Yesterday, I was watching TV because, well, I do that sometimes. Anyway, I saw a commercial for a collection called Monster Ballads, and I had to take pause and reflect on 80s hair bands. Why did I have to take pause and reflect on 80s hair bands? Well, your guess is as good as mine, really, but -- and let's be honest here -- it sure beats reflecting on things like new year's resolutions. But before I digress, let me say that for someone who turned 10 in 1989 (as I did), I seem to know a lot about 80s hair bands. Like, just now, I was thinking about the band Warrant, and how they had a song that was about pulling bodies out of the water or something (called "Uncle Tom's Cabin" -- ah, that's deep), which is not to be confused with the Richard Marx song about the girl he didn't kill, because Richard Marx had a mullet, but I don't think he could be considered a full-on Aqua Net dream and is also not included on the Monster Ballads compilation, so there you go. One thing I don't get about this Monster Ballads business (among all the other things I don't get about this Monster Ballads business) is how the hell that Eddie Money song "Take Me Home Tonight" is even on there. That is not a ballad. It's not one of those songs that would cause every t-shirt-with-sleeves-cut-off wearing person in a large arena to break out the lighter and sway, like, say, something from the Journey oeuvre. (And where the hell is Journey? What kind of collection is this?!?)

I don't even know what I'm writing about. But, you know, at least this mystery has been solved. Kind of. I mean, I don't think it was a mystery.

I still don't even know what I'm writing about.

Anyway, as I was saying earlier, when I saw this commercial for Monster Ballads, I had to take pause and reflect. In so doing, I had to wonder what ever happened to Kip Winger. Because, you know, I just don't think there are enough celebrities named Kip. I am so close to digressing again, but I'm going to stop myself and say that I decided to Google ol' Kip (not a euphemism) and see what he's up to these days. While I suppose I could've learned something by clicking on the link to Kip Winger's official website, I opted instead to click on the second link from the top, which led to a shrine to Kip, which told me aboslutely nothing, but was simultaneously amazing, frightening and oh-my-dear-sweet-Jesus-I-can't-breathe funny. Because, um, "This page is dedicated to Julio, the most devout Winger fan I've never met." Wow.

Do I have a point? Absolutely not. Except on Friday, I got into this conversation about literature, and the other person in the conversation said that he is constantly impressed by my intellect, and I guess I just want to point out that, sure, I can say smart stuff without even really trying, because I didn't go to college for nothing. Almost nothing, yes, but nothing? No. And so even though I can hold up my end of conversations about topics that would be considered intelligent, when I'm left to my own devices, these are the things I think about. And I'm not ashamed. Because when it comes down to it, and you were faced with a choice -- do I think about Winger, or do I think about Tolstoy (whose novel, Anna Karenina, I am never finishing, by the way)? -- you'd probably go with Tolstoy, but I'd go with Winger every single time. Somebody has to, and I'm totally okay with the fact that it's me.

Well. Now that Christmas has come and gone, and I have watched It's a Wonderful Life and cried when Harry Bailey says, "A toast. To my big brother George -- the richest man in town," because yes, I really am that sappy (I don't know how it manages to do it, but it gets me every single time), it is time to reflect on the year that is nearly gone and, um, write a eulogy for it. This is a momentous undertaking, and so maybe you should make yourself a snack or something. You don't have to, but you might want one, because let's face it -- I have a tendency toward verbosity.

Since direct summaries are for suckers (or something), I'm not going to write this that way. No, I'm going to break it down into sections. Because I can. Ah, power. And so, without further ado...

Opening Remarks
While 2005 was not the best year of my life, it wasn't the worst either (the undisputed champ in the Worst Year of My Life category goes to 2002, and trust me when I say that a year would have to be unimaginably bad before it could beat 2002). For the most part, it's been a year of transition, which is generally uncomfortable and angst-inducing, and though it's definitely had its fair share of really really really bad stuff, it's had some pretty good moments too, so I can't hate it outright.

Professionally
When 2005 began, I was in the final weeks of my AmeriCorps term, which I completed successfully in mid-February. My AmeriCorps year was a great experience, and I would happily recommend national service to anyone who might be interested in getting into a new field, or who wants to focus on others and do something idealistic and good for awhile. After finishing with AmeriCorps, I took a permanent job with the organization where I had done my service, and I am still happily there. Despite my outward cynicism and snark, I am really a do-gooder at heart, and am glad to be able to do something with my professional life that genuinely helps other people. I guess the point is that in this area of my life, things have gone really well this year, and it's good to have something that's stable and enjoyable and doesn't make me want to stab myself, at least on most days.

That Thing Called Love
Not much to report. I got into two of those inexplicably weird quasi-relationship things that I seem to get into even though I don't really know how I manage. Both ended badly, because there really is no other way for inexplicably weird quasi-relationship things to end. In one case, I left a voicemail, which was, you know, really mature. And in the other case, I got played like Willy Lunchmeat because of my sexy, sexy mind. Or whatever. I don't think it was because of my beautiful nose. In both cases, I'm glad they were just quasi-relationships and not real relationships, and furthermore, that they're over, because when I remember them, I typically wonder what the hell I was thinking, because seriously, no. No. In short, my grandmother is still disappointed in my persistent unmarried state and will probably continue to be so for some time, even though she did go ahead and make my wedding quilt (which she later decided didn't have to be my wedding quilt, because, um, yeah). Also, I discovered the boy I had a crush on when I was a freshman in college was in a T.G.I. Friday's commercial, which made me reminisce about my inherent hopeless nerdiness, so that's nice.

The Internets
I got interviewed about blogging earlier this year. For, like, a real newspaper that people subscribe to and everything. And I didn't even get fired for my website, which means that I am not trendy at all. People started reading my blog this year. I knew people read it in the past, but for the most part, all of the people who did were those who knew me in person, so it's fascinating to me that suddenly people who aren't related to me and/or close friends and/or people I have shared meals with check out what I write. But I'm not going to complain. This past summer, I had a contest, and then I had another contest in the fall, because competition makes life complete. In slightly-related news, I Blogathoned, which was fun and crazy and fun and crazy and it took me about a week to recover from the lack of sleep because I'm turning into such a pansy in my old age. I also discovered Flickr, which keeps me out of trouble or gets me into trouble or both, but it's entertaining, and there are some cool people there, too. For Christmas this year, I got a new camera that works and everything, and this is because Flickr has gotten me into photography, which is something I always found slightly interesting, but never really cared about before. It's more complex than a run-of-the-mill point-and-shoot, and I think it may take awhile before I figure out everything it can do, but I did shoot a macro of my tights on Christmas (which I deleted, because really), so hey.

Health
In April, I got into a car accident, which resulted in the alien baby head. And there's nothing like having a neverending headache to make things seem shiny and happy. Other than that, I've been in remarkably good shape, except for the time I got sick and tried the onion home remedy to feel better. For the record, the onion home remedy didn't work, and I was quite ill for awhile. But I'm better now. I think perhaps because I'm too busy freezing to death to be sick. Of course, by saying that I probably just jinxed myself and will come down with a case of the bubonic plague or bird flu or something tomorrow.

Ob la di
A little over a month ago, my best friend Stacy was killed in a car accident. I think I've gotten through the initial blitzkrieg of grief, for the most part at least, though I do still get blindsided by it at least once a week. Anyway, now I'm on to the part that really sucks, the part where I have to figure out this whole life business in a world that she's no longer a part of. So, I've been disoriented and lost and weird and disinterested and angry this month, and I don't know how much longer this is going to last, but I am honestly dealing with it and I'm okay. And I'm going to be even more okay. You know, because that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, and since I have dealt with an inordinate amount of crap in my life, I'm practically a superhero. Anyway, people have been really stellar to me this month (for the most part, though there have been a few who deserve to be punched in the head), and I'm grateful, because it's nice to know that I'm not actually as alone as I sometimes feel like I am. I am also the proud new owner of an absolutely GIGANTIC peace plant (thanks Levi and Caryn!) which is still alive and well, even though I am incredibly good at killing house plants. Life does indeed go on, and though I wish it didn't have to go on without Stacy, this month hasn't all been horrible. Also, when I get too mopey, I can hear her in my head telling me to shut the hell up and remember that we had a hell of a lot of fun. Really.

In Conclusion
Though dealing with the loss of Stacy has been an exercise in monumental sucktasticness and I got into a car accident and I got really sick and I thought I had a tumor for awhile (which, I'm glad to say, turned out not to be a tumor; I didn't write about this because I didn't want to be needlessly alarmist), it hasn't been all bad. I had a good birthday, people stopped calling for Kenneth (though now, I occasionally get collect calls from some guy named Charlie who's in prison in Muskegon -- I don't know anybody named Charlie who's in prison in Muskegon), and even though I'm not settling down and having any of my own, babies love me. Since New Year's Eve is dead to me (after a series of Really Bad Nights), I don't have any plans. Well, I'll probably read a book. And I may give myself a pedicure. It's always good to start the new year with freshly-painted toenails, I always say. But I'll update again before then. Probably. What's my point? I don't know. Having a point is overrated. But I think I'm looking forward to 2006. There are some things on the horizon that may turn into really swell opportunities that I can't talk about right now because I'm not sure which way they're going to go. But I'm due for some really swell opportunities.

I'm also due for eating some popcorn for dinner and watching television. And so goodnight.

This morning I called my grandmother. When she answered the phone, I mustered my best Southern accent. "Yep. You up?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I'm up. Are you up?"

"Yeah. You always ask me, so I figured I'd return the favor."

"I heard you ain't workin' today."

"Nope. Got the day off."

"That's nice."

"Yeah. Mom said you might need some help taking down your curtains so you could wash them."

"Well, I figure I can get them down, but I don't want to try to put 'em back up. I don't need to be climbin' around on the furniture, because I am 91 years old, after all."

"I don't mind helping you."

"But I figured it could wait until after the new year. That way, we'll know what's goin' on."

Accustomed to my grandma's random pronouncements, I don't ask for clarification. "Okay, then."

"I put that tablecloth you brought me from Italy on the dining room table. You know, the last time we had Christmas on a Sunday was in 1994? That was eleven years ago."

"Yeah."

"I got this other tablecloth that's for my kitchen table that's nice. I think I can stand to put it out once every eleven years."

"Sure."

"Of course, I probably won't be around to put it out in eleven more years."

"You never know. You could live to be a hundred and two."

"You know, my aunt lived to be a hundred and two. My dad's sister."

"Well. Longevity."

"Yeah, longevity. Just for the women, though. The men don't seem to do so good. I'm the fourth of eight kids, and the only ones still livin' are the girls. The boys are all dead."

"Yeah."

"You know what they say?"

"Hm?"

"That married folks live longer than single ones. So you know..."

I know what's coming, but I don't try to stop her. "You oughta get married. Get ya a husband and kill him off."

"Um."

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Alright, then. I'm going to go see what I can get into."

"Okay. Don't get into too much trouble, because I'm not going to bail you out of jail."

"I ain't fixin' to go to jail. Might go to the post office."

"Okay then."

And then she launched into a long diatribe about Christmas cards and snow shoveling, so I think I'll just cut it off here. There are few people in the world who can make me laugh as much as my grandmother can. She has an odd sense of humor, and when she's deliberately funny, you can hear the mischief in her voice. Other times, she's accidentally funny, and it's this special combination that makes her such a joy. Being able to hear the rhythm of her speech would add to the effect, I'm sure. I don't know how well it comes across in writing, because when I write, I can hear her. I don't know how to explain her accent, since it's one that doesn't seem to exist much anymore, but anyway, I thought I'd share.

I'll be back after Christmas with 2005-in-review-a-palooza (or something). Until then, have a fantastic holiday, or Sunday, or whatever it is to you.

Find yourself a miracle.

Observe:



On the left, we have the fashion faux pas known as culottes, and on the right, we have the trend that is currently sweeping the sales racks at Target known as gaucho pants. What is the difference between them? Nothing, save the fact that culottes are typically made of seersucker and are favored by old ladies who sit on the porch and work on their knitting, and the gaucho pants are made of rayon and are favored by girls in my age group who have knee-high boots. In both cases, they are ugly, and the person who thought them up should be fired and then pelted with sharp rocks and then fired again. I mean, seriously, why would any woman deliberately choose an item of clothing that makes their thighs look bigger? Seriously. Why?

Because that's what these are: muumuus for the legs.

Was someone looking at capri pants and thinking, "You know, these would be a lot better if they were shorter and made with much more fabric"? "I wish I could wear a pair of pants that resembled lampshades"? "I like wearing skirts, but I'm afraid of flashing people when I cross my legs, so I'd be better off if my skirts had crotches sewn into them"? I don't get it.

I see women wearing these all the time in my part of the world. You know where I live? Podunk, Michigan*, that's where. And let's face it -- when a trend manages to infiltrate the ranks of Midwestern housewives, then it's pretty damn close to being over anyway. So, to those of you wearing gaucho pants: you do not ride horses in Argentina, and are therefore not gauchos. Stop it. You look ridiculous.

And I'm spent.



*Not actual name.