This morning I sawed off the head of a plastic honey bear, without a second thought, to get to the crystallized gunk stuck in his belly. The plumbers are ripping apart a living room wall to fix (read: saw, epoxy, hammer, Christmas tree swaying) a cracked pipe. My additional family pod, three adults and a reindeer-sized dog — quarantined and clear and ready to Christmas — are on the way, set to arrive in the middle of this. Bring it on, 2020, give it your best shot because I am DONE with you in a matter of days.
Note: Cone of silence since April due to hip collapse, surgery and quarantined, difficult recovery in Seattle. I don’t want to read whiny so why should you. But here I stand. There you stand. We did it.
I keep learning in my sixth decade: learning about politics, my body, my friendships, my soul, loss. I am more in love with the Pacific Northwest than ever before, not just for the King Fisher I spotted minutes into my first walk post-surgery, or the Bewick’s Wrens nesting over my head while I recuperated under the blooming white antique roses. Add the support of friends, extended family and cousins, the food, simple meals and beautiful cakes. It was an exercise is breathing and gratitude. It was a challenge in healing. It was a time to remember.
I am assembling ingredients for a fancy Empress Gin + cranberry punch for Christmas Eve, complete with my mother’s Steuben punch bowl our first Scottish Terrier slept in decades ago, to be served in cut glass cups, because, friends, why not. We will dress fancy and toast the gatherings to come and the sweet, sweet hard-earned chance to be together as family for a little while, safe and secure in our little pod.
I can’t wait to hug you. Smack my lips on your cheeks, squeeze the air from your body with my arms, sit close together and delight in you. Let the memory of elbow bumps fade. I have missed you. I might even skip across the room when I see you: bionic is the word of the year.
Merry and Fa La F’ing La. We are almost there.