Blogged Down: There's a Method to my Sadness

When I spend too much time not writing, I get unbearably irritable. My head aches, my heart feels heavy, my mind races, my gut burns. And when I get that unbearably irritable, I want to curl up and try to sleep it off. That doesn't help, because if I do sleep, I wake up still having not written a word. And even more irritable. This is beyond writer's block. It's more like mental constipation. Too much stuff all backed up and trying to come out all at once, so it goes nowhere. Sorry if the gross analogy offends you. (If so, read no further.) And the fact that analogy has the word anal in it is pure coincidence. (Or is it?)

Never in my adult life have I gone so long without writing anything more creative than a grocery list. Sure, I've written some letters and memos and briefs at work over the past few months, and sometimes I do have to use some creative reasoning and wordplay there, but none of that satisfies my right hemisphere. Too many thoughts and words get crowded and commingled and just want out. But they don't like to exit fire-drill style in a single-file line. Much less in coherent sentences and paragraphs. I can see why so many writers ended up insane suicidal alcoholics. They didn't let themselves write enough. Then the self-destructive masochistic behavior feeds on itself and before you know it, you're filling your overcoat's pockets with stones and walking into a river.

Ernest Hemingway, one of the most famous suicidal alcoholic writers, said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." As I shuffled through my folder stuffed with idea scraps in my lame effort to come up with something to write about, I found these poetic scribbles: "I will write until all my pens run out of blood;" and "Tears fall from my fingertips" (onto my keyboard of pathetic and endless despair, apparently). Oh the sad clown is wallowing in her imaginary sorrows. Setting up housekeeping in her corner unit of the persecution complex. My pens are all still full of blood, and my fingertips are figuratively shriveled from the tears that are aching to crash and splash against the keys.

Maybe I haven't written lately because I haven't felt strongly enough about anything. Too numb and apathetic for reasons unknown. I had a plan to write about how people can achieve a sort of creepy immortality through Facebook, and I intend to do that sometime. Just like I have been meaning to finish off my celebrity death trios of 2009. These are two incredibly serious writing projects. About dead people. Works that could quite possibly Change the World or at least Your Life as You Know it, but I'm just too underwhelmed to put enough effort into them. There are lots of things I've been gonna do. And the sad thing is, You, Dear Reader, must suffer in the vast wasteland that is the Blogosphere, without any good new crap from me. Because, oooh, the tormented and tortured artist is going through a slump. An extended bout of psychic indigestion and verbal intussusception. I guess you could say I'm irregular. In fact, the only thing regular about me is my period. But that's another bodily function (and punctuation mark) just crying out to be analogized, so I won't go there.

So why have I been absent? Why have I hoarded my words until they paralyzed me? Why haven't I followed my gut and stayed up all night to write it all out? Whatever IT is? Some people have to work it out or hug it out or cry it out. I just need to write it out of me. The IT was my creativity, my lighthearted nonsense, my good-natured insults, my boisterous laughter in the face of fear, my alchemistic skill at artfully blending vulgarity with obscenity, my uncanny ability to make poetry out of pure bullshit, my quiet humility. Somehow, at some point, IT all solidified into Angst. Don't the Germans capitalize their nouns? That one really deserves it. Why the Angst? I blame everyone and everything but myself because that's the way I roll.

Whatever the reason for this Angst, don't give up on me yet. I haven't. Too stubborn and spiteful to let it win. I'll be back soon with more stellar material the likes of which you have not seen since Dude, Where's My Car?

Hey, I think I have managed to write some of it out. (Isn't it ironic?) Not quite a primal scream catharsis, not even as relieving as one of those Fleet enemas they give you in preparation for childbirth or a colonoscopy, but at least as good as a cheap deep massage where they tell you to drink a lot of water afterward because it will help flush out the toxins. I'm tempted to describe my words as turds here, but that would be too scatological, even for me.

Reprinted Without Permission

I promised myself I would post something at least once a month to keep my (handful of) fan(s) entertained, but this is all I could come up with. I've been going through a serious slump lately, and when I'm not fighting off this funk (and not the George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic kind), I'm frittering away perfectly good hours watching American Idol or staring into the refrigerator or drinking red wine until my teeth turn purple (which doesn't take long) or making lists of things I need to be doing, or any combination of the above. What I should be doing, of course, is researching for the long-awaited year-end supplement to my 2009 celebrity-death-trio post, but that will take some time that frankly, what with all the refrigerator-gazing, I just don't have.

Speaking of wasted time, I still have a good bit of remorse for losing 15 or more minutes of my life watching Tiger Woods' well-rehearsed and insincere apology speech. Of course he's sorry. Sorry he got caught with too many irons in the fire, so to speak. Sorry for being so stupid and sloppy. Sorry for the millions of dollars he's lost. So he used several willing women as human blow-up dolls. Cut him some slack, people. No one can believe he would do that to his hot wife. His situation just goes to prove that no matter how hot a woman is, there's some guy who is sick of her shit. She may have had her own stable of Sanchos, for all we know. Then again, she probably had very little to do with it. Selfishness is easy. Weakness is human. The id loves to swim in sin. A happy ego masks frailty. And power corrupts. Sex addiction? Duh. He's a dude. Doesn't make what he did right; I'm just saying. That's my take on it. Oh, look at that. I just wasted another good 15 minutes on the topic.

I have been spending a little quality time working on my book every now and then, but not enough. I know that it's just an abject and quite rational fear of monumental worldwide success that's holding me back, so I need to get over it before I become old and ugly and won't be able to go on book tours because of my hideous decrepitude. My anonymous friend noted below (let's call him "Joe") was kind enough to warn me that my expiration date is dangerously close. (With friends like that, who needs friends?)

Anyway, on to the title track. My dear friend "Joe" sent this to me a couple of weeks ago, and it is just way too funny not to share. Sure, had I written it, it would be a lot more hilarious, but I was sufficiently impressed with his talent to broadcast it to my loyal reader(s) here. And in his defense, he did mention that had he intended for this to go public, he would have put more effort into the humor. I believe that. I know from personal harrowing experience with his merciless (yet highly entertaining) ridicule that he can do much better, and I have faith that he will next time.

A caveat here: For the sake of sparing the girl (let's call her "Christine") some lifelong embarrassment, I thoughtfully redacted her unflattering photo. I also deleted it to protect my readers from being involuntarily subjected to said image. Plus, I prefer to post only the most aesthetically-pleasing images here, such as the dead armadillo and the CAT-a-pult I included in my tribute to my friend Heather a few months ago.

I was also kind enough to delete the names of "Christine's" hometown and high school, for obvious reasons (to protect their reputations, if any).

So here it is, now that you're on the edge(s) of your seat(s).

----- Forwarded Message ----
From: Joe
To: Jill
Sent: Wed, February 17, 2010 1:02:02 PM
Subject: completely real exchange with potential babysitter who responded to my Craigslist ad

My Original Craigslist Ad:

We have 3 children, aged 7, 4, and 1. We are looking for someone with their own transportation who can babysit regularly one night each weekend and hopefully travel with us as well (we are looking to go to Florida for a week in late March and potentially a few weeks in France and maybe another in the OBX this summer). The ideal person would be a local college or grad student with a flexible schedule.

Please, we are only interested in native-English speakers who are U.S. citizens.

We pay $20/hour for weekend babysitting. For the trips, we generally work it out on a case by case basis.

Our kids are pains in the neck, but we have grown quite attached to them anyway. So we are hoping you have references or you have local ties or something like that, and we also hope you actually like children and would enjoy playing with ours.

If you are interested, please send us an e-mail with any information you think is relevant.

Thank you!
________________________________________
From: Christine
Sent: Monday, February 15, 2010 2:18 PM
To: Joe
Subject: Nanny needed to travel

Is this really a family?

Why would you write that your kids are pains in the neck?

Just curious

Christine
______________________________________
From: Joe
To: Christine
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 2:40:43 PM
Subject: RE: Nanny needed to travel

Wait until you have 2 or 3 kids later on in life, then revisit this question. I am guessing the answer will come to you fairly easily.
________________________________________
From: Christine
To: Joe
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 3:10:15 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

Hello,

I am a nanny who is looking for work. I am also willing to travel with a family.

I didn't write it in a very long or kind way- so I apologize. I was trying to see if you were really a family. There are many ads that are not really families.
Also, since I have read many, many ads I have never seen a parent write this.

I am just pointing out to you- that as a nanny looking for work-
native english speakers might think you are not a real family and nannies who are not fluent in English will not know what you mean.

It is odd that you assume I have not had children.

Perhaps i was right, and this is not a family.
________________________________________

At this point I Googled her and found this info out about her:

Christine [Imagine a photo of a rather homely athletic girl here]
Hometown: [Deleted so as not to humiliate her hometown]
High School: [Deleted so as not to get any of her teachers fired]
Major: Engineering
________________________________________
From: Joe
To: Christine
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 3:32:45 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

We are definitely a family. No one else has questioned that. I'm not sure why it is puzzling to you. You sound like an engineer. Have you ever been told you lack social skills? Do you watch "The Big Bang Theory" and wonder why everyone laughs at what Sheldon says because he seems completely reasonable to you?

Parents make self-deprecating remarks regarding their children all the time--it doesn't mean they don't love their kids, it just means they don't feel the need to prove to everyone how much they love their children at every turn.

Clearly you don't appreciate the attempt at humor, but I guarantee your parents said worse about you (as mine did about me) when you were young. All kids are pains in the neck.
________________________________________
From: Christine
To: Joe
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 3:42:28 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

What a kind human being you are, really.

How would you know if you did not get responses?

If nannies ignore you.

Not to hard to figure that concept out.
________________________________________
From: Joe
To: Christine
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 4:17:31 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

Thank you for saying I am kind. I appreciate that.

As for the risk of being ignored by potential nannies, I will have to get back to you on that one because I have been responding to e-mails from applicants for about an hour but I still have about 25 e-mails from qualified nannies to respond to.

If you don't mind a bit of advice, I don't think you would want to nanny for someone who does not have a sense of humor about their children. People who cannot laugh at their own kids are people who probably will yell at you if you try to prevent their 2 year old from drawing on you with permanent markers because to do so would stifle their Perfect Little Snowflake's creativity.

Take care, and good luck finding a position that works for you.
________________________________________
From: Christine
To: Joe
Sent: Mon, February 15, 2010 4:37:43 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

i was being sarcastic.

your email was not kind.

You are judgemental, unprofessional and acting as if it was such a rare question to ask why you said your children were pain in the necks.
________________________________________
From: Joe
To: Christine
Sent: Tue, February 16, 2010 4:59:26 AM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

I was acting like it was a rare question because it IS a rare question--and that is not just my opinion, but it is a fact: 100s of people saw my ad and over 50 applied for the position but you are the only one to have asked that question.

You seem to be a bit "judgmental" yourself (I cleaned up your spelling--I know engineers can't spell). I realize that people need to be wary when dealing through Craigslist, but asking "are you even a family?" is kind of insulting and silly, don't you think? Do you really expect that a criminal or perv would answer that question honestly anyway? Should I be asking you if you are a cognitively disabled child abuser because of your poor spelling and obvious lack of social skills? Would you tell me if you were?

BTW you can't take a compliment back. You said I am kind and I am going to hold onto that and ignore anything negative you write. Thank you again for being so complimentary. It means a lot to me.
________________________________________
From: Christine
To: Joe
Sent: Tue, February 16, 2010 11:46:41 AM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

I am sharing your email with the nanny agencies I am involved with, and with the 32 email groups (in 4 states) that I am involved with relating to nannying.
________________________________________
From: Joe
To: Christine
Sent: Tue, February 16, 2010 4:38:27 PM
Subject: Re: Nanny needed to travel

That is very nice of you! I appreciate you recommending us to others even though we have never met. I assume it must be because of my kindness. Thank you!

***************************************************************

I trust you enjoyed this at least more than having to look at my incredibly lame and embarrassingly super-cheesy New Year's post (I maintain that I was still drunk when I wrote it) for the thousandth time as you go to your Favorites and cross your fingers and hope against hope that I have posted something new. If (any of) my reader(s) want(s) to offer some additional filler material for me to use during such dry spells, feel free to submit it for consideration. I won't pay you for it, as having your work on display here is reward enough. Bask in the glory, Joe.

Shifting Years

New Year's Day 2010. I woke up this afternoon with my mouth as dry as peanut shells and my eyes as red as a Coca-Cola can. Apparently, someone pounded my head with an iron skillet last night. I must have run a marathon, too. Did I sleep through a savage beating? Is that why my internal organs are staging a mutiny? Why does my hair smell like an overflowing ashtray? And who deep-fried my brain? Did it taste like chicken?

What a lovely, refreshing way to start a new year. Nothing like the mother of all hangovers to set the tone for the next 365 opportunities to exercise my free will in the direction of better choices. Today I have chosen to make up for last night's behavior by acting like a grown-up and spilling my guts here rather than into the toilet--which, by the way, I'm proud to say, I didn't do last night.

New Year's Day is unique because it's the only holiday that carries with it a greeting that at least appears to apply to the entire year. Each January, people tell each other "Happy New Year." I'm not sure when the exact cut-off date is. Like, when does it become a social faux pas to say "Happy New Year?" January 31st? I think that's stretching it. I'd give it a week or so. Two weeks, tops. And is that sentiment really meant to last all year? Or is it more like saying "bless you" when someone sneezes? I remember people wishing me a happy new year in January of last year, but never wondered whether I was actually having a happy new year in, say, early August. And if I had a bad day in late April, I never thought, "Hey, what happened to all those happy new year wishes? What a load of crap that was."

Anyway, I look forward to New Year's Day more than I look forward to any other holiday. Sure, Christmas is special, but there's always too much stuff muffling its meaning. Thanksgiving is better--more stuffing than stuff. You just have to remember to be grateful for more than the free pass to binge and then sleep it off. And I like President's Day, of course, what with all the great sales.

But New Year's Day gives you a clean slate. You have this (actually rather arbitrary) starting line. A gate closes off the past and opens to the future in one tick of the clock. I try not to think about what a new year will bring. For me, thinking leads to worry, and worry paralyzes. I like to hope, though. Contrary to popular lore, I'm not always an Eeyore. Of course, I'll never be a Tigger, either. I carry hope in my soul, where it really hurts. I'm reminded of one of my favorite lines in Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. I can hear John Cusack's voice saying, "I keep the soul I have, right by the exit, just next to the blues."

Today we leap or tumble or stumble off the edge of a calendar square and into a fresh new set of boxes to fill with as yet undetermined (or maybe predetermined) highs and lows and in-betweens. Today we shed and shred last year's aches and fears. We treasure last year's laughs and pleasures. Today we can choose to dread what lies ahead or choose to drive and strive and thrive, or simply hope to survive.

(Looks like over-indulging brings out a bit of the rapper in me.)

Strap in, folks. Do you hear the roller coaster's gears? Get ready to gasp and grasp. Get ready to let go and scream. Fill the smooth moments with anticipation and inspiration. Bear the rough turns with faith and aplomb.

So what's the point I'm trying to make here? I have no clue. Maybe it will all make sense after I dust off and rehydrate what's left of my brain.

The Ninth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

Special Celebrity-Scandal-Free Edition!!!

First, I should retract my 2002 remark about the late Michael Jackson's nose and my 2007 insult about his whiteness, but I can't. Now, to those fortunate enough to get a hard copy of this irreplaceable and highly anticipated staple of the season, it may arrive in one of my old letterhead envelopes. Just doing my part for the environment. If you're reading this on your computer and prefer to have it on paper to read aloud as your anxious family gathers around the tree, just right click and hit print. Again this year my few blog fans must tolerate a re-release of some of the better drivel here. This way, not only do I get more mileage out of admittedly great material, but I also avoid putting extra effort into this daunting annual chore.

Our 2009 wasn't as newsworthy as the Beer Summit or as violent as a health care reform town hall, but it wasn't as ho-hum as Chastity Bono's sex change or as insignificant as Jay Leno's so-called farewell, either. The low point was a short family bout of (what I diagnosed as) E. coli. We hope the high point will be keeping swine flu away from our unvaccinated kids. Thanks to a 10-day flu-scare holiday in May (San Antonio rescheduled Cinco de Mayo), Luke and Katy now suffer from hand-sanitizer-induced OCD. They no longer mind the nightly choice between a bleach bath or a Silkwood shower, and they have grown accustomed to my misting them with Lysol as they get off the bus.

Luke, after trying basketball and soccer again with marginal success or enjoyment, started 7th grade and began running cross-country for the track team. It's the first sport our little Forrest Gump has really excelled at since he's built for it and loves being outside. I like it because it's not a contact sport. Unless he runs into a tree. His closet smells like a sporting goods store, his gym bag smells like sweaty mildew, and he now smells like Axe men's body wash. He's still racking up merit badges in Boy Scouts and has camped so much that he can pitch a four-man tent in record time at night in freezing rain blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. He turned 13 and still coasts through life never letting anything get him down, except when we don't let him order the triple enchilada platter at our favorite Mexican restaurant. He's perfected the art of uttering non sequiturs, and we often have to remind him that we're not in his busy head. Then he makes more sense than the rest of us combined. He's learned that illegible handwriting works to his advantage because, apparently, teachers give him the benefit of the doubt. He'll be starting his second round of braces soon, so it'll be another disappointing Christmas morning at our house this year. And we're proud to report that Luke has finally mastered using a telephone, setting his alarm clock, and peeing in the shower.

Luke's quotes of the year: During his baptism when our pastor asked if he understood what he was doing, "Could you repeat the question?" He got a Bible and was thrilled to discover verses about excrement disposal (Deut. 23:12-13), "This is great advice for Boy Scouts. Scouts are supposed to be reverent." Then he told a friend that it's probably in most Bibles. One windy day, I saw Luke grabbing his crotch (as many males do). I asked, "Afraid it's gonna blow away?" He answered, "No, I got a good hold of it." As Katy choked on a sip of water, "Watch out--that water's got a bit of a kick to it." To an RV salesman, "How tall is this, you know, for clearance purposes at Sonic?" After throwing up at school, "I guess that was a waste of lunch money." And one of my favorites, "I just saw a mutant dragonfly that looked like two in one."

Katy started 4th grade, and thanks to last year's introduction to deodorant, she smells like Teen Spirit. Next year, don't be shocked to hear that both kids had the courtesy to hit puberty at the same time. The first part of the year, she played basketball and soccer, and then decided those involved too much running. So the fall was filled with gymnastics and drama. (A drama class, I mean.) It proved to be both the best outlet and the worst encouragement ever for her still annoyingly (yet always endearing) effervescent personality. She got braces and crossed over from Brownie to Girl Scout on the same day, and in the summer, spent a couple of weeks at different Girl Scout camps. She then made it abundantly clear that she won't go back to camp until they get air conditioning and nicer counselors. Mike and Luke were somewhat envious when her troop went on an overnight field trip to Houston for a NASA tour. I told them I'll take them next year if they'll sell cookies for me. Because Katy fancies herself bilingual, she's taken to addressing me as Madre. She was excited to discover a birthmark on her leg until I wiped it off. I had to explain to her that people don't buy handicapped license plates to use as a show of support. One dreadful afternoon, we endured a traumatic stuffed-animal-purge of her closet after agreeing that the Webkinz could stay, but all the rest were at risk. Finally, we're pleased to announce that our 10-year-old daughter can display a complete repertoire of bar tricks including her newly-discovered hereditary ability to tie a cherry stem with her tongue.

Her quotes of the year: "Luke's body language hurt my feelings!" "If I grew up in the olden days and had slaves, I'd be nice to them. I'd make them do all my chores, but I'd be nice to them." Advice to me for a job interview: "Don’t tell any jokes; don’t embarrass yourself; and don’t say anything unless they ask you a question." After she found a penny, I said, "So? I found a dime." She replied, "There's nothing lucky about dimes." I heard a song on the radio and told the kids I used to have the 45 of it. Both, in unison, asked, "What's a 45?" When Katy opened an envelope of disposable camera pictures, I told her to be careful with the negatives. Sure enough, she asked, "What are negatives?" To the cop after I was stopped for speeding, "I told her she was going too fast." And my favorite, "I wish I could hug you as much as I love you but I'm just not that strong."

Buzz, our erstwhile semi-perfect dog, had the best day of his life last month when he took advantage of our absence to steal a package of raw pork chops from the kitchen counter and proceed to eat them in our unmade bed. (On my new 1000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, no less.) Then it became the worst day of his life. And just when we thought he could be a legitimate contender for next year's Nobel Peace Prize.

For me, 2009 will be known as The Year I Started Living Someone Else's Life. In January, not long after I had decided to give up law practice, run away to Paris, and be a writer, I was recruited by a statewide law firm to start up their veterans' law department. With some trepidation, I started the job in June. I'm still adjusting to letting others do my clerical work, but I love going to an office every day--except the wearing heels and supportive undergarments part. I took another giant step away from the old me when I devoted my ample spare time to working out with a perky little trainer three times a week. In April I turned 40-ish and Mike and I celebrated at a Bruce Springsteen concert with an arena full of other white geezers. Katy was kind enough to convince me that I'm officially too old to wear short shorts or mini-skirts anymore, so I handed down to her all of my age-inappropriate clothing. I was also forbidden from roller skating or turning flips on the trampoline. My chiropractor said, "Just because you can do it doesn’t mean you should." I took an amazing flight in a tanker to watch Mike refuel his jet. (There's a video on my Facebook wall if you want to see how cool he is.) I went with some girlfriends to Austin to see my favorite band and to Houston to see U2. And I took my usual twice-yearly try-to-act-smart-and-serious business trips to conferences--this time Chicago in May and Charlotte in November. The year also presented me with a unique opportunity to start my new hobby of documenting celebrity deaths to see if they really do come in threes. (They do.) In case you're interested, they're listed in a July entry on my blog. Look for the year-end supplement soon. And after almost four years of living in the country, I finally hit my first deer. Luckily, the accident didn't cause much body damage. To the vehicle anyway.

Mike had a fairly uneventful year seeing as how he only had one overseas deployment and only one rock-star treatment weekend. Aside from his two-week beerfest vacation (with a little air-to-air dogfighting) in the Czech Republic, he and three buddies went to Green Bay for a fly-by at the Vikings game (followed by a limo ride, box seats, and probably a lot of autograph signing). There's a link to the YouTube video of the fly-by on my wall, in case you're still not sure about how cool he is. His other TDYs included trips to Tucson and New Orleans, as well as a month in Laredo one weekend. In November, he was named Commander of the Lone Star Gunfighters 182nd Fighter Squadron. (Again, kind of a big deal.) He'll turn 46 later this month, and has warned me that I'll be eternally sorry if I try to trade him in on two 23-year-olds.

In June, we went on a road trip to spend a week on a houseboat with Mike's family. With a beyond-max-legal-capacity SUV pulling a ski boat, we only had to fill up the gas tank every three or four miles. As the result of a tragic packing error, five kids were stuck with one DVD to watch—Sands of Iwo Jima. They all now know it by heart. The only real mishap occurred when Mike almost put Luke's eye out in a freak stone-skipping accident. I bravely thwarted a snake's attempt to swim onto the boat, then I never got into the water again. Our drive home after a fun and relaxing vacation on what we dubbed Redneck Island was only interrupted when a trailer tire blowout necessitated a somewhat unpleasant two-hour layover in an Arkansas combo beer/bait/ammo/ jewelry and book store. The remainder of our summer included a spur-of-the-moment RV purchase and the installation of a flat screen TV it doesn't deserve. We took the RV to the coast for a family weekend and to a state park for Thanksgiving, and soon decided it was the ideal second home. At least for tax purposes. For our anniversary, we celebrated with a trip to Austin again to watch UT beat OU (again). I got Mike a shirt and he got me a .357 Magnum.

Helpful tips I learned this year: check kids' pockets before doing post-Halloween laundry; water plants more often than quarterly; and don’t cook on a gas stove while wearing a Snuggie. Next year, Mike will spend all of his spare time training me to follow his system and remember which crisper drawer is for fruit and which is for vegetables. Luke will stay busy in the treehouse shooting varmints with his new pellet gun while Katy plays Octomom to her collection of American Girl dolls. I'll have a full schedule all year as I plan to write more and Facebook less, continue to shun Twitter, anticipate Crocs going out of style, understand the attraction of competitive cooking shows, keep Taylor Swift songs out of my head, and teach Mike to change the A/C filters. And I resolve to expend more energy keeping it all together than I do pretending to have it all together.

Several of our relatives and friends had to say some very sad goodbyes this year. While no words can make your holidays feel the same, I hope mine at least could make you smile. And may all of us always remember to stay grateful.

Peace,
Jill, Mike, Luke, & Katy

Happy Birthday, Chris!

I can't believe I have been neglecting this blog for almost two months. Thank God you had a birthday so I could drop in and add a few words. And I do mean few. I have given up on offering "tributes" to friends and fans because I can hardly even call or email them, much less dwell on the positive impact they have had on my otherwise miserable life. If anyone wants to read about Chris, look in the archives for this date last year. I'm sure I could supplement it with more, but then everyone else would start hounding me for their own accolades. And frankly, I'm too busy trying to build up my own self-esteem. Be sure to look for a tribute to myself in April. Chris, I hope you have a year that's way better than you probably deserve. I love you, man.