2012

January 2, 2013


Hear ye, hear ye, all rise for the reading of the Thurman Family Holiday Newsletter. The Dishonorable Walter G. Thurman presiding.


Thanks, Siri. Take a buck out of petty cash and buy yourself something nice. Like a shared data plan without overages you cantankerous wench.

Once again, the Thurmans have survived to see a new year. The Mayans put in a valiant effort, but were no match for easily transferrable Western diseases.

Speaking of Typhoid Zoe, she’s at home right now as I write this. Vomiting. I say good for her. Show that toilet who’s boss. Other than her incessant need to bring home every bug known to man, our little health code violation is great. Sick, but great. It’s our own damn fault. We put her in daycare three days a week to help her learn socialization skills and build up her immune system. I’m not convinced the former is working out. Zoe says hello the same way Mike Tyson does. No missing ears reported as of yet, but give her time. And no big face tattoo, but she’s young and afraid of needles. Ask me again next year.

As for the decision to make her spleen earn its keep, an unintended side effect appeared in the form of Michelle and I being ill almost constantly. My nostrils have hurt for three months now, and the inside of my lungs feel like they’re made out of damp gummy bears. I’m pretty sure I’ve coughed up my weight in phlegm.

I know, too much information.

Michelle’s still doctoring. Is doctoring a word? She hasn’t quit yet or prescribed her least favorite patients a Dran-o enema, so I’m guessing it’s going okay. Her new hobby is napping. This sucks for many recipients of this letter, as she used to spend that time embroidering cute little handkerchiefs, which means no more handmade Christmas/ maternity/Kwanzaa/housewarming/divorce gifts.

I’m sorta writing. Back in the old days (B.Z.), I’d crank out a few books a year. Some were even worth reading. Now? One per year, not worth using as toilet paper. That may have less to do with my skill and more with my taste for 24lb. bright white recycled paper.

I’m in a critique group. People ask me what the hell that means. It means I spend four hours every Wednesday at Starbucks in Puyallup critiquing the work of others, and having the same done to mine. It’s nice to be with a small group of people who are just as self-conscious damaged obsessively neurotic odd as you are. Except they aren’t, so really, it’s six normals and some lunatic they allowed into their midst.

We haven’t done much this year. Turns out having Patient Zero as a traveling companion isn’t good for your social life. So we stayed home most of this year, just like the instructions on my ankle monitor said.

I’m told we went to Whidbey Island in March so that I could attend a writing conference. My memories are somewhat fuzzy, as my kidneys chose that moment to evict a third stone in as many months. The weather was nice, I think, and the conference was good. Probably. I honestly don’t remember. The drugs were more than up to the task of dulling the pain and erasing what little short-term memory I possess. Could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been somewhere unpleasant. Somewhere I loathe. Somewhere like Mexico City. Mexico City knows what it did, and until it apologizes, it’s on my list.

We celebrated the Fourth of July in the usual fashion. My family came up and enjoyed undercooked burgers and overcooked hot dogs before the good people of Pierce County lit off enough fireworks to give someone PTSD. We hosted the 87th Annual Sky Island Ridge Golf Tournament and made a negligible amount of money for the local food bank, but had a great time whacking golf balls into the trees and insulting the Brits in attendance. The finals came down to local favorite Evan Hildebrand and a ringer who went by the handle Konner Smythe. Both were thought to be juicing, but the judges were so hammered as to no longer care. In the end, the ringer won the coveted Grumpster Memorial Plaque, which currently hangs on the wall over our main floor commode.

For our neighborhood’s annual Twelve Drinks of Christmas (also known as the Sky Island AA Mixer), we hosted for the first time. Michelle tried to kill anyone with a nut allergy, but the mini pepperoni and cashew pizzas claimed no victims. Being a sophisticated host, I classed it up with champagne-based Poinsettias (champagne, cranberry juice, and Cointreau). But classy had a price, and I ended up with a bunch of leftover booze and just the one liver to filter it through.

We hit Phoenix for Christmas. Michelle’s family—thirty members of the Hanway clan (or twenty-nine random strangers who looked like they were there to rob the place depending on how Grandma’s memory was doing that day)—spent a week in a historic hacienda insulting one another and eating traditional Iowa fare of food on a stick. The corn dogs dipped in chocolate were good. The pickles in chocolate...not so much. But everyone had a great time, or the good taste to not grumble publicly (depending on how Grandma’s memory was doing that day).

We flew home in time to attend another neighborhood bacchanal for New Year’s Eve, but my body had had enough, and I put myself in a time-out. I missed the party, but kept my stomach contents. Yay, me.

In all, a good year. And this coming one should be even better, as we live in the great State of Washington, new home to faaaaaabulous weddings and, of course, weed. If you don’t get a newsletter next year, it’s because I’ve got the munchies.

To paraphrase a jolly old fat man—

“Happy New Year to all! And get the hell off my lawn!”



XXX OOO

Michelle, Wally, and Zoe Thurman


This newsletter is printed on 100% recycled content. In this case—I kid you not—banana tree byproducts. Bananas? Seriously?!