Merry Christmas 2006
From Brad, Gwen, Odin, Cyrus, and Drake Myers
Sorry, it’s 4 pages, offensive but mostly all about me
What was new? Gwen was pregnant and the coolest person ever. Odin was a Lego BrickMaster and wore Halloween costumes year round. Cyrus was adorable and working hard at school. Gilligan and Skipper were smelly and stinky, but mostly just nauseating. I was offensive and whiny.
What’s new now? Drake Orion Myers was born some day in March (see last page for the birth announcement we never sent out and a television trivia game rolled into one- you just aren’t going to find this kind of value in most x-mas newsletters). That does it for us with respect to having any more kids- I got that surgery thing done where a dokter (that’s how he spelled it) tied a couple of knots in my “champion makers” and later searched my self induced sperm sample for any activity. We were supposed to submit a sample after 20 attempts or 6 weeks—but we were clear in 5 days because I think you should always strive to over achieve, it’s a personal motto. Don’t ever call me an under-achiever.
I just used the word “sperm” in a Christmas newsletter... New low.
Remember that wind storm the day before the Super Bowl last year? No? Of course not, because you probably didn’t have a Douglas fir tree slice your house in half. We did. This 90’ conifer used to stand 40’ from our house until the winds blew it through the bedroom window where 8-month pregnant Gwen stood watching while our boys lay helpless in bed.
The trunk sliced through the roof and nearly smashed Gwen and the boys like Whack a Mole’s. I was –ironically -- chopping wood when the tree fell. By the time I reached the bedroom doorway, white insulation from the attic still floated aimlessly around my family like some macabre Norman Rockwell snow globe. Rain battered the bed covering while the freshly snapped timber trusses surrounded Gwen and the boys like a wooden toothed monster. My ghost faced family looked back at me as if they too were seeing a ghost.
Gwen and I don’t remember the next 30 seconds as Odin recounts: “Mommy grabbed Cyrus and took the snow (insulation and sheetrock dust) out of his mouth. Daddy grabbed me and pulled me into the hall.”
Gwen then lay on the bed with Cyrus and rolled under the trunk and escaped to the hall.
Poor tree.
Odin started Kindergarten this year and is doing well. He’s still a master at Lego’s and did well in soccer. He’s very kind and caring and respectful and has a great sense of humor. He fights back a little bit when we try to teach him, so we may find a tutor. It’s very simple stuff that he already knows because he’s done it so many times before, but sometimes he just gets stubborn with math—For example, he refuses to answer these questions when I know for certain he knows the answers:
“Now listen, Odin… If the clip holds 25 and you just unloaded 15 at the neighbor’s cat, how many shells are left in the clip and how many smoking casings litter the ground?” Or “If the neighbor sold you a dime-bag for $25 and cut it with baking soda, how many times do I have to slash his tires to EARN MY MONEY BACK?”
Odin is still very polite and respectful and a pleasure to have in my class. He still runs to the door when I come home and that makes me come home faster.
Cyrus is still in pre-school and doing well. The teacher said he was at the top of his class, so I’m sorry if any of you are parents of the other kids in his class and are getting this letter for the first time... Sorry on so many levels. Anyway, Cyrus likes to repeat television commercial slogans and dance to any music that gets played. He’s very protective of his family members. For instance, if I’m wrestling with Odin, Cyrus will play wrestle back until Odin starts crying things like, “You’re choking me!” or “Not in the junk, Dad!” Then Cyrus will start to cry and beg for the pounding to stop. It’s cute, really. But he is just a happy-bouncy little guy and very funny. He doesn’t run to the door when I get home…he likes cheese.
Skipper’s tumor has grown quite large- so large that the vet said it would make more sense to remove what was left of the dog from the tumor to give the tumor a fighting chance. Just kidding, the vet didn’t say that because we haven’t actually taken him to a vet…I don’t even know what vet means…Is that a war guy or short for something? Anyway, I felt I should tell Skipper what was going on. I said, “Skipper, look, there’s nearly two of you now and if you don’t shape up, I might have to let one of you go.” It was weird hearing it from my mouth because just last week my boss said the same thing to me. I’ll be darned-- that dog lifted his head, licked the poo from his chops, and stripped his teeth at me!
So Skipper, Tumor and I jotted down some pros and cons of what I like to call “The divide and conquer plan”.
Pros:
· Tumor won’t eat its own poo or smell like ass all the time.
· Tumor could be an implant of some kind of body part if properly controlled and contained.
· It’d taste like chicken.
Cons:
· Tumor would ooze and grow continually, so we’d have to pet and cuddle it her.
· Skipper would be dead… I mean living on a farm somewhere in Kent.
· I’d lose a smelly friend who’s as happy as Gwen to see me everyday.
Decision:
Poor Tumor.
Gilligan’s still alive too. Not much new with him, although he is gaining back some weight. Since that new kid of ours came around Gilligan’s getting a lot of floor chum. I read that you are supposed to tell your pets that you love them and that they are special to you. So I started jotting down notes on what I say to Gilligan and Skipper on a regular basis to see if I’m helping make their day what the book called, “doggie-delightful”. You are supposed to capture the four most common things you say to them and assign a point value based on their whacky chart. You get positive points for examples like, “I love you, puppy” and negative points for things like, “Bad dog!” Just typing those statements felt weird and awkward. I didn’t know how to value my four most common things:
“Pee-you, Gilligan!”
“Drop it!”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Move, Tumor!”
Turning 40 wasn’t traumatic for me at all (ok, all of you aunts and uncles and older friends of my parent who can’t believe I’m 40- yes, I’m 40 and that does make you really old but all the more loved). Sure, my life is half over if I’m lucky, and I can’t just jump off of things like I did when I was younger, and certainly my body is losing the battle it has with weight---Actually, my mouth is losing the battles it has with Twinkie’s and Mayonnaise so I really can’t blame my body. I’m still the same person only older… and slower… older and slower and bigger. Dumber too. Geez, how does that happen? I understand the old-slow-big thing, but being dumb was kinda my thing. I just assumed we’d all get a little smarter each year. No one tells you this stuff in high school or prison.
Losing intelligence isn’t my biggest concern- I mean it would be if I had a lot less to begin with. For example; if I was Mikky smart and lost a little intelligence each year, no big deal—I gots lots more smarts so losing a little at a time is no big deal, I’m doing that with my hair anyway. But if I was Mikky big and lost a little height each year, then we’re talking about not being able to ride the rides at the fair or possibly disappearing all together. So being concerned with losing something really depends on how much of that something you start with. Another related example would be that before October 20th, losing a little bit of sperm was not a concern at all and actually a goal. But post October 20th, there is nothing to lose so I’m more concerned and mad and bitter and sad about it.
Poor sperm.
Things that are bothering me are things like wearing pants instead of shorts and saying things I thought only old people said. I get it, my legs are white, skinny, chaffed, and scarred, but pants are uncomfortable and hot. I probably have to start changing underwear more often, probably every day now. Oh, and I’m saying things to myself in the car like, “Why is everyone driving so fast?” and “Stupid kids” or “I should get me some of those Depends”. And it doesn’t really bother me that my body is getting achier, bigger, and uglier… But it does bother me that chicks won’t even give me a second look. Not that they did before, but I mean they won’t even flip me off when I whistle at ‘em anymore.
How is a 40 year old dude wearing shorts with scaly, chicken legs whistlin’ and winkin’ at you not hot?
All that crap and I’m still married to a 33 year old hottie… Booyaaahh! Gwen is still working for NMM. Next to Jodie, she’s the best worker they haveJ. I say the same stuff about Gwen every year and I just read the mush from last year’s letter and it was sappier than that freakin’ tree in my bedroom. Wow, …it read like I was positioning myself for opportunities in case she ever left me (wink, wink- nudge, nudge). You all know her, you know how I feel about her…. And if you don’t know how I feel about her- reread the second paragraph in this newsletter- I paid someone to cut my junk open and solder my bits closed for her… Oh yeah, she just proofread and reminded me…Of COURSE I did that for US not just for her.
Poor junk.
Happy Holidays!
Decided to do the disclaimer at the end this year… Gwen made some more friends and depending on when you met me, I’ve either already offended you and this letter is just proof for you that I’m an idiot. Or you knew a little bit about me and now you know more than you wanted to and now you’re sure I’m an idiot. Either way, I’m an idiot and I started this Christmas newsletter never intending to offend anyone but never minding if I did. So, this is the official apology and I mean no harm and now after the surgery I’m not man enough to do any harm.