I've recently caught wind of a reality TV show that has me shaking in my boots (one of many pairs in our coat closet, including some that haven't fit my sons since they were eight or nine). It's got me so unnerved that not only do I refuse to view a single episode, but I'm inclined to unplug the television set and bury it back in its original carton, which has been stored in the basement since we bought the TV in 2001.
See, I'm afraid I'm one of them.
A Hoarder.
Oh, it's not so bad that I've collected piles of empty pizza boxes. I can toss those. Gladly, in fact, because who needs a measurable count of how many times we've fallen off the diet wagon?
It's severe enough, however, that I'm fairly certain a TV crew is on its way right now, ready to broadcast my story to all those TV voyeurs in places like North Dakota. And then I'll be just another sicko whose "inability to part with their belongings is so out of control that they are on the verge of a personal crisis." (Description courtesy of the show's website.)
The crew will start in my kitchen, where the show's hostess will seize upon my drawers filled with Tupperware. "And do you have the bowls for any of these lids?" she'll ask with a sneer. I'll frantically sort through the mismatched lids and bowls, none of which fit each other but which can't, simply CANNOT be discarded, because someday the matching pieces, I'm certain, will magically appear.
The TV crew will exchange knowing glances before they move on to my bedroom.
My closet will elicit snorts of thinly disguised laughter. "So, these dusty clothes, crammed together on hangers, some with the tags still attached," they'll ask. "You need these?"
"Yes," I will shout. "I couldn't be bothered to try them on in the fitting room. And then I got home to find out they were apparently mis-sized. But they'll fit SOMEDAY, when I lose 20 pounds!" I will plead my case, though the tsk-tsking and bulimic hostess clearly doesn't understand the unpredictability of weight-loss goals and misleading clothing sizes. So what if one of the articles in question is a gauze jumpsuit? Someday, damn it, I WILL wear it. With pride.
They'll want to look in my sock drawer, and I will let them do so. I will tilt my chin with defiance when they comment on the lack of matching pairs. Because I know that every household in America has a drawer of unmatched socks. This is not the sign of a Hoarder. It is simply the universal lost battle with a greedy washer and dryer.
But then, sadly, they will descend the stairs into the depths of my basement. I will cower in the corner as they make their way through the maze of forgotten furniture and empty cartons. That old aluminum kitchen set? "But it still has one matching chair," I'll cry. The Epson computer, circa 1986? "A keepsake! An antique," I'll whimper, my sense of defeat growing. "Those 5-1/4-inch floppy disks are sure to be in demand again some day!"
The TV cameraman will nudge the hostess, and they'll alternately chuckle and sigh as the camera pans across the overflowing basement.
The last shot will settle on me, sobbing as I clutch a cardboard box of old record albums. I will pull out a copy of Saturday Night Fever.
"But, I got an LP digital converter for Christmas! And someday, I will transfer all of these," I will scream, waving the album in their faces. "Onto my iPod," I will add, for certain justification.
Oh, yes, there it is. A method for my madness. Some semblance of rationale for my hoarding behavior.
And someday, I'll find a magic converter for all those Tupperware lids too.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Out of Order
When we can't find anything else to blame for our behavior or our idiosyncrasies, my two sisters and I naturally blame our parents. When that's a bit of a stretch, we like to at least give them peripheral blame, as the producers and directors of our family birth order.
Being members of a three-sibling family (although we are now, at least theoretically, mature adults), the simple Oldest/Middle/Youngest Child birth order has been our easy scapegoat for an array of characteristics.
See, we grew up in the sixties and seventies, when the average family size consisted of 2.5 children.
I, apparently, was the .5, making me not fully qualify as a complete human being. As the Youngest, I allowed this diminished existence to roll off my shoulders, because Youngests are easygoing "peacekeepers." (In retrospect, that trait is likely developed as a result of being tortured by older siblings.) Youngests are also said to be "spoiled." Yes, I got away with loads more than did my older sisters, but I tend to differ with the idea that I was pampered. If I was truly the center of my parents' universe, would my mother have left me behind at the beauty salon when I was six, with her reflecting on my absence only after someone questioned my whereabouts?
No, she had no opportunity to pamper me. She was too busy dealing with my sister DC who, as a Middle Child, was occupied with "trying to be unique." The Middle Child tends to feel attention-starved. In DC's case, she found ways of distinguishing herself. She learned to ride a unicycle and to juggle, and when these activities didn't seem to do the trick, she took to sticking voodoo pins in all my dolls. An example of unique or of deranged? Regardless, it was an attention-getter. (She grabbed more attention with her memoir: http://dcstanfa.com/.)
And however my parents might have decided to treat either of us, it didn't really matter. Because most of the decisions in our house were made by Lori. It did us little good to argue with Lori. Lori was the Oldest Child. Destined to be an attorney long before she got her law degree, her first-born leadership trait (read: bossiness) could sometimes work to our benefit. (Oh, she negotiated a BIG CASE for me, after my dad found my contraband when I was 16.) It could also work against us. (Our principal, Sister Ann, labeled her a "ringleader" at our Catholic grade school, and the reputation carried down, however undeserved or not.)
Birth order, in our family and in most families of our generation, meant something. It's why many presidents have been Oldest Children, many entrepreneurs are Middle Children, and many comedians are Youngest Children. We do what we what is expected of us, thanks to our parents' birth control practices (or lack thereof).
Sadly, the Blame of the Birth Order doesn't carry the same weight now as it once did. The average family currently consists of only 1.8 children. Parents with one or two children can't easily pinpoint these birth order traits. Of my two sons, my oldest has called his brother the bossy one, and my youngest has said his older brother was spoiled.
And where does all this leave my niece and my nephew, who are each an Only Child? In family-dynamic chaos perhaps. A bit of the Oldest and the Youngest, wrapped into one, and altogether neglecting--not without irony there--the Middle?
Bring me back the predictability, the semblance of understood order of the 2.5-children families. We knew who we were. We knew what was expected of us. We knew whom and what to blame.
Bring it back.
I'm the youngest, after all. So I should get what I want.
Being members of a three-sibling family (although we are now, at least theoretically, mature adults), the simple Oldest/Middle/Youngest Child birth order has been our easy scapegoat for an array of characteristics.
See, we grew up in the sixties and seventies, when the average family size consisted of 2.5 children.
I, apparently, was the .5, making me not fully qualify as a complete human being. As the Youngest, I allowed this diminished existence to roll off my shoulders, because Youngests are easygoing "peacekeepers." (In retrospect, that trait is likely developed as a result of being tortured by older siblings.) Youngests are also said to be "spoiled." Yes, I got away with loads more than did my older sisters, but I tend to differ with the idea that I was pampered. If I was truly the center of my parents' universe, would my mother have left me behind at the beauty salon when I was six, with her reflecting on my absence only after someone questioned my whereabouts?
No, she had no opportunity to pamper me. She was too busy dealing with my sister DC who, as a Middle Child, was occupied with "trying to be unique." The Middle Child tends to feel attention-starved. In DC's case, she found ways of distinguishing herself. She learned to ride a unicycle and to juggle, and when these activities didn't seem to do the trick, she took to sticking voodoo pins in all my dolls. An example of unique or of deranged? Regardless, it was an attention-getter. (She grabbed more attention with her memoir: http://dcstanfa.com/.)
And however my parents might have decided to treat either of us, it didn't really matter. Because most of the decisions in our house were made by Lori. It did us little good to argue with Lori. Lori was the Oldest Child. Destined to be an attorney long before she got her law degree, her first-born leadership trait (read: bossiness) could sometimes work to our benefit. (Oh, she negotiated a BIG CASE for me, after my dad found my contraband when I was 16.) It could also work against us. (Our principal, Sister Ann, labeled her a "ringleader" at our Catholic grade school, and the reputation carried down, however undeserved or not.)
Birth order, in our family and in most families of our generation, meant something. It's why many presidents have been Oldest Children, many entrepreneurs are Middle Children, and many comedians are Youngest Children. We do what we what is expected of us, thanks to our parents' birth control practices (or lack thereof).
Sadly, the Blame of the Birth Order doesn't carry the same weight now as it once did. The average family currently consists of only 1.8 children. Parents with one or two children can't easily pinpoint these birth order traits. Of my two sons, my oldest has called his brother the bossy one, and my youngest has said his older brother was spoiled.
And where does all this leave my niece and my nephew, who are each an Only Child? In family-dynamic chaos perhaps. A bit of the Oldest and the Youngest, wrapped into one, and altogether neglecting--not without irony there--the Middle?
Bring me back the predictability, the semblance of understood order of the 2.5-children families. We knew who we were. We knew what was expected of us. We knew whom and what to blame.
Bring it back.
I'm the youngest, after all. So I should get what I want.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Filling the Bucket
I sat down recently to write a blog post, and ended up instead drafting my Bucket List.
It's not for public consumption because: a) It still needs refining, and b) Some items may be embarrassing, illegal or a combination of both.
Just to clarify: I have not been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease, and I'd like to think I still have another 30-plus quality years ahead of me.
However, it's never too soon to make plans for the rest of our life, is it?
I suppose such a list must be fluid, changing with the ebb and flow of our personal world. If I'd written such a list at age 11, it would have included meeting David Cassidy. (David? Are you reading this? I've moved on, but if you'd like, call me!) At 18, my list would have included hang-gliding. (Sprained my ankle the very night before I was scheduled to go. Now, I'm afraid to fly on a jet, let alone jump off a cliff with just a pair of flimsy wings and naive enthusiasm.)
Our plans and priorities change. But as we get older, our most steadfast dreams of accomplishments and experiences seem to endure. Perhaps we should think about that to-do list while we're still of able body and able mind. While we still have decades to tackle it.
Plan and save for that dream trip before we're living off a fixed income. Take that class before we forget why we wanted to learn about something. Pursue that thrill-seeking adventure before our doctor or our fears nix the idea.
Make the list now, and start checking off items, one by one.
Excuse the cliche, but time flies. If we wait too long? We may find ourselves afraid of flying along with it.
So, what's on your Bucket List?
And does anyone have David Cassidy's phone number? Because I can't wait around forever for him to call.
It's not for public consumption because: a) It still needs refining, and b) Some items may be embarrassing, illegal or a combination of both.
Just to clarify: I have not been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease, and I'd like to think I still have another 30-plus quality years ahead of me.
However, it's never too soon to make plans for the rest of our life, is it?
I suppose such a list must be fluid, changing with the ebb and flow of our personal world. If I'd written such a list at age 11, it would have included meeting David Cassidy. (David? Are you reading this? I've moved on, but if you'd like, call me!) At 18, my list would have included hang-gliding. (Sprained my ankle the very night before I was scheduled to go. Now, I'm afraid to fly on a jet, let alone jump off a cliff with just a pair of flimsy wings and naive enthusiasm.)
Our plans and priorities change. But as we get older, our most steadfast dreams of accomplishments and experiences seem to endure. Perhaps we should think about that to-do list while we're still of able body and able mind. While we still have decades to tackle it.
Plan and save for that dream trip before we're living off a fixed income. Take that class before we forget why we wanted to learn about something. Pursue that thrill-seeking adventure before our doctor or our fears nix the idea.
Make the list now, and start checking off items, one by one.
Excuse the cliche, but time flies. If we wait too long? We may find ourselves afraid of flying along with it.
So, what's on your Bucket List?
And does anyone have David Cassidy's phone number? Because I can't wait around forever for him to call.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Top Ten Reasons to Consume Mass Quantities of Caffeine
10) Might have been best to be alert before hitting "send" and emailing that totally off-color joke to your in-laws and entire corporate board.
9) Four out of five doctors recommend a morning pulse.
8) Operating heavy machinery while under the influence of no caffeine is more dangerous than doing so after 12 beers.
7) Caffeine-deprived women will pull a tampon out of their purse at a morning meeting and try to write with it, just trust me.
6) Your name. Your address. Your marital status. Too easy to forget these minor details without a daily jumpstart.
5) OMG! No caffeine? Just kill me! Now!
4) The workday, sadly, doesn't begin at noon.
3) Liquor tends to be socially frowned upon at 8 a.m.
2) A can of sardines and an airline-sized bottle of vodka packed during a pre-caffeine stupor do not a child's school lunch make.
1) "Morning talk we'll good later me after caffeine lots OK?"
9) Four out of five doctors recommend a morning pulse.
8) Operating heavy machinery while under the influence of no caffeine is more dangerous than doing so after 12 beers.
7) Caffeine-deprived women will pull a tampon out of their purse at a morning meeting and try to write with it, just trust me.
6) Your name. Your address. Your marital status. Too easy to forget these minor details without a daily jumpstart.
5) OMG! No caffeine? Just kill me! Now!
4) The workday, sadly, doesn't begin at noon.
3) Liquor tends to be socially frowned upon at 8 a.m.
2) A can of sardines and an airline-sized bottle of vodka packed during a pre-caffeine stupor do not a child's school lunch make.
1) "Morning talk we'll good later me after caffeine lots OK?"
Monday, January 11, 2010
As the Eagle Soars
I have never been a quitter.
Sure, I was kicked out of Junior Achievement at age 14 (clearly not Entrepreneur of the Year), kicked out of CYO Basketball at 12 (clearly not Most Valuable Player) and kicked out of Girl Scouts at 10 (clearly just a bit of a shit when I was entering the sixth grade).
But I never quit anything. No, if something in my youth demanded a great deal of dedication and effort, I found it easier and more entertaining to just get myself officially dismissed.
In retrospect, perhaps it was my fool-proof way of avoiding true failure. Because what I likely lacked, early on, was a work ethic. That, plus a demonstration of self-control and appropriate behavior. (Please don't think less of me for this.) (Hmm. Is that even possible?)
I have a work ethic now which might make even Donald Trump proud. I haven't been kicked out of a single organization, or been fired, in my entire adulthood. And I still haven't quit anything. (Except countless diet and exercise programs. Give me a break here.)
But that work ethic is nothing of which to be particularly proud. It's expected of a middle-aged adult. And it took me thirty-something years to nurture it.
Son #2, at age 18, has already had it for years.
Tomorrow, he will officially receive his Eagle Scout badge. The honor is the culmination of years of Scouting activity, hours of training, and days of volunteer efforts.
It's just one of many accomplishments he has already achieved. In his short life, he's accomplished more in the areas of academics, athletics, career and social service than many young people even consider.
I won't elaborate, because like any good son, he reads his mother's blog. And I embarrass him enough on a daily basis. Suffice it to say, I'm more than a little proud of him.
Not bad for a kid who, at age 2, was kicked out of his daycare center.
They clearly didn't know what they'd be missing.
Sure, I was kicked out of Junior Achievement at age 14 (clearly not Entrepreneur of the Year), kicked out of CYO Basketball at 12 (clearly not Most Valuable Player) and kicked out of Girl Scouts at 10 (clearly just a bit of a shit when I was entering the sixth grade).
But I never quit anything. No, if something in my youth demanded a great deal of dedication and effort, I found it easier and more entertaining to just get myself officially dismissed.
In retrospect, perhaps it was my fool-proof way of avoiding true failure. Because what I likely lacked, early on, was a work ethic. That, plus a demonstration of self-control and appropriate behavior. (Please don't think less of me for this.) (Hmm. Is that even possible?)
I have a work ethic now which might make even Donald Trump proud. I haven't been kicked out of a single organization, or been fired, in my entire adulthood. And I still haven't quit anything. (Except countless diet and exercise programs. Give me a break here.)
But that work ethic is nothing of which to be particularly proud. It's expected of a middle-aged adult. And it took me thirty-something years to nurture it.
Son #2, at age 18, has already had it for years.
Tomorrow, he will officially receive his Eagle Scout badge. The honor is the culmination of years of Scouting activity, hours of training, and days of volunteer efforts.
It's just one of many accomplishments he has already achieved. In his short life, he's accomplished more in the areas of academics, athletics, career and social service than many young people even consider.
I won't elaborate, because like any good son, he reads his mother's blog. And I embarrass him enough on a daily basis. Suffice it to say, I'm more than a little proud of him.
Not bad for a kid who, at age 2, was kicked out of his daycare center.
They clearly didn't know what they'd be missing.
Monday, January 4, 2010
So Close and Yet So Far
Ah, the end of a year--of an entire decade--and the fresh start of a new one. Time to reflect upon our accomplishments. We've come so far in 2009. And yet...
NASA found water on the moon, but aviation security failed to find explosives on an airline passenger.
The people of the United States became open-minded enough to finally elect a (half) black man as president, yet still displayed century-old prejudice through a symbolic effigy hanging.
Electronic media technology allowed immediate and widespread dissemination of news, but the interpretation of newsworthy remained questionable (endless marriage scandals), self-serving (Balloon Boy's father), or sometimes both (the Gosselins).
Paul McCartney, at 67, showed us he can still make heavenly music, but John Lennon is making music only in heaven.
College enrollment for young people in the U.S. is at an all-time high, especially among women. Stats for educated females in Afghanistan? Not so great.
Attributed partially to the bad economy, the U.S. divorce rate dropped slightly. And state governments are making a special effort to keep gay marriage divorce rates particularly low. (Oops. Sorry. Forgot my blog vow to avoid controversy.)
Medical scientists were successful in quickly creating a vaccine for a new strain of flu, but have been unable yet to prevent AIDS or cancer.
More than 350 million people are finding "friends" on Facebook, yet the keywords "people estranged from family" still manage over 3 million hits on Google.
So close, and yet so far. Happy New Year, all. And in 2010, may all our dreams for a happy and peaceful world come true.
NASA found water on the moon, but aviation security failed to find explosives on an airline passenger.
The people of the United States became open-minded enough to finally elect a (half) black man as president, yet still displayed century-old prejudice through a symbolic effigy hanging.
Electronic media technology allowed immediate and widespread dissemination of news, but the interpretation of newsworthy remained questionable (endless marriage scandals), self-serving (Balloon Boy's father), or sometimes both (the Gosselins).
Paul McCartney, at 67, showed us he can still make heavenly music, but John Lennon is making music only in heaven.
College enrollment for young people in the U.S. is at an all-time high, especially among women. Stats for educated females in Afghanistan? Not so great.
Attributed partially to the bad economy, the U.S. divorce rate dropped slightly. And state governments are making a special effort to keep gay marriage divorce rates particularly low. (Oops. Sorry. Forgot my blog vow to avoid controversy.)
Medical scientists were successful in quickly creating a vaccine for a new strain of flu, but have been unable yet to prevent AIDS or cancer.
More than 350 million people are finding "friends" on Facebook, yet the keywords "people estranged from family" still manage over 3 million hits on Google.
So close, and yet so far. Happy New Year, all. And in 2010, may all our dreams for a happy and peaceful world come true.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Christmas Day: 1969 Vs. 2009
Christmas Presents
1969: A Talking Barbie and Ken! Clearly, I am now a very cool pre-teen who is way past baby dolls.
2009: An LP Conversion System, to digitally copy all my old record albums, along with a Beatles Trivial Pursuit game! Clearly, I am now a middle-aged woman who is totally living in the past.
Christmas Attire
1969: Red velvet dress, white tights with crotch hanging to my knees, and black patent leather shoes. My proud mother thinks she dressed me in style.
2009: Pajamas, ratty robe, socks with holes in the toes. My distressed mother thinks she somehow raised me wrong.
Christmas Outing
1969: Celebrating at Grandma's. Happy to see all my cousins, but wish I was old enough to be seated at the Adult Table. How old do they think I am?
2009: Celebrating at the Holiday Inn. Happy to not have to cook, but truly wish they hadn't given me the senior discount. (I am NOT joking.) How old do they think I am?
Christmas Menu
1969: Ham, All Rotten Potatoes and Suicide Salad. But! My own can of black olives! And pumpkin pie!
2009: Ham, Au Gratin potatoes and Jello Salad. But! Bloody Marys! And pumpkin pie!
Christmas Night
1969: Go to bed when I'm sternly ordered, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for Santa.
2009: Go to bed as soon as I can, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for credit cards.
Our holiday traditions may change through the years, but--whether we're young or old--Christmas is the merriest season of all.
And they won't dare give me the senior discount next year. Because you can bet I'll be sitting at the children's table.
1969: A Talking Barbie and Ken! Clearly, I am now a very cool pre-teen who is way past baby dolls.
2009: An LP Conversion System, to digitally copy all my old record albums, along with a Beatles Trivial Pursuit game! Clearly, I am now a middle-aged woman who is totally living in the past.
Christmas Attire
1969: Red velvet dress, white tights with crotch hanging to my knees, and black patent leather shoes. My proud mother thinks she dressed me in style.
2009: Pajamas, ratty robe, socks with holes in the toes. My distressed mother thinks she somehow raised me wrong.
Christmas Outing
1969: Celebrating at Grandma's. Happy to see all my cousins, but wish I was old enough to be seated at the Adult Table. How old do they think I am?
2009: Celebrating at the Holiday Inn. Happy to not have to cook, but truly wish they hadn't given me the senior discount. (I am NOT joking.) How old do they think I am?
Christmas Menu
1969: Ham, All Rotten Potatoes and Suicide Salad. But! My own can of black olives! And pumpkin pie!
2009: Ham, Au Gratin potatoes and Jello Salad. But! Bloody Marys! And pumpkin pie!
Christmas Night
1969: Go to bed when I'm sternly ordered, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for Santa.
2009: Go to bed as soon as I can, exhausted but happy. Love my family. Thankful for credit cards.
Our holiday traditions may change through the years, but--whether we're young or old--Christmas is the merriest season of all.
And they won't dare give me the senior discount next year. Because you can bet I'll be sitting at the children's table.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sherry's 2009 Holiday Letter
December 2009
Dear Friends and Family,
Oh, what a fabulous year in the lives of the Stanfa-Stanley family!
I know I always start my annual holiday letter with details of all my travels. But I’ve decided exotic islands and quaint European towns are so over-rated. Besides, who wants to hassle with airport security? (Not me, since that last unwarranted skirmish over my carry-on at Detroit Metro. Way overblown! Only two of the four handguns were even loaded!) So this year, I wondered, “Why not find true happiness in my own backyard?” I bought me one of those inflatable pools from Walmart, pumped it up (four unfiltered packs a day haven’t hurt these lungs a bit), slathered myself with baby oil (funny how great I still look in that bikini from 1983—only a bit snug), and cranked the Snoop Dogg! It was like my own private resort, especially when two weeks later—by some wonderful coincidence—all my neighbors installed tall privacy fences!
My two grown children continue to amaze me—far more charming and successful, I’m sure, than any of yours. They are both out on parole now, and I’m lucky to be seeing lots of them, what with their work-release programs and all. We will be taking it easier on the holiday libations this year, since they’re each in court-ordered rehab. (Fortunately, I don’t think spiked eggnog really counts. Doesn’t AA grant a dispensation for that?) And though I hesitate on sharing exciting news prematurely, suffice it to say that one of them may soon be blessing me with the pitter-patter of a grandchild’s feet! His girlfriend, a very successful dancer at a Windsor club, already has five children by five different fathers, so I’m hopeful it’s only a matter of time!
All our pets are perfect as ever, and so very worth the $850 we’re paying in monthly veterinary bills. (Thank God my boys enjoy eating generic kibble too!) We’re thinking of helping out the local pound, which I understand has had some bad press recently. With a dozen dogs roaming the yard, I figure no one will dare call me a crazy cat lady anymore! (“Crazy” is so inaccurate anyway, since the cocktail of meds I’m on has eliminated nearly all the voices in my head!)
Of course, this holiday letter wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t touch on how my career is flourishing! The offers never cease, and I’m sure I’ll have a publishing contract as soon as my last few threats, I mean queries, are received. (A special shout-out to all my fans in prison! My boys sure know how to make friends—and this caring mom figured she’d help by smuggling them a few prescription meds for big-house currency.)
Finally, I’m pleased to report that my own personal life has been greatly blessed this year! I’ve found true love at last (and wouldn’t be surprised if next year’s letter brings you news of wedding bells)! We just need to figure out a few details first, like his telling that dreadful wife of his (she just doesn’t understand him, really), their likely messy divorce (fingers crossed that he gets to keep the double-wide), and those far-fetched mass murder charges he faces. But I’m certain love will eventually conquer all!
In closing, I want to thank you for your treasured friendship and love. Sadly, we don’t keep in touch as often as we should. But I’m hopeful that will change this year, once all your restraining orders against me expire!
Until then, with much love,
Sherry and the Boys
Dear Friends and Family,
Oh, what a fabulous year in the lives of the Stanfa-Stanley family!
I know I always start my annual holiday letter with details of all my travels. But I’ve decided exotic islands and quaint European towns are so over-rated. Besides, who wants to hassle with airport security? (Not me, since that last unwarranted skirmish over my carry-on at Detroit Metro. Way overblown! Only two of the four handguns were even loaded!) So this year, I wondered, “Why not find true happiness in my own backyard?” I bought me one of those inflatable pools from Walmart, pumped it up (four unfiltered packs a day haven’t hurt these lungs a bit), slathered myself with baby oil (funny how great I still look in that bikini from 1983—only a bit snug), and cranked the Snoop Dogg! It was like my own private resort, especially when two weeks later—by some wonderful coincidence—all my neighbors installed tall privacy fences!
My two grown children continue to amaze me—far more charming and successful, I’m sure, than any of yours. They are both out on parole now, and I’m lucky to be seeing lots of them, what with their work-release programs and all. We will be taking it easier on the holiday libations this year, since they’re each in court-ordered rehab. (Fortunately, I don’t think spiked eggnog really counts. Doesn’t AA grant a dispensation for that?) And though I hesitate on sharing exciting news prematurely, suffice it to say that one of them may soon be blessing me with the pitter-patter of a grandchild’s feet! His girlfriend, a very successful dancer at a Windsor club, already has five children by five different fathers, so I’m hopeful it’s only a matter of time!
All our pets are perfect as ever, and so very worth the $850 we’re paying in monthly veterinary bills. (Thank God my boys enjoy eating generic kibble too!) We’re thinking of helping out the local pound, which I understand has had some bad press recently. With a dozen dogs roaming the yard, I figure no one will dare call me a crazy cat lady anymore! (“Crazy” is so inaccurate anyway, since the cocktail of meds I’m on has eliminated nearly all the voices in my head!)
Of course, this holiday letter wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t touch on how my career is flourishing! The offers never cease, and I’m sure I’ll have a publishing contract as soon as my last few threats, I mean queries, are received. (A special shout-out to all my fans in prison! My boys sure know how to make friends—and this caring mom figured she’d help by smuggling them a few prescription meds for big-house currency.)
Finally, I’m pleased to report that my own personal life has been greatly blessed this year! I’ve found true love at last (and wouldn’t be surprised if next year’s letter brings you news of wedding bells)! We just need to figure out a few details first, like his telling that dreadful wife of his (she just doesn’t understand him, really), their likely messy divorce (fingers crossed that he gets to keep the double-wide), and those far-fetched mass murder charges he faces. But I’m certain love will eventually conquer all!
In closing, I want to thank you for your treasured friendship and love. Sadly, we don’t keep in touch as often as we should. But I’m hopeful that will change this year, once all your restraining orders against me expire!
Until then, with much love,
Sherry and the Boys
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