2003 Christmas Letter

And so it came to pass that I own both a Dave Mathews Band CD and a rotary nose and ear hair trimmer. I have slip-on shoes for nearly any activity and a fanatical reverence for performance fabrics. The sad truth is that I am no different than the jackass I used to ridicule. You remember the guy: he had a ponytail, listened to Sting far too much. Now I find myself balding with cargo pants and in possession of a Dave Mathews Band record that I actually derive pleasure from. I disgust myself.

Needless to say, something had to give. Changes were in order.

A first notable change is my near conversion to Diet Mountain Dew as beverage of choice. At this point I am about 80-20 between DMD and Diet Pepsi. I haven’t had a shift of this magnitude in years. My relationship with Diet Pepsi is nearing its end. This a bittersweet experience since my association withstood the onslaught of seltzer water, Snapple and the recent TAB revival.

Another notable change our move to Iowa this summer. That’s right Iowa. I figured that if I can allow a new artificially sweetened soft-drink into my life I can easily see my family uproot itself and move across the country. Why move to Iowa? The time was right, Iowa State University beckoned and the law was once again catching up.

As for Iowa, everything is great. Baseball, the weather and gravy are all important and valued parts of the culture here. Although Ames is like anyplace else in the nation, Iowa does occasionally rear its quirky head. For instance: We go to church the other Sunday and are surprised to learn that it is the annually anticipated Polka Mass. What is involved in a Polka Mass? Accordions, funny hats, and crazy people in the choir literary whooping it up—it is a full blown polka scene. I half expected to partake in some sacramental beer. The congregation actually bobbed. Imagine a priest behind the altar holding the holy Eucharist above his head singing (to the tune of Roll out the Barrel): This… is… the body… The bah-ahh ahh-ahh-deee of Christ. It is like seeing your parents naked when you were a kid; I am unable to look at these people the same way ever again.

Now that I have safely secured a spot in hell for myself, I guess it would be a good time to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Ann Marie, Nina, Peter and I wish for you the best of everything in the coming year. Have a great Christmas with your families.

In case you’ve been keeping track, this is our tenth address in ten years of marriage.

2002 Christmas Letter

It has been an amazing and beautiful year. Each day Ann Marie and I see our children grow and change. Although I do wonder sometimes just what it is exactly they are changing into…

My children appear to be those type of kids that enjoy picking up snakes and playing with them. They assign names to the snakes in the neighborhood and give them personality types. I can tolerate the actual touching of the snakes, but what freaks me out is the association I have with the type of kid that handles the snakes so readily. In my youth the kids that played with snakes were largely the same shirtless punks that excelled at climbing the legendary Grease Pole at the Banks Bar-B-Q. They were the anti-Huck Finns—belligerent and toothless but definitely uncute. The Snake Boys had names like "Guy," "Tater," or "Icky." I would pass them on my trudge to school and see one latched onto some old lady's dogwood tree with a garter snake clutched in his teeth. One of the Snake Boys would wear his older brother's underpants to school. He showed them off with pride. They were regular tight whites stamped with the words "Property of TILLAMOOK WORK CAMP." Could this be the path my children are destined to travel? Drifting from town to town, one grease pole to the next, sporting borrowed prison underwear and entertaining bemused onlookers with their troupe of wild reptiles.

I am also having trouble finding appropriate television shows to watch with Nina and Peter. It's not so much that the programming is inappropriate for them; it is finding something suitable for me. You see, back in my midwestern truck driving days there was this other driver at the warehouse named Dan. Dan was from Alabama. I'm killing time between loads in the coffee room, working the Tribune crossword when Dan wanders by and glances down at the paper. He stabs a greased stained finger at The Family Circus cartoon appearing next to the puzzle and grunts "Look at the jugs on her." He was referring to the immaculate wife of The Family Circus—P.J.'s mom! He stood for a moment, looking at the cartoon as a salacious smile crept across his face. He was still admiring her jugs. I shuddered as he walked away.

I shook the whole thing off and barricaded the episode in the recesses of my mind—until now. I'll be watching cartoons with the kids; PBS cartoons no less, something as pure and decent as Clifford the Big Red Dog, when it happens. A character will appear on screen such as Mrs. Harrington, Emily Elizabeth's teacher, when this voice inside my head whispers, "Look at the jugs on her." My intention is not to admire Mrs. Harrington's jugs; although if she doesn't want me to, why does she always wear the same red cartoon sweater? I didn't put the voice in my head nor can I stop it. I just want to be transported to carefree Birdwell Island and enjoy some lighthearted dog adventures. It's not supposed to be about jugs. Thank you Dan, now pre-school cartoons on public television make me feel unclean.

All things considered, the family is doing great. Nina is still awaiting extradition and Pete is due to stand trial in January. Ann Marie has fled the country and I am working nights on the kill floor of the poultry plant under an assumed name.