year of the pig (NOT A WORD!)

So, I figure I should take advantage of the moment. I am not pissed, hurt, lonely, or anything negative. Well, I am very fat currently—even my fat jeans are tight, but give me about three weeks, and I will be slim again. I am sitting on my sofa downstairs, my ‘writing’ playlist singing to me from my IPod machine, Dunkyn and Dolan next to me—ripping apart their adorable stuffed animals. Maybe senseless massacres make me happy. Let’s not look too deeply into that, shall we?
I just returned from four days in Vail with my family. It was a lot of fun. Although, I have had to face a side of myself that less than thrills me. One of the few sports that I have ever been good enough to brag about is skiing. Now, consider the source: Me. I have never been able to spin in circles on my skis, like a certain GG (hate him), but I have always been able to fly down the mountain and never fall. This is especially true when I am with my little brother (he snowboards), we have gotten yelled at by the ski patrol for our ‘reckless’ speeds on frequent occasions. Whatever! Well, this trip was different. I must have fallen a gazillion times. Maybe it was because I was in a new place, that my feet hurt in those damnable ski boots, that it was four below. Or, maybe it was because I am becoming more of an old woman than ever before. The thought of paying so much money just to freeze to death on a ski lift, and slide down cold white stuff, and get wind/sun burned cheeks simply leaves me longing for my scrap booking table, color coordinated ribbons, and textured papers. What am I becoming? Well, at least I will be able to make the skiing pages festive for all those to following in the upcoming generations. That’s another thing… who is going to get this countless hours of investments when I am dead and gone? I will have no children who will want to see themselves in their father’s face when he was but a ‘youngster.’ Dunkyn and Dolan will hardly enjoy them, except to chew on. Oh, duh. They will go to museum of some sort to celebrate the life of this world-celebrate author. How could I forget? It is my gift to the world. Being a humanitarian is exhausting!
Last night in Vail, we went to a ridiculously expensive French restaurant. Good, but completely ridiculous. Our waiter, auburn hair, tall, thin (the exact opposite of my type—I need a Brahma Bull kind of man), but with an ADORABLE face, came up to us, all proper and fancy and began to welcome us to the restaurant. He did this by stuttering nearly incoherently. Turning completely scarlet. Utterly and totally humiliated. Naturally, I fell in love instantaneously. Naturally, by the time the main course made its appearance, our kids were named (Dalton, Donavon, and Savannah), our honeymoon was planned (week in Paris with a quick lay-over at Disney World to visit Ariel), and my last name became hyphenated. Naturally, he didn’t look at me the entire diner, had no idea I existed, and was under the delusion of being straight (the boy worked in a French restaurant, for Pete’s sake, get a clue!).
Upon arriving home, I was able to check my email and Connexion information via internet (that’s right, four whole days absent my computer, no wonder I ate so much). I had some emails from some wonderfully beautiful (or beautifully wonderful, for that matter) friends. One of these electronic correspondences from these efflorescent men mentioned that he is looking forward to seeing the good things that are going to happen in my life this year, that he just ‘has a feeling.’ Well, I don’t care if he is only trying to be nice or make me happy for a minute, I am going to choose to believe it. After all, if so many people are going to put stock in the plethora of Pat Robertson’s predictions of the up-coming year, I can put my faith in a man who is great and only has my best intentions at heart! So, there you have it. 2007: the year Brandon wrote a book, got published, made three million (ok, ok, five million) dollars, met, fell in love with, and married the most wonderful man in the world, grew seven and a half inches, and learned what efflorescent meant! Rock the house, Yo! This year is gonna fuckin’ shake the shack, man! Giddy-up!