I just ate.
Oh, that doesn't sound like a big accomplishment. But trust me, it is. It's the first real food Jason and I have been able to stomach (har) since dinner on Christmas night.
We picked up a stomach virus from Jason's brother and have been in something best described as Hell since roughly 6am on December 26.
While many of you were doing the whole "return the Christmas gifts, shop for bargains" thing, I was worshipping the porcelain throne. I haven't been prostrate before that idol in such a way since Ainsley brought home a stomach virus from daycare 4 years ago that had me in one bathroom, Jason in another, for one memorable night in which we checked on each other's condition by talking through the vents.
Somehow, Jason never threw up with this evil thing. But that doesn't mean he got off light. After each of the four times (in twelve hours; a new longevity record!) I threw up, I felt better for, say, 30 minutes. He never got such a reprieve.
What made it more fun was that my mom wasn't able to watch Ains for us, so the poor kid was pretty much on her own for an entire day. Thank God for new Christmas presents and a Phineas and Ferb marathon on the Disney channel. We took turns being in the same room but a safe distance away from her.
When I was a kid, stomach viruses only lasted 24 hours; after a few hours of yakking, I moved on to popsicles and ginger ale and the next day was eating hamburgers.
My stomach doesn't quite have that resilience now.
As late as 8pm last night, Jason and I were saying we may never eat again.
But around dawn this morning, when I woke up because my abdomen was so hollow that I couldn't get comfortable in bed, and dreaming of oatmeal, I decided breakfast was in order. And so far, it's staying down.
There is one plus to all this. Laying around doing not much (besides spraying the whole house with Clorox and Lysol) has allowed my injured shoulder to get back to almost normal already. So, there's that.
There have been some losses, though. I needed to lose a little Christmas weight, so I am thrilled that I have lost 6 whole pounds. Hurrah! But I have also permanently lost my ability to eat Paula Deen's beef tenderloin and Christmas ham, those being the last items I put on my stomach before all this happiness started.
So, to sum up, here's how I will remember Christmas, 2008:
The year I fell and screwed up my shoulder;
and
The year I prayed for death from December 26--28.
No, really, I am grateful that I had my family and my friends and roof over my head and some nice presents at Christmas. I don't want to sound like that.
But I can already tell you what I want for Christmas, 2009:
No puking!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
A Very Vicodin Christmas
Sometimes, things happen so fast.
One minute, I was on my feet. The next, I was on my right side, shoulder and hip numb against the ice, examining my rear driver's side tire.
The tire is fine. I, however, am not so much.
It could have been worse. Yesterday afternoon some rain moved in, and even though the brilliant weather people of the Cincy area assured us the temperature would be above freezing when said rain moved in, we were hovering steadily around 32 degrees all afternoon and early evening. It's a wonder I didn't wreck the car when I ventured out to check on my mom and pick up a pizza.
As it stands, I just wrecked my shoulder.
I put the pizza in the car and went around the back to get to my side of the car. I had seen the pizza people throw out some salt and thought I was on solid turf. I really can't even tell you the mechanics of how I fell; my feet went out from underneath me so fast I didn't have time to react, to grab onto anything. My full weight went down on my right hip and right shouder. I Fell with a capital F, which also happens to be the starting letter of the expletive that flew out of my mouth.
Just as I stood up, a man came around my car.
"Ma'am, are you alright? I heard you fall but didn't see you get up right away. You had me worried."
The stranger talked me into going back inside the pizza place to check myself out for injury before I got back in the car. Common sense overrode my mortification and I let him help me in. When no limbs turned purple in five minutes, I (carefully) went back to my car and headed home.
And cried like a baby.
You remember when you were little and you would fall and, even if the pain wasn't that bad, you couldn't help yourself from crying? It was like a reflex. That's how I felt. I wanted my mommy to check out my booboos, but Mommy had herself just been to the ER for her own hand injury that has her in a wrist brace this Christmas.
I was alone in the car and just let the tears flow. And by the time I got home, I thought I was okay.
But then at exactly three in the morning, while the house was quiet and dark and my right shoulder had my full undivided attention, it started talking to me.
"You know I'm not cool, right?" it asked.
"Yes, I do now. Are we going to get any sleep tonight?"
I didn't know shoulders could chuckle. "What do you think?"
So I've been to my doctor, who tells me nothing is broken but that two different tendon/ligament thingies in my shoulder are severely inflamed and will take 2-3 weeks to heal.
"You're lucky," he said. "I visited one of my patients in the hospital this morning who is around your age and had a fall a lot like yours on that ice. But he displaced his shoulder, broke a bunch of ribs, and knocked himself out."
Well, there's that.
I have some Vicodin to take tonight in case the shoulder starts talking to me again. It should ensure a long winter's nap, indeed.
So, if I don't see you, have a merry Christmas. I hope Santa brings you all that you desire and that are healthy and happy.
And if ice comes your way...please be careful.
One minute, I was on my feet. The next, I was on my right side, shoulder and hip numb against the ice, examining my rear driver's side tire.
The tire is fine. I, however, am not so much.
It could have been worse. Yesterday afternoon some rain moved in, and even though the brilliant weather people of the Cincy area assured us the temperature would be above freezing when said rain moved in, we were hovering steadily around 32 degrees all afternoon and early evening. It's a wonder I didn't wreck the car when I ventured out to check on my mom and pick up a pizza.
As it stands, I just wrecked my shoulder.
I put the pizza in the car and went around the back to get to my side of the car. I had seen the pizza people throw out some salt and thought I was on solid turf. I really can't even tell you the mechanics of how I fell; my feet went out from underneath me so fast I didn't have time to react, to grab onto anything. My full weight went down on my right hip and right shouder. I Fell with a capital F, which also happens to be the starting letter of the expletive that flew out of my mouth.
Just as I stood up, a man came around my car.
"Ma'am, are you alright? I heard you fall but didn't see you get up right away. You had me worried."
The stranger talked me into going back inside the pizza place to check myself out for injury before I got back in the car. Common sense overrode my mortification and I let him help me in. When no limbs turned purple in five minutes, I (carefully) went back to my car and headed home.
And cried like a baby.
You remember when you were little and you would fall and, even if the pain wasn't that bad, you couldn't help yourself from crying? It was like a reflex. That's how I felt. I wanted my mommy to check out my booboos, but Mommy had herself just been to the ER for her own hand injury that has her in a wrist brace this Christmas.
I was alone in the car and just let the tears flow. And by the time I got home, I thought I was okay.
But then at exactly three in the morning, while the house was quiet and dark and my right shoulder had my full undivided attention, it started talking to me.
"You know I'm not cool, right?" it asked.
"Yes, I do now. Are we going to get any sleep tonight?"
I didn't know shoulders could chuckle. "What do you think?"
So I've been to my doctor, who tells me nothing is broken but that two different tendon/ligament thingies in my shoulder are severely inflamed and will take 2-3 weeks to heal.
"You're lucky," he said. "I visited one of my patients in the hospital this morning who is around your age and had a fall a lot like yours on that ice. But he displaced his shoulder, broke a bunch of ribs, and knocked himself out."
Well, there's that.
I have some Vicodin to take tonight in case the shoulder starts talking to me again. It should ensure a long winter's nap, indeed.
So, if I don't see you, have a merry Christmas. I hope Santa brings you all that you desire and that are healthy and happy.
And if ice comes your way...please be careful.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Importance of Context
Context is everything.
Yesterday Ainsley brought home one of those flip-books I've talked about which lists this week's rhyming vocabulary words. This week the words all end in "ell". The first word was...you guessed it! Hell! That favorite Catholic school subject.
Later in the afternoon I took her to swim lessons. We got there earlier than usual, and Ains did some stretches and warm-ups she apparently has learned in gym class. At one point she tipped her head back and stretched her fingers up and got a good look at the insulated ceiling above the pool.
"That ceiling is so high!" she said. "This whole place is huge! What the hell were they thinking?"
Say what?
I asked her to repeat herself.
She dodged. "I said, what were they thinking?"
"Ainsley, that's not what you said. You said something else."
"Hell?"
"Yes, Ainsley. Now, you know that that's not a very nice word."
"No, I didn't know that. It's one of our spelling words."
Ta-da!
Now, she doesn't exactly get a free pass. She knew enough to not repeat it. But she makes a good point.
I wasn't entirely accurate when I told her "hell" is a bad word. Used as a noun, it's said quite a bit at her school and in her church. But make it an exclamation, and everything changes. Or, leave it as a noun meaning a place, and tell someone to go there, and the same word that probably shows up as an answer on the kid's religion tests would suddenly cause a trip to the principal's office.
Not to get all George Carlin on you, but why is there this double standard? Why is "hell" a spelling word this week when she can't use the word in all its possible, multi-layered and complex contexts? Why are "bad" words so taboo?
I myself am guilty of it. I won't write it out, but I will occasionally put "WTF?" into a blog post. I am not entirely comfortable writing the "F" word in a blog that polite people read, but I am completely and hypocritically comfortable writing that text-message-era abbreviation and then making you think that word inside your head! Every time I do that, I make you hear a word that's too taboo for me to write out on a blog I sometimes edit at work.
That is soooo messed up.
It wouldn't take much for me to agree with those that say making a word taboo is giving that word power. If there were no "bad" words, if there weren't a list of seven words you can't say on television and so forth, they would lose some of that charm that makes every kid eventually try them on for size and test out their shock value.
But then there would still be the type of "bad" words that just by their happy arrangement of vowels and consonants bother, annoy, or offend people. Or words for which the taboo is so deep they will never outlive that, regardless of context. My husband doesn't mind hearing me throw out a four-letter word when I stub my toe on the hamper at 4am, but if I say I am making a "sauce" for our chicken entree he almost gags. I am not offended by much, but there is one word for a part of the female anatomy that I will never, ever be okay hearing. Partly because it's a word that just sounds gross; partly because it's demeaning. How much is because it's taboo and how much is because some of us are simply word people I don't know.
I do know that I cannot wait until Ainsley bring home a flip book of "uck" words.
Yesterday Ainsley brought home one of those flip-books I've talked about which lists this week's rhyming vocabulary words. This week the words all end in "ell". The first word was...you guessed it! Hell! That favorite Catholic school subject.
Later in the afternoon I took her to swim lessons. We got there earlier than usual, and Ains did some stretches and warm-ups she apparently has learned in gym class. At one point she tipped her head back and stretched her fingers up and got a good look at the insulated ceiling above the pool.
"That ceiling is so high!" she said. "This whole place is huge! What the hell were they thinking?"
Say what?
I asked her to repeat herself.
She dodged. "I said, what were they thinking?"
"Ainsley, that's not what you said. You said something else."
"Hell?"
"Yes, Ainsley. Now, you know that that's not a very nice word."
"No, I didn't know that. It's one of our spelling words."
Ta-da!
Now, she doesn't exactly get a free pass. She knew enough to not repeat it. But she makes a good point.
I wasn't entirely accurate when I told her "hell" is a bad word. Used as a noun, it's said quite a bit at her school and in her church. But make it an exclamation, and everything changes. Or, leave it as a noun meaning a place, and tell someone to go there, and the same word that probably shows up as an answer on the kid's religion tests would suddenly cause a trip to the principal's office.
Not to get all George Carlin on you, but why is there this double standard? Why is "hell" a spelling word this week when she can't use the word in all its possible, multi-layered and complex contexts? Why are "bad" words so taboo?
I myself am guilty of it. I won't write it out, but I will occasionally put "WTF?" into a blog post. I am not entirely comfortable writing the "F" word in a blog that polite people read, but I am completely and hypocritically comfortable writing that text-message-era abbreviation and then making you think that word inside your head! Every time I do that, I make you hear a word that's too taboo for me to write out on a blog I sometimes edit at work.
That is soooo messed up.
It wouldn't take much for me to agree with those that say making a word taboo is giving that word power. If there were no "bad" words, if there weren't a list of seven words you can't say on television and so forth, they would lose some of that charm that makes every kid eventually try them on for size and test out their shock value.
But then there would still be the type of "bad" words that just by their happy arrangement of vowels and consonants bother, annoy, or offend people. Or words for which the taboo is so deep they will never outlive that, regardless of context. My husband doesn't mind hearing me throw out a four-letter word when I stub my toe on the hamper at 4am, but if I say I am making a "sauce" for our chicken entree he almost gags. I am not offended by much, but there is one word for a part of the female anatomy that I will never, ever be okay hearing. Partly because it's a word that just sounds gross; partly because it's demeaning. How much is because it's taboo and how much is because some of us are simply word people I don't know.
I do know that I cannot wait until Ainsley bring home a flip book of "uck" words.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Second Librarian
Ainsley wants to be a librarian when she grows up. Yeah, I know. The nut doesn't fall far from the tree.
When I was her age I wanted to be a brain surgeon or an astronaut, so I know this career choice might not last too long. But she is taking her job training very seriously. She has made several signs posting her rules and has set up a little area of my library as her own, complete with a clipboard and metal bookends, which she doesn't really know what to do with, but knows they're somehow very important.
Her latest sign says this: (and the spelling is all hers)
Hand your Book to The seecond librarean Ainsley!
And then under that in very, very small letters:
mrs. cranky is the first librarean
And she closes with a few lines of a song she's learning for Christmas mass, just to make sure her patrons know she's devout:
Prepar a way for the Lord!
Prepar a way for the Lord!
I haven't the heart to tell her that posting that in her library would be violating the separation of church and state...
When I was her age I wanted to be a brain surgeon or an astronaut, so I know this career choice might not last too long. But she is taking her job training very seriously. She has made several signs posting her rules and has set up a little area of my library as her own, complete with a clipboard and metal bookends, which she doesn't really know what to do with, but knows they're somehow very important.
Her latest sign says this: (and the spelling is all hers)
Hand your Book to The seecond librarean Ainsley!
And then under that in very, very small letters:
mrs. cranky is the first librarean
And she closes with a few lines of a song she's learning for Christmas mass, just to make sure her patrons know she's devout:
Prepar a way for the Lord!
Prepar a way for the Lord!
I haven't the heart to tell her that posting that in her library would be violating the separation of church and state...
Monday, December 15, 2008
I'm With the Choir
You ever volunteer for something, then about five minutes in go...Crap. That was a mistake.
That was me Friday inside the church next to Ainsley's school. Of course, it being a church, I didn't say this out loud.
Last week we got a note home from Ainsley's music teacher asking for parent volunteers to attend a Friday afternoon rehearsal with the school choir and join them Saturday night for a short carolling appearance at the school Christmas party. Being a former choir girl who really misses singing carols every December, and being a teacher who could actually leave work and get to the afternoon rehearsal with minimal effort, I jumped at the chance to sing with my kid and her chorus friends.
It sounded good, in theory.
The kiddies all filed into the pews close to the piano. I waited for the other parents to arrive. I figured there would be half a dozen of us; there are a lot of very involved stay-at-home moms at Ainsley's school, and I often feel like an outsider because I usually can't do these little extra programs with the kids. But as we started warming up, it dawned on me: it was going to just be me and one other parent, a dad who admitted his only singing experience was "bar karaoke" on weekends and who I later learned could not, exactly, match pitch.
Blurg.
"Oh, great!" Ainsley's choir director said after warming us up. "Welcome, parents!" All two of us. "Can you sing the alto part on 'Angels We Have Heard On High?' I'll pick a few kids to join you, and it will be great to have adult voices guiding them since this is the first time they've heard it."
Not bad, I thought. That was a standard at Christmas time. I can do the alto in my sleep.
And as she pulled me and the dad and the four or five kids aside and had us sing the part by ourselves, it was okay.
"Oh, you're good," the teacher whispered to me. "Go stand behind the kids and make them feel comfortable in the part."
No prob, I thought. I sang in choirs for 10 years. I am good at standing in the back and blending in and singing the alto line and not drawing a lot of attention to myself with those pesky solos.
"Students," she called out in her lovely clear voice, "follow Mrs. Cranky and do the melody on the verses and those 5 of you do the harmony only on the 'Glorias'. She knows what she's doing."
She started us, and I sang the melody with the whole group. Then came the Glorias. I was looking at my music, making sure I knew what I was doing, when I had this weird sensation. Kinda like the end of that recurring nightmare so many people have where they show up to work naked but don't know it until they're already there in their office sipping their coffee.
I looked up...and 30 pairs of little eyes were all on me. All of the kids assigned to the harmony, and all but three or four of the kids doing the melody, had pretty much stopped singing at the Glorias and had just turned around to watch me. I mean, the teacher had instructed them to follow me and all...
I felt myself turn red.
One little boy standing right in front of me elbowed the kid next to me, without taking his eyes off me.
"Don't stare at her!" he chastised his neighbor. And they both just continued to stare.
I got through, with no help from the dad, who was singing something resembling the melody an octave below the kids.
Can I go home now?
The teacher eventually got everyone on track, and got the small harmony group to stop staring long enough to take a stab at doing the part after stranding me and turning it into a solo, and we ended up going through the rest of the songs (including "Away in a Manger" in a key only an 8-year-old soprano could love) uneventfully.
We got through the performance Saturday night just fine. At least as far as I could hear; the "audience" didn't really stop talking to listen to us. That may have been just as well; I think chances are good that none of the "alto" kids in front of me joined me on the harmony, and on "Away in a Manger" my side of the choir picked a different key than the one the choir director gave them at the first note.
"You have a beautiful voice," the choir director said after the program was over. "Thank you for joining us; I think it helped the kids a lot to have someone behind them helping them hear their notes."
I don't think the "beautiful voice" thing is true, though I am flattered. Not even at the height of my vocal "skills", after taking voice for two semester in college with a guy who really knew what he was doing, was my voice much to listen to. I think it has a nails-on-chalkboard quality that best belongs in the back row of a large alto section or to a Rockband song amongst dear friends who would never tell me how bad I suck. A soloist I am not.
But I always was a good choir girl.
Even with little eyes staring at me.
That was me Friday inside the church next to Ainsley's school. Of course, it being a church, I didn't say this out loud.
Last week we got a note home from Ainsley's music teacher asking for parent volunteers to attend a Friday afternoon rehearsal with the school choir and join them Saturday night for a short carolling appearance at the school Christmas party. Being a former choir girl who really misses singing carols every December, and being a teacher who could actually leave work and get to the afternoon rehearsal with minimal effort, I jumped at the chance to sing with my kid and her chorus friends.
It sounded good, in theory.
The kiddies all filed into the pews close to the piano. I waited for the other parents to arrive. I figured there would be half a dozen of us; there are a lot of very involved stay-at-home moms at Ainsley's school, and I often feel like an outsider because I usually can't do these little extra programs with the kids. But as we started warming up, it dawned on me: it was going to just be me and one other parent, a dad who admitted his only singing experience was "bar karaoke" on weekends and who I later learned could not, exactly, match pitch.
Blurg.
"Oh, great!" Ainsley's choir director said after warming us up. "Welcome, parents!" All two of us. "Can you sing the alto part on 'Angels We Have Heard On High?' I'll pick a few kids to join you, and it will be great to have adult voices guiding them since this is the first time they've heard it."
Not bad, I thought. That was a standard at Christmas time. I can do the alto in my sleep.
And as she pulled me and the dad and the four or five kids aside and had us sing the part by ourselves, it was okay.
"Oh, you're good," the teacher whispered to me. "Go stand behind the kids and make them feel comfortable in the part."
No prob, I thought. I sang in choirs for 10 years. I am good at standing in the back and blending in and singing the alto line and not drawing a lot of attention to myself with those pesky solos.
"Students," she called out in her lovely clear voice, "follow Mrs. Cranky and do the melody on the verses and those 5 of you do the harmony only on the 'Glorias'. She knows what she's doing."
She started us, and I sang the melody with the whole group. Then came the Glorias. I was looking at my music, making sure I knew what I was doing, when I had this weird sensation. Kinda like the end of that recurring nightmare so many people have where they show up to work naked but don't know it until they're already there in their office sipping their coffee.
I looked up...and 30 pairs of little eyes were all on me. All of the kids assigned to the harmony, and all but three or four of the kids doing the melody, had pretty much stopped singing at the Glorias and had just turned around to watch me. I mean, the teacher had instructed them to follow me and all...
I felt myself turn red.
One little boy standing right in front of me elbowed the kid next to me, without taking his eyes off me.
"Don't stare at her!" he chastised his neighbor. And they both just continued to stare.
I got through, with no help from the dad, who was singing something resembling the melody an octave below the kids.
Can I go home now?
The teacher eventually got everyone on track, and got the small harmony group to stop staring long enough to take a stab at doing the part after stranding me and turning it into a solo, and we ended up going through the rest of the songs (including "Away in a Manger" in a key only an 8-year-old soprano could love) uneventfully.
We got through the performance Saturday night just fine. At least as far as I could hear; the "audience" didn't really stop talking to listen to us. That may have been just as well; I think chances are good that none of the "alto" kids in front of me joined me on the harmony, and on "Away in a Manger" my side of the choir picked a different key than the one the choir director gave them at the first note.
"You have a beautiful voice," the choir director said after the program was over. "Thank you for joining us; I think it helped the kids a lot to have someone behind them helping them hear their notes."
I don't think the "beautiful voice" thing is true, though I am flattered. Not even at the height of my vocal "skills", after taking voice for two semester in college with a guy who really knew what he was doing, was my voice much to listen to. I think it has a nails-on-chalkboard quality that best belongs in the back row of a large alto section or to a Rockband song amongst dear friends who would never tell me how bad I suck. A soloist I am not.
But I always was a good choir girl.
Even with little eyes staring at me.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Welcome to the Rock!
My dear friend and fellow blood-cancer survivor (and blog reader) MelMart and I are big fans of purple shirts and survivor-ware. Purple is the survivorship color, and she and I are both drawn to items with that theme and that color.
So she naturally was touched when one of her students created a shirt for her. It was a lovely purple tee with a logo and slogan created from vinyl craft letters.
MelMart came into the library yesterday and held up the shirt with great glee. It says:
SURVIVOR'S
ROCK!
"It's close to Plymouth Rock, in case you were wondering," she said.
Ahh, the pluralizing with an apostrophe is still alive and well.
MelMart was talking about trying to peel the apostrophe off, but the more I think about, the more I think it should stay. It truly does sound like a glamorous destination.
Come visit scenic Survivor's Rock! Take in the sights and smells of Chemo Springs and bask in the rays at Radiation Beach. And for the extreme sports enthusiast, there's always Surgery Mountain!
Survivor's Rock...a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Though I hear it beats the alternative.
So she naturally was touched when one of her students created a shirt for her. It was a lovely purple tee with a logo and slogan created from vinyl craft letters.
MelMart came into the library yesterday and held up the shirt with great glee. It says:
SURVIVOR'S
ROCK!
"It's close to Plymouth Rock, in case you were wondering," she said.
Ahh, the pluralizing with an apostrophe is still alive and well.
MelMart was talking about trying to peel the apostrophe off, but the more I think about, the more I think it should stay. It truly does sound like a glamorous destination.
Come visit scenic Survivor's Rock! Take in the sights and smells of Chemo Springs and bask in the rays at Radiation Beach. And for the extreme sports enthusiast, there's always Surgery Mountain!
Survivor's Rock...a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Though I hear it beats the alternative.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A Christmas Letter
The Cranky Family holiday cards are going in the mail tomorrow. Some years I have the energy to enclose one of those newsy family letters that lets people on your card list know how you've been doing and what you've been up to the past year; some years I don't. This year definitely falls in the "don't" category.
Besides, I figure most people who really give a rat's behind about what I've been up to read the blog.
If you've read me on at least a semi-regular basis this year, you've pretty much seen 2008's highlight reel. But in case you missed a few episodes, here it is: our family Christmas letter.
Dear friends,
I hope this finds you and yours well. As a whole, the Crankies have a lot to be thankful for; we're healthy, employed, and happy. (Most days.)
2008 was a memorable year for us.
Not always memorable in a good way. In February, we almost lost Jason's mom. In September we stood outside our house and watched as, inexplicably, a tropical storm blew into the Ohio Valley and toppled trees and destroyed roofs and knocked out power and closed schools. The very next day I lost my last grandparent (Dad's mom, Kitty Marie.) My mother was in the hospital for a while and Ainsley was sick a lot with her asthma. But we have some good memories from this year, too.
In July I celebrated five years of remission with a long-distance toast to my friends all over the country and a fine cigar. (Thanks, Rick!) I started some genealogy research that uncovered several Irish ancestors (hello, St. Paddy's Day 2009!) And let us not forget that the winter of 2008, with its icy weather patterns and family illnesses, was when we became devotees of Rock Band. What better way to entertain yourself when you're homebound on weekends than to rock out with a little "Dani California" or "Enter Sandman"?
2008 was also the year Ainsley got to see the ocean for the first time. In June we threw together a last-minute family vacation to Hilton Head Island, and it was the best week of my life. The condo we rented was somehow both inexpensive and gorgeous, the beach was serene, the food was amazing. Ainsley discovered the joys of fresh fried shrimp, and her world may never be the same. My soul felt at home there and we hope to make it back someday soon.
The best part of that week on the coast? The day trip to Savannah. Eating at The Lady And Sons at last (oh, hoecakes, I miss you so), touring the city, driving through Bonaventure Cemetery...it was a little like falling in love.
2008 may have had some worries for Jason and I, but Ainsley had a pretty good year. She "graduated" from kindergarten, found herself looking from behind a new pair of spectacles, and swam the summer away at our family recreation center's new waterpark. First grade is going well, and she helps me out before school and after school every day. She says she wants to be a librarian when she grows up. If starring in High School Musical 12 doesn't pan out, that is.
Besides, I figure most people who really give a rat's behind about what I've been up to read the blog.
If you've read me on at least a semi-regular basis this year, you've pretty much seen 2008's highlight reel. But in case you missed a few episodes, here it is: our family Christmas letter.
Dear friends,
I hope this finds you and yours well. As a whole, the Crankies have a lot to be thankful for; we're healthy, employed, and happy. (Most days.)
2008 was a memorable year for us.
Not always memorable in a good way. In February, we almost lost Jason's mom. In September we stood outside our house and watched as, inexplicably, a tropical storm blew into the Ohio Valley and toppled trees and destroyed roofs and knocked out power and closed schools. The very next day I lost my last grandparent (Dad's mom, Kitty Marie.) My mother was in the hospital for a while and Ainsley was sick a lot with her asthma. But we have some good memories from this year, too.
In July I celebrated five years of remission with a long-distance toast to my friends all over the country and a fine cigar. (Thanks, Rick!) I started some genealogy research that uncovered several Irish ancestors (hello, St. Paddy's Day 2009!) And let us not forget that the winter of 2008, with its icy weather patterns and family illnesses, was when we became devotees of Rock Band. What better way to entertain yourself when you're homebound on weekends than to rock out with a little "Dani California" or "Enter Sandman"?
2008 was also the year Ainsley got to see the ocean for the first time. In June we threw together a last-minute family vacation to Hilton Head Island, and it was the best week of my life. The condo we rented was somehow both inexpensive and gorgeous, the beach was serene, the food was amazing. Ainsley discovered the joys of fresh fried shrimp, and her world may never be the same. My soul felt at home there and we hope to make it back someday soon.
The best part of that week on the coast? The day trip to Savannah. Eating at The Lady And Sons at last (oh, hoecakes, I miss you so), touring the city, driving through Bonaventure Cemetery...it was a little like falling in love.
2008 may have had some worries for Jason and I, but Ainsley had a pretty good year. She "graduated" from kindergarten, found herself looking from behind a new pair of spectacles, and swam the summer away at our family recreation center's new waterpark. First grade is going well, and she helps me out before school and after school every day. She says she wants to be a librarian when she grows up. If starring in High School Musical 12 doesn't pan out, that is.
So, that's pretty much it for us, and for 2008. We look forward to 2009 (if nothing else, it brings a new season of Lost) and hope that good fortune finds you and your family during the new year.
Sincerely,
Cranky and Company
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