2015: A Retrospective

It's that magical time of year when I binge on "Best Books of the Year" lists and "Hey, Remember These Folks Who Died" retrospectives. There's just nothing like the week between Christmas and New Year's for media that was lovingly created months ago for this, The Week of No Working.

In that spirit, I should have written this post eons ago, or at least kept notes throughout the year. But no. No, I'm going with the events that are still memorable at the end of the year / beginning of the new year since I couldn't even get this posted remotely on time. Here are the highlights of my 2015:

Greatest adventure: I could say going to the UK or doing a "I'm 40!" fake triathlon. But really, those experiences and those of their ilk have one constant: My Guy. Not to be all sap-o-rama, but marriage is a great adventure. Everything is more fun with him. I try to remember this when I'm trying to figure out where I could hide his body.

Best medical revelation: When I did my annual health assessment for insurance, I learned that I'm on the verge of being a junky. Evidently, all sleep aids automatically put you in the "elevated risk" category for substance abuse. Oh, OK. Today, I use melatonin. Tomorrow? Heroin. Of course.

Most poignant reminder of our frailty and the precariousness of our every day: Oh, my sweet, sweet Big Doodle. We've had our ups and downs this year, and every day I'm thankful for your kind eyes and loving disposition.

"I have cancer? Is that like a rawhide?"

My husband's favorite discovery: Chopping spinach before putting it in a salad. It's easier to eat than those awkward, unwieldy leaves. Direct quote that I am not making up: "Chopped spinach is the greatest development of Q4." Yes, he speaks Corporate.

Best gift idea ever: For my birthday, my family filled a container with little slips of paper, each stating something that one of them loves about me. I ugly cried while reading the slips. It was so humbling. If you need a gift for someone you love, do this. If you need a gift for someone you don't love, don't do this, because it would just be an empty container. Just regift them an empty container and don't mention that it should have love notes in it but you don't love them. You know.

Most joyful movie-going experience: Star Wars. Duh. I felt a thrill at the opening credits and was delighted throughout. It was like being a kid again, but with beer. Because they sell that at theatres now.

Most life-affirming gathering: All of my cousins, aunts and uncles, and various and sundry kid-type people gathered for a family reunion. There were 34 of us, so it was a gigantic undertaking. Huge kudos to my brother who coordinated the event and organized things like photo slide shows, Q&A sessions, and surveys. When my grandma was in her 80s and not in the greatest health, she attended a family reunion and reported, "It was better than any medicine." Now I get it.

Funny, these highlights tend to focus on the people in my world. That's hard for this little introvert to accept, but whatever. As long as we can be together and not, like, actively interact, that's cool.

What were the high points of your 2015?

Why I highly recommend giving slightly outlandish gifts.

Eleven years ago this month, I moved out of the house I'd shared with my boyfriend of 7 years. We broke up, and I was completely broken.

I moved into The Apartment of Despair and everything was just ... wrong. I didn't have any plates that could go in the microwave, so I ate most of my meager meals off the same Pyrex pie plate. Since I suddenly found myself with 2 dogs and no backyard, I tried to navigate walking a psycho dachshund on ice. It did not go well. And my freelance business was ... fledgling at best. I knew it was going to work out, but times were hard.

I got a job working holiday retail, which gave me a reason to leave my apartment. And I tried to figure out how things were going to come together financially. When I decided to leave Ex-Ex, I had exactly $25.35 in my bank account. I'll never forget it. I was so ashamed, and wondered how I had gotten there, both financially and emotionally.

Christmas was to be a pared-down affair. The big gift for the family would be that my brother would fly home from Ireland, where he'd been living. We didn't need any other gifts. I think this was my mom's clandestine way of ensuring that I didn't feel like I needed to spend money I didn't have. We were just going to hunker down and celebrate being together.

There were a few notable gifts, though. Poochie brought with him a huge Milk Tray chocolate assortment. His coworkers from the factory in Ireland had chipped in and purchased it as a going-away present since his visa was expiring. These people were all Indian and Middle Eastern immigrants who assembled belts that jiggled your gut for supposed weight loss. To a man, they sent most of their earnings home to their families. These kind folks adopted Poochie, and had him to their homes for holidays. He brought their kindness home to us.

There were also envelopes from our grandpa. He was still reeling from the death of his wife of 69 years. It had been almost 3 years, but after 69 years ... that's barely a heartbeat. But he was doing his best, playing a little golf, going on a few excursions at the assisted living facility. He still wrote his letters referring to "we." It was both heartbreaking and a case of, "well, of course!" They had started their married life together on a farm in western Kansas during the depression. Their love was an example of "through thick and thin."

Poochie and I each got an envelope. Our folks had no idea what was inside. I opened mine first.

The note read:
Christmas brings memories of happy times of celebration with our family and great appreciation for all the thoughtful and caring things that you do.

Your grandma's legacy continues to grow in many ways. It is my pleasure to share this with you during this holiday season. Enjoy!

With love,
Grandpa

And there was a check.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a ton. But to me? It was a gajillion dollars. It was rent and groceries and being able to breathe. It was moving forward instead of being moored to the idea that I had made huge, irreparable mistakes.

I cried. Ugly cried. The kind of sobbing you don't want anyone to see, except I was doing it at Christmas. I couldn't speak. Too much mucus.

My family couldn't figure out what was in the envelope and why I was so emotional. My brother opened his similar envelope, and everyone figured out quickly that I was good ugly crying, not bad ugly crying.

In all the photos from that holiday, I look rather raw. My eyes are red. I'm too skinny. But there's a glimmer of better things to come, of resilience.

A different Christmas. But just as magical.

And that's what I think about when I hear great stories about Secret Santas, people handing out cash at thrift stores, or folks covering bills for others. You just never know how that not-so-big-to-you kindness will size up for the recipient.

For me? It was king-sized. It was huge. And it reminded me that everything was going to be OK.

Have you been the recipient of such a life-changing gift? Warm my heart this Christmas and tell me all about it!

Book recommendations for your last-minute holiday shopping needs.

If you're like me, you kind of hate leaving your house. And you probably aren't quite done with your Christmas shopping. And time is running out. It's a cunnundrum.

But! Never fear! Use the crap outta that Amazon Prime membership and order the just-right book for those hard-to-shop-for folks on your list. Here are my recommendations.

For your angsty teen-aged niece: When did teen girls get so scary? They dress better than me and I'm pretty sure they're judging my sensible footwear and OMG, teen girls are terrifying! But, all that aside ... you can smooth things over and buy some street cred with Rainbow Rowell. These novels are technically young adult, but I've read them and they are wonderful - engrossing and smart. Consider Fangirl: A Novel or its new followup, Carry On.

For your father-in-law who thinks everything made after 1950 is crap: The Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics by Daniel James Brown. Because this book is about some hard-core dudes from when men were men. This book has it all: pulling yourself up by your bootstraps; sports; and beating Nazis. If you liked Unbroken, you'll like The Boys in the Boat. If you haven't read Unbroken, well, that would make a good New Year's resolution. You won't be sorry.

For the wanna-be fabulous folk in your life: Modern Mix by Eddie Ross. OK, usually, I only look at the photos in decorating books. Show me, don't tell me. But this coffee table book combines gorgeous photos with text that's engaging and gives you permission to do yo' thang. Eddie loves flea markets, color, and dishes. And this book is both inspiring and empowering. When it comes to decorating, your stuff doesn't have to match: it has to go. And you deserve to live in loveliness.

For the naughty girl and/or felon: The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters. Because it seems like just another thriller set in post-WWI London and your mom asks to borrow it when you're done reading, but then you get into it and it is ... steamy? And you realize that you skimmed over the cover blurb that called it "volcanically sexy?" And it offers a nuanced view of what it was like to be gay less than 100 years ago? And also, murder?

For the history buff or the slightly nerdy teen-aged boy: One Summer: America, 1927. So, I love Bill Bryson. His writing reflects his genuine curiosity about the world and is so engaging. This book covers just a few months in American history, but what a few months: Lindburgh, Ruth, Ford, Capone. I learned a lot, and found myself wanting to know more. And isn't that the greatest gift?

For your friend in need of a change: Sometimes, you've got to mess up and get lost to figure things out. Lost & Found by Brooke Davis is a lovely novel about just that. There's the little girl who's living in a department store; the elderly man who runs away from his nursing home; and the old biddy who hasn't left her house in 7 years. And then? Well, stuff happens. It's funny and heartbreaking and life-affirming and I just loved this book.

For the young reader who isn't yet an angsty teen but might be starting to figure out that you aren't cool: This might be your last chance to share a book from your childhood. Or mine. From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L Konigsburg is a novel that I loved as a kid. I reread it a few years ago and it's just as magical. Claudia and Jamie run away from home to ... The Metropolitan Museum of Art, of course.

What did I miss? And what books are you giving (or hoping to receive!) this holiday?

Friendly reminder: When you shop through my links, Amazon throws me some spare change. You know, to pay my library fines. Because sometimes I borrow books instead of buying them. Because I'm not made of money. And libraries are awesome.

Inner peace through hair removal.

My dog has a 1-foot square bald spot on his rear.

It's the latest in 6 months of veterinary adventures. Big Doodle has had ozone pumped into his bladder. He's on a ton of vitamins. We've totally revamped his diet, which now consists of these giant chubs full of raw meat dog food. My Guy and I refer to it as "Swiss Colony Beef Log." It is ... almost indescribable in its awesomeness/grotesqueness.

But in the midst of all this A-plus, driving-to-the-speciality-vet-40-minutes-away-once-a-week care, my number 1 giant dog started to attack himself. He chewed a series of hot spots on his hips, tail, and rear. The vet thought it might be a symptom of toxins leaving our boy's body. After all, his bladder cancer seems to be ... silent? In my fantasies, it's skulked back from whence it came. At any rate, he isn't peeing blood anymore, and seems to feel great.

Except for the chewing.

He's on holistic pain meds. I put Rescue Remedy in his water. And we'd go days without an incident. And then, I'd run to the grocery and come home to find blood all over the baseboards and a dog with a giant, oozing wound of his own making.

At least part of it is anxiety. He doesn't do it when his people are around. When we're around, he's his usual, happy self. And so, I feel like I can't leave him. But dude, I do need to go to the grocery. The people gots to eat.

On Thanksgiving, he chewed a new spot during a 30-minute ride in the back of our truckasaurus. I wanted to cry. And scream. "Dude! I am doing everything humanly possible to help you! I carve up Swiss Colony Beef Log on the regular without puking! You gotta help me out here!"

And then I decided that maybe in addition to being happy, he was just really stressed. And this time of year, aren't we all? After all, I cannot deny that I sat in my MIL's bathroom for a few extra minutes on Thanksgiving. I was happy, but I was stressed. Sometimes, you're just desperate for a moment of peace.

Maybe being the poster dog for holistic cancer treatments is really stressful. Maybe my gentle giant has just had it and needs an outlet. Maybe Big Doodle and I aren't that different. I get brittle and snappish and my right shoulder tenses up like Quasimodo. He chews hair and skin off his ass. We're basically the same person!

I'm getting a massage tomorrow. And Big Doodle got his ass shaved, which has evidently provided immense relief. We're all just doing the best we can.

So, take care of yourselves, my sweet friends. Hopefully that doesn't mean getting a 1-foot square area of your rear end shaved, but if that's what does it for you, go for it.

I hate mice and I love my family.

I visited my parents this weekend. They gave me life. And then they gave me mousetraps.

Let me back up.

So, remember when I interrupted a HUGE mouse in my silverware drawer, and it climbed out of the drawer and up my leg and I screamed a million screams and then had to burn down my house?

Good times.

Well, My Guy set a trap and killed that Jabba the Hutt of mice. Killed it dead!

Except ... well, it was evidently more of a Jabbette the Hutt. And she wasn't huge ... she just had some baby weight. Which we discovered because a few days after My Guy slew her, the babies came out looking for food.

Ohhhh nooooo.

And those babies were dumb. Almost as dumb as our vicious dogs. Picture it: My Guy, me, Lil' Frankfurter and Big Doodle were all lazing about on the couch on a Saturday morning, as is our custom. And gasp! There was something moving behind the entertainment center! It was grey and small and rodent-like!

The husband and I had a long, philosophical conversation about what in the name of Han Solo we were supposed to do. We certainly couldn't get off the couch because there was a MOUSE in the same ROOM! And while we didn't want to extricate a mouse carcass out of a dog's maw, you would think the canines would have some primal instinct to capture said mouse.

But no. Our dogs sat on the couch and watched the mouse. Not once did it occur to them to get off the couch and protect their pack from this intruder. My dogs are defective.

Finally, after much deliberation, My Guy bravely got off the couch and led the dogs outside. He escorted me to safety in the other room, and set the mouse trap. Then, he put up the baby gate. Then ... he left. He left me alone in a house with defective dogs and a probably rabid baby mouse.

The gate was supposed to keep the dogs out of the room with the trap. But in my mind, the baby gate would also serve to keep the mouse out of the rest of the house. The baby mouse wouldn't be so crass as to go into other rooms uninvited, right?

Well, there wasn't a lot of time for exploration. Within an hour or 2, I heard the trap go off. And then I heard the screams. Because the full-sized trap didn't kill the baby right away. I cried, and I prayed. I prayed for this rodent I was trying to kill. It was confusing.

And that whole "we're on the couch and we see a baby mouse and the defective dogs do nothing and then we set a trap and kill a poor, defenseless baby mouse" thing played out again the next day. And yet again, no adults stepped in to address the situation. My Guy and I had to handle it all by ourselves. It was terrible.

So, for those keeping track, that was 1 dead mama mouse and 2 dead baby mice. Oh, and then there was the third dead baby mouse I found under a washcloth on the floor. First of all, I have no idea how that washcloth came to be on the floor of our family room. Secondly, it was covering the little mouse carcass like we were filming an episode of "Law & Order: Rodent Division" in our house. It was all very dramatic.

Truthfully, by the third dead baby mouse, my heart was hardened. I just wanted a rodent-free house. Was that really too much to ask?

In the ensuing days, we haven't found any more mice, alive or dead. But you're never totally out of the woods with these things. Which brings us to my visit with my parents.

Now, there have been times my folks have plied me with groceries and gas money and an extra winter hat, just because. I would maybe roll my eyes, but truthfully? There is nothing like being hard-core nurtured by your parents like that. During a particularly broke spot, I returned to my craptastic apartment with 2 full grocery bags - my mom had raided her own pantry for me. The thought of it still makes me teary-eyed. They let me and my brother make our own way, but they made sure we had a little something for the road.

And so, this weekend? As I was getting ready to leave, my sweet dad asked how I was set for mouse traps. They'd had some mice this fall, and he'd discovered some great traps that were only sold at the farm and home store. Well, he'd show them to me. Well, they only sell them at the farm and home. Well, here, just take these, and he'll get some more.

I'm a grown woman and grown women don't cry over mouse traps. But it's sure nice to have parents who give you what you didn't quite realize you need. That, and my dad put the traps back in their original packaging because that's how he rolls. Also, he'd wiped the dead mouse detritus off and it was fine. Because we might pass used mouse traps around the family, but we do it with class.

I'm not dead. Also, here's a book review.

Kind friend Karen commented on my last post, "I'm worried that you haven't posted in several weeks. I'm hoping that you are busy with good things and not in ICU."

Thank you for your concern. Gurrrl, lemme tell you.

While it seemed highly likely that I had contracted some sort of mouse syphilis to go along with my Chilean lung leprosy and antibiotic reaction, that did not turn out to be the case. Discovering a gigantic mouse in my kitchen that then crawled up my bare leg didn't actually kill me, which was a bit of a shock.

No, instead, I have still been dealing with the Chilean lung leprosy. Because I'm sexy like that, and I hear coughing is the new flashing a boob.

When My Guy picked up my antibiotics, the pharmacist was careful to tell him that they might interfere with birth control. Bless his heart, my husband's response was, "All she does is cough. I ain't touchin' her."

So, there's that.

Thankfully, I've mostly stopped coughing and the antibiotics have done their job. I feel insane, but confident that I can get through the last 2.5 days of this Augmentin haze ... not that I'm counting down the minutes or anything. Ahem.

I'm exhausted. I've been sick for 5 weeks. It's ridiculous, and I'm just now starting to feel human again.

But you know what's a great activity when you feel like you have nothing to contribute to the world? Cleaning your closets.

It sounds like I'm joking, but I'm not.

I read "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up" by Marie Kondo. This is the book that's been all over - people seem to either embrace it or think that the author is a special, banana-sandwich level of crazy. I'm pretty impressed and happy with what it's done for me so far.

The author's thesis is that you shouldn't have anything in your house that doesn't give you joy. And you should touch all your stuff, and gauge how you feel when you touch it, and then keep or get rid of it accordingly.

As ridiculous as it sounds, this was a great activity when I was feeling sick. Because when you clean out your closet and throw all your clothes on the bed? You can lounge on the bed, too. I'd sort through some clothes, then take a break by flopping down next to the clothes. I was one with the clothes. It was either insane or very Zen.

I liked this book because it gave me permission to get rid of guilt-inducing clothes. Kondo basically says that even if you bought a skirt and then never wore it, it served its purpose - it made you feel happy when you bought it, or it taught you that orange isn't your color, or it helped you realize you've never been a size 00 and those people just need to eat sandwiches or whatever. And it's OK.

I cleaned my closet and dresser, and even refolded much of my stuff in Kondo's recommended fold / roll / stack-on-the-end style. I must admit that it's pretty gratifying to open a drawer and be able to see at a glance what's in there instead of digging around. Keep in mind that my wardrobe consists of about 98% t-shirts and jeans, but still.

I haven't gone through my shoes or books, but the impact on my closet was definitely worth the price of the book.

Have you "Kondo-ized" your house? What did you think? And have you ever had Chilean lung leprosy? How long did it take you to feel like a semi-normal human again?

Why I should stay out of the kitchen.

I've been sick. Real sick. I had a cold and that cold morphed into some sort of chest madness that I'm pretty sure is tuberculosis mixed with Chilean lung leprosy. I've been hacking up a lung for literally 3 weeks.

I finally broke down and took some antibiotics, even though I hate antibiotics. And those antibiotics made me feel better for a day and a half, and then they made me feel queasy and itchy and hot and dizzy and generally insane. I realized too late that I'm allergic to these demon antibiotics.

And so, I did what any normal girl would do. I went to Whole Foods and bought 2 bags of Red Hot Blues potato chips because they're the only thing that sounds good. I bought chips and Breathe Easy tea and oil of oregano and planned on healing myself without the devil antibiotics. I bought some soup and tried to keep my shit together.

Which brings us to this evening.

Tonight, I peeled my queasy, coughy self off the couch and warmed up some of the soup I had procured from Whole Paycheck. I poured the soup into a pan, and then opened the silverware drawer for a spoon.

There was a fur muff inside the silverware drawer!

The fur muff was moving!

The fur muff was a fat mouse, just chilling in my silverware drawer at 7 o'clock at night!

I screamed. I screamed like a virgin in a horror movie. I screamed, and the mouse ran down the outside of the cabinet and across the kitchen floor.

Like any sane woman, I levitated across the kitchen. But the mouse followed me! The mouse followed me, ran across my foot and climbed up my bare leg.

I hoisted myself up against the counter and kicked. I kicked like my life depended on it! I kicked and that mouse hit the floor, then scampered behind the stove.

Next thing I knew, I was in the dining room, looking into the kitchen. And I was still screaming. I stopped screaming just in time to hear the stove make a weird beeping noise, probably because the mouse was hot-wiring it, like a car.

I decided to scream once more for good measure. It felt good, and right. I wondered if the neighbors could hear. I didn't care.

After I collected myself somehwhat, I texted my husband the CliffsNotes version of the saga. I also informed him that I was burning down our house. As I glanced at his rather satisfying "holy shit!" response, I realized that the dogs were both lounging near the kitchen.

Those losers had done nothing to help me in my time of need! They hadn't become alarmed in the slightest when I was being so cruelly attacked, nor did they respond when I made sounds that I'm sure have never come out of my body before. Note to self: screaming doesn't interest dachshunds or labradoodles.

Today, I have been sorely disappointed by asshole antibiotics and lazy, no-good dogs. Also, by the vermin who continue to attack my kitchen. But I do feel like a mighty warrior, a survivor. Like Cher.