Thirty-Seven

I wrote this not long after my 37th birthday. Some people have a hard time with 30 or 35 or 40. Those didn’t bother me like 37 did. Thirty-seven was my wake up call. In fact I think I look and feel better now at almost 45 than I did then. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that by the time I hit 37, both of my kids could finally wipe themselves.

I’ve never been good with numbers. When a doctor recently asked my age, the number escaped my mouth just in time to see a betrayed spirit stage a walkout on its body. My inner self is still a “10” in a size five. But on the outside, I’ve become more like a “5” in a size ten. While I was busy clipping coupons or sorting Legos from Lincoln Logs, my chronological age began to exceed the age of my inner hottie. This condition gives me delusions that I’m better looking, thinner, and cooler than I actually am. (Is cool still the word for it?) When did this 22-year-old, 115-pound sex object morph into a flabby, elastic-waistband-wearing ma’am? A girlfriend contracted hers somewhere between mortgage and minivan. I think mine sneaked up on me in an SUV at a Home Depot parking lot. There is no known cure for this insidious disorder, and alcohol intensifies its effects. While it has been known to masquerade as confidence, it can progress to something pathetic if left untreated.

After a trip to Home Depot for a toilet ballcock (that’s what they’re called), where a pierced-eyelidded clerk told me I look like his mom, I headed for more torture at the mall. In the Juniors department, oblivious to the whispered jeers of cheerleaders and sorority girls, clueless that the saleswoman must have hoped I was shopping for my daughter, I tried on a size ‘M’ dress only to find that I’m an ‘S.’ Apparently for Sausage. The dress would’ve been perfect for a Jerry Springer appearance, but unfortunately, my suburban life doesn’t allow for that much deviant behavior. Then I boldly considered thong underwear when I knew full well that I (and my cellulite) would be much safer in a girdle. Who am I to think I can get away with butt floss? I wondered. Why not just move the pantyline down to my thighs with a sturdy foundation apparatus instead? I then decided to go somewhere that made me feel pretty. Like Wal-Mart.

They say the success of Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives made 40 the new 30. (Right. And chartreuse is the new black.) They don’t know desperate. Desperate is struggling over wardrobe choices in hopes that your kids’ babysitter will approve of your outfit. Desperate is when you think you take up a relatively small amount of space until your butt brushes against something you thought you could clear by a good six inches. (Does that mean I need bifocals? Now the marketers call them progressive lenses. Sounds like the kind of folk music I listen to.) Desperate is singing along with Muzak versions of ‘80’s dance hits while browsing the Wal-Mart shoe department. After scoring a pair of slippers from a clearance rack and using a coupon on a new pore-defying skin renewal system, I treated myself to a carwash.

My self-image (positive though it may be) serves me well until I pass my reflection. I’ll catch my face in the window of my SUV and think, Dang, where do I get off thinking I could even approach hotness anymore? Did I just flirt with that cute carwash boy? He knows I’m driving a Suburban with two carseats in it. I’m sure he’s noticed the radio set to my favorite a.m. talk show. Did he see the Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons next to the antidepressant prescription I left in the front seat? Did he see the REM’s Greatest Hits and Sarah McLachlan CDs? He wouldn’t care to know that when I was his age I was sexy and cool and wild and that if he were to meet the 20-year-old me in a bar, he would flirt with me and try to ply me with a sufficient number of drinks before offering me a ride home. The sad thing is, I’m having an erotic daydream about someone who could technically be my son while he’s vacuuming french fries from sticky floormats.

Did I forget to mention the short-term memory loss? Is it some age-related obsessive compulsive disorder? I smell my armpits to make sure I put on deodorant. Okay, I did that like two minutes ago. Did I take my vitamin this morning? Did I take my gingko biloba? Apparently not. Have I already had lunch today? If so, what was it? After eating a second lunch at around 2:00, I remember the first one I had at 11:00. Did I turn on the dryer after putting wet clothes in it? That one is embarrassingly verifiable. Did I put my kids in the car? Though I hear them screaming, I have to turn and check.

Is it already too late for me to age gracefully with dignity and class? I might as well prepare my kids now for the kicking and screaming that will ensue when they strongarm me (as they feign assistance with my hesitant gait) through the nursing home doors. I hope to reject any injections or plastic surgery that would no doubt leave me with that Picasso-esque Joan Rivers-drag queen quality that just adds insult to agery. But don’t quote me on that one.

George Bernard Shaw said that youth is wasted on the young. It took me 37 years to get that. No one told me back when I spent hours doing my hair and make-up that I could really use that extra time now. No one told me that one day my body would need more for breakfast than Pepsi, Tic-Tacs, and cigarettes. Or that Ramen noodles and beer for dinner every night could one day destroy my metabolism. No one told me that all that sunbathing would make my neck look more wrinkled and droopy than your average scrotum. No one warned me that all the drugs I did in college would damage brain cells I would so desperately need now. No wait, I think I was warned about that one. Yes, youth was indeed wasted on me. And, ironically, I think I was wasted during a good bit of that youth.

How did this happen? Fourteen years of marriage, two kids, three dress sizes, and I'm still trying to do the math.

Smooth Operator

My grandmother would have called it “female problems.” (Ovarian cyst, really, I think it was.) That’s why I had to have a trans-vaginal ultrasound. It’s not like the standard ultrasound you get when you’re pregnant or have something else growing inside you. It’s a little more invasive and intimate than that.

Do men appreciate the fact that all of their genitalia are on the outside? Absolutely. In fact, “appreciate” is an understatement. It’s a matter of pride. Sure, women have external stuff. When my daughter was a pre-schooler, she called it her Tinkerbell. I found that moniker adorable until, in the middle of a long check-out line at SuperTarget, she grabbed her crotch and screamed like a banshee, “My Tinkerbell is itchy!” Better than vagina, or vulva or for Christ’s sake, labia coming out of a four-year-old’s mouth. I’m all about euphemisms. Kids just don’t need to say words like testicles or clitoris. That’s just inappropriate. I was taught twat and tallywhacker and I turned out okay. For the most part. It’s not like I didn’t know the real words. In fact, I still prefer the slang.

This one time? At a junior high dance? A boy pressed himself against me and for years after that I thought that they were always hard. If they aren’t, I think they always want to be. (They being their peckers.) Unless it would call attention to itself, like while exchanging vows or while getting a legitimate massage or pedicure. I remember thanking God that I wasn’t a boy. How could a person be comfortable carrying something with a mind of its own between their legs all the time?

The problem with female stuff is that at least half of it (or more) is on the inside. And that’s always where the doctors and technicians and boys like to poke around. Seems like there’s always something that wants to get in there. If it’s not a man or a doctor or a tampon, it’s a yeast infection. So anyway, I went in for this procedure. I won’t tell you where this happened so as not to get anyone’s license suspended, but it was a few years ago, and I’m sure the perpetrators are successful upstanding medical professionals today.

I found myself sitting on a paper-covered vinyl examining table in a pathetic excuse for a robe. Not the nice high-thread-count cotton ones with the snaps and the softness of an old sheet. No, this one was made of something akin to a paper towel. I felt like a two-stick Popsicle in a cheap napkin. It came with a sassy so-called belt that I tied in a fashionable knot that I then tilted at a rakish angle. Of course I was cold and nervous, so my shaking rattled this crumply gown. Not since a taffeta bow-butted prom dress had my attire made such a racket. They always give you a good half-hour to change. It took only a few seconds to get out of my clothes, but I was glad to have the remainder of the time to figure out how to unfold and don the glorified Handi-Wipe. I have shopped with kids long enough to be able to grab an outfit, find a dressing room, undress, try it on, and purchase it in less than a fraction of the time they gave me for the luxury of this gowning.

So the cute technician did the little courtesy knock before entering. His name was something like Chad or Justin or some other name popular for boys born around the time I graduated from high school. It was the first time I had been semi-nude and alone with a younger man since my son was a toddler in the shower with me. Because my pregnancies sucked away what little sense of modesty I started with, and because the ensuing childbirths at teaching hospitals managed to destroy my ability to even pretend to be modest, I found myself harboring only an odd sense of this is probably inappropriate and a normal woman might feel uncomfortable. Then the lawyer in me woke up and said, “Dude, isn’t someone else supposed to be in here?” (Yes, I was like 40 and yes, I said Dude. For emphasis, of course.) Then, in a perfect Homer Simpson, he blurted, “D’oh!” and said, “Hang on, Ma’am. I’ll get us a chaperone.” That sounded all kinds of wrong. Ma’am? That really pissed me off. Is that what I amounted to? And chaperone? Like I might molest him? (I bet I could have.) As he left the cold room, I left my feet in the stirrups to be ready for the ride. I tried to relax as I listened to the soft rock of the 80’s, 90’s, and today, that they pipe in all over this unnamed medical facility. I was in the middle of singing along with Chicago’s You’re the Inspiration and remembering my high school sweetheart when I heard another courtesy tap on the door. As if I might have been in the middle of something that I needed to finish up immediately. So in came cute Chad with his adorable supervisor who looked all of 24. He said, “This is Hunter. He’ll be our chaperone for the day.” No amount of eye-rolling or sighing could have communicated my bemused chagrin. Either they really were clueless, or they thought I was. I let it go. As I said, any modesty on my part is predominantly false.

Finally, the procedure could begin. I knew this kind of exam involved some sort of insertion, but no one told me that it would be the insertion of something not unlike an industrial size and strength vibrator. With gloved hands, they lubed me up and shoved it in about as gently as a mechanic handles a dipstick. I could sense their discomfort and I tried to avoid eye contact with either of them, but, in my misguided effort to ease the tension, I joked, “I think this is the first time I’ve been alone and half-naked with two guys probably since college.” They chuckled politely as they eyed each other probably thinking either, What a skank or We should pray for her or both.

As Chad swirled the vibrator in every possible uncomfortable direction at every possible painful angle around my humiliated vagina, the soft rock station began playing Sade’s Smooth Operator. “No need to ask, he’s a smooth operator, smoooooth operator, smooth operator, smoooooth operator. Coast to coast, L.A. to Chicago, western male. Across the north and south to Key Largo, love for sale.” I looked at my new boyfriends and smiled. “Perfect background music, right?” I watched them stifle laughter as they probably thought about what they would do when I asked for their numbers. That, and how glad they were to have all their junk on the outside.

So Your Truck has Balls? Well my Car has a Vagina. So There.

One day on my way to work, I saw a vehicle I've noticed a few times before. Each day, both morning and evening, I travel the same highway at the same time with most of the same drivers. But I only recognize as familiar the cars that stand out. You know, the unique luxury models or the vintage Subaru Brat or the hoopty with former windows covered with duct tape and plastic, or the 1984 Honda Prelude with a spoiler to keep it aerodynamic. I notice the ones with personalized or out-of-state plates, those with an overabundance of Jesus fish, rainbow stickers, or entreaties that we “coexist” or something like that. Not to mention the other weirdos who like to advertise how crazy they are. Of course, at Christmas time, I always thoroughly enjoy the vehicles (commonly minivans) adorned with festive wreaths, Rudolph noses, and antlers (that are only useful for donning a single jingle bell or a tiny bow and could never win a fight with a real buck over some hot doe poon).

My exhaustive (and exhausting) internet research (yes, I choose not to capitalize “internet” even though someone somewhere decided that it deserves capitalization) yielded pictures of a car wearing a party hat (not sure if it was on its way to a party, home from a party, or if the party was actually in the car), a car wearing a thong (they wear bras, so why not panties?), a car wearing what looks to be a full-body hazmat or leisure suit, and a car with a big ugly butt. I’d like to see a Mercedes SLS AMG in my driveway wearing a big red ribbon, but enough about my fantasy life.

Anyway, the particular car that inspired this post was a Toyota Sequoia with a big brass nutsack.
I have seen them on big trucks that are obviously dealing with masculinity issues, but I had never seen them on an SUV. “Come on, kids, time for soccer practice. Watch out for the Sexquoia’s scrotum when you load the back end.” (You will notice I had the courtesy to redact the license plate number from this picture so as not to embarrass this car owner (any further than he has on his own) by plastering his vehicle’s big partial genitals all over the internet. It’s one thing to show your stuff in your hometown, but I’ll leave it up to them if they want to be identified with it worldwide.)

I am deeply troubled by this invention. This automotive scrotum. “Truck Nutz,” they call them. According to one very serious website, “BullsBalls.com” was the original creator of this gift to the road, and don’t you dare accept any substitute scrote for your ride. After some cursory research, I can tell you that prices range from about $15.99 to $36.99, plus shipping. And handling, of course. These wizards of American capitalism also make Biker Ballz for your castrated Harley or Harley wannabe. I discovered that these nuts are already illegal in Florida, which tells me that they were a big hit with the rednecks there. I think offenders get hit with a whopping $60 fine, which is well worth the risk, I say. Someone, probably inspired by his wife’s dildo, invented these and no doubt created a prototype to entice investors. I can see him in his workshop jacking with his hardware to fashion just the right dimensions and dangle. I see him working his tools to create the perfect strap-on method. He thoughtfully tested various metallics and festive colors and certainly thought that brass or blue would be extra funny. He surely had his creative juices flowing when he came up with the natural-looking wrinkles and veins, and when he had the courtesy to offer them up so majestically manscaped. No one wants an unsightly hairy sack defiling their bumper, for Christ’s sake.

I look forward to Golf Cart Gonads, Taxicab Testicles, Winnebago Huevos, and School Bus Rocks. I want to see Jeep Junk, Civic Stones, Corolla Cojones, Taurus Teabags, Mercedes Marbles, and Family (Car) Jewels. (By the way, I have copyrighted, patented, and trademarked the preceding terms and will assert my rights to any royalties from the unauthorized use of them.) Can a hybrid or a crossover wear these or would such hermaphrodites be prohibited by false advertising regulations? Can Bicycle Berries be far behind? Mini versions for your kids’ Power Wheels? Little Tikes Testes, perhaps?

There is no better way to alert other drivers to your car’s sexual side (and relative power) than by displaying its genitalia. Every Pontiac Vibe or Dodge Ram needs an appropriate accessory. Now that the trucks have nuts, they just need a big Pickup Pecker to match. I could dazzle you with my list of assorted car cock monikers, but I don’t want to be vulgar here.

Because I am all about equal rights, I plan to invent a Vehicular Vagina. I have also trademarked these names: Volvo Vulva, Beemer Beaver, and Cadillac Clitoris. I’m still working on the ins and outs of how one might safely drill an opening into a standard rear bumper.

Additionally, prototypes are in the works for Toyota Tits, Nissan Nipples, Beetle Boobies, Minivan Melons, Jaguar Jugs (perfect for the cougar in you), and my favorite, Hummer Hooters. The breasts are to be worn on the headlights, obviously, and should soon be more popular than those silly false eyelashes some cars have tried to get our attention with. Eyelashes. How lame. What car needs eyelashes when it has big tits? We all know that once a woman has some nice sweater puppets, eye contact goes out the proverbial automatic window. In addition to the purely ornamental Car Cans, I plan to create a Range Rover Rack that might actually serve as a rack for equipment such as beer coolers and barbecue grills. Again, all these names and ideas are copyrighted, trademarked, and have patents pending. And let me take this opportunity to remind you that I am a lawyer who is not afraid to use such slang in fancy notarized legal documents.

For the drivers who are a little more modest or want to keep their car’s gender a mystery, I am working on a universal exhaust pipe Automotive Asshole. A Bumper Butthole, if you will. It would come in handy to alert other drivers that there is another asshole on the road. And honestly, the only thing prettier than a dangling scrotum is a nice tight anal sphincter giving you the evil eye as you sit at a red light. Again, don’t steal this idea without paying me a substantial bribe to not make your life a living hell when you have some Chinese sweatshop children start making and packaging these highlights of the highway.

After I transform every Explorer, Expedition, Excursion, Escalade, Escape, and Xterra into Sexplorers, Sexpeditions, Sexcursions, Sexcalades, Sexcapes, and SeXterras, my next project will be piercing and tattooing all these vehicles’ naughty bits. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to buy myself that Mercedes and dress it up any way I want.

The Backstory Makes This Nasty Letter Even Funnier

So, I just paid a few bills we got in December. The one from the kind folks who pick up our garbage showed a one-week credit of $4.55 which just about covered the tax charges on that bill. I thought, "Hmmm...I wonder why they gave us a credit?" The holidays, and the fact that I had, as they say, slept since then, caused me to forget one of my most awesome "D'oh!" moments of the past few years.

See, back in November, we had some trouble getting our trash picked up. I had called the customer "service" number, but after sitting on hold a little bit longer than it takes to cook regular oatmeal (which is as long as my patience will allow on my best day), I decided to send them a friendly, grammatically-adequate e-mail instead.

Here's what it said:

To Whom It May Concern:

Our trash usually gets picked up on Fridays. I left town this past Wednesday for Thanksgiving and left our trash can at the curb so it would be there for Friday's pick up. It was windy that morning, and since I knew the container would be sitting there for two days, I put a couple of rocks on top of the lid to keep it from blowing open and to keep animals out. I came home that Friday evening only to see that everyone else's trash had been picked up, including that of our neighbor right next to us whose trash can was maybe three feet away from ours.

Apparently, your pick-up crew thinks that rocks on top of a lid means "We want to keep our trash. Don't pick it up!" If this is what that means, let me know and next time I will post a sign with an explanatory drawing that makes it clear that we would indeed like to have our trash picked up.

Anyway, my husband called your office on Monday and someone told him the trash would be picked up the following day (which was this past Tuesday). It is now Thursday, and still no one has picked it up and, bonus for us, animals did get into it.

I left a voicemail with your office this morning. I assume that now that pick up day is rolling back around for tomorrow, you won't bother to come get it all until then. That is fine, but we are not going to pay for last week. Please adjust our bill to reflect that we will not be charged for that week.

We switched to your company because the other service in our neighborhood did such a crappy job. We have been extremely satisfied with your service for a long time, and I hope that this was just one unfortunate incident. Please respond to this message, or you can call me at [...].

So, after I hit the "send" button, I got a call in response to my voicemail. No one had read my friendly e-mail yet. The most helpful Bangladeshi girl (probably calling herself "Courtney") proceeded to inform me, quite politely, that the reason our trash was not picked up had something to do with the fact that I had neglected to pay our bill. I immediately checked the prior month's elaborate accounting spreadsheet (in my case "spreadsheet" literally means "sheets (of paper such as bills) spread about my desk in no particular order.") Sure enough, she was right. I paid the bill by credit card over the phone immediately as I tried to dream up a good story to tell my husband when he asked what they said after I gave them a piece of my mind.

I wanted to retract the nasty e-mail and follow it up with one called "My Bad," but never got around to it. How embarrassing to think that my sarcastic lecture is probably posted on their break room bulletin board with a handwritten Post-It note that says: "This one didn't pay her bill. Stupid bitch!"

BUT the joke was on them, apparently. Because we got our discount anyway. That $4.55 credit really took the sting out of any remorse I may have been carrying.

The moral to this story is: If you want to write a nasty letter, be sure your account isn't delinquent. But if it is, the perceived incompetence you complain about may indeed become a self-fulfilling prophecy and you may yet get that discount after all.

The 10th Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter--Special Aluminum Anniversary Edition

To those who have been blessed with the misfortune of receiving one of these letters every year since 2001, welcome to the beginning of the end of the most delightful decade of holiday seasons you’ve ever endured. For the rest of you who joined this elite group at any time after the initial insult, back issues are available for a nominal fee. As a gift to our longsuffering friends, family, supporters, and stalkers, plans are in the works for a director’s cut unrated version commemorative box set including ten years’ worth of bonus features with outtakes, bloopers, and options to enjoy it subtitled and dubbed in broken French, Texican, pig Latin, and/or braille. Look for it on Amazon soon. Use coupon code “sucker” for free shipping.

The year wasn’t as great for us as it was for the team that beat the Texas Rangers, but at least it didn’t treat us like a Charlie Sheen escort. Aside from my heroic performance in a highway emergency, Katy’s (unrelated) ambulance ride, Mike’s meal with a football legend, and Luke’s canoeing face plant, our 2010 was relatively uneventful, so let go of any unreasonable entertainment expectations right now. While the world dealt with earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, floods, inept terrorists, illegal immigrants, the BP oil spill, a depressed economy, vuvuzela noise, WikiLeaks, Sarah Palin’s kid on Dancing with the Stars, and the embarrassment that is Lindsay Lohan, the Mitchell family went about the business of living the model upper-middle-class life which has become the envy of even the most casual observer.

Katy won the family contest for the year’s highest health care expense. In addition to her allergies and a weak gag reflex that put me on a first-name basis with the school nurse, our daughter’s other cries for attention kept us busy. In June, after I humored her with an eye doctor visit to quell the relentless “everything is blurry” melodrama, she spited us with a legitimate need for glasses. The first pair was lost within a week, but was found just as the replacement emerged in pieces from the dryer. In July, she jumped into a river and managed to sustain a brutal to-the-bone gash across her leg. She lost a lot of blood, but proved how tough she was when I arrived on the scene. With an IV in her arm and a bloody bandage around her leg, she yelled, “Mom, are you okay?” In October, she had her braces taken off and was entrusted with two hot pink retainers which have already seen more of a car’s back seat than any respectable orthodontic hardware ever should. She turned 11 last month and has tackled 5th grade handily with little help from her parents. In the spring, due to a ballot tabulation error or bribery, her basketball team voted her “Most Christlike.” No doubt fueled by this honor, she took it upon herself to join the church worship team and became its youngest singer. She later exhibited more Christlikeness when, upon seeing a news story about Mel Gibson, noted, “He’s a douche.” In the summer, she attended as many camps as the calendar and the bank account would allow, and spent the rest of the year perfecting her singing and acting skills with drama classes. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, drawing, and not cleaning her room. In other news, she reportedly passed a piece of gum she swallowed when she was three.

Luke turned 14 and is surprisingly much less awkward than his appearance would suggest. Despite inheriting my disorganizational skills, he has maintained straight A’s and perfect attendance in 8th grade so far. And in October, he was named school district student of the month. We’re also proud to say that he’s only missed the afternoon bus twice, and only once did he mistakenly wear my jeans to school. He spent the summer with scout camp, basketball camp, and two church youth group trips: one an urban clean-up mission, the other, apparently, a vacation with naps perfectly-timed for Bible study. The summer also marked Luke’s triumphant breaking of last year’s record for time spent not touching a toothbrush. This fall, he helped his track team win district, sold a disappointing amount of Boy Scout popcorn, and then banged up his entire face riding some rapids on the wrong side of a canoe. He bagged his first buck opening weekend, and during the butchering process, Mike identified all the deer innards for Katy and their cousins. They thoroughly enjoyed the anatomy lesson, especially when Luke tossed the deer’s junk into the woods and its testicles got hung up in a tree. What a special memory for the kids to cherish. Luke is a good inch-and-a-half taller than I am and wears the same size shoe as his dad, so I’m taking suggestions for safe and effective growth-stunting techniques. The kids are still in a race to hit puberty, and I hope that explains Katy’s appetite for peanut butter and pickle sandwiches and Luke’s newfound rebellious attitude. In a recent act of defiance, he took over the car stereo to interrupt my Eminem with his iPod’s Beethoven. This year brought a joyous milestone we’d all been eagerly anticipating. We can finally leave the kids home alone without fear of child protective services or law enforcement intervention. We’ve been richly rewarded for all the years spent training them not to put silverware in the microwave, only to order pre-authorized movies-on-demand, and not to call 911 unless it’s a real emergency. With the luxury of legal child neglect, the babysitter money savings has allowed for later nights and better wine.

Our family suffered a great loss one hot June afternoon when, after 15 years of loyal service, the beer fridge in our garage peacefully passed away. Casualties included three pizzas and a bag of fish sticks. Fortunately, the local Home Depot came through with a replacement before any beverages were harmed. In holiday news, we celebrated July 4th by eating tamales while sporting American flag T-shirts with tags that say “Hecho en Guatemala.” Katy’s quote of the year came in on October 31. She lamented, “Halloween is the only time that I can really express myself.” I wanted to go as Lady Gaga, but our dog ate my meat dress before I could squeeze into it. We had planned to go to the local Baptist church fall festival that night, but after taking another look at Katy, I decided we might not be welcome.

I turned fortysomething in April, and Katy gently suggested that I might now be too old to use the expression “Dude.” I came to the conclusion that the older I get, the more grateful I am for my awesome personality. I spent most of the year at work, on my way to or from work, thinking about work, or wishing I could throw a flight attendant temper tantrum and pull an escape chute from work. Business took me to Phoenix, Seattle, and DC as well as Dallas and a little hot spot known as Waco. I also went to Austin to do a webcast for the State Bar. After watching the video of it, I realized that the camera didn’t add ten pounds. On me, it added ten years. In July, I drove the RV by myself for the first time. During rush-hour traffic, as if it were a Toyota, the vehicle’s brakes suddenly stopped working. I kept my cool and skillfully maneuvered the speeding beast between countless defenseless cars to a safe stop. For the first time since driver’s ed, I felt the exhilaration of having cheated death. Sort of like those Chilean miners, or maybe Bret Michaels. Katy and her friend loved riding in the monster tow truck while I scraped the bottom of my purse for a tranquilizer. We ended up camping in a mechanic’s parking lot on I-35 in Pflugerville that night. Bonus RV decorating tip: Generally speaking, a dust ruffle is not worth the trouble. Finally, I’m thrilled to announce that I have now twice been able to find my car in the Target parking lot without resorting to the alarm’s panic button.

Mike’s year included trips to Tucson, Reno, and Angel Fire, New Mexico, as well as another Confederate Air Force airshow always conveniently scheduled at the coast during spring break. When he went to Green Bay for another Lambeau Field flyover, he had breakfast with Bart Starr, who, we had to explain to the kids, was kind of a big deal. Mike discovered Ancestry.com and was able to trace his roots back to Alamo heroes, Scottish royalty, and some caveman named Thrond. So far, my notable ancestors include only Danish peasants and Wild West outlaws. We are pleased to report that our family trees don’t overlap until at least five generations back. Now that he works four days a week, he spends a lot of his Mondays going on Harley rides or shopping online for investment property that we can’t afford. We took a trip to Las Vegas where he employed his Rainman-style card-counting techniques while I disregarded his warnings about the slots and found gambling to be a profitable investment strategy. In October, we celebrated our 19th anniversary and thanked each other for sharing three or four of the best years of our lives. He decided not to question why I need 23 pairs of black shoes and I feigned excitement about the new gun safe that has taken over a good quarter of my available closet space. He also purchased a big box trailer for hauling all of our motorized toys, so I countered with a new washing machine. After discovering he couldn’t keep up with Luke on his old mountain bike, he bought himself a new one in hopes that it would improve his speed. No luck yet. He’ll turn thirty-seventeen later this month, and shows no signs of testosterone loss except when I catch him watching a movie on the Hallmark channel or drinking flavored coffee.

For 2011, Katy looks forward to joining the school band so she can play her instrument of choice, the cymbals. Luke will be working with his dad restoring the vintage truck he’s getting for Christmas while I train the kids to go the extra mile and turn the dryer on after putting wet clothes in it. I hope to understand why we have a universal remote when we still need three others, purge my closet of accumulated wire hangers, finish my book, and maybe see Avatar. In addition to spending more time with his guitar, Mike will continue trying in vain to teach me how to drive. If you’ll be flying over the holidays, we wish you safe travels and gentle, non-invasive TSA molestations. Thanks for being such a gracious audience over the past ten years. The more time passes, the more valuable it becomes. May you spend what’s left of yours only on things that matter.

Love, Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz