You Might Be Ready For A New Year...(With Much Respect to Jeff Foxworthy)
If your left eye has been twitching since late March......you might be ready for a new year.If your definition of "comfort food" has expanded
to include anything that doesn't bite you back......you might be ready for a new year.If the most recent comment you heard
at the grocery store was "Nice bathrobe,"......you might be ready for a new year.If your typical Saturday night has become
"Who's The Boss?" reruns and a good cry......you might be ready for a new year.
If you were recently ejected from
your place of worship for heckling......you might be ready for a new year.If putting on your "brave face"
does nothing but spook your dogs......you might be ready for a new year.
If you've take to watching "The Shining"
because it helps you relax......you might be ready for a new year.
Here's to a new year that nurtures,
protects and inspires us all.
Cheers, Everyone!
Love,
Let's Start With That FontDon't get me wrong - I'm all about whimsy. Just ask my dog who's sitting next to me right now in his favorite velvet waistcoat and bow tie.
I get it.I'm afraid I must draw the line, however, at an entire legal-sized newsletter written in a font designed to look like miniature bell pepper shards sizzling in a fajita pan.As for the 8-point type size you've chosen, I'm of two minds: while it renders your text almost illegible to average citizens, it no doubt adds an unexpected level of difficulty that would be welcomed by any CIA code breakers on your mailing list.Color Me Passed OutI have to give you credit - yours is the only newsletter I received printed on pale yellow paper. Way to stand out!It was also the only one printed in cream-colored ink.
If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to go pour myself a good, stiff egg nog and wait for my eyeballs to stop vibrating. In the meantime, please tell me you didn't send this to your aunt with the seizure disorder.The Art Of LyingCan we let our hair down for a moment? We all know holiday newsletters are a big steaming pantload subtle instruments of spin. Let's face it - the real holiday miracle here is that you managed to snap a photo during the millisecond your oldest wasn't trying to pierce your youngest's eardrum with a Slurpee straw.But come on. How much do you really expect us to go along with here? The unwritten social contract holds that we all smile and nod while we read about each others' overstated kitchen remodels, whitewashed vacations and soft-focus family milestones.
If we upset this delicate balance by asking readers to suspend their disbelief beyond the human breaking point (Your son's moving into his own place soon? Really? The same son who threw up on the store manager during his interview at Blockbuster?), the whole system breaks down.Do we want to live in a world where people are completely honest in their holiday newsletters? I sure don't...with one important exception:
More Medical Details, Please!Industrial accident? T
ell us all about it.Raging psoriasis? Bleeding ulcer? Missing fingernail? Let's discuss.You blew valuable photo space on your niece's christening when you could have given us a close-up of Bernard's mysterious toe lump? Dude.How long has it been throbbing/itching/oozing/engorged? Do you have the sweats...or the chills? Dry mouth? Swollen ankles? Weepy ducts? Rashy kneecaps?Better yet, why not attach the patient's chart so we can take a peek under the hood for ourselves?
Photo SensitiveIt's hard to go wrong when it comes to holiday newsletter photos.I take that back.There are many ways to go wrong, including: - Flagrant disregard of the 4-to-1 head-to-hair bow ratio.
- 3-D/interactive sweaters.
- Scene-stealing plaid furniture.
- Anyone over the age of 8 in a swimsuit.
- Pets in hats. (Wait, scratch that. I love those shots.)
- "Where's Waldo?" group photos with microscopic faces.
- Photos that bear evidence of imminent zombie attack, including individuals with slack jaws, bright red eyes, pasty complexion, disturbing clothing and/or awkward, aggressive demeanor.
I'm not suggesting you committed any of these violations in your newsletter. I'm just, um, including them for general purposes.Yeah...that's it. General purposes.
Yule Be Receiving My Newsletter Any Day NowAnd when you do, please note that my minuscule font, sketchy and inappropriate photos and outright lies alluding to an upcoming Vanity Fair cover are ironic, okay? Intentional. A totally different situation. (You have to admit, though, those little animal photos are darn cute, yes?)
Oh, and about that photo of Uncle Claude...we had him checked and he is not a zombie.He just really likes those pants.
I'd like to say a huge THANK YOU to each and every one of you for visiting and reading my posts throughout the year. You all make my day again and again and I'm truly honored that you take time from your busy lives to read my work. I can't describe how special you make me feel - it's just priceless. Thank you.
An Email
to the Principal of
Quark Horizon ElementaryMrs. Roberta Ogilthorvin
PrincipalQuark Horizon ElementarySanta Monica, California
Dear Mrs. Ogilthorvin,Thank you for the opportunity to explain the unfortunate exchanges that transpired in your absence at last week’s PTA meeting and to rebut the inflammatory complaints lodged against me by a number of parents and staff in attendance. I know you are eager to resolve this fracas, particularly in light of the fact that Quark Horizon will be making a third run at accreditation next week and the last thing we need is more picketers. (As an aside, I want you to know that you have my full support in this endeavor. I have a feeling this will be our year!)In the meantime, allow me to address the accusations directly, as the individuals listed below have been copied on this email:
Mrs. Van Hoogan: I am not, as you charged, a “bairn of Lucifer.” I think, when the dust settles, you will agree that arranging the Halloween carnival booths in the shape of a pentagram on the soccer field both reinforces our seasonal theme and provides for ideal party flow. I am, however, willing to shelve my idea for a “Communicate with the Dead” class booth (although, I’m telling you, we would make bank).
Coach Derbin: It’s only the faculty parking lot on weekdays, chief. On the weekends it’s the ideal spot for hosing down my motor home and doing a little light carpentry.
Mrs. Schwab-Wong: You, madam, are a hack and should be relieved of your Auction Chair epaulets and lockable cash box. It’s a dark day indeed in the café-nasi-torium when leadership entertains played ideas like “Pirates” and “Disco” while ignoring the clearly superior concept: a Smokey and the Bandit-themed fundraiser. It’s hardly a surprise that you were struck in the hindquarters by a powdered doughnut hole. Which I did not throw.
Mr. and Mrs. DeVille and others in rows 4 through 6: It’s called braunschweiger and it’s a legitimate luncheon spread. If you’re going to hold these meetings at five o’clock, then I’m obliged to bring my dinner. Furthermore, I can’t believe none of you would loan me a bottle opener after I passed around my bag of pesto pork rinds for sharing.
Monsieur Le McEnroe: I have always had a deep appreciation for the arts, particularly those Christmas angels the kids make from folding up old copies of Reader’s Digest. On the subject of mime, however, I’ll admit I am not what you would call an enthusiast. That being said, there was no personal condemnation implied when I transferred my boy Tarquin from your “Imagine the Imaginary Wind” workshop into Senor Machada’s Jai Lai intensive. I believe true artistes have thicker skins than you have demonstrated. I also believe they wear something other than boxers under their leotards. Something to think about.
Snuffy, School Custodian: Dude, we had a deal. I can’t believe you cheesed me. You’ll never play ocarina in this school district again, I don’t care if your mom is the mayor.Well, Mrs. Ogilthorvin, I believe that covers it. I know I feel better and I hope you do, too. See you at next month’s meeting and if you find yourself without a bottle opener, hit me up. (I’m going to pitch one in my cooler right now while the idea’s fresh.)Onward,Maude “Pepper” BriscoeP.S. Did you get a flier on your car for my garage sale this weekend? You can tell Mr. O I’m holding a sweet Buster Poindexter album aside for him – Japanese import!
Thank you to Sherrie Petersen of Write About Now for this lovely award! Her blog is fantastic, BTW...
And thank you to everyone who clicked through to my humor essay on MyPheme.com! I really appreciate the comments and support!
We All Scream For MyPheme(.com)!I'm excited to say that a piece I wrote called "Hair: The Non-Musical" has just debuted as a Featured Essay on MyPheme.com.What's MyPheme, you ask? I will tell you now.
[ahem]
MyPheme.com is a brand new and very cool humor site whose mission is to tell it like it is. They also have a sassy broad in their banner. Both of these facts appeal mightily to me.I hope you'll take a moment to slide over there and read the essay. I can't make specific promises, but it's highly likely that doing so will increase your personal chi, give you six-pack abs and elevate you to president of your condo association.If you need further enticement, I will say this: it's not very long.
Thanks, as always, for your support!
She's Still ZsaZsa From The Block.We've finally succeeded in convincing my mom to move from the suburbs [insert crickets here] into the throbbing, mind-blowingly exciting metropolis of three blocks from us. I know. It'll be great to have ZsaZsa (not my mom's real name) right around a couple of corners after decades of living almost an hour away.Naturally, I helped her find a new pad - specifically, an apartment. Which is how I learned:Lesson #1: Looking for an apartment for your mom is very different than looking for one for yourself.
Corollary to Lesson #1: I have lived in many a dunghole in my day.
I foolishly counted up the number of times I've moved since returning to Los Angeles after college. [Please savor the complimentary Muzak as I put my pom-pom socks and Mary Janes back on.]
As you can see on the tote board, my current home is the [hork] twelfth place I've lived since the ol' undergrad years. Each of these domiciles was rigorously vetted and had to meet a crushing set of criteria before I would even consider living in any of them.
Namely, I required that each of my residences be - and this was non-negotiable - AVAILABLE.I know. I told you I was picky.Some of the "bonus features" of my old apartments have included: - The convenience of an independent pharmaceuticals distribution hub right next door (open 24 hours).
- A kitchen carpeted in wall-to-wall shag.
- A demonic toilet.
- Locked out? No problem! These here windows lift right out of the wall!
- "The Eliminator" elevator.
- The restful quiet that can only come from not having to listen to the pesky hum of an air conditioner.
Believe it or not, these attributes held surprisingly little appeal for ZsaZsa (although I think she'll come around on the kitchen shag once she's rolled on the floor while eating a moon pie - no one can resist that). And, when I thought about it, I realized I had a different standard for my mom's pad, too.
Lesson #2: My mom's new pad needs to be safe and (relatively) freak-free.
Which Is Why I'm Surveilling Her Building.Oh, sure, the apartment is nice. But we all know that it's really all about the people in the building, yes? Right.
Allow me to share my findings to date with you:Apt. 307 - Shadowed portly male occupant from elevator by carrying potted shrub against my chest and making little hops. Subject emitted unnatural creaking noise with each step. Is likely listed on a national registry of some sort.Apt. 110 - Suspected sweatshop that appears to be churning out substantial quantities of macaroni art. Wait, scratch that. They just have a lot of children. Never mind.
Apt. 202 - Arbonne Cosmetics representative. [Note to self: avoid second floor altogether or risk another forcible exfoliation.]
Apt. 314 - Portal to the early 70s. Glimpse through open door revealed variegated shag carpet, smoked-mirror wet bar and metal wall sculpture of pointy sailboat cluster. Possible Tiki epicenter.
Apt. 105 - RED ALERT. The people living in #105 are all [gasp] professional mimes.Aw, hell. And things were shaping up so nicely. Why couldn't it have been something manageable...like a meth lab?
My friend Leigh Cunningham has just published the first in a series of children's books entitled THE GLASS TABLE. Congrats, Leigh!
I am proud to be among the 98 bloggers teaming up with our friend Kevin at Always Home and Uncool for a simultaneous posting to help raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.
I hope you'll take a moment to read Kevin's story in his own words below. Thank you.
Our pediatrician admitted it early on.The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.He rattled off the names of several skin conditions - none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner - then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.The biopsy of the chunk of skin she removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source - obvious and otherwise - that we could.The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blond cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter: - The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
- The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
- The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
- The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.
She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.That was her gift - a diagnosis for her little girl.That was seven years ago - Oct. 2, 2002 - the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain are her scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to keep the disease at bay.What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.That, too, is my purpose today.It is also a birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at
www.curejm.org.To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to: www.firstgiving.com/rhondaand kevinmckeeveror www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.
THANK YOU!
