Eighth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

I apologize in advance to my blog's regular readers (both of them) as much of this garbage was previously published there. But it's been modified to conform to the highest standards of propriety I endeavor to adhere to during the holidays. This yearly breath of hot air you've come to live for won't ease any mental instability, emotional malaise, or gastrointestinal difficulties 2008 may have caused, but it should at least serve as a temporary painkiller. Our year wasn't nearly as cool as Michael Phelps' or as crappy as Sarah Palin's, so don't expect much. In a nutshell, Mike went to war, I almost killed our dog, Luke disposed of another carcass, and Katy subjected us to her steady bout of premature PMS.

Luke started 6th grade and maintains a biohazard backpack and scores commensurate with his lackadaisical attitude. His penmanship tells us he may have been Japanese in a past life. He stands up to bullies with his clever wit, and I'm glad to suggest comebacks that may one day get his butt kicked. He's 12 and has already had braces, but still loses baby teeth and expects tooth fairy visits. His milestones include: moving up to the front seat without my blessing; getting his first hunting license; and surviving a weeklong Boy Scout camp without the helmet, bubble wrap, and clean boxers I packed for him to wear. We hope he'll make Eagle Scout and get a scholarship since we can't afford college now. Scouting has prepared him for: 10-mile hikes; shoveling up a pecked-over fox carcass as I dry-heave; and selling popcorn.

His quotes of the year: "Well, I guess we're all floating in the same toilet." "We need to get a real Christmas tree so we can blow it up in the back yard in January." When I tried to pick his nose before a basketball game, "Mom, it's not picture day." Katy said, "With credit cards, buy now, pay later." Luke: "Or buy now, move to Kentucky." And . . . "Katy, now that you're in 3rd grade, don't rush it. These are good times. Before you know it, it'll all be over."

Katy still exhibits energy and temper levels that would outweigh Amy Winehouse's blood-heroin content multiplied exponentially by the number of Brangelina's children. This explains why we introduced her to deodorant. ("I don't need a shower. Can't I just rub soap in my armpits?" At least she's not high-maintenance.) Katy's not only a back seat driver; she has back seat road rage. Gymnastics class doesn't take the edge off, and basketball only fuels her competitive spirit ("We don't keep score, but we won.") I envy her in-your-face enthusiasm, but it doesn't always agree with my inner Goth. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed her 2 weeks of summer Brownie sleep-away camp. She's a wizard with electronics, the coffee maker, belching, and the microwave. ("Mom, try the 'popcorn' button next time.") We replaced a lost retainer with one that glows in the dark. If she loses this one, it'll be easier to find. At night. Her alertness continues to amaze us. As I drove through Starbucks, she said, "$4.76 for a drink??" Then it hit me: She's far too aware of my poor judgment. Her lowest grade so far is a 97, but her spelling skills are somewhat lacking. She tattled, "Luke called me an a-s-s-w-h-o-l-e." She read a sign on a grocery store sample tray and said, "Ewww, 'use tongues to pick up food?'" I had to explain the subtle difference between tongues and tongs. She's 9 and already taller than any underage Chinese gymnast. For her birthday, we consented to ear-piercing after she signed a contract agreeing to a pre-set limit on future unnatural holes to be punched in her body.

Her quotes of the year: "When I was little, I thought phone calls went through wires. Now I know they go through satellites." "Our bus driver is a Washington Rednecks fan." "I love the smell of french fries in the afternoon!" "It's National Night Out. Can we go camping?" And for a spelling-word sentence, "I don't want to go to juvenile." She asked, "Isn't that kid jail?"

As for me, if not for my family, the presidential campaign and election onslaught would've sent me straight to a polygamist compound for relief. I did find some solace in watching the debates. On Saturday Night Live. In spite or because of my giving out too much free legal advice, my veterans' law practice has made me a part-time mom with adult-onset ADD. (I hope to add some hyperactivity so I can get something done.) I spent the year volunteering at various veterans' benefits events and tried (with marginal success) to appear professional at conferences. My income isn't yet enough for me to fly first-class, but I've been known to splurge on extra fees for an aisle seat, lavatory privileges, and an armrest. I finally got a website; now I just need a real office to improve the chances I'll shave my legs and wear a bra more often.

My midlife crisis took an unwelcome turn one morning in April when I woke up 42. I invested in "progressive" (edgy word for "trifocal") lenses with my tattoo money and set up a page on Facebook (too old for MySpace, too young for real life). At least my American Idol obsession still gave me something to talk to our babysitter about. Before he went to Iraq, Mike briefed me on the outdoor man-activities (besides peeing) that I'd need to do. Now I can operate all our gas-powered tools, tell the difference between the propane and septic tanks, and try to keep from killing the garden. I also discovered we have a sprinkler system. In his absence: I tried sleeping in the middle of the bed, but gave up when I couldn't reach the snooze button; I almost killed our dog after he ate 4 huge chocolate bars (the vet said his puke smelled like brownies); and I ran out of gas looking for it 2 cents a gallon cheaper than $3.98. I also found out that Cuban cigars aren't so easily replaced after serious humidor neglect.

The rest of my year's highlights included some girlfriend weekends, a scrapbooking retreat, and an occasional workout when I take the trash uphill to the curb. At Halloween, since this small town's trick-or-treating options left a lot to be desired, I took the costumed kids to the grocery store and let them pick out all the candy they wanted. Next year, maybe we'll skip the costumes, too. Last month, I spent the extra time-change hour learning how to reset our thermostat's clock. At Thanksgiving, I gave thanks for my many blessings, including a life-changing GPS that lets me watch myself make U-turns, and for stretchy low-rise jeans that allow for yet restrain holiday abdominal distension.

Mike spent 2 months in Iraq between April and June. I kept his return a secret from the kids, and they almost didn't recognize him when he came off the flight line. With a lot of exercise time and no drinking, he lost 15 pounds. (He's since caught up on all the Mexican food he missed.) We think the C-5 that brought him home via Germany imported more beer than passengers. The best part of his tour was flying combat with his life-long best friend, Drew. The worst was crouching at the sound of incoming mortar fire and fearing a round would hit a nearby port-a-john. His less glamorous trips included TDYs to Phoenix, Des Moines, Las Vegas, Panama City, and Midland for the Confederate Air Force airshow. For July 4th we went to Lake Charles, Louisiana. He took a jet for his fly-by while I had the pleasure of driving a carload of children.

On a family trip to Lake Murray, Oklahoma, he was stopped for speeding. He told the cop, "I haven't driven much since my tour in Iraq . . . ." The kids were impressed with his ability to escape with just a warning. They're much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality I endure every time I get pulled over. In October, he went on a Wild Hogs Harley trip with his dad and uncle. Aside from losing a saddlebag with his wallet and a wad of cash on the highway somewhere in the southwest Texas desert, he had a great time.

We marked another year of putting up with each other by spending a weekend in Austin and celebrating on 6th street after Texas beat OU. He came to terms with my inability to hear any odd car noises or to park in the garage to his specifications. In return, I abandoned all hope that he'd overcome his complete and total lack of interest in learning which towels go in which bathroom. We're still working on 2002's deal to stay in the same room when we talk. He'll turn 45 soon, and only acts his age when he's snoozing on the couch in front of the History Channel.

In our abundant free time, we home-school the kids in musical literacy with "Name that Band." Mike challenges them with classic rock and country while I quiz them on pop hits of the 80's, 90's, and today. They may not master algebra or history, but they'll be a lot more fun at parties. We've also instituted a rigorous training program using our floor plan to show them where to put dirty dishes or clothes, flush toilets, hang wet towels, turn off lights, and shut doors. We're saving table manners for 2010.

For next year, I resolve to rely on more than my eBay feedback for a self-esteem boost, stop buying vegetables only to store them till they rot, and check my head before looking for my sunglasses. Mike plans to race his dirt bike and play guitar more often, as well as get comfortable wearing reading glasses in public. The kids should resolve to stop nagging me to do laundry, stop taking so long to order at a drive-thru, and learn to cut their own dang nails.

We hope you weren't hit too hard by this year's economic enema. At least we can take comfort knowing that all the AIG executives' children will still get their new ponies for Christmas. But seriously, amidst all the commercialism and stress, keep in mind the most important gift we received this particular holiday season: O.J. is finally going to prison.

We wish you true joy for the holidays and lasting happiness for the new year. And remember that we're not here to gain God's love. We're here to give it.

Love,

Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz the chocoholic dog