In my family, I have six male cousins, all of whom are older than me. Add to the mix my big brother, and I was left the sole girl amongst 7 boys.
They read comics and played Atari, and sometimes I got to watch.
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It is the first Monday of the new year, and I am sure many of you, like me, are in the throes of a rather nasty vacation hangover. I can picture you, wherever you may find yourself (at the office; in a minivan full of children you don’t really know or like; in central holding as you await bail for a crime that you are fairly certain you didn’t commit), an errant piece of tinsel still in your hair, a few crumbs (remnants of a long-ago eaten holiday treat) grazing your lips. You whisper, “I do not want to be here,” but no one responds. Your current fate is now more tortuous than watching a Nick Cage movie marathon.
Or perhaps you are of one the lucky few who has woken up, bright and early, bursting with energy and excitement about all the new year has to offer. In which case I don’t think we can be friends, because you probably also enjoy tetanus shots, jogging, and eating an apple for dessert.
I am officially phoning this one in. I know, I know – it’s completely and utterly lame of me, but let’s be fair: no one is really working this week, unless eating Christmas cookies and shopping can somehow constitute work (it sadly does not, otherwise I’d be making overtime). So rather than post something brand spanking new, I’d like to highlight some old posts from Decembers past.
“But Geraldine,” you cry, “I’ve read all of your archives numerous times! I’ve memorized everything you’ve ever written.” And in reply I will simply smile and ride off on a winged pony.
Yeah, I know. I don’t have a winged pony. But no one’s read all my archives, either.
Anyway, please enjoy. I’ll be back tomorrow with an all new round-up, and reflections on the year that was. After that I’ll be offline until January 2nd, working on a secret project codenamed “Eating Cookies.” (Spoiler: the project consists mostly of eating cookies. Also, drinking milk.)
A message to my bro, on his (AGE REDACTED) birthday;
Remember how mom used to make us celebrate our birthdays together on the 14th?
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And how we totally hated it? When you put your foot down and declared enough of that – SEPARATE BIRTHDAYS, DAMN IT! – I was completely happy. I didn’t miss celebrating with you at all. Nope. Not one bit.
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So, are you coming to visit again soon? Not like I care. Whatever. Have a happy birthday or something.
Sincerely,
Your sister
I was going through some photos from the past year (yes, I was feeling nostalgic for 30), and I came across this little gem, taken last summer when I was visiting family down in California:
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The doll belonged to my cousin’s youngest daughter – and it was headless. My cousin’s eldest helpfully pointed out this obvious fact to her younger sister.
“Laney,” she said, “your doll doesn’t have a head.”
“I know,” Laney replied, giggling. The head was … somewhere. I think in her pocket. Laney was completely unbothered by this fact. She played with it just the same (and truthfully, if you’ve ever had to undress a Skipper, you know it’s easier without the head.)
It was a nice reminder that things don’t have to be perfect for you to enjoy them. And if someone points out the obvious flaws in your possessions, your life, your blog, even your husband, you can simply giggle and reply, “I know.” And go on loving them just the same.
Edward and I have inherited a tendency from our dad. I’m not sure if it’s a conscious one (I know for me, it’s not. Hell, I’m doing it right now).
Our faces, at rest, are usually scowls.
It might be that the opening for our ocular nerve is abnormally big, thus letting in too much light and making us incredibly sensitive to sunshine and the brightness makes us cranky (I am largely making that up. Though my ocular nerve is abnormally large. I suspect it was an evolutionary tactic aimed at drawing attention away from my butt). Or maybe it’s that we don’t have the greatest of eyesight, so we’re constantly squinting. Or perhaps it’s that we’re always just a little bit pissed off. Whatever the reason, we often roam streets looking angry, or upset, or a wee bit murdery.
My husband is a lovely and trusting soul. He has this persistent and annoying belief that humans are good at heart, despite my greatest attempts to contrary. I can’t seem to quash his faith in people, nor eliminate that sparkle of hope that permanently shines in his eye. Behold:
Sparkle-tastic.
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That doesn’t mean I haven’t tried.
