Letter to a New Year: Dear 2009 from a Head Case Oddity

Dear 2009,

Thank you for giving 2008 the boot. Of course, I was supposed to get the boots! I'm the one who asked for black stiletto boots for Christmas that I didn't get. Hmmph. Sure 2008 brought all kinds of whoopty-do in its paper sack of life's greatest hits: Mac Daddy and I turned 40, Bird started kindergarten, Deal saved the planet by ditching diapers and pull ups, we went to Disney Land, Barack Obama won the presidential election (which still makes me high just thinking about it), and all the goes-without-saying stuff that I won't say because well, it goes without saying.

2008 also kinda sucked in its own special the-sky-is-falling way. I mean we are in a recession and all. Virtually the whole world order is crashing at our feet that are clad with last fall's shoes because no one can afford to keep up with fashion anymore. Money matters have driven me to insomnia, a slow down in my business has caused premature graying (granted I'm 40 but I still feel like the gray is premature), I suffered an insufferable chronic cough for nine+ months and discovered some weird growth on my vocal chord, and my cat died. I know this last point comes as a surprise to many. It has been so heart breaking that I cannot bring myself to blog about it. Seriously. I'll get to it. I owe her some time in the limelight. 2008 also marked yet another year that kept us away from close friends. Damn fuel surcharges and obnoxiously high airfares stomped out our planned and highly anticipated trip to Europe with the boys. The raping of the American consumer continued.

Oh, I sound awfully negative and ungrateful, don't I? What a wretch am I. Full of venom here at Dirt & Noise. I am grateful for all the joys that 2008 brought. I am. Really. My family is healthy, happy, well fed, warm in winter, cool in summer, clothed, educated, and spoiled. There I go muttering all the stuff that goes without saying.

But 2009, please bring consumer confidence back to our lives. Rejuvenate the economy so that we can breathe the intoxicating scent of optimism again. Heal our wounds, mend our fences, stitch the fabric of our being, and throw us a bone and scratch our itches while you're at it. I'm also going to go ahead and ask for something that I bet everyone would add to the list but is too chicken to ask for: more sex. I figure the year can't be all bad since it does mark George Bush's final farewell, the end of arrogance and errors.

Bring back the good ole days, 2009. Keep us healthy, make us wealthy. And could you maybe cut Obama some slack? He's inheriting some pretty serious shit. Let's treat those little girls with some respect, mkay? Sasha and Malia don't need to be harassed like the offspring of Hollywood royalty. Basically, don't suck as much as 2008 and you'll go down in history. We're all feeling a bit spent so let's spend the new year being grateful, not greedy, honorable, not ornery. I'm not one for resolutions (no sense setting myself up for failure and disappointment), but I'll sign up for an attitude adjustment.

Thanks for obliging, 2009. I'm looking forward to seeing what you bear in your sack of tricks. I'm going to do my part to make it a rockin' year.

Peace, love, and laughter.

The Big O

This morning Bird was working on writing his upper case alphabet in a little workbook I got for him at the Teach Me store. He was doing a great job, and we had fun cheering and squealing together as he rounded out a perfect G and stayed within the lines on a particularly difficult J.

The next thing I know, he's breezed through a bunch of letters while I stepped away to make blueberry blintzes for breakfast, and I hear, "Here comes the Big O!" He said it with the same sarcastic yet humorous tone that Mac Daddy would have used, so I worried for a moment that Bird indeed understood the context of his exclamation.

Alas, the next thing he said was, "Here comes the Big N!" The way I heard it, however, the N got less fervor than the O.

And speaking of the Big O, you gotta see the T-shirt that I'm dying to muster up the moxie to put on my boys.