Well, New Years day kicked off with our usual brunch down to Celeste and Bud’s. The whole gang was there: Celeste and Bud (of course), Rita and Smitty, Betty and Pat, Dot and Tommy, and Shirley and Junior, and me and Charlie. We’ve been doing this since God was in diapers, and boy, oh, boy, we’ve had some good times over the years.

Phew! Only one more holiday to go! But New Years is kid’s stuff compared to the Big Enchilada: Christmas. What a production! I feel like a Mack truck hit me, but, you know, in a good sort of way.

I wish I could be more relaxed about these things; having the house clean and not getting so caught up in making everything just right. But at this point, it’s kind of hard to change. My sister Irene’s the same way. Tidiness was passed down to us from our mother, who got it from her mother.

Yikes! I can’t believe it: Christmas is Saturday! How did that happen?

So the other day, I’m on the phone to this catalogue company, right? Doing a little Christmas shopping for Charlie. When they launch into the usual spiel, “You’re a valuable customer, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…The next available representative will be with you in a moment.”

And I say, “Thank you!” It’s a recording for God’s sake!

I continue listening to some Liberace version of Jingle Bells for a minute or two, when I hear “Your call is important to us. Thank you for waiting.”

Have you ever gotten a little crack in the skin at the corner of your thumb? (God, I sound like Andy Rooney, which makes me want to go pluck my eyebrows, but you get what I’m saying.) It’s kind of like a papercut, this crack, but it’s caused by how dry the air is, now that winter’s here. I get these things no matter how much moisturizer I put on. Sure, it looks small and insignificant, but when I’m lying in bed and that tiny spot starts to throb, forget sleeping. I mean, the whole world is just that crack on my thumb and Charlie’s snoring.

The Women Who Run With the Moose (Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot, Shirley and me) have been in training lately. The last four weeks, we’ve been meeting every Saturday and taking a power walk, gradually working our way up from two miles, to three, then four and topping out at five miles. Seriously! And of course, doing it as a group, you push yourselves harder. Boy, I can really feel it in my legs, after.

You know, there are just some things you shouldn’t see up close. In fact, if you never had to ever see ‘em, you could die happy. Last week, I had the dubious pleasure of gazing upon one of these things: color photographs of my back teeth.

Technology is part of this, of course. I mean, just because it is possible to see your back teeth up close doesn’t mean you should. Like the photos of my colon the gastroenterologist sent me home with last year. What was I supposed to do with those? Make Christmas cards out of ‘em?

Well, hate to burden you with this, but I’ve been sick for over a week now with some creeping crud that’s been going around. Don’t you just hate that? Every day is a new adventure; I get rid of one crap symptom and develop another. It’s like you’ve thrown a party for all these folks you don’t want to see.

This photo here pretty much sums up the difference between men and women. What is it, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a boot brush, modified. Beautiful, isn’t it?

Awhile back, Charlie says to me, “Ida, you know what we need?”

“World peace?”

“Smart-aleck. I was thinking of something a little closer to home.”

“A complete kitchen make-over?”

“Smaller.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. New cloth napkins with matching placemats?”

Last week was the anniversary of my mother’s death. Seven years! I can’t believe it. It seems like only yesterday and at the same time, a million years ago.

My mom lived with cancer on and off for four and a half years. And boy, oh, boy, that last one was tough. I like roller coaster rides and all, but only at the fair. Not so much at home.