2011

December 31, 2011


Dear Sir and/or Madam,


Happy 2012! Or as the Mayans call it, Happy Our Rock Wasn’t Big Enough To Make a Larger Calendar So Let’s Watch Everyone Panic Like They Did For Y2K!

This past year was one to put in the ol’ diary and toss into the hope chest for the Thurman family. After nearly eight years of paying someone else’s mortgage, now we have one of our own. Like most money pits, ours was listed as having “beautiful views” and “plenty of space.” This translates to, respectively, “your insurance company isn’t sure they want to give you earthquake coverage because they’re convinced your home might slide into the valley below” and “get used to massive heating bills, sucker.”

What’s this mean to you, gentle reader? If you ever visit our fair state, we’ve got a guest room (finally). Two if you count the library. Three if you don’t mind sleeping in a tent in the basement family room. No, not kidding about the tent. Zoe’s arrival has meant plenty of guests so far, and we’re prepared to repel evict shoot accept boarders.

Our new neighbors are a fun lot. It’s also possible they’re insane. They’ve welcomed us with open arms and massive quantities of booze. I love them. They have an annual party called the Twelve Drinks of Christmas, a progressive mixer that migrates to a different house in the hood every half hour. Halloween was a treat, at least it was for the twelve hundred kids (not a typo) who paraded through our street. At one point we had a line going from our front door to the street. I broke out the Holiday Toilet© filled with candy and taught the kids about the circle of life. I wore my special chicken outfit, Michelle was a turkey, and our little duckling went as...um...a duck. We were TurDuckEn.

Then came Christmas. Most people throw up a string of lights and call it a day. Not here in Sky Island. We had two timers, eight strings of lights, twenty plus nets, and six little twinkling sticks. We were told, “Nice job for a newbie. You’ll do better next year.” Lunatics. Our street glowed. Trying to get to our house after dark included an extra five minutes of drive time as you navigated around all the tourists idling thorough our neighborhood. We had busses of people come through. Then came the annual Tour D’ Lights with five hundred runners filling the streets on the 21st.

And as I write this, tonight is New Year’s Eve, and our neighbors across the street (the Jeters—lovely people—you’d like them) are throwing another shindig. Michelle and I will be taking turns with Zoe as, during Twelve Drinks a few weeks ago, Michelle went home after a couple hours and found our baby-crazy, elementary school teaching sitter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her boyfriend owes me a six-pack of beer. The good stuff.

In saddish news, we lost our beloved cat Mindy this year. Maybe beloved is the wrong word. The animal that spent most of its life hissing at me and scaring the poor dog has been given a one-way ticket to the kitty hell she was destined to rule over. Too harsh? Michelle thinks so. In fact, she told me to be nicer. For now, Mindy’s ashes reside in a decorative tin. I like to put it on things and yell, “Mindy! Get off the table!” And as in life, she ignores me.

In other Thurman news, we welcomed a baby girl into our coven in June. Zoe Grace is the apple of our eye, and the reason our eyes look like apples. But she’s ours, or so the DNA test said, so we’re stuck with her until she turns eighteen, or until the state determines her crimes require three-to-five in a facility of their choice. Fingers crossed!

She looks like Michelle, for which we thank God every single day. Though she does have my ears. Poor kid. Maybe she’ll outgrow them. The odds are good, as she’s been in the 95th percentile in height and weight since Michelle evicted her from the womb. She’s been a real pleasure, mainly when presented with an audience. When it’s just Zoe and me, well, those screams you hear coming from our house aren’t necessarily hers. Many of you sent us baby clothes, most of which she wore once (if at all) before they were too small. Every few weeks we have a “what size is she now” party where we empty her closet and drawers long enough to replace everything. Michelle says Zoe will continue doing this every month until she’s thirty-two, though not because she’s outgrowing them.

Michelle is still a doctor. I’m still writing, though you can probably guess how much I’ve written lately. Turns out stay-at-home-dad is a euphemism for unkempt men with beards who smell funny while pushing a stroller through Home Depot.

We traveled a few times this year. We hit Walla Walla in the spring to see the Christophersons. Neal and I went wine tasting while a very pregnant Michelle mocked us. We went to Redlands in, um, August, I think. Sounds right. Michelle informs me it was actually September. Anyway, we showed off the Vominator to the family and ate too much Cuca’s. Oh, who am I kidding? You can’t eat too much Cuca’s. We hit Portland in October for the Crowell-Kenny wedding. I’m told it was a beautiful ceremony. I was outside with the Poopmeister listening to her gentle mewings. We also spent Thanksgiving in Cannon Beach with the Deiningers. I think they’ve recovered by now.

Yeah, I’m rattling off a bunch of names you may or may not know. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve forgotten my name twice at parties this year, before I drank anything. Truth is, anything I’ve put in this newsletter is highly suspect anyway, so feel free to insert your name for someone else’s. They won’t know.

In all, a busy year. I left out plenty. I made up plenty. But in the end, a pretty eventful twelve months. We appear to have survived, though there’s still eight hours left, so who knows?

Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I need a nap.


XXX OOO

Michelle, Wally, and Zoe Thurman