Guest AuthorSo far, I’ve received seven holiday newsletters. They’re enough to make me hope for mood stabilizers in my stocking.
And I’m Jewish.
Why is the annual celebration of your Lord also time to celebrate the result of a drunken night eight years ago when your diaphragm failed?
The pictures are bad enough. They’re so small I need to fetch my glasses only to be disappointed that every parent I know buys their daughter’s dresses and headbands at the same store . Or else the photos are way too large, making me cringe because puberty shouldn’t be documented with a zoom lens.
I thought Fakebook was the place to brag about your children’s accomplishments and pretend your wife’s upbeat mood was because of religion rather than Merlot. So now my snail-mailbox is under attack, too.
This year, I sent out my own tidings of hope and good cheer. I tried to persuade the family to pose for a holiday snapshot with us all standing in front of a cross or a tree or a yacht while wearing matching red sweaters – but they left town during the portrait session and I haven’t seen them since. Instead, I used a picture of your favorite columnist passed out on Colorado G6 and sent that instead.
Here’s the holiday newsletter that went with it, edited slightly to avoid jail time and unemployment.
“ALL THE WAYS I GOT IT RIGHT THIS YEAR” OR “YAY ME 2015”
DECEMBER: Write a column about family kindness that goes viral. Kicked out of five different wills. Find a grey eyelash on New Year’s Eve. Celebrate alone.
JANUARY: Post parenting guide and assorted writing gigs online in one convenient spot for editors, stalkers, agents, federal authorities and husband’s attorneys. You’re welcome!
Promoted at work. Super confident and capable. After all, I once hosted three keg parties in Lutz.
FEBRUARY: Run Gasparilla Half-Marathon with posterior shin splints, nerve damage, and a traumatic head and neck injury. Finish behind two old ladies and a drunk.
Undergo genetic cancer testing, wondering whether I have more than just cheekbones in common with Angelina Jolie.
MARCH: Spring break vacation in the Keys we can barely afford.
Father-in-law dies. Finally, he’s no longer wanted for financial fraud in Florida. Stop paying credit cards in tribute.
Write award-winning column defending Gwyneth Paltrow, who suggests women should steam-clean their vaginas. I steam-clean my ears after just LISTENING to Coldplay.
Begin mentoring troubled teenagers. They laugh at all my jokes.
APRIL: Run Iron Girl Half-Marathon with bronchitis. Cough up a lung on some bridge north of Clearwater. So glad I decided to get in shape.
Sons turn into full-blown teenagers, rolling eyes, shrugging shoulders, asking “What’s auto-erotic asphyxiation?” at the dinner table.
Log off Facebook permanently – because you all have seen enough pictures of my testicles.
MAY: Buy tri bike and crash on Mother’s Day. Emergency rooms still don’t serve Jell-O shots.
Moffitt calls: I’m missing important cancer-fighting gene. Immediately regret leaving Facebook and all those prayer groups.
Wait for results to show I inherited this risk from either Bio Dad (along with large forehead and unruly curls) or mom (finally, we have something in common.) Turns out to be mom. Ordered to cut back on cocktails and undergo five different kinds of testing every year. Thanks, Noreen!
JUNE: Tour Great Lakes on charm and credit. Family insists they join me.
Observations and highlights include a failed attempt to leave the kids in Detroit; “A Christmas Story” house is the only good thing about Cleveland – besides sexual harassment; Canadian border patrol ladies do NOT find Strange Brew quotes amusing; singing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is a felony in some parts of Michigan; Wisconsin officially has no fresh fruits or vegetables – just cheese, lots and lots of cheese; when tourists get a little too excited about tunnels under a famous jazz club in Chicago, loudly reminding everyone, “AL CAPONE WAS KIND OF A DICK!”
JULY: Begin Spanish lessons, now annoying people in three languages.
Prove everyone wrong and start therapy BEFORE menopause kicks in.
Summer storms and massive flooding because Tampa.
AUGUST: Quit emailing, texting, Instagram, Vine, Snapchat and Twitter. Bye-bye cryptic stuff I’ve written over the years that will make perfect sense when my “Snapped” episode airs.
Complete first sprint triathlon in a tri suit purchased from Target. Upside: arrive alive. Downside: the tri suit. From Target.
SEPTEMBER: Oldest son and I get head lice and learn to love oil in our hair and shower caps in public, like the rest of Florida.
Finish therapy. Turns out, crying jags are completely normal after 40. Therapist suggests fewer hours spent listening to ‘80s tunes and/or wearing tri suits from Target.
OCTOBER: Can curse just like Sofia Vergara.
Attend a thing in Denver. Eat six weed cookies, smoke a joint, dance like the lead singer of Black Crowes in “Remedy” and threaten to show nationally recognized politicians my tattoos. I believe I’m now on some kind of list.
NOVEMBER: Ever-reliable menstrual cycle chooses first intermediate triathlon for its November debut, continuing recent streak of hassle-free racing. Tampon stop in downtown Clearwater wrecks my time but gives some nosy Scientologists a thrill. You’re welcome!
Run St. Augustine Half-Marathon a week later just for fun. Wanna see my feet?
Turn 46 and pluck 2 grey toe hairs. Celebrate alone.
Predictions for 2016 …
Friends stop asking, “How are you doing?”
Moffitt adds two new suggestions to its Patient Guidelines: 1) Biopsies are neither the time nor the place for dirty jokes. 2) Patient’s robes must be closed at all times when moving from room-to-room.
Night before Augusta Half-Ironman I come down with herpes, early-onset menopause or the runs. Bound to be something. Place your bets now.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
Catherine Durkin Robinson co-parents twin sons, organizes families for advocacy purposes, writes syndicated columns, mentors kids, runs a few races, and is unavailable for comment until mid-March. That’s when her holiday hangover is scheduled to end. Column courtesy of Context Florida.
