Wednesday, December 31, 2008

So you say you want a resolution?

I resolve to reach my full potential as a sentient being this year. Perhaps I will even communicate with rabbits or asparagus. Failing that, I'll settle for losing five to fifty pounds (without ever finding it again).

2008 was not the best year of my life. I'll leave it at that. 2009 is bound to be better, even if the rabbits and asparagus misunderstand me or rat me out to Homeland Security. I suppose I should knock on wood at this point. Wasn't it Lincoln who said "This performance has got to be better than the crap we sat through last time"? But I'm just going to trust that what will be, will be better.

The pine trees were whooshing earlier this week up here in NW Wisconsin, but there's not much whooshing going on today. A good wind might even snap the noble evergreens. It's cold. What we call squirrel-freezin' weather. At least I call it that. To myself, mainly. I sure wouldn't want to be one of the furry rodents on a day like this. I don't care how many nuts you've put aside for the winter, there comes a time when nuts just aren't going to cut it.

I wonder what sort of resolutions the squirrels are making? "This year, fewer nuts, maybe a pair of mittens."

Our plans for the evening are decidedly modest. Monopoly with the kids, Rum Runners for New Year's Eve cheer, probably a roaring fire (if there's wood inside the house). There's no point in planning on a bigger bash. It's just another year, after all. There's been plenty of those. And there's nothing dangling over our heads in the way of impending doom, no Y2KIX to worry about that I know of. (Where'd we end up with 2K anyhow? Isn't it 2M?)

Tensions are running high in the living room. The (almost) 3-year-old is crying and the (almost) 12-year-old is aggravating the 8-year-old. The 41-year-old is sighing and giving every indication of needing gasket repair, soon. So I will conclude this entry here.

Happy New Year! Stay warm.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

'twas the night before Christmas

And the bastard still hasn't returned my shovel!

And yet I am touched by the Christmas Spirit, ready to forgive if not forget, prepared to trudge forth down my inadequately-cleared sidewalk and toss my good tidings to the world.

Aside from that, the sun shines feebly on the frozen tundra of Minnesota. More snow is forecast, but the temperatures should be more reasonable. Or, rather, still absurd but drifting in reason's general direction. Perhaps the children are up for a romp in the snow, down the hills of the park four to twelve blocks away (depends on which hills you choose and how you count). Or perhaps they will be set upon the mountain of laundry instead, sorting the wicked from the darks, the blessed from the whites. Or vice versa, depending on your view of the color spectrum.

Big plans await. Dinner at the in-laws, followed by an early Christmas Eve service, followed by a movie back home with the children and sick wife, who valiantly fights her illness from the upstairs bed even as I type. We were hoping for A Christmas Carol, with The Flim Flam Man as Scrooge, but that was on last night. The kids want to watch National Treasure, hardly an adequate representative of the Christmas movie genre, but certainly better than Scarface or A Nightmare on Elm Street or whatever else is being offered by the clueless cable networks. The oldest has proclaimed A Christmas Story to be "too weird." I think it's the lamp and the beebee in the eye that has led her to this conclusion. I also think it's too bad she feels that way.

Once upon a time, many years ago, the members of my family (meaning my very first family) would bundle up against the bone-chilling cold and march through the squeaking snow to a midnight service five blocks away. My father would join us for one of his rare trips to church. It was also the one time of year I would feel comfortable abandoning the halfhearted lip-synching that was my usual custom and actually raise my voice in song. Something to do with knowing the tunes. Or thinking I did anyhow. After five hours or so, brevity never being an Episcopalian virtue, the lights would go down and candles would be lit, we would sing Silent Night and at last be sent off into the even colder night, squeaking our way down the street to awaiting beds.

It's been a lifetime since then. What I wouldn't give for just one more night of listening, from my warm bed, to the voices and other noises of my parents below, to the creak of the steps (and the bones) as they came up the stairs. Or for one more morning of waking up to Christmas with the family and beloved pets, the baffling choices for presents and a fireplace with an actual fire, complete with hanging stockings! Just to experience Christmas, one more time, as a child.

I really don't care about that shovel. I just don't.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Somebody stole my shovel!

Here we are, in day sixty of sub-freezing temps and constant snow, with no job, plumbers hard at work for the last four hours on a leaky kitchen sink, my 17-year-old cat barely hanging on to her ninth life, and somebody -- some BASTARD! -- has stolen my snow shovel, right from our front yard. I may not be the world's most patient man, but I am generally willing to roll with Life's punches. This, however, is too much. It will not stand!

This was the most lightweight of our three snow shovels, plastic, the one I use to preserve what is left of the disks in my back. I still have the mega-sized metal one, the one that can plow half the walk in one pass if only I had a bulldozer with which to push it. I also have the smaller metal one, the one that scrapes up the cement as well as the snow, also hefty to handle. I suppose it was too much work for the thief to cart off one or both of these instruments, much easier to swipe the one that made my difficult life just a little less difficult.

Well, I hope you are happy, scoundrel. I hope the schadenfreude you've gained from this little escapade lasts you the rest of the winter. But make no mistake, you cad, there will be Hell to pay somewhere down the road!

Probably not, actually. You're probably scot-free. But I'm still holding out hope for Karma to smack you around. Perhaps, if we're lucky, with something a little more substantial than a plastic shovel.

Anyhow, Merry Christmas.