it on a clearance "As Is" shelf at the Dollar Store or Big Lots. She got her this fancy, tricked out, under the cabinet stereo, radio/CD player, with speakers & a clock & a remote. This is for the tiny kitchen in the glorified double-wide. The remote handily attaches to the nearby fridge with a magnet. Mom was all like, "Oooh, a remote. Just in case I'm at the fridge & can't move that extra three inches to reach the stereo itself." And the thing probably also has a built-in can opener, corkscrew & egg separator, too. Whatever. I got Mom some BeautiControl stuff (that I sell anyway & was probably free). She said, "Didn't you give me some foot cream last time? And what does this mean—'extreme repair'? What are you trying to say?" God she's funny. I also gave her a $50 Target gift card. Kelly was kind enough to point out, "Oh, like there's a Target in Hico." As IF Mom never leaves town. She's always speeding off in her Lexus "crossover" SUV to such hot spots as Waco or Fort Worth. (Btw, why are they called "crossovers"? Like, is it a car that feels like it should have been an SUV? Is it an SUV trapped in a car's body? I guess hermaphrodite was already taken.)
We had dinner later than usual, mainly because we are not planners & because we wanted to overcook everything & get the turkey nice & dry. We have this phrase we use, usually at Christmas, but often at other special occasions. Because we had decided to cut back on the gluttony a little, we only had like 4 starches instead of the usual 16. And we decided to break tradition & have just plain green beans (mistake). Anyway, as we surveyed the spread, Mom shook her head wistfully & said, "Just another disappointing Thanksgiving." And it really was when we tried to eat the chocolate pie. As Mom made the pie, Kenny told her to cut back on the sugar, so it would be more like dark chocolate (which is theoretically fine). He is normally a good cook. Well, she apparently sneaked in some Splenda which only made it worse. But I can't blame her for trying. Anyway, thanks to Kenny, the pie sucked. It tasted like, well, crap. Even Luke wouldn't eat it. That's how bad it was.
And of course Mike was kind enough to remind me that when he & Luke made an escape earlier that day for a Thanksgiving lunch visit to his aunt's house (about an hour away) they enjoyed pecan & coconut crème pies not cooked at my brother's direction. When Mike & Luke were leaving, it was a wet & windy 34 degrees. Luke needed a warmer coat. My brother-in-law, Tim (who coaches baseball at OU) offered up a Sooners hoodie. Luke goes, "I'm not that cold." Smart, that boy.
So one night, I think during Mike's other escape to Arlington to see his best friend & to watch UT get beat by A&M, Kelly, Kenny, Anya & I sat at the dinner table drinking wine & trying to top each other with "my kid is more messed up than yours" stories. Kenny decides to rank the kids mainly in order of cuteness. We were trying to determine the criteria & see if age was a factor (no it was not) & if intelligence played a role (to even the playing field, no). So we were pretending seriously to decide which of the 6 kids was the cutest or best-looking when Mom approached to see what we were discussing. She acted mortified & appalled, but I know she was mentally trying to put them in order. We all wanted our own kids to win, but I truly think my nephew Ben would have been the winner, had we really had to do like a pageant. Peter would have been first runner up only because he's a year younger & still has a shot next year.
So Kenny is a philosophy professor & I told Kelly I get nervous every time I talk to him about anything more important than the Wiggles. She reminded me that I'm smart too & that she's always been the outcast middle child who got her degree in Home Ec. She said, "Jill, Kenny is only like on a balcony above you as far as intelligence. He's a Mount Everest above me." So that made me feel pretty good.
We left Saturday morning so we were going to miss the parade of lights that night in downtown Hico where Mom was to judge some no doubt fabulous crepe paper floats & the highly-anticipated doggie fashion show. I was disappointed to miss that, only because of the great fodder I could have collected.

So it was the second Thanksgiving without Dad. If he had been there, it would not have been such a loud, wheels-off free-for-all. We would have had dinner on a schedule so we'd be done in time for the Cowboy game. The kids would've been a little better behaved & my sister, brother & I would've had even more wine & probably more civilized conversation. Things were not the same. Even sameness is temporary. We could see him rolling his eyes at our absolute lack of control & I think he was probably glad he wasn't in the middle of it. We filled the empty space with such deep gratitude for 6 healthy kids who rarely see each other & when they do, pick up where they left off just like old friends do. They were scattered like the clutter under our feet, then clicked together like perfect little puzzle pieces. Through all the rude & crude, under all the noises & voices, inside all the motion & emotion, over all the laughter & quiet after, we could hear Dad's voice (Kenny imitates it so well). We could feel his peaceful pleased presence & we knew he was glad to be (somehow literally) above the fray, smiling on our irreverent reverence. Approving & glad that, even so soon without him, the laughter will continue to be the bond that keeps our family alive.

One of my treasures: a Letter from David Sedaris

I have been preparing my 2007 holiday letter, so I was digging thru the golden box where I stash all my my writing paraphernalia and torn junk mail envelopes & crumpled coffee-stained Starbucks napkins with scribblings of my utter brilliance when I ran across something I need to keep in a fireproof lock-box. I never kept it under my pillow, but I did think about it. It is a letter from my favorite writer & the person I would most love to attend a carnival freakshow with.

When he came to San Antonio back in 2004, I stood in line to have him sign all my books and then hand-delivered I guess what you would call an (obsessed) fan letter. Non-Sedaris fans won't get a lot of it. Some references I like to consider personal jokes between the two of us. Here's what it said:

November 6, 2004

Dear Mr. Sedaris:

I thought of you several months ago when Cord Roberts returned to Llanview for a brief but pivotal scene at the hospital bedside of Flash (a/k/a Sarah—as you know, the daughter he had with Tina). And it was the real Cord Roberts, not some actor just playing the part of Cord Roberts. He was as dashing and debonair as ever, and now distinguished as well, I dare say. Yes, time has been good to our friend Cord Roberts. I hope you saw it, but I imagine One Life to Live isn’t easy to find on French TV. Back in 1988, when I went to the Sorbonne and flunked out (or as they put it: “Nous regrettons… [french gibberish]…vous avez echoue…”) the only American shows I could find were reruns of Charlie’s Angels and Dallas. When I told my host countryfolk I was “de Dallas,” they would gasp in that animated French way and ask, “Connaissez-vous ZhjeeAyhr?” I would say, “Bien sur, J.R. est mon voisin!” I wanted to say he was my lover, but they’d know it was a lie, seeing as how they were privy to the obnoxious alcoholic oilman’s dramatic televised love life.
Anyway, I haven’t written a fan letter since I fell in love with Ralph Macchio in the first Karate Kid movie. When I stare into your photograph’s eyes, I feel the yearning ache, the grasping pangs of unrequited love not unlike those I suffered as a pre-teen upon gazing at my Shaun Cassidy posters or Andy Gibb (God rest his soul) albums. That’s just the kind of passion you arouse in me, but in a much more mature and civilized way.
The love -- nay, ardor, I feel for you is so much more raw, more genuine, more transcendent than anything sexual or romantic or even gastronomic. It’s a sublime sense of “Oh-if-only-he-knew-that-I’m-his-female-hetero-suburban-counterpart…” Then I shudder at the shameless audacity to elevate myself to counterpart status. Of course I have a high but largely unmerited self-opinion. And still I blush at revealing my deepest secrets to you. I like to think you might nevertheless someday deign to acknowledge me.
When I found out you were coming to San Antonio, I hastily forked over the most well-spent hundred bucks of my life for two precious golden tickets. One for me, and one for whichever of my few literate friends loses a game of rock-paper-scissors and whose duty it will be to prevent me from surrendering to what will surely be an overwhelming, nigh Tourette-ish/OCD urge (no offense) to writhe in a sweat-slinging frenzy at the mere thought of breathing air in the same room as you, my Malison.
You have brought unparalleled tear-filled joy to my life, and I will cherish your words eternally in my soul.
Contrary to my standard personality, I am NOT being sarcastic. And don’t worry, I’m far too busy to stalk you.

All my devotion,

Jill Mitchell

Here is his rather prompt and courteous answer. I was a little nervous about copyright infringement, posting his words without permission, (hey, I marked out his address) but let him sue me. He came back to town just last month, so I got to share the theatre's oxygen with him again. I didn't stand in line or give him a letter this time. Don't want to appear too interested, you know. He has a new book coming out in June, so I will be trolling Amazon to place an advance order as soon as possible just in case I can't find the time & air miles to stalk him properly for an awkward encounter in which he is compelled to fork over personally a new signed copy or suffer humiliation the likes of which he has never seen before, & has he seen some humiliation.

Don't miss my updated profile. A real must-read.

Just more blatant self-promotion. (Or is it a cry for help??) This blog has unleashed quite an egomaniacal streak. I'll try harder to pepper it with snippets of humility if any have the courage to surface.

Hannah Montana's Cool, but the Jonas Brothers Rule!

I had SO much fun watching my 7-year-old daughter scream & sing along with an entire arena full of absolutely hysterical Hannah fans. It was well worth the exorbitant ticket price. Of course, I found myself singing along, too. The show was a Disney extravaganza with dancers, fireworks, confetti, streamers, & more costume changes than I could count. I thought I'd be miserable & bored, but the vicarious pleasure of seeing so many thrilled kids was impossible to resist. Of course, the big beer I paid about 12 dollars for helped, too.
The Jonas Brothers opened for her, then played again as Miley changed from her alter ego, Hannah, into herself for the second half of the show. Those boys are adorable. When I realized I kind of didn't mind watching the High School Musical movies b/c of Zac Efron & Corbin Bleu, I thought (sort of a la Jeff Foxworthy) "you might be a pedophile..... if you're 40 & you have inappropriate thoughts when you see cute boys less than half your age." Well, the Jonas Bros confirmed it. I'm afraid I might be. Good thing I'm too old to go back & be a high school teacher. I might be in prison & pregnant.
I really hope ol' BillyRay Cyrus can keep his sweet daughter in line so she doesn't end up one day baring her ragged out "tinkerbell" (as Katy calls it) as she drunkenly stumbles out of a limo with, say, a heroin-addicted Hilary Duff & a DUI-ankle-braceleted Raven-Symone.
Get this. Since Katy is a fan club member, we got special VIP treatment. All the "MileyWorld" members got to participate in raffles for meet & greets with Miley or tour bus visits or Hannah Montana toothbrushes. We didn't win anything, BUT, (here's the good news) all the fan club members got to stand in line for about an hour to have their picture taken with a life-size cardboard Miley cut-out & (drum roll)......Miley's real-life GRANDMOTHER! Yep, my daughter & her friend can now treasure (or sell on eBay) a real photo of Miley Cyrus' granny. And she's not even BillyRay's mom, as people kept asking. Like, "Oh, wow. Are you really the one whose loins spawned the Achy-Breaky Heart guy? Can I have your gnarled, arthritic hand scribble me an autograph?" She's just his mother-in-law, so I bet that prevented much threat of writer's cramp. Bless her heart. What a gig, huh? Wonder what he pays her. I bet she gets free Depends since she has to stand there & pose like frickin Santa for several hours at a time. Can you believe that? Let's put grandma to work. I bet she'd rather be back in Tennessee wearing her blue greeter's vest at the local Wal-Mart. Again, I just have to say, bless her poor little old heart. If my kid ever becomes a gajillionaire, I guarantee my mother & mother-in-law will be living on their own private islands with diamond-encrusted jets & well-coiffed servants & french chefs & dedicated personal shoppers & hot cabana boys giving them pedicures & massages & serving them maragaritas as they float on gold-leafed pools full of perfectly heated FIJI bottled water. Hear that, moms? I will not allow y'all to become geriatric sideshow attractions. I'm sure you'll hold me to it.

Some of My Theme Songs Have Been Added

I just went thru all kinds of computer triple round-off back flips while juggling flaming chainsaws and cartwheeling thru razorwired hoops to put these songs here for your listening pleasure. I hope you like them, and if you don't, change the channel and go listen to some mellow mainstream soft rock. I'll try to add other offbeat stuff as the mood strikes me. Btw, Where Was I isn't really a theme song, I just like it b/c it is really depressing. (Not Seasons in the Sun depressing, don't worry.) I also added the greatest Christmas song ever. Hilarious. A Texas classic. And I had to add an Eva Cassidy song b/c I think she had the most beautiful voice on Earth. Look up her story. It's a sad one. And then I had to throw in some Van Morrison. These are the Days just makes my heart ache. LOVE it. If you haven't noticed, music is huge for me. Especially stuff that gets me all hysterical one way or another. As if I need any help there. Speaking of hysteria, I'm taking Katy to see Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus tonight (Mon. 11/12/07). I'm sure you'll get a full report soon, but I won't be posting any of her songs.

Caution: My Friend Chris Tries To Stir Up Trouble

Sometimes I just want to keep it mindless and pointless, but he keeps trying to pick intellectual fights, like a chihuahua yapping at a sedated (& extremely culturally literate) great dane. (I am part Danish, by the way. But there's no Mexican --or should I say Mexican-American or Latin-American or Chicano-American in him--as you might soon glean from his political views).
Anyway, Chris and I met when we went to school together a la Sorbonne in Paris wayyyy back in 1988. Twenty years ago? Twenty? As my mom says, time flies even when you're not having fun. Anyway, we bonded then via our common superiority complexes and our relentless desire to top each other with derogatory nicknames for fellow classmates. One time, he kept making our teacher repeat the french word for seal (the water mammal) "phoque" she would say. And he kept asking her, with a straight face, to repeat it just so we few Americans in the class could say it just right. So here we are, these 20-year-old obnoxious American college brats giggling as this sweet little french lady keeps saying "phoque, phoque, phoque" while making french seal sounds and gestures. I'll save the many Paris stories for another time. But I do need to get them down before the 20-year-old memories are gone with the brain cells that miraculously have remained with me even thru college. I didn't use many of them in law school, and of course, applying Norm's buffalo theory from Cheers (Google it...or was it Cliff?) anyway, survival of the fittest. But I digressed there.
As I was saying, Chris has been a very dear friend for years. He came to Texas from his home near Rochester, NY at the time to be an usher in our wedding. Then Mike & I went up to NY for his wedding. He's like the conservative little brother I never had. (My real little brother is more like me, a little confused by pro-lifers for war.) Anyway, from time to time, you may see political comments from Chris, trying to get me all riled up with his Sean Hannity/Rush Limbaugh hot air. Now, don't get me wrong, I do love listening to them, so I can get all uppity and prepare for battle. But when Chris gave me the backhanded compliment of putting me on his list just above Ann Coulter, I didn't know what to think. When I saw myself in the same paragraph with that psychotic diarrhea-of-the-mouth fascist freak, I had to dry heave a bit. But hey, at least I mean more to him than she does. Less than Formula I (which I don't get, either, but I think it's higher class than NASCAR.) So, I'll take what I can get. And I love Chris in spite of his misguided views. Just like I love everyone. True, kind, & gentle Liberals (not the militant ones--that should be an oxymoron, emphasis on moron) are that way. We love Everyone, especially the sinners, the simple-minded, and the lepers. Just like Jesus does. So bite me.

Don't Wake a Sleeping Bear

So, Mike has been using this throat spray that has really helped lessen the volume and frequency of his snoring. It is made by the Breathe Right folks. It's called Snore Relief. It's no miracle, but it does help. Anyway, one Saturday, Mike was asleep on the couch, remote in hand, History or Military Channel blaring, not an uncommon weekend scenario. Well, he started to snore. We have a high ceiling, a big stone fireplace/mantle/chimney, plus concrete floors, so the middle of the house acoustics even at mid-day are not unlike those of, say, a school cafeteria-size, windowless, cinder block-enclosed fallout shelter. So I'm in the office, tuning out the noise with my stereo, Luke is in his room probably reading or Lego-ing, tuning it out b/c he tunes everything out, and I thought Katy was in her room watching High School Musical 2 for the 783rd time. Well, unbenownst to the rest of the family, Katy took it upon herself to go get Mike's snore spray. As he slumbered ever so peacefully, she crept up to his open mouth and let fly with a big spray. Let's just say the aftermath was not pretty. I keep telling Mike she was just trying to help and that he'll laugh about it one day. So far, he still doesn't find it the least bit funny. But I thought you might.

Our trip to NYC

We went to New York City for a long weekend last month with our friends Kathy & Tom and Tiffany & Keith. Thanks to Tiffany's air-mile generosity, we all flew first-class round trip for free!! The highlight was definitely Spamalot and the excellent food and friendly service we got everywhere we went. We also went to this overwhelming 9/11 museum that I highly recommend http://www.groundzeromuseumworkshop.com/home.html is the website for it. Intense. We got a good deal on Priceline on our hotel, The Roosevelt. Great location & good service, except the rooms were (probably typical for an "upscale" 3 star in NYC) minuscule. We had fun making "our room is so small" jokes. Here's a sampling-- Our room is so small:
the room number is bigger than the room, you don't need the remote to watch TV, they need to hire midgets for housekeeping, when we got there we thought we were back on the elevator, and my favorite, when you order room service, you can only get hors d'oeuvres. Oh, and for the guys, the small room worked to their advantage, because it made everything else look bigger! I'm sure there were more, but I'll just add them later if they merit repeating and get past the new internal censor I'm trying to employ to impove the mass appeal of my musings.

Finally, I can spill my mental clutter

This blog is finally here not only because I need it to keep me less insane, but also b/c my friend Trish told me she would start nagging me if I didn't do it. Well, I don't suffer nags gladly, so I went ahead and got busy. I won't always write much, but when I do, you can bet it will be something useless and trivial that you can carry with you all day like a bad song from the '80's that sticks in your head (try Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go). Sorry, I dare you not to picture the video. Anyway, here's one little snippet I've been wanting to share: I go to the local Army hospital for my medical care (BAMC) here in San Antonio. Outside the building, they have a few of these little glassed-in (actually, smoked-glass) cubicles probably equipped with hard plastic benches and a lot of exhaust fans. They are called the "smoke shacks" where all the poor nicotine addicts have to gather and try to hide their scarlet (actually, more like a Marlboro Red color) letters of cigarette shame. So anyway, I'm in a clinic at BAMC when I hear over the intercom, I kid you not, "Code Blue in the North Smoke Shack, Code Blue in the North Smoke Shack" Sure, it was a sad day for Code Blue dude, but for everyone else, it was effing hilarious.

The Sixth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter (2006)

WARNING: This letter’s side effects may include nausea, insomnia, narcolepsy, glaucoma, anxiety, depression, incontinence, bird flu, E. Coli, or nasty paper cuts. Consult your doctor if you are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant.

I suspected 2006 would be disappointing when Katie Couric announced she’d leave the Today Show. My suspicion was confirmed when the number of celebrity babies exceeded the combined total of the price of super unleaded, Mel Gibson’s blood alcohol content, and Britney Spears’ IQ. At least you have this lame recounting of our lackluster year for comfort in these troubled times.

We’ve been in our new home a year now and have come to appreciate small town life. It’s like Mayberry without the catchy theme song. The tiny post office displays a cross on its wall; the Home Depot has only one set of doors; and we don’t even have a Starbucks. Yet. At school, kids celebrate all the politically-incorrect holidays, contests have winners and losers, and they still play dodgeball. The best thing about living here is that you can usually get across town in under 10 minutes, depending on the deer. Our status as country folk became official when Mike bought a pair of Wrangler jeans at the Tractor Supply. (I try to look past that.) Luke’s hick-boy quote of the year: “Too bad that burn ban’s goin’ on, ‘cause I’d really like to find a snake and set it on fire.”

The kids filled the year with karate, basketball or soccer, various camps, scouts, and guilting me into spending money on book fairs, fundraisers, and clothes that fit them. In their free time, they attended school and sometimes even completed their homework.

I’m proud to say Katy has inherited my expressive mouth. Her age-inappropriate catchphrase of the year: “Mmmm, Mama like!” At Walgreens, as I used the debit keypad, she warned me, “You’re sticking your middle finger up.” I said, “But I don’t mean it this time.” The clever clerk said, “Only when she’s driving.” (How’d he know that?) When she tried on some jeans I got her at a flea market: “If you’d bought these at a real store, we could return them for the right size.” Now that she’s 7, she can grasp some of the complexities of this modern world: “I know why you watched cartoons only on Saturdays when you were a kid. ‘Cause y’all didn’t have much electricity back then.” By the end of the summer, she described herself as “BORED-ified.” My attempts at stern discipline are often met with an exaggerated salute and a “Sir-Yes-Ma’am.” In spite of her endearing insolence, she earned her orange and green belts in karate. And as a result of our neglect, she’s reading like a 3rd grader. For Halloween, the kids reversed roles. Luke was a devil while Katy was an angel. Ironically, he lost his pitchfork and she lost her halo.

After Pluto was stripped of its planet status, I was forced to get rid of the kids’ solar system placemats. This was a welcome relief as Uranus (thanks to Luke) was starting to cause too much dinnertime disturbance. Luke continues to float through life with a head full of ideas and no sense of urgency whatsoever. I realized at church one morning that he had rakishly donned a blue flip flop with a brown sandal. He still reads several books at once, and would read in the shower if we let him. He also writes lovely stories. One engaging title: The Intergalactic Turd. Look for it at Barnes & Noble soon. When he’s not reading or writing, he’s exploring the woods around our house, marking his territory, and firing his BB gun. He’s already a better shot than Dick Cheney. He just turned 10 and has begun to offer pearls of wisdom. When Katy asked for more of the cookies he had given her: “Sorry, Katy. When it comes to charity, you don’t get seconds.” He handily earned his blue belt, and should become a decent athlete just in time for puberty.

Mike was promoted to Lt. Colonel in February. We’re glad he doesn’t make us salute him. In public. He continues to tolerate his demanding F-16 gig, even though he was forced to participate in an airshow at the coast during Spring Break. In April, he spent 2 weeks in Arizona while I took my yearly act-like-a-lawyer trip to D.C. And in October, he performed in an airshow for the Confederate Air Force. Fortunately for us, he hasn’t yet been tapped for any shows in the Middle East. He was brutally April-fooled when I scared him with a falsified pregnancy test. (Let’s just say I got the result I wanted.) In May, he went to Colorado on his Brokeback Mountain trip for a week of "poker-playing and fishing." Then he proudly introduced a new addition to the family. The Harley. That’s what a fighter pilot dirt biker with a mid-life crisis does. (I got a new Yukon as a consolation prize.) After I let some resentment go, he got me a helmet. Now all I need is the tube top. When he’s not zipping around the hill country on his bike, he’s buying or installing parts for it. We celebrated our 15th anniversary in Austin with a Texas Longhorns game and some much-needed kid-free time. This year, I agreed to try harder to keep the house clean, while he agreed to lower his expectations.

Now that both kids are in school, my home-office veterans’ law practice should be thriving. Instead, my lack of self-discipline gives me too many multi-tasking, attention-deficit-inducing opportunities. On one of my breaks, I discovered what happens when a red crayon goes through the dryer with a load of whites. While sending faxes, I rearrange furniture, sweep up kids’ toenail clippings, and work on the rock garden I’m creating with all the playground pea gravel that ends up in our carpet. As I sit on hold, I waste time and money buying and selling junk on eBay. While printing a brief, I found out that, left unchecked, dust, cobwebs, and dog hair can intermingle under a couch to take on the appearance of a large dead rodent. On my 40th birthday, I got a 10-years-early invitation to join the AARP. At first I was offended, but those discounts come in handy. My mid-life crisis involves what I call short-arm syndrome. If I can hear my cell phone and find it, then I can’t seem to hold it far away enough in time to focus on the caller ID. And sure, I look cool with my little iPod, but I can’t read what I’m listening to. In July, I helped my mom hold a garage sale. There’s nothing more spirit-crushing than bickering in the Texas summer heat over the price of a 25-cent item and feeling the defeat when you let it go for a dime. In my free time, I think about scrapbooking, selling Beauticontrol, and practicing yoga. Mike was kind enough to offer to MapQuest my gym for me as I’d apparently forgotten how to get there.

Now for the sad part: In late March, on my Dad’s 64th birthday, we found out his melanoma from 5 years ago had returned. (Sunscreen your kids like their lives depend on it.) We were blessed with one short month of precious goodbye time full of laughter, memories, and him bossing us around while showing more grace and courage than we thought humanly possible. We spent those fleeting treasured days holding on and letting go all at once. Our days and holidays will never be the same. Nothing stays the same, but life is still more sweet than bitter.

For next year: I resolve to floss more often, use more coupons, and maybe iron something; Mike wants to stop calling people idiots in front of the kids; Luke hopes to say no to crack by wearing belts that prevent the display of his Incredible Hulk boxers; and Katy plans to overcome the visceral terror of having her hair brushed. The kids will eventually get over the fact that we didn’t camp out for a PlayStation 3, and continue to suffer with their old PS2.

We’re grateful for the love of friends and family, and we wish y’all joyful holidays and a 2007 full of peace, health, and happiness.


Love,
Jill, Mike, Luke & Katy

The Fifth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter (2005)

I ran across a blog after Googling myself & found that my legions of clamoring fans are anxiously expecting this to be nothing short of the most hilarious load of crap ever. Christmas came at a really inconvenient time for us this year, so I apologize in advance if it leaves a lot to be desired.

In February, when we put our house on the market, I had to abandon my Sanford & Son housekeeping style & try to become June Cleaver. (You know you’re old when you refer to sitcoms that aired when there were only 3 networks). I cleaned, organized & decluttered with an obsessive finesse that would put even the best FEMA administrator to further shame. The kids got tired of sleeping on top of their covers, taking sponge baths & peeing outside, but they developed valuable life skills like straightening rug fringe, hiding dirty laundry in the car & avoiding decorative hand towels. We sold the house in June & moved into a rental not far from our 3-acre lot where we started building. The kids had to share a room, but they were just glad to sleep under the covers again. Our new house was completed this month & we just moved in. I had the brilliant foresight to label 90% of the boxes “Miscellaneous,” so we should finish unpacking & be settled by mid-2008. Our new neighborhood is full of deer, most of them still living. Our first housewarming gift came from our dog Buzz who dropped a lovely buzzard-pecked 6-point buck head on the front porch.

Our year’s highs & lows both occurred in August. Our first day at DisneyWorld, we were chosen (no doubt for wholesome good looks & well-groomed, mannerly children) to be the parade’s Grand Marshals. Katy showed off her pageant queen wave while Luke gave everyone a Hook ‘em Horns. Mike (the perfect Clark Griswold) videotaped the entire thing. We now have 23 gigabytes of a thousand envious tacky tourists waving at us. A few weeks later, Luke was riding his dirt bike & ran his skinny belly smack-dab into the short side of an open tailgate. He was airlifted to Houston where he spent 16 days in PICU. He lost 60% of his pancreas & had to have a grade 3-4 liver laceration repaired. He’s fully healed & back to abnormal, always ready to display his 8-inch scar to anyone willing to look. (I, however, am still recovering.)

The real miracle during Luke’s hospitalization was Katy’s behavior. She handled it with amazing aplomb & was a blast of sunshine when we needed it most. Now she’s back to her old self, making “air quotes” with her fingers as she rolls her eyes & says “What-Evahh!” She embraces life with a near-freakish Tom Cruise-in-love enthusiasm. She started kindergarten at the primary school because the nearest military academy wouldn’t take her. She just turned 6 & declared herself a vegetarian, then changed her mind when I told her she’d have to give up chicken nuggets & foot-long chili cheese dogs. She earned her yellow belt in karate after mercilessly pummelling another little girl into submission in front of a cheering crowd. In spite of her hereditary intelligence & Dr. Phil-inspired self-psychoanalytical ability (“I don’t feel like I get enough attention”), she still wants to be a cheerleader when she grows up. Her favorite phrase: “I’m not whining, that’s just how I talk!” When asked what she learned in Sunday School, she told us the little-known Bible story of Joseph Crabshack, Meshach & Abednego. When asked where she got a hat she was wearing: “Mom got it at Old Navy, or maybe Salvation Army.” I had to explain the difference between those two branches of the military.

Luke’s adjusting well to the bubble wrap I dress him in & (much to my grief) is already riding his motorcycle again. He got his green belt in karate & is looking forward to playing basketball next year. After Mike had Luke eat his first jalapeno (both of them with tear-filled eyes), Mike offered him a drink. “No thanks, Dad, I want to feel the burn.” That’s our Texas boy. He enjoys reading 4 or 5 books at once, stealing coins from fountains & wearing boxer shorts that stick out over his baggy jeans—clueless how cool he looks. He’s 9 now, in 3rd grade & usually smarter than his parents. After I tried to help him with his homework & twice told him he was wrong when he wasn’t, I said, “Stop laughing at my math skills.” His reply: “You call it skills?” I’m so proud he’s making good use of my smart-mouth gene. For Halloween, he dressed as the grim reaper, oblivious that he came too close to meeting the real one. The day after accepting a citizenship award, Luke found himself literally in deep doo-doo when he ventured to a forbidden area at recess & jumped on a sewer pipe until it broke.

Mike still enjoys zipping his aging body around in an F-16. (Good thing I take care of disabled veterans.) He went to Poland in March & Tucson in April. In June, he went to Alaska & then to Dover for another NASCAR fly-by (just in time for me to move us on my own). He did an airshow with the Confederate Air Force in Midland, then went to Phoenix in October. He spends his free time riding his dirt bike, trying to master sudoku puzzles & visiting the welder he wants at Home Depot. On our 14th anniversary, he wrecked his truck, then I went out for margaritas with some girlfriends. We celebrated that weekend, but neither of us can remember what we did. He’s coming to terms with the obscene amount of stuff I’ve accumulated & I’m trying to respect his decorating suggestions. My plan to open a store on eBay may be thwarted if he makes good on his bonfire threats. We also agreed that he’d leave town again next time we move.

I continue working tirelessly to bring in negative amounts of money practicing veterans law & acting as unofficial incompetent legal counsel for my fellow misguided church members. When I’m not in a persistent vegetative state, I sell Beauticontrol, go on scrapbooking retreats & see how many Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons I can dig out of our neighborhood mailbox pavilion trash can. For next year, I resolve to actually get things done rather than just make daily “To Do” lists; wear protective glasses when I vacuum Luke’s room so I’ll never get another microscopic Lego stuck in my eye; & check Katy’s sheets for dog vomit before demanding she get in bed.

We’re blessed beyond measure & eternally grateful to everyone who prayed, visited, sent care packages & helped us through the surreal time after Luke’s injury. Being stuck in Houston was bad enough, but living in a children’s hospital could’ve been unbearable. Instead, I felt a supernatural peace that carried us through. When you’re at your weakest & you let God carry your burdens, He’ll carry you as well.

I look forward to pulling a runaway bride stunt next month, but after that, you can reach us at the address below. We wish you all a most meaningful Christmas & a New Year full of joy & peace.

Love,
Jill, Mike, Luke & Katy

The Fourth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter (2004)

My fan club tells me the anticipation of this report provides some of you with the sole reason for optimism during this stressful season. So here’s what I’ve thrown together to bring a ray of hope to the sickos among you who’ve come to depend on our glamorous life for cheap entertainment. The year wasn’t quite as good for us as it was for the Red Sox, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Donald Trump’s comb-over, either.

2004 was full of milestones for Katy. She mastered whistling, snapping her fingers & just like I taught her, flushing a public potty with her foot. And judging by the rate of her current fervent practice, we should soon proudly announce that she’s perfected burping the alphabet. She also precociously developed the appropriate reaction time for urgent nausea & can puke right into a toilet better than any sorority girl. That’s our little prodigy. In the Fall, she started preschool & soon wrote her first love note. (“Mom, how do you spell ‘Zachary’?”) Despite our inexcusable lack of guidance, a few days before her 5th birthday, she decided to start reading. Then she took to riding her bike without training wheels. She’s got an extremely high (but largely unmerited) self-opinion. When people say, “Katy’s so cute,” she helpfully adds, “And smart!” When told she was getting bigger, she responded, “and there’s no tellin’ how much cuter I’m gonna get.” Between distractions on the soccer field (such as dirt or grass) she played with guts & simultaneously acted as her own cheerleader. She performed almost flawlessly at her ballet recital without any obscene wardrobe malfunctions other than an ill-timed wedgie-pulling that caused another dancer to trip. She went missing one night at a vast indoor playground called Kidzville. After almost a half-hour of frantic searching, we found her blithely enjoying some strange kid’s party, having had cake & preparing to help open presents. She’s adventurous also when it comes to food. She loves sushi (especially octopus) & she’s been known to indulge in a self-made peanut butter & pimiento cheese sandwich. She’s started to curb the steroided-athlete-style temper tantrums & her infectious giggle is almost enough to outshine her brattitude. Katy’s fearlessly joyful love of life is rivaled only by our envy of it.

Luke had a big year, too. He earned his orange belt in karate, became a Wolf Cub in scouts & embarked on what promises to be an arduous & enduring stint of orthodontic intervention. He managed to kick the ball a few times & help his soccer team go undefeated, pulled two teeth on his own (to avoid Dad’s home-dentistry) & learned to play “pocket pool” while we stood in line at Wendy’s. With a hand in each front pocket, he excitedly alerted me (& an unusually attentive lunch crowd) “Look what I can do with my shorts!” Now that he’s 8, he makes such incongruous statements as “Chuck E. Cheese Rocks!” & “A kid on the bus thinks my little sister’s hot.” When I told him, “I don’t want you watching that cartoon. It looks evil,” he replied, “But mom, that’s the point!” He’s such an avid reader that his room has become a tinderbox of children’s literature. I pray he doesn’t develop a concurrent interest in pyrotechnics. When he’s not alphabetizing books or reminding me of speed limits, he enjoys donning his (adult medium) helmet & riding his dirt bike. Mike’s eyes teared up with pride when Luke told us his favorite movie was Blazing Saddles. And he similarly touched my heart when I overheard him tell Katy, “Our Mom makes great Pop-Tarts!” Luke’s quote of the year is on a sign he posted on his door. Normally, I frown on misspellings, but this one was priceless. It read: “No girls aloud.” Luke floats through life with untied shoes, an unzipped backpack & unintentionally droopy pants. He’s a bit clumsy, extremely clever & quite the little smart aleck. We can’t figure out how we were blessed with such an easygoing, thoughtful child, so we’re enjoying it while it lasts.

When Mike wasn’t planning our next meal or working on his motorcycle, he was in Poland. He made three trips for a training mission. While there, after gunning a few MiG-29s, he got to fly in one. Between Poland visits, he squeezed in a couple of dirt bike races with the Fat Old Guy team (FOGracing.com), an airshow in Louisville, a TDY to Tucson & another UT football game fly-by. After last year’s run-in with the FAA over (allegedly) flying too fast & low, this year Mike’s fly-by was criticized as “weak” for being well within FAA speed & altitude guidelines. (What’s a fighter pilot to do?) During Mike’s absences, I consoled myself with unbridled junk shopping & spray painting unnecessary flea market finds. He was also home long enough for us to buy a 3-acre lot north of town. Now, we’re trying to determine how to afford to build an inhabitable house on it. By the way, our non-smoking, litterbox-free home will be on the market soon, so take a number. In July, we took a family trip to Colorado where Mike & the kids climbed a waterfall, Luke outperformed the men on a 7-mile mega-hike & I found time for a burly woman to give me a massage & acupuncture. For our 13th anniversary night out, I cleaned the guacamole out of my wedding ring & Mike put on some cologne. I came to accept his preoccupation with watching poker on TV & he’s trying to tolerate what he considers “too many decorative pillows” on our bed. Mike will turn 41 later this month & we welcome any dietary or pharmaceutical suggestions.

For me this year, the big items on my To Do list outnumbered Bush’s cabinet replacements & Jude Law’s current movie appearances combined. I discovered I’m what’s now called “differently-abled” when it comes to time & calendar management. (I still regret that I didn’t make good use of that extra hour we got back in October.) While trying to head off behaving like one of the Desperate Housewives, I watched my caseload quadruple as my income dwindled in direct proportion. When I wasn’t fighting the VA, drawing houseplans, coming down with eBay elbow, or trying to keep up with laundry, I was hiding in the pantry eating the kids’ Halloween candy or rolling coins to feed my Starbucks addiction. The rest of my free time was spent maintaining a socially acceptable level of personal hygiene. I did find time for some therapy (a scrapbooking retreat), a self-esteem boost (my 20-year high school reunion), feeling starstruck (meeting my favorite essayist) & a trip to San Diego (taking my alter ego to a veterans’ law seminar). I turned 38 in April & gave up on hoping our babysitters think I’m cool. I experienced my own personal Fear Factor when we explored the largest, privately-owned cave in the country. Mike & the kids frolicked as if they were at Disneyland, while I (after being chased by snakes while squatting in the woods) squealed like a little girl as I faced claustrophobia, bats & scorpions. Speaking of fear, shortly after the election, my Dad suffered some more heart problems. (I knew they’d spend my inheritance; I just wish it wasn’t on medical bills.) He’s doing better now & we appreciate the thoughts & prayers. Keep ‘em coming.

For next year, I resolve to stop absent-mindedly responding “Mmmm-Hmmm” to my kids’ tuned-out queries. One afternoon, I’d apparently agreed to take them to Sea World & Fiesta Texas. They were none too pleased when we arrived at SuperTarget instead. Mike can’t wait to break in Luke’s Christmas BB gun & I look forward to impersonating Martha Stewart’s cellmate by keeping our house ready to show at all times.

We wish you all a healthy & peaceful 2005 full of laughter & gratitude.

Much Love,
The Mitchells
Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz

The Third Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter (2003)

If you thought we’d put you on our “Do Not Call” list, you’re not alone. 2003 had us busier than Jennifer Lopez’s wedding planners. So until we get our own reality show, this nauseating summary will have to do. To appease the critics, this time I’ll avoid the phrases “dumb-ass” (2001) & “dog diarrhea” (2002). (By the way, back issues are going fast!) This year, Mike logged a lot of unredeemable frequent flyer miles while I tried to master the art of priority-juggling. Through it all, our children provided boundless joy & endless aggravation.

We can always count on our first-born to make us proud. Luke’s kindergarten teacher asked for an example of a cylinder. He shouted, “A beer can!” (At least he didn’t say, “Mommy’s pill bottles!”) Our shame subsided when Luke--all in the same day--earned his yellow belt in karate, then (in an unrelated incident) lost his first tooth. In May, Luke & I both had our tonsils out. It seems last year’s behavior “issues” were the result of a nasty case of sleep apnea. (For Luke, that is. I’ve still got issues.) In the Fall, he started first grade & spent his leisure time with Cub Scouts & soccer. He inherited my physical coordination, so we’ll be banking on spelling bee winnings. His voracious reading (albeit admirable) interferes with my poor citizenship. “That says ‘No Parking-Fire Lane.’ Doesn’t that mean you shouldn’t park here?” When he figures out what that blue handicapped symbol means, I’ll really be in trouble. Luke’s imagination is still wonderfully out of control. When his teacher asked him to write about a sad or scary time in his life, he wrote, “My dad almost got killed by dingoes in Australia.” He just turned seven, & I failed to treasure the last few days he allowed me to hug & kiss him in public. Luke’s Quote of the Year (did he steal this from Disney?): “Katy, even though you’re little, in my heart you’re big.”

Commander Katy spent the first half of the year taking ballet against her will. We were thrilled to see that she’d simply been saving up for the recital to steal the show--like a miniature Britney Spears, but with more clothing, more talent, & a lot more class. Now, she’s in gymnastics where she exhibits not only amazing athletic ability, but also a self-confidence that borders on egomania. “I’m an afrobat!” she says. Katy operates at max capacity 24/7 on little or no sleep, with squeals that have been known to violate several local noise ordinances. (Our apologies to the neighbors.) My folks say she’s a carbon copy of me, so I’ve scrapped the plan to clone myself. She’s a whiz at puzzles, a Picasso-esque artist, & on a good day she can count to eleventeen. She’s a cunning manipulator who knows that if her wits fail, she can always rely on her irresistible cuteness. We admire her spunk, & couldn’t discourage it if we wanted to. I wanted her to say “Please,” & asked for the magic word. Her answer: “Agratadabra is a magic word, isn’t it?” Now that she’s four, we hope to see fewer apoplectic tantrums the likes of which we hadn’t seen since The Exorcist. She still enjoys her twice-a-week Mother’s Day Out, but not as much as I do.

Mike spent most of the year either racing his motorcycle or flying his jet. We’ll see if that heads off any midlife crisis. Check out the Fat Old Guy Racing Team website, www.FOGracing.com to see the sheer beauty created by dirt bikes, Whataburger, & aging testosterone. Despite his willingness to volunteer, Mike didn’t get tapped to join the war in Iraq, so he did what he could stateside for Air Force P.R. (His enjoyment of work-related fun was tempered by a constant awareness of the war & by gratitude for his military colleagues who’ve actually had to work - and even die- for a living.) He got rock-star treatment when he flew to Louisville for an airshow at the Kentucky Derby & later to Dover for a NASCAR fly-by. This Summer, Mike & his F-16 hit the front page of the Laredo paper when he made an emergency landing there. And last month, after a short trip to D.C., he did a fly-by at the UT-Texas Tech football game where he was afforded celebrity status & forced to pose for pictures with cheerleaders. During those absences, I freshened up our potpourri, threw away all my expired coupons, & discovered how to make homemade raisins when I cleaned out our fridge. In July, Mike took my Suburban to Mexico for a week with our church youth group on a mission trip (for Christ’s sake!).
Then in August, he went to Hawaii for three harrowing weeks of “training” while I perfected the skill of wielding a plunger while cursing the inventor of the “low-flow” toilet.

After he spent a week in Tucson at a conference, we finally made a trip together to celebrate our 12th anniversary with a kid-free, food- & drink-filled vacation to Rhode Island & Boston. In Rhode Island, a friend shared her shopping motto: “It’s not how much you spend--it’s how much you SAVE.” In Boston, I took advantage of some shopportunities & saved us a ton of money. Earlier this year, at a scrapbooking retreat, I emerged victorious from a crude verbal brawl with a gal who had apparently left her manners at home. There are few things more disturbing (aside from Michael Jackson’s mugshot) than bitter women brandishing decorative cutting tools. In March, I went to Phoenix for a veterans’ law seminar where I put on my lawyer hat & feigned intelligence. I did manage to win another case to keep my office running & get a new computer, too. (When Luke read the computer’s box: “Hey, this says ‘Made in China’ but they sure know how to spell ‘Dell’!”) In April, I turned 37 & immediately lost my metabolism & all elasticity in my facial skin. In retaliation, I lost 15 pounds on the South Beach Diet & learned that fat-free cheese is an oxymoron. I stopped highlighting my hair, only to realize that while my IQ improved somewhat, I was having less fun. This Summer, I took a writing class from one of my favorite essayists & even went to Iowa for another workshop where I was treated like teacher’s pet by an award-winning writer. I basked in the glory of my classmates’ collective envy, then came home to write mostly grocery lists. I also took on a full-time job in sciatic pain management. But I won’t pull a Limbaugh. There’s no way I could fit drug rehab into my schedule. I spend what’s left of my free time with yoga classes, selling household rejects on eBay, cleaning peanut butter out of my cell phone, & deleting urban legends forwarded by otherwise sensible people. Recently, in what I can only assume is part of God’s plan to remind us who’s really in control, my parents both have had some serious health problems. We’re so grateful for all the prayers & concern. They’re doing well now, & should be back to spoiling our kids beyond recognition in the very near future. Try to remember that Every Day Should be a Thanksgiving, except without all the bad carbs.

Mike will turn 40 later this month & I may need to drag him onto the Dr. Phil show to convince him he should be a grown man by now. For next year, he resolves to try to share the kids’ new PlayStation 2 with them & to teach Luke how to be safe on the new dirt bike Santa plans to bring. I resolve never again to waste three hours online looking for time management software. After we devote the better part of 2004 to freeing Christmas toys from their ridiculously elaborate packaging, we look forward to a new year spending more time with family, more effort on friendships, & more money on staying out of debt. We wish you the happiest of holidays & a 2004 full of blessings.
Love & Peace on Earth,

Jill, Mike, Luke & Katy

The Second Annual Boring Mitchell Christmas Letter (2002)

After last year’s letter was e-mailed to me from a stranger in New Zealand, and a subscription-selling web-site popped up, I knew the demand for more yearly lowlights was at its peak. For the sake of decency, I’ve deleted all references to Ozzy Osbourne, and for aesthetic reasons, I’ll make no mention of Michael Jackson’s nose.

We started 2002 with a new addition: an Australian shepherd mix named Buzz. He’s a misfit, but he’s got more manners and brains in his nub of a tail than our two prior pure-bred spastic Labs put together.

Luke played soccer in the spring and T-ball in the fall. Each game was filled with screaming and frustration. And that was just the parents. He toughed the seasons out in spite of his mother’s attempts to embarrass him into becoming more athletic. In the summer, he had swimming lessons. He took to the water like a mob victim in concrete shoes. No problems going under. He then went to various camps and vacation Bible schools while I made him paranoid about being abducted or catching the West Nile virus. He started Kindergarten in the fall. We struggled over whether to keep him in the small, safe, private school or send him to the big, scary, public school. We opted for public, figuring the savings can be spent later on tutoring, psychotherapy, or bail. Luke did have some behavior problems--mostly related to pulling his imagination out and playing with it too much. On the upside, he’ll be tested for the gifted & talented program. He may have no respect for authority, but it’s only because he’s a genius. He’s also quite the ladies’ man. He juggles so many girlfriends, his best friend dubbed him “The Bachelor.” He turned six and rejected the expensive GameBoy set we got him in favor of Spider Man toys and art supplies. So we like what we see in him so far. Luke’s quote of the year: “Mom, I want to watch Bambi. That’s a great movie about deer hunting.” First runner-up--Katy: “Luke pushed me!” Mom: “Did you push her?” Luke: “Actually, I kicked her ‘cause she wasn’t using her manners properly.”

Katy started gymnastics. She took to the bars like Anna Nicole Smith at a buffet dinner. She ate it up. She mastered potty training, and her agility over the toilet rivals that of a gymnast on a pommel horse. (She’s still perfecting her dismount.) I’ve now seen every public restroom in a 50-mile radius. For Halloween, Luke was the scarecrow while Katy went as a flying monkey. She was in that costume less than an hour before she upchucked all over it, but that didn’t stop her from trick-or-treating. For her third birthday, I mortgaged our home and had a fancy dress-up party for her. She’s a pure delight most of the time, but her threatening threes force us to walk a minefield of random inappropriate emotions that wreak havoc with far-reaching effects. In fact, our Wal-Mart took out a restraining order against her. But a temper tantrum in plastic high heels does rank high on the entertainment value scale. Katy’s quote of the year: “Mommy, Luke called me a tattletale!” She didn’t get it.

My first veteran’s case proved successful. It was nice to get a paycheck again, even though we spent some of it on a new kitchen sink to make my real job a little more glamorous. Maybe my next check can get me a new vacuum cleaner. I finished a clinical trial for an investigational drug. I’d been hoping the drug’s side-effects included decreased muscle tone, shortness of temper, and short-term memory loss, but no such luck; I was on the placebo. I joined an exercise cult called Jazzercise and haven’t been back to yoga since the teacher had us chant something like “gitchee, gitchee, ya-ya-ya” and I had to fake a coughing fit as I left giggling tearfully. I spent the rest of my free time with writing classes, Bible study, and deleting junk mail from my inbox. I went to San Diego for a legal seminar while Mike went to the Czech Republic to do some NATO instructing. He called me from there just to say he could get a pint of beer for 30 cents. The savings came in handy as that brief call set us back $30. In May, I went on a scrapbooking retreat. It was cheaper and more effective than sending me to the nuthouse. In June, Mike went to Rhode Island to do an airshow. He called from there to tell me how awesome the fresh seafood was just as I was cooking up fish sticks for the kids. After surviving torrential floods this summer, we left our ark and drove to Colorado for a vacation. There, I discovered that I’m the anti-horse whisperer. Luke, of course, was a natural. Soon after we returned, Mike went on a guys’ fishing trip to Durango, then spent a week in New Orleans. Meanwhile, I held down the fort by killing scorpions and cleaning dog diarrhea out of my carpet at 3:00 a.m. while I had strep throat. Mike had a great time. We celebrated our 11th anniversary and decided to improve our communication by trying to stay in the same room when we talk. Mike finally came to terms with the fact that every time we travel, I pack more stuff than he deems necessary, while I decided to look the other way when he puts recyclables in the trash. We’ve also started a new tradition of driving all over town in bad weather with cranky kids as we bicker over Christmas tree selection and price. For next year, I resolve to improve my housekeeping skills so the kids don’t ever again approach me saying, “Look what we found under the futon!” as they display a dried-up apple dotted with kid-size bites. I also hope to avoid napping in the carpool line again. There’s nothing more embarrassing than waking up to honking horns and jeering fourth graders pounding on your car windows. Mike will try to avoid the need for any major joint replacements while he races his new motorcycle, and he’s planning to devote the coming year to deciding what he wants to be if he grows up. We look forward to a new year of misadventures, including spending the better part of 2003 learning how to operate our new digital camera. We wish you the happiest of holidays and a new year full of blessings.

Love, Jill, Mike, Luke & Katy

The First Annual Boring Mitchell Christmas Letter (2001)

If this one goes over well, I’ll start sending out monthly reports (perhaps in a superstitious forwarded chain e-mail) so you’ll all stay up-to-date with things like: any medical procedures we endure (like Katy’s ear tubes or my colonoscopy--big highlights of 2001); the cute things our kids say (like Luke’s response in the car when I said it was raining cats and dogs--“Good. Then maybe I’ll have a pet when we get home.”); and of course any motorcycle races survived by Mike and his FOG (Fat Old Guy) Racing Team (also known as FaRT).

So here’s what we’ve been up to. I dusted off my law license and started working from home doing veterans’ benefits appeals. It’s rewarding, but not financially. The only problem, besides dealing with a few unmedicated psychotics, is sounding like a professional on the phone while our two precious rugrats scream, whine, and torture each other with sharp or flammable objects. They just know when you’re on the phone. I squander the remainder of my free time with yoga and scrapbooking--but not simultaneously. I have also learned to quilt while neglecting my children.

In April, we went to Paris (France, that is) for my birthday. We left Luke and Katy with the grandparents (along with my extensive written instructions) and split 10 days between Paris and Bordeaux. It was cold and rainy, but we hardly noticed--seeing as how we were in Europe and free from diaper bag and stroller bondage. The best part was getting to speak my Tarzan/Frankenstein/Tonto-style of French while Mike stood in awe of my apparent fluency.

In May, I went to a local audition for Who Wants to be a Millionaire--and promptly flunked the test. Seems the ego wrote a check that the brain couldn’t cash. I guess my grade-tampering allegations are still under investigation. Meanwhile, Mike went TDY to Alaska for a multi-national exercise and witnessed several brainlessly brave fellow fighter pilots narrowly escape a grizzly bear mauling.

In July, I went to Iowa for a writing workshop where I got a taste of the quality of work that is out there “competing” with me. So I wrote a few stories. I hastily entered one in a contest held by a local women’s publication that I knew nothing about. Turns out I won third prize and was published (much to my surprise and chagrin) in a San Antonio militant feminist lesbian magazine. On the opposite end of the literary spectrum, I had a story chosen for a Christian children’s magazine. So we’ll see where my true fan base resides.

In September, on that horrible day, Luke caught me crying. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Some airplanes crashed today, Sweetheart.” And just when I thought he was too young to be affected, he reminded me of the size of his world. With fear and imagination in his voice, he asked, “It wasn’t Daddy’s airplane, was it?” “Oh, no. Daddy’s fine.” Then I wondered how many kids will remember a different answer to that question. Mike spent a few nights on alert that week. We’re glad his full-time job as an F-16 instructor with the National Guard should keep him close to home.

Anyway. . .Luke started Preschool. He’s learned from his classmates (yes, I blame them) how to pick his nose and how to call his sister a “dumb-ass.” When I told him that wasn’t nice and never to say that again, my five-year-old son hesitated and replied, “Katy, I’m sorry, but you’re a stupid-bottom.” I turned away and smiled as I marveled at his budding language skills. So we’re hoping he’ll save us some money, CLEP out of next semester, and move on up to Kindergarten in January. Meanwhile, Katy was aptly dubbed “the Diva” by her Mother’s Day Out teachers. Her terrible twos have hit us and our local community with a vengeance unlike any in recent memory.

In October, we celebrated our 10th anniversary. We marked the milestone by merging our compact disc collections and agreeing to disagree about how to load the dishwasher. Then we spent a weekend alone at a B & B in Wimberley. He watched football while I went shopping. Quite romantic, really. For Halloween, the kids went out as Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. Mike was Captain Hook. I stayed home in my Bubba teeth and handed out candy along with dental hygiene warnings. When the family returned, I tested their treats for anthrax and razor blades, kept the good stuff, and (money-saving hint) sent the uninfected rejects right back out into circulation.

This month, Mike will be baptized and we’ll become members of our Presbyterian church. (Yes, we found one that would take us without a background check.) For next year, Mike resolves to find a way to paint over the expansive black crayon mural we discovered in Luke’s room, while I plan to improve my housekeeping skills and never again come upon a two-week-old errant sippy cup full of what started out as milk. We also resolve to relax and enjoy the things that really matter, like family, friends, freedom, and our new DVD player. We thank God for our many blessings, especially those of you who’ve had the courtesy to read this letter to the end. We wish you all a healthy, safe, fun, and peaceful new year.

Love, Jill (and Mike, Luke & Katy)