New Year’s Eve 2019

Over the last 12 ish years, I set aside poop and pee stories for a heartfelt end of year post, filled with cliché and weepy declarations of love. However, I didn’t bring my computer on vacation for the first time in over twenty years. It was glorious. 

That makes my post woefully late. I’m hoping to trick the Mole People who construct Blogspot out of mud and dung into thinking this is actually December 31^st. If not, I’m sure the four people who actually read this will forgive and forget. 

We were in Mexico, at our usual beachy, surfy spot. But this time we came with our best friends and neighbors. We also randomly hooked up with another fun Evanston family and headed to the nicest restaurant in Sayulita. We utterly miscalculated the exchange rate, so it was lobster for everyone! Sorry, college education.

I laughed and sang and danced, which was not very on brand for me. And went home early with Luca, which was very on brand. The night ended with everyone back home banging pots and pans to ring in the new year. There might have also been some tequila in there.

Okay, now onto the good stuff.

Dear Elijah,

I honestly don’t know how you do it. Every year you get sweeter and funnier, yet maintain your status as the coolest kid on planet Earth. I know you gotta do your own thing, but remember your dad is here to listen to your troubles, or to just sit and watch TV. You’re my favorite chef, my favorite comedian, my favorite Tic-Toc star. I love you, pal.

Dear Luca,

Never in my life did I think I’d have a kid like you. So full of life, so excited, so good at sports. You defied the genetic odds! I’ll always be here to throw the football, or play Xbox or sit in the dark and listen to your secrets. You’re my favorite quarterback, sound effects machine, my favorite philosopher. I love you, pal.

Dear Diana,

My love, you are simply the greatest. You never cease to surprise me with your passion, your heart, your hilarity and your beauty. You’ve built the most wonderful life for this family and I can’t thank you enough. I’ll always be here to cuddle on the couch, eat Cheez Its and ride out the apocalypse. You’re my favorite politico, cheerleader, HGTV star and kisser. I love you, pal.

Dear Grover,

Don’t die.

A Thanksgiving Christmas Post

Shoot. I’m behind on my blogging. Again. I have lots of Christmas stories to tell, but I would be remiss if I didn’t tell the story of our Thanksgiving disaster.

We decided to host at the cabin this year. Our great pals Kitty and Joe and daughter Gigi  joined, along with my brother and his brood.

Joe and I were put in charge of food because I love cooking and Joe used to have a miserable job in fine dining. Joe and I share a deep German Lutheran work ethic and a Clark Griswold obsession with making family holidays perfect, so we had not one, but two meetings regarding the menu and preparation.

I was put in charge of the bird. Because I live in Evanston and am a moron, I bought a local, artisanal turkey which cost more than my first rent in Chicago. His name was Jeff and had been hand fed corn, received daily shoulder rubs and listened to true crime podcasts on his Apple Earbuds. He also was fond of David Sedaris short stories.

Since Jeff was fresh and not frozen (as if), we need to get him up to the cabin the night before Thanksgiving. This would allow him to get acclimated to the slight difference in elevation in Michigan. 

I packed Jeff in a giant cooler filled with ice and filled the rest of our minivan with my children and Steve’s children. I brought the kids because we’re 50% sure our cabin is haunted I was not going to deal with the Corpse Bride of Lawrence all by myself. 

I’m not sure if you remember, but the day before Thanksgiving this year was a weather mess. Wind shoved us all over the highway. Diana called to inform us of reported power outages all over the state. 

I was crawling out of a deep yelling at Elijah earlier in the day hole, so I tried to be the picture of positivity. “Hey gang! If the power is out at the cabin, everything is going to a-okay! If worse somes to worse, we’ll just skip skip skip back on home to Evanston. Sure traffic is terrible and the weather is near deadly, but we’ll sing songs!”

We turned into our driveway and everything was pitch black. But the cabin is in the middle of a forest, so pitch black is kind of the point. I opened the front door and noticed a lack of telltale security system beeps. Maybe we didn’t pay our bill? I slowly, painfully flicked a light switch.

Nada. Jeff began to sweat.

I called Diana and yelled at her because it was all her fault we met and fell in love and got married and had two wonderful children and made a beautiful life together. 

I drove into town and we went to a bar that was untouched by the outage. The Michigan power company website promised our power was almost back on. I couldn’t tell if this message was passive aggressive Midwestern torture or legit. 

I floated the idea of driving back to Evanston to the kids. Steve’s son Finn spoke for the group with a barely audible, “No.”

I couldn’t enjoy my fried perch, knowing Jeff’s time was rapidly running out. And my perfect Thanksgiving was in mortal danger. What would Joe say? 

After dinner, I suggested we head back to the cabin for one last look before the big fun drive back. Finn repeated, “No.”

Once again, I entered the darkened house. This time, I was greeted by the security system, letting me know our power was on and if I didn’t use the right code, the authorities would be there in roughly four hours.

Thanksgiving was saved! The next day was perfect. Family, friends, wonderful wine and laughs and beautiful food.

Jeff ended up pretty dry.

PARTAY

My mother’s version of a birthday party was to stick my friends in our unfinished basement and hand us a real potato in which to play hot potato. 

Nowadays (hikes up pants and peers down bifocals), parents feel obligated to spend hundreds of dollars to outdo last week’s birthday celebration. Diana and I have largely dismissed this trend and just invited kids over for some cake, a little light chasing and screaming and the occasional potato. Gift bags? Bah. Jump Zones? Bah. These kids should feel honored to be invited to our house.

Luca just wanted to have a couple dudes for a sleep over. His plan was to hide out in the basement and place Xbox. Sounded like a great birthday party to me! The invite list was originally 3 kids. Which turned to 4. And then word got out that Luca was having a sleepover extravaganza and the attendees ballooned up to 10.

Ten boys. Ten stinky, boogery, screaming, destructive boys. Crammed into our basement. I began to seriously worry about the structural integrity of our home. 

I also began to understand why parents spend hundreds of dollars to have parties offsite.

We decided to have the party at a video game bar. Because video games. And bar! The booking guy must have been one party short of his yearly bonus because he was all over me. On Thanksgiving I received four hundred emails from this guy. After some shrewd negotiation, I agreed to pay full price. 

On the day of the party, I conscripted my brother to help cart kids to the bar at 7pm. The bar was filled with people whose mothers had yelled at them to get out of the basement for one night of their lives. There was also a large contingency of Manga cross dressers. I was in heaven.

Per an earlier agreement, I allowed Elijah to pick my one drink of the night. It was a highly alcoholic red flavored base topped with a syringe filled with a bright green gin. I decided the drink was better used as decoration and just ordered a bourbon.

After two hours, five pizzas, one bourbon and three spilled sodas, the party came to an end. We all arrived back home, and the boys were so tired they fell fast asleep at 4am.