366 days ago, I thought, “Next year, for sure, we’re going to do something fun on New Year’s Eve. We’ll go dancing, at least!”
2017 had other plans. Andy ruptured his quadriceps tendon in September. Yesterday he was finally cleared to jettison his brace, but it’ll be months before he can walk normally. Dancing? Out of the question.
Going to a party? Forget it unless they have a recliner and some ice. Continue reading New New Year’s Eve, Same Old Shit (#207)
You know what Christmas means to me? Cold weather. Snow, if you’re really lucky. Sledding. Getting three Chapsticks in your stocking and being thrilled because your lips really were about to fall off.
Christmas won’t be Christmas if I’m stuck in Los Angeles.
But I am stuck in Los Angeles. My injured husband can’t travel. As he’s not a holiday person, he’s thrilled to have a relaxing holiday at home.
The weather is clear and sunny. The palm trees are swaying. My orange tree is filled with fruit.
Blech.
Memory lane is more enticing than oranges today. So below is a recap of all the fabulous Christmases I spent in cold — and sometimes even snowy — places, having proper Christmases. May they fill you with holiday cheer!
First, a post about Andy’s first Christmas in New Hampshire.
For all the kids of divorce, I’ve got the story of how my mother — and J.R.R. Tolkien — brought magic back to a broken family.
Are you a last-minute shopper? Enjoy A Walgreens Christmas. (Brilliant Blonde Lawyer Sister swears up and down that it was actually a CVS Christmas, but you get the idea.)
And here’s one about clueless WASPS and Christmas stockings.
Finally, I hope all those traveling enjoy fewer storms and better weather than we did last year.
Merry Christmas!
You may have noticed some outrage on my page these days. And those are only the public messages, not the private ones. Some people are seriously pissed at me for writing posts that do not laud childbearing.
To which I say, why? Why is it so important that we revere pregnancy and procreation?
I’m gonna go with the marketing of Big Religion. Continue reading Spun (#206)
My parents procreated like rabbits. Then they got divorced and procreated some more. Given that having children is pretty much the worst thing a regular person – not an Exxon Executive or a Donald Trump – can do to the environment, I figured someone in my family owed it to Mother Earth to NOT have children.
There was just one problem. My husband wanted a kid. Continue reading Baby Battle (#205)
