Like mother, like daughter?

How are your kids like you?

My friend Lisa from Grown and Flown wrote an excellent piece on exactly that question this past week. Long after reading Lisa's thought-provoking post, I pondered again and again just how my daughters might be like me. I considered just how different they are from me, too.

Brianna, my eldest, is quite similar to me in many ways. From the time she was quite young, my younger daughters — and sometimes Jim, too — called Brianna "Mom 2" because she was a bossy little thing and always stepped in to control her sisters and unsavory situations if I didn't. Occasionally even when I did, to be honest. Brianna enjoys the same books and movies as I do. She has many other similar likes and dislikes, and many of my same mannerisms, too.

Megan, my middle daughter, is the least like me of all my girls. We're quite opposite in the most fundamental of likes and dislikes. She likes to shop; I don't. She likes to talk on the phone; I don't. She runs marathons, and I feel like I'm doing pretty well if I manage to walk the dogs around the neighborhood. The one area she is very much like me, though — which she may or may not willingly agree — is in our approach to motherhood and the parenting principles we hold dear. Since being a mom has been my most important role so far, I guess that in the end, Megan may be the daughter most like me after all.

Andrea, my youngest ... well, Andrea is a nut. The biggest nut of all my daughters. And the one that is probably most like me in many ways. Many ways that make us butt heads yet still consider the other among our most loved and loyal fans. We're both born under the astrological sign of Cancer, so perhaps that's part of it. Of my favorite resemblences: Andrea and I enjoy the same kind of music. The mix CDs she would send me from college are some of my most treasured possessions — and not just because I loved the music.

That's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to our similarities and differences. I'm continually impressed by the ways my daughters are different from me, always pleased by the ways they mimic me — even when they balk at the thought they, heaven forbid, do and say things just like their mother at times.

In their words and their actions, it's fairly easy to see how my daughters take after me. Physically, though, is a different story. I'll leave it to you to decide which daughter looks most like her mother. If you ask me, there's not a bit of resemblance between any of us.

Like mother like daughter? From the top: Brianna, Megan, Andrea

Today's question:

In what ways do your kids resemble you, physically or otherwise?

Reheated comfort food

As is the case with many flu- and bug-stricken folks around the country, the last few weeks have been a battle for me as I struggle with super bugs of dizzying sorts that I just can't seem to lick.

Yesterday, though, I felt a bit better than I have been. At least enough to actually cook dinner, compared to the frozen foods and fast foods Jim and I have been feasting on for far too many meals.

Considering I was still feeling fairly cruddy, it should be no surprise that I chose to make one of my favorite comfort foods: biscuits and gravy.

While I stirred the gravy, sausage bits swirling around the spoon as I waited for the milky goodness to get thick and creamy, I considered how much I love biscuits and gravy, how much comfort it provides when I feel not quite myself, physically or otherwise.

Yet I wouldn't give biscuits and gravy top billing on my list of favorite comfort foods, for that belongs to another dish.

I wrote about that particular dish — my very most favorite of all comfort foods — for Victoria magazine nearly 15 years ago. (Well, it was actually for the "Friends of Victoria" reader newsletter, which is neither here nor there, though, as I was paid just the same.)

Because my brain is still rather foggy and creative juices haven't been flowing well of late, I decided that today I'd simply share with you that little story of my favorite comfort food, word for word as published by Victoria magazine.

It goes like this:

A Taste of the Past

Simple pleasures are the best

I remember days from my childhood walking home from school for lunch through the frozen Minnesota landscape. Snow covered the ground and a thin crust of ice formed across the top. As I balanced each step, I tried to guess how long I could stay atop the snow before the crunchy crust gave way.

After trudging through the cold, I was greeted by an unexpected welcome. Inside our old farmhouse, bowls of warm macaroni and tomato sauce awaited my brothers, sisters, and me. Perfectly cooked, perfectly plain elbow macaroni bathed in brilliant red tomato sauce straight from the can, with just a sprinkling of salt.

What Mom prepared for us those winter days was love pure and simple, no extras added. In my memory, those simple lunches must have been right around Christmas, because I remember the contrast of the red sauce and the white of winter making a lasting impression.

Ever since then, I've turned to macaroni and tomato sauce whenever I'm in need of comfort. My high-school boyfriend and I used to enjoy it as an after-school snack, although his mother tried to convince me to add a little butter to my simple recipe. The butter makes it creamier and better, she explained, but to me, it no longer tasted like Mom's.

When I was pregnant with my first daughter, there were times I felt scared about my future role as a mother. Many days were comforted by the simple taste of home and those early memories of Mom boiling up a pot of elbow macaroni.

Now that I have three daughters and a slightly more sophisticated approach to cooking than I did in my first few years of marriage, I rarely make macaroni with tomato sauce. Our tastebuds prefer a bit of basil, a hit of garlic, or a sprinking of cheese — and elbow macaroni is rarely the pasta of choice these days.

But there are days when the kids are in school and I'm home from work that my husband comes home for lunch. If either of us feels under the weather, we satisfy our craving for comfort by cooking something simple. The first thing we reach for is the macaroni and tomato sauce — always kept on hand for just such emergencies. The soothing smell seems to curb some of life's worries and I find great satisfaction in knowing that my husband's enthusiasm for my lunch of choice is as strong as mine.

It is then I am completely reassured that I've made the right choices — in meals and in men.

— Lisa Carpenter, December 1998

Today's question:

What's at the top of your list of comfort foods?

Friday free-for-all: Come vent with me

Come vent, whine, give kudos—to others or yourself—or anything your heart desires today. It's been a rough week. Now is the time and consider this the safe place to share whatever you choose for our Friday free-for-all.

As the grandma in charge, I have the honor of going first. Here is what's on my mind at the moment:

Photo courtesy Paola Gianturco• I'm nervous. I'm writing this yesterday (funny how such things work) but I'm nervous about today. I have the privilege of spending the day in Denver with Paola Gianturco, an amazing photojournalist who has published five books focusing on women. Her latest, Grandmother Power, is all about grandmothers around the world, and I've been invited to be her guest at a slide presentation about the book, her incredible adventures and her photography. This woman rocks—just look at her website and you'll agree. I'm nervous because I want to do right by her in all things I share afterward about her, her book, and our day together. I'm also nervous because I rock not even one-quarter as much as she does and I hope I don't bore the <cuss> out of her. Stay tuned for more—on Paola, not my idiotic nerves and insecurity. (Well, unless I really do bore her to tears.)

• I wish arranged marriages were still socially acceptable. That wish has nothing to do with my son-in-law Preston. Or any other official boyfriend of my daughters.

• I also wish I were more committed to exercising. I was pretty embarrassed to let myself see myself in the full-length mirror at JCPenney the other day. I either need to willingly exercise more often or install a full-length mirror near my shower to shame myself into doing it. Or both.

• I'm so incredibly grateful for friends whom I've never met in person yet have helped me secure (paying) writing and editing gigs. Thank you, Lisa, Mary Dell, and Carol.

• I'm still praying my grandsons fully recover from the crud. Bubby's cough—but hopefully not the flu—has returned and now he's doing breathing treatments, too.

 

• I'm also still praying for our fellow grandma Kelley, whose three new grandbabies were recently diagnosed with RSV. Everyone here is welcome to send prayers and positive thoughts her way, too.

There you have it. I feel better already. It's always nice to get things off your chest. Now it's your turn!

Today's question:

What's on your mind/heart/chest today?

The flu and what I didn't do

I have a tendency to think rules and statistics don't apply to me. Not because I consider myself above others, but simply because I prefer to be an optimist and assume good things will happen, not bad.

Most times such positive thinking yields benefits. Recently, though, such positive thinking left me laid up and sick as a dog.

(Quick aside: As I pet my dogs yesterday morning while in my sickly state, I pondered that phrase, as my dogs are never sick. The phrase makes no sense.)

Anyway, what happened is this: For quite some time, I had it on my calendar to go visit Bubby and Mac at the end of January. Then, days before my visit, Bubby was confirmed as having the flu, and it was highly likely Mac would come down with it, too. The question arose regarding if I should cancel the trip, considering my MS and what exposure to the flu might do.

I chose to visit them anyway. I assured my daughter—their mother—there was no need to worry because I'd be just fine. And when Mac avoided the flu but came down with bronchiolitis during my visit, I again assured my daughter I'd be just fine.

And I was fine—while I was there. The day after I returned home, though, the super bugs from those little boys settled in, leaving me, well, sick as a dog.

So yesterday, in my sick-as-a-dog state, what did I do? Well, of all the things I should have done, here is what I didn't do:

• I didn't walk my dogs.

• I didn't write the book reviews I need to write.

• I didn't comment on the blogs I should have.

• I didn't complete three articles I was on deadline to write.

• I didn't shower until 4 p.m. (Though I did brush my teeth.)

• I didn't put on makeup nor do my hair after that shower.

• I didn't email sources for an article I need to write.

• I didn't respond to the gazillion emails I should have responded to.

• I didn't write the half-gazillion emails I should have written.

• I didn't read.

• I didn't write.

• I didn't even listen to any music.

What did I do?

I sat on the couch, wrapped up in an afghan with one of my cats, each of my (non-sick) dogs on their beds nearby and watched episode after episode of Downton Abbey—a show whose spell I didn't think I'd fall under but figured I'd see what all the hoopla is about.

What did I learn?

I learned that the rules and statistics do apply to me. Especially when it comes to catching the flu. Doubly that when it comes to being charmed by Downton Abbey.

(Though I've yet to learn why 'sick as a dog' is an acceptable phrase.)

photo: Marin-FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Today's question:

When were you last sick as a dog?

Friday fun: Keep Your Heart Young

I heard this song—this artist, actually—for the very first time yesterday. Where have I been?

I really enjoy this song and thought you might, too. Just a little something sweet and simple for Friday.

Keep Your Heart Young — Brandi Carlile

My grandpa gave me a wheat penny and I kept it in my pocket

Had big plans in my backyard to build me a space rocket

Talked to my brother on a fake CB that I made from a tic-tac box

Packed my snowballs nice and tight and in the middle I put rocks

Don't trade in your tic-tac box for a ball on the end of the chain

And don't go spending grandpa's pennies buying into the game

You gotta keep your heart young

Don't go growin' old before your time has come

You can't take back what you have done

You gotta keep your heart young

Dad took the wheels off of my bike and he pushed me down a hill

But speed got the best of me and I took my first spill

That was back when alcohol was only used on cuts

Stung like hell so I shook my leg and mama said it would give me guts

Don't trade in your tic-tac box for a ball on the end of the chain

And don't go spending grandpa's pennies buying into the game

You gotta keep your heart young

Don't go growing old before your time has come

You can't take back what you have done

You gotta keep your heart young

So take a picture of the one you love and put it in a locket

Go dig up your time capsule and the blueprints for your rocket

Keep in touch on a fake CB and that same old tic-tac box

Pack your snowballs a little less tight but in the middle still put rocks

And keep your heart young

Don't go growing old before your time has come

You can't take back what you have done

You gotta keep your heart young


You gotta keep your heart young

Sometimes you don't die quick

Just like you wished you'd done

The love is a loaded gun

You've gotta keep your heart young

You can't take back what you have done

You gotta keep your heart young

# # #

Today's question:

What's one of your treasured memories of your grandfather?

5 jobs I would take even if they didn't pay much

I have many friends who are writers, former associates of mine from my newspaper days. Writers, like so many others, are having a rough go of it lately, especially as so many journalists, writers, and reporters have found themselves without a printed publication to write for in the past few years. It makes for a very crowded, competitive playing field.

One writerly friend of mine mentioned she's considering a job at her local library, a job that pays far less than she's worth, but at least it's something. I considered such a job myself and am quite sure that performing the duties of a page at the library would be just fine with me, even though it wouldn't pay much at all. I love books, would be happy to be surrounded by books. A mere smidgen of income would be acceptable in such a circumstance.

Working as a library page is just one low-paying job I'd happily work to help pay the bills while continuing to write. Here are a few more:

5 jobs I would take, even if they didn't pay much

Movie reviewer — As any long-time reader of Grandma's Briefs knows, I love the movies. I go to the movies. Far more often than I can really afford. So if someone were to pay me even just a small amount to go—and pay for my ticket as well—I would happily go to movie after movie and review movie after movie. Even the blockbusters, which are not my favorite flavor of film.

Research assistant — I'm pretty good at researching things. My family regularly comments on how I'm one of the smartest people they know. I'm really not smart, I just know where to find answers to most any question. I'd be happy to find answers for others all day long. That is, of course, unless they're looking for answers related to mathematical mind-benders such as the Pythagorean theorem or some such something or another. I'm a word person, not a number person. Give me research work that results in words and I'm all over that, even if it doesn't pay much.

Elephant feeder — What? An elephant feeder? Well, yes, I'd happily feed elephants at the zoo all day long. Elephants are pretty cool animals. I might even go so far as to feed giraffes, too, possibly throw a few fish for the seals while I'm at it. Monkeys, well, they seem a little too much like humans, which kind of creeps me out, so they'll need someone else to keep their tummies full. But the other animals? I'm there, even for low pay. As long as poop scooping and similarly unsavory tasks don't fall under the Other duties as assigned category in the job description.

Radio disc jockey — I've always had a secret desire to be a deejay. Even if it didn't pay much, I would do that. No one would have to see me, so I think I could be quite charming and effective as a radio personality. But only if I don't have to play any of that screaming <cuss> kids nowadays listen to. I'm not talking about bands like Pearl Jam or Linkin Park or Metallica or music-makers of that ilk; I can handle those bands, have seen those folks live. I just don't want to play screamin' meemies such as ... well, I don't even know the names of today's screamin' meemies, the ones that make me want to scream myself when I hear them on the radio or blasting from a nearby vehicle. Other than those unnamed screamers, though, I'd happily play music of all different sorts, even if they didn't pay me much to do it.

Baby cuddler — Newborn babies in the ICU need cuddling, and there really is such a job. I interviewed a baby cuddler once upon a time, in fact. Baby cuddlers cuddle and rock the tiniest of the tiny babes born too soon or with medical issues of some sort. What a perfect job for a grandma. It's not actually a job at my local hospital, though, it's a volunteer position. And because it is such a fab volunteer position, there are many grandmas clamoring to make a difference simply by cuddling. Which means there's a long, long waitlist of grandmas hoping to be accepted for the position. The non-paying position.

Thing is, I know of an even better position. My grandsons may not be babies, but they do like to cuddle with me, and the position of Grandson Cuddler just so happens to be currently vacant and available. Bonus: There's no waitlist for that specific position! My only wait is waiting for my flight one week from today, at which time I'll head to the desert to do exactly as the position demands—cuddle my grandsons.

Grandson cuddling doesn't pay in ways that help pay the bills, of course, but that's fine with me. It's the one, the only job I would take even when there's absolutely no pay at all.

(Plus, my grandsons are a teensy bit easier to feed than elephants. Most of the time.)

photo: Wikimedia Commons

Today's question:

What job would you take—other than Mom or Grandma—even if it didn't pay much?

Bringing out the best

I have been married a long time. With more than 30 years under our shared belt, my husband and I have seen the best of times, the worst of times, the best in each other, and the worst in each other.

I must admit—as anyone who has been in a long-term relationship might—that not only has my better half seen me at my worst, he's occasionally been the one to bring out the worst in me.

Not a pretty thing to admit about the man I've promised to love until my dying breath, I know.

My husband's not alone, though. My daughters have done a pretty good job of bringing out the worst in me over the years, too. If you have kids, and especially if you have gone through or are in the throes of the teen years, you know darn well how very bad the "worst" in a mom can be.

Regardless, I still love my husband and my daughters. Unquestionably, unconditionally. I hope they feel the same about me despite that worst part of me they've coaxed to the surface now and again. There's something comforting in knowing I can show my very worst side to the ones I love without fear of abandonment.

There's something equally comforting, though, in knowing there are a few souls to whom I don't show that unsavory side, the loved ones who bring out not the worst but the very best in me.

I'm talking, of course, about my grandsons.

My grandsons have magical powers, I believe, for when I'm with them, I am my best, I do my best.

When I'm with my grandsons, I don't demand they be on my time as I'm wont to do with anyone—with everyone—else. No, we move on their time, live by their schedule. 

When I'm with my grandsons, I laugh more, sing more, dance more.

And I swear far less, for reasons needing no explanation.

When I'm with my grandsons, I look on the bright side more often than not. Perhaps that's because all things are indeed brighter when we're together, regardless of the side one may look at.

When I'm with my grandsons, I cook more often, and usually without complaining—even if they complain about what I've set before them, as finicky kiddos often do.

When I'm with my grandsons, I do more crafting and more creating.

I do more reading, too—albeit from books with far more pictures than those I typically read on my own.

When I'm with my grandsons, I do more hugging of little bodies and kissing of little heads.

And I don't sigh heavily or act like they're silly when they say they have owies here or there on those little bodies and little heads. Which is a far different response than when hearing the same from those with big bodies. Not a sympathetic nursemaid am I—except when I'm with my grandsons.

When I'm with my grandsons, I move more, sit less. I listen more, preach less. And I model using manners more in hopes of having to point out one's lack of manners less.

As I stop and look back at what I've written above, I see it's a rather lengthy list of ways my grandsons bring out my best. And as I consider it, I realize this: I should show the same face, have the same demeanor with others. Whether it's my husband, my daughters, distressing relatives, frustrating strangers. I should be my best with all, not just reserve the best of myself for the privileged two.

So I'll try. I'll try to be my best with and for my husband, my daughters, the world at large. I will do that, I will model that, for my grandsons.

In the end it's just one more way my grandsons bring out my best—or at least the hope and intention of me being exactly that.

Today's question:

Who brings out the best in you?

5 words for 2013: What well wishes for the new year mean to one grandma

For the past couple of weeks, many of the emails I've received—and sent—start or end with wishes for the new year. Most often it's been something along the lines of the straightforward Happy New Year to you and yours! Or perhaps a Best wishes for peace, prosperity and success!

I appreciate the well wishes, and I hope those to whom I offer them do as well, for I do say them in all sincerity despite how generic such sentiments may seem.

We all use basically the same words for the good tidings—how many ways, really, are there for offering up New Year's greetings?—yet I'm pretty sure the meaning for each of us on the receiving end is quite different.

Here is what the oft-used words mean to me, specifically in relation to 2013:

HAPPINESS
To me, happiness is so relative. It can depend on how fat I might feel at any particular time; how much I have on my to-do list or how much free time I have to do something I enjoy; if Jim helps with the dishes or not; when I'll get to see my grandsons again; and on and on and on. One day may be a happy one and the next not so much. Heck, it's often that way from minute to minute, not just day to day, depending on how many hot flashes I experience in those minutes.

So instead of expecting to have a happy year, with heaps of happiness from beginning to end, I prefer to focus more on joy. Even in the very worst of times, the deepest and darkest moments, I can and usually do feel joy, have joy, experience joy. Joy, in contrast to happiness, doesn't depend on exterior influences; it's something deep inside and I'm fortunate to have it, regardless of how happy or unhappy I may be at any given time. I'm pretty sure I won't have a completely happy new year regardless of how many folks wish that for me. I will, though, have a year filled with joy, which is good enough for me.

PEACE
Another very relative term, as there's only so much one can do to work toward peace throughout the world. Peace for me personally would be the peace in knowing everything is going to be okay. With my family, my finances, my goals. Despite having the joy I mentioned above, I'm not an incredibly peaceful person. I'm worried about this or that more often than not, and usually have to force myself to breathe deep and just let go of the fear and trembling, inside and out. I want peace, welcome peace, so this is an especially appreciated wish for the coming year.

PROSPERITY
Ah, prosperity. I'm pretty sure that peace I long for would be so much easier to come by if only my wishes of prosperity were to come true. I know, I know—money does not buy happiness. But it definitely would help me stop worrying about the lack of it, the focus of which has consumed more than a fair share of the past few years.

SUCCESS
There are so, so many ways I'm striving to succeed this year, so I'll take all the wishes for success I can get. To me, success takes the form of simply being better in most of my current pursuits, which may or may not mean there will be financial gain attached. I want to succeed at being a better—and traditionally published—writer. I want to succeed at being a better blogger, moving beyond the plateau I've found myself on. I want to succeed at being a better wife, mother, grandmother, friend—including being a better friend to myself, the person on whom I'm most hard. I want to succeed at reading more, singing more, traveling more, taking better photos. I want to succeed at fitting in some time on the piano again and succeed at losing a few—no, many—pounds. Yes, I want success—my idea of success.

GOOD HEALTH
This one would be far easier if I'd lose those pounds mentioned above. Sure, I want to look better, but more so, I want to feel better, and that would start with shedding the extra weight. My bloggy friend Chloe recently mentioned that we in mid-life and beyond need to exercise as if our life depends on it—because our life literally does depend on it, especially in terms of the degree to which we'll enjoy the rest of our life. I'm taking her advice to heart and plan to exercise more and eat better for the sake of achieving better health in 2013. Bonus for doing so? I will likely look better in 2013—and beyond—too.

Bottom line
To all who have wished me any of the above, I offer sincere thanks. And to each and every one of you reading this, I sincerely wish you joy, peace, prosperity, success, and good health in 2013—in whatever ways those words personally matter and mean the most to you.

graphic: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Of the words mentioned above, which do you most wish for in 2013?

Stylin' grandsons

When I was a child, I don't recall ever going to a salon to get my hair cut. My mom cut it. I had long, straight hair, so it was fairly easy to trim up here and there. None of the styling sessions stand out as memorable except for one particularly disastrous cut when I pleaded to have my hair cut like my favorite Liddle Kiddles doll. And my mom gave me exactly what I asked for.

Thing is, there's a big difference between the (artificial) hair on Liddle Kiddles and the hair on my head. My wannabee fancy curls, meant to coil and curl gorgeously around my ears, instead looked like horrendous '70s sideburns that refused to coil, lying straight and flat against each cheek...except when the slightest breeze caught them and they flapped up and down no more gorgeously than mud flaps on a moving van.

Surprisingly, that horrid haircut didn't dissuade me from cutting my three daughters' hair. I did, though, unlike my mother, have a minor amount of training in trimming locks, gleaned from my senior year in high school. Having earned all the academic credits I needed, I was allowed to participate in a certification program at the community college during my school hours. I chose a certificate in cosmetology over one in cuisine.

I never actually continued in the program after high school graduation so I never earned my cosmetology license, but my training did come in handy for cutting my girls' hair. (And for once giving Jim a perm. Hey, it was the early '80s. But we won't go there for he might kill me. Nor will I show you the photo of such only because he'd surely kill me, not because I'm not dying to share it here now that it's crossed my mind and I know exactly where that photo is.)

Anyway...

So I cut my girls' hair for many years. They had a salon visit here and there, especially during the years I was a nail tech/seaweed wrap giver, but for the most part, I was their stylist. Even to this day, Brianna and Andrea will ask me at various times to trim up this and that for them between their visits to a real stylist. I don't cut Megan's hair at all anymore...and I certainly no longer cut—or perm—Jim's hair.

My grandsons have had a different experience when it comes to haircuts. Perhaps it's a boy thing. Bubby once underwent a home haircut from Preston and his buddy Scott. And Mac suffered through a near shaving from Mommy for his first cut. But other than those two trimmings—or maybe because of those trimmings—Bubby and Mac always visit a salon for their hair snippin' and stylin'.

I've been lucky to be in town to witness several haircuts with Bubby. A time or two, the salon visit was made into a guys' day out, as Bubby, Preston, and PawDad had their hair done together.

My first time visiting the salon with Mac, though—who loathes having his hair cut—came only recently, during my December visit, when he and Bubby both hopped into the chairs at Supercuts. Here is my record of the experience:

 

PawDad has yet to visit the salon with both grandsons. Maybe we'll be able to fit that in next time he goes to the desert with me.

(And maybe we can convince Mac to get a perm with PawDad. Just for fun...and photos. And I'll be sure to share those photos here, the prospect of murder and mayhem inflicted by Jim be damned! Stay tuned.)

Today's question:

What is the worst haircut you ever received and who was responsible?

Good riddance, 2012: An open letter to one of the worst years yet

Dear 2012,

I had high hopes for you. After the economic mess 2007 and 2008 left us in, I had heard you were the one that would finally set things right, bring us back to the normal we had grown to know and love—even though we knew not then how much we did indeed love that normal.

Instead, you brought us still not enough jobs, still lower home values, followed by drained retirement accounts and higher credit card debt as we scrambled and sputtered, using the very last of our coffers in hopes of riding out the seemingly endless storm.

All the while, our leaders and leader wannabes spewed blame and hate and divisive dithering. We struggled. They stewed. Nothing changed—except that Eddie Vedder's lyrics of "there ain't gonna be any middle any more" gained further relevance.

Political posturing and financial calamity far and wide were merely two of the travesties of your term. For you hooked up with Mother Nature and the fallout of that toxic relationship reigned upon the innocents. Floods, hurricanes, snowstorms, wildfires, crazy extreme events and temps like Ms. Nature has never before cast upon us.
 
Natural tragedies were not the only shock from you, 2012, the only irreparable damage to innocents—and innocence—across our land. No, unnatural, unimaginable tragedies of a human sort rocked us worse than any hurricane you treated us to. Wars in faraway places hurt our hearts as we watched footage, read reports, yet it was the unexpected gunfire in our own states, cities, neighborhoods that shook our souls, shattered our hearts. And here we are, still trying to pick up the pieces, still trying to make sense where there is none. Here we are, hoping to figure out a new normal that will limit—for we know we can, unfortunately, never fully stop—the collateral damage and fallout of the wars that rage in many a young man's heart.

You gave us pain and sorrow and heaps of horror even Nostradamus failed to predict. It does seem, though, that you believed predictions reportedly from another source, from the Mayans. Erroneous as those predictions of our end, of you being the last to rule the calendar turned out to be, like a bad screenwriter, you threw in every last shocker you could imagine, made our world seem stranger than fiction simply to get our attention.

Shame on you for such sloppy work, 2012. Yet I must admit that you did get our attention. And at least we learned much from your shark jumping.

At least we learned we can survive, sometimes even thrive, by spending less, accumulating less, depending on our creativity and one another more.

At least we learned negativity and hatefulness—and billions of dollars wasted on campaign ads folks muted or changed or completely ignored despite hearing—should go down in history, to (hopefully) never return.

At least we learned to share our hearts, hugs, material matters with those who have lost all in natural disasters. And to share our hearts, hugs, tears with those for whom material matters matter not one whit when it's loved ones lost, tragically taken.

And at least we've learned the importance, the necessity of discussing the matters affecting, encouraging, exacerbating, and ultimately allowing such tragedies.

I'm not satisfied with at leasts, though. I, along with everyone else subject to your rule, deserve much more than consolation. We deserve consideration, opportunity, positivity. And no more tears. We deserve hope for a brighter tomorrow as we give thanks for a peaceful and productive yesterday, a safe and secure today.

In light of that, I'm more than ready for you to pack your bags and get on your way, 2012. Don't let the door—or the disappointment in you—hit you on the way out, prevent you from an expedient exit. I need you gone for good so I can move on. My hopes and the hopes of many are now pinned on 2013.

So go on, 2012, skedaddle. And please don't even consider sharing knucks or high fives or any other sort of celebratory connecting to 2013 as you pass the bright and shiny New Year on your way out. I'd prefer you not taint with your toxic touch the promise of good things to come.

Farewell, 2012. Thank you in advance for graciously making way for 2013—my new favorite year.

Cheers...and good riddance!

graphic: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you hope to see in 2013 that didn't happen in 2012?