2013

January Something-th, 2014

To Whom It May Concern,

It is with great regret that we inform you of the passing of Walter Thurman’s sanity. As the Adequate Book says in Dalmations 7:13, Lo, tho he may be-est deadeth inside, his crunchy outer shell lives on. And he sayeth unto you, “This is thine Holiday Letter. Read it in remembrance of me. Or recycle it. I don’t care.”

As has become the Thurman family custom, if you’re reading this after Christmas, it’s only because I didn’t get around to writing it until, like, January 5th. Michelle claims this was so I could include all the juicy bits from the Second Annual Hanway Family Christmas Extravapalooza.

No! While the events of 21 thru 29 December in the Year of Our Gourd 2013 were enough to get me an E-ticket ride to the fifth ring of Dante’s Inferno, the sad truth here is I’m lazy. I know; you’re shocked. I can tell. Regardless, this letter you hold in your hands—or found taped to the door of the bus station restroom—is the result.

So let’s start where it all began. We came home from Phoenix last January after the First Annual Hanway Family Christmas Mardi Foie Gras and High Colonic, vowing to never spend a week with those nutballs in a confined space ever again. Definitely not until Zoe was old enough to keep her fingers out of the electrical sockets, or out of other people’s food, or out of her nose, or all three simultaneously—she’s a real multitasker, that one.

After a solid week to recover, we ventured south to San Diego, where I somehow convinced a friend of mine—who’s now the mayor of a small island community—that I own a monkey. I’d been speaking of Zoe, but he, like many people I know, heard me refer to our child as a barely housebroken chimp and decided this was entirely in keeping with my personality. Suck on that, American Humane Society! I’ve got references who think I should own an ill-tempered, poorly-socialized, crap-flinging primate.

After a week of trying—and failing—to control said monkey, we flew home and promptly NEVER LEFT THE HOUSE AGAIN. Traveling with two-year-olds falls somewhere between give-yourself-shock-therapy and eat-handfuls-of-broken-glass near the less pleasant end of the Fun Stuff To Do spectrum.

At some point in May Michelle’s biological clock went off and she yanked it away before I could smack the snooze button again. As instructed by the accounts payable shrew at the clinic, we stuffed a suitcase with small, unmarked, nonsequential bills and headed to Tacoma. The mad scientists who created Zoe thawed out her remaining littermates and injected them into Michelle, much the same way one marinates a turkey with a syringe before deep-frying it. Only instead of Cajun flavored goodness or possibly a wee bit of smoky mesquite, they deposited three embryos into her—

[Editor’s note: I was planning on drawing a diagram here to show you the details, but Michelle said A: “You can’t draw,” and B: “No.” She then threatened me with a spork.]

One of the little TV dinners didn’t defrost properly, but the other two latched on like the parasites they will no doubt continue to be after they burst out of their mother in a couple weeks. We haven’t picked out names yet for the twins, but I’m sure we have plenty of time.

Zoe got a chance to be a flower girl for the first time in June. A piece of advice to anyone thinking of asking our dear child to participate in your upcoming nuptials: no. She made it down the aisle, dropped her entire load of flowers at the front of the church, visited Michelle for about a minute, then ran out the way she came. There was much gnashing of teeth and tearing of sackcloth, followed by tears. If you must know, I was the one crying.

In July we fled Bonney Lake long enough to attend our first gay wedding. It was gay in the sense that there were two grooms, not gay as in festive and filled with flappers. Though it was plenty festive, I saw no flappers. I kinda expected flappers. Hoped, really. Let this be a lesson to all you engaged people out there, regardless of sexual orientation. Wedding flappers. Or maybe a flapper-themed wedding. Just a thought.

We had many visitors during the year, and none called up two days later to complain of food poisoning. Yay us!

Zoe keeps burning through clothes faster than Enron can shred evidence. Too soon? Too late? Point is, Zoe’s huge. Her favorite game is rising out of the murky ocean depths near Japan and stomping on a village or two before fleeing when Mom-thra arrives.

Michelle was my designated driver through most of the year until the “tumor” in her belly got so big she couldn’t fit behind the steering wheel. She’s been whining a lot lately.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“I’m enormous.”

“I’m having a hard time sleeping/bathing/eating/breathing/walking/pooping/stabbing you with this fork for telling people I’m having trouble pooping.”

I’m fine, thanks for asking. A broken beaten vacant-eyed gaseous lightly pickled poorly motivated hollow chocolate Easter bunny of a man, but fine.

The twins seem healthy according to the ultrasounds. Magic wands that can peer into a person’s body? Witchcraft, I say. Witchcraft!

Daisy the dog is 13 and keeps looking up at me with those big sad eyes as if to say, “Feed me, then shoot me. Here’s the shotgun. I’ll lay down on this plastic bag I set out so clean up won’t be an issue.” Right. Like Michelle lets me keep rounds for the shotgun in the house. Joke’s on you, dog.

In November we bought a minivan, or as I like to think of it, Satan’s hearse. It’s very good at everything it does. Is it spacious? Like an empty Costco. Does it have a TV in the back? Try two. A fridge? Hell yeah. A shop vac? Um, duh. Soft, squishy suspension, the kind to float over potholes? And then some. Enough room for three car seats? Five, actually.

But for a car guy, this thing is a giant maroon—sorry, Dark Cherry Pearl—tranquilizer. If Marshmallow Fluff was a car, it’d be a Honda Odyssey. It’s a cure for insomnia. It’s a cure for ADD. It’s a cure for Tourettes. Drank too many cups of coffee? Drive my minivan. Panic attack got you jumpy? Here are my keys. Are you a tweaker with a meth problem? Set the seat warmers to Hi. If you’re not bored into a coma by the time reach your destination, you’re not in a Honda Odyssey. I think that should be printed on their brochures.

Which somehow brings me all the way to Christmas. Dozens of assorted Hanways descended upon our home like vultures on that fawn Zoe chased down last month and eviscerated. Michelle said to them—in no uncertain terms—that she wasn’t going to be assisting with dinner. She was supposed to include my inability to assist, as Zoe is not self-policing and Michelle’s not medically cleared to lift more than the utensils she keeps jabbing into my arm like decorative chrome on a ‘57 Caddy.

Unfortunately, Michelle’s lack of clarity left me in the kitchen all day. The turkey was edible, and no one’s called the CDC. Yet. To celebrate our collective survival, the next day we loaded most of the fam onto a Duck Tour in Seattle and spent a very pleasant but cold afternoon wondering why there were so few tourists wandering around the day after Christmas in thirty-five degree weather. Weird, right?

Then they all left. Now I’m alone, save for a pregnant woman with easy access to the silverware drawer, a sociopathic toddler who keeps staring at me the same way our local cougars look at the neighborhood cats, and a dog who won’t bring me the paper but has plenty of energy to draw intricate diagrams for an at-home Rube Goldberg-esque canine assisted suicide machine.

There’s always 2014 to look forward to, right?

XOXO

Michelle, Zoe, Willa, Alexa, and Hairy Smelly Guy

PS-on January 8, 2014, we welcomed Alexa “The Stomach” Flynn Thurman and Willa “Get this tube out of me” Sage Thurman into the octagon. Fight!