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I originally posted this letter two years ago – but it is worth a repeat.

 

I just recently received my mom’s annual Christmas letter. It is as usual, chock full of tantalizing tidbits about the lives of my parents including a detailed description of my parents’ morning routine which I now know includes two cups of hot tea for my mother – one before she attends her “Shape Up Sisters” workout class and a second cup when she gets home from her “Shape Up Sisters” workout class. I was also interested to discover that my parents’ breakfast menu offers a choice of either cold cereal or hot cereal along with that second cup of  tea. While my brain was doing backflips to try and keep up with this fast-paced, endearing, yet strangely riveting letter I came across the following paragraph …

The last 2 years have also brought a different chapter in our lives as Harry and my Dad are rejoicing in heaven. We have also said farewell to very dear people in our lives Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wilbur. We both know it is selfish to wish for them to still be here on earth with us when they were so ready to go…

As I mentioned, my mom is writing the letter so when she writes “my dad” that would be my grandpa. And, yes, he did pass away this year. But the MORE startling information is the name that precedes “my grandpa” which says “Harry”. She writes Harry and my Dad are rejoicing in heaven. What the… Harry is MY DAD and if he has “passed on” it is news to me!!!

I frantically called my mom to find out if Dad was still among the living and if he wasn’t, why exactly she chose her Christmas letter to deliver this tragic news to me!

“Mom! Mom!  is Dad dead?” I yelped into the phone.

“No, Your father is not dead, he is watching “The Biggest Loser” on television with me.”

Then I told her about the letter and how it says that Harry is dead, and she said…

“It must be the way you are reading it.”

No, mom it is not the way I am reading it… You said that Dad is dead!” 

“Well your father proofread the letter, so how could he have let the letter say he is dead?  

“I don’t know mom, but it clearly states that your Dad… and Harry are rejoicing in heaven, and I am pretty sure you have to be dead to do that!”

“Your dad is not dead because he eats too much to be dead… and he also complains too much to be dead.”

I was very relieved to hear that my father is still “with us”. I mentioned that mom might want to send out a little note to all her Christmas letter recipients and let them know that Harry is not dead.

“That’s ridiculous! I’m NOT going to send out 60 notes to people to tell them that Harry is not dead.

So – if any of my distant kin and far flung family read this blog – my dad, Harry, is NOT dead. Repeat NOT DEAD. This was just a little mistake in the Family Christmas letter.

PS

On the off, off chance that this post has ONCE AGAIN served to send my mom reeling in electrifying shockwaves of loathsome grief over her delinquent daughter posting awful things on the internet for the entire world to read – I offer up a few pics of her adorable grandchildren as a sweet salve.

KeeeeeeeRipes! He’s six now.

How long has it been since you were THIS excited about opening up a present?

He made it in kindergarten. It still tops our tree with pride.

This one’s for you mom. I love you. Even if you did try to kill dad off in the Christmas letter.

Yet another blast from the past.  This post was originally published on August 9th, 2007.  

These are my dear friends Dave and Katie. They used to live in my town. When they moved away, they left a huge, hemorrhaging hole in my heart and I didn’t know if I would survive.   Fortunately, I am married to a doctor and he was able to apply the right sort of pressure to save my life. However, even with all sorts of medical interventions, I have only been a shadow of my former self since they left.  Seeking a more permanent cure,  I loaded up the four boys and we went to visit Dave and Katie in their new town.

 

 

 

This is a picture of the fabulous dinner that Dave handcrafted while Katie and I sat in the living room drinking red wine and updating each other on uh… all the uh… critically important world events… that we uh… are uh… so knowledgeable about.

 

 

 

 

 

Dave and Katie have two beautiful children that my own children love, so when Dave and Katie moved and took their children with them, blood curdling screams of pain and anguish could be heard coming from my house for weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

This is their handsome son, Jackson with my Jack.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And this is their beautiful daughter, Maggie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here is Katie leading the Deathly Hallows Book Club discussion.

It has long been a dream of Katie and I, to someday merge our families via holy matrimony. It would allow Katie and I to spend much more time together and I don’t think it is too much to ask of one’s daughter to provide a little comfort to her mother and her mother’s friend as old age approaches?

Is it?

Well, is it?

No, it’s not.

Maggie can have her choice of my four sons. I won’t make her pick the dumbest or the most likely to be unemployed, or the one with the bad teeth. She can have her choice, as long as she chooses ONE of them.

The question is – which one?

 

 

 

 

 

Drew and Maggie are  in the same grade, and although they are almost equals in outward beauty, we are not sure that Drew is Maggie’s mental equal.

 

 

 

 

 

Katie has always leaned towards Ethan because he exhibits the same brainy, LOTR, child of the woods and water, Star Wars lovin, rogue athletic, traits that her son Jackson has.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cal would be the best one if Maggie prefers the strong silent type and if she wants a die hard fisherman like her dad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But if she wants to talk…and talk and talk and talk… and if she goes for younger men (like her mother did) Jack might just fit the bill.

 

 

 

Pick one of them Maggie! I really think it would work out beautifully.

 

At least for me and Katie  it would…

My house stinks….I mean stiiiinks! I mean el stencho, la crapola, stinkity stink stink stink. It has stunk for several weeks, but it seems to come and go. Just when it gets unbearable, we seem to find the problem and it disappears for a day or two. Then while we have our guards down, the stink rests up, regains it’s strength, and comes back with a vicious second wind.

We have a shower in the main floor bathroom that no one is using. Evidently the lack of use can lead to the evaporation of water in the “trap” which can cause stinkage to seep into the house. So I ran some water in the shower and the smell went away for a few days. But it is back. Back with a vengeance. Back with a fly covered fist, straight up the nose that leaves me searching desperately all over the house for the giant pile of poo that must be located right beside a roaring fan that is blowing the reeking reekage into every crack and every crevice in the house.

Then… our heater wouldn’t turn on and even if I am participating in Crunchy’s heat challenge, and keeping our heat down to 65 at night and 6…8 uh I mean 69 during the day – I am not willing to try and survive without any heat at all.

So I called our plumber who is also our heat/AC guy and they came right out. I stumbled to the door on my frost bitten toes to let him in. As soon as I opened the door, the force of the smell hit him straight between the eyes. He gasped for breath, and crumpled to one knee. I had forgotten how bad the house smelled as I was prancing around trying to keep warm.

After I revived the plumber by squirting some lysol directly up his nose, he went about searching for the source of the stink. He poked his nose STRAIGHT into the open pipe under the bathroom sink on the main floor that is yet to be “hooked up”and said, “yep, pretty ripe.”

Then he went about sniffing the rest of the house, trying to figure out where else the great waves of wafting stink might be coming from. He dumped some water down our basement drains. He told me to place a cap on the outside sewer vent, he fixed the heater, and as he left, he gestured vaguely around my gorgeous, brand spankin new, classic American, stink hole of a farm house and said, “no one should have to live like this.”

As soon as my nasal passages started to defrost, I too started to smell my house. And girlfriends (and the occasional boyfriend) there ain’t no scented candle big enough to mask the wretched puddle of sickly brown greenish yuck of which my home currently smells.

The plumber promised he would be back. He promised to bring reinforcements, which I hope to God includes a specially trained dog to sniff out the exact location of the reeking problem, but for now, he is gone and I am still here… half frozen…in a brand new house…that smells like an open sewer. There is only one appropriate expression to end this blog with and I am trying with all my might to hold it back. Trying…try…ing…but c’mon…. Shit…shit shit shit….SHIT!!!!! Sorry about that – but that is what it is.