Perhaps I am being overly optimistic, but yesterday I purchased about 8 rolls of discounted Christmas wrapping paper, that is now safely stowed away in the basement. There I was, declaring to the checkout girl that I was, officially, "my fucking grandmother" all the while wondering if I was indeed jinxing myself, by assuming I'll be around to spill egg nog on the freshly wrapped gifts next year. But let's go with that, shall we.
This morning, as I recover from my cheesies and Dexter Season Six marathon, and before I kick oh tannenbaum to the curb – I look back on a year that celebrated the end of sickos Bin Laden and Gadhafi, and made us stop and appreciate the beauty that was Steve Jobs, Amy Winehouse, and everyone's favourite cocktail shaker, Betty Ford.
The mere fact that I can eat cheesies again without sobbing, makes me hopeful and blissfully aware that 2011 didn't totally suck. I haven't enjoyed a good bowl of cheesies since my friend Sheelagh died in 2006. She would want me to pick up and move on.
With that spirited lassie in mind, I look back to see more than a few happy highlights from 2011.
In January, I fell head over heels in love with Hank Moody.
In May, The Little Bastard and I made the trek to Machu Picchu, Peru. Together with a delightful band of merry travellers, I dragged my ass up and down soul-sucking steps that I never, ever, hope to see again. It was fantastic.
In June, The Little Bastard was drafted in the QMJHL draft. And while this likely means nothing to a majority of people – this was huge in our little world – and made the last decade of sitting in a rink parking lot in a hideous, coffee-stained parka – all worthwhile.
In July, I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem that explained a whack of weird shit that I had been chalking up to menopause – although it doesn't explain the beard.
In November, my mother had a heart attack. This was good on several levels. She survived. And I can now speak to her without gritting my teeth.
In December, my little bundle of joy got his driver's license, and I got a designated driver. I knew there just had to be a reason for having children.
And just yesterday, I managed not to kick Liam in the nuts. Liam is a new-to-the-park, hyperactive, overbred duck tolling retriever with an annoying owner. I think this means I am showing signs of mellowing, or that he can simply run faster than I can.
There were low moments of course. I spoke out about the serious nature of bulimia, and lost a friend. I watched, helpless, as friends and loved ones dealt with breast cancer. Our beloved White Point Lodge burned down. I didn't golf, or play nearly the amount of tennis required to keep me happy. I didn't lose my baby weight. I didn't write, or read enough. I saw only one movie. I pulled a lot of pork (thanks to Cousin Sarah) but didn't kiss anyone except my dog. And I had to work twice as hard to make the same amount of money.
But I ate a bowl of cheesies.
Happy next year everybody.
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