Dear Friends, Family, and Interwebz,
Look what I made with my vagina!
I’m talking about the baby, not the shuke (shirt uke, obviously). Though I guess technically my uterus made Paul. My vagina wasn’t terribly involved in the process since he was delivered via c-section, but she did get the party started. I guess we’ll just call it a tag-team effort.
I made the shuke, too – just not with my vagina. She doesn’t paint. Welding is her creative outlet of choice. Do you know how hard it is to find a custom-fitted welding helmet for your kayak?
…and you thought I’d forgotten how to write about vaginas.
In a mere 12 months time, I finished the book, incubated an overlord, sold a condo, became a minister, bought a house, moved further into the wilds of Jersey, scored an agent for the book, hatched said overlord (with or without the help of my vagina), and (just under the wire) learned a small theater company in NYC is going to include one of my posts in the December 30th production of their Blogologues series . Tomorrow I’ll be visiting my other favorite Paul (also known as Aloysius), who will hopefully tell me I can add “reached three years in remission” to that list. Sadly, I also managed to accumulate almost 12 months worth of dirty laundry, dust bunnies, unanswered emails, unshaved legs, and unsent greeting cards. Neil Patrick Harris and I are still not besties….yet.
It’s been a long, wonderful, terrifying, rewarding, and exhausting year – the best kind – and I wouldn’t have survived it without you. I owe each and every one of a pitcher of margaritas. Or seven. And if it’s all the same to you, I think I could handle 2012 being just a smidge mellower.
Last New Year I resolved to be a possibility – something I try to remember every single day. I kicked that resolution’s ass. Imma do it again this year, too. Just as soon as I start sleeping again.
Thanks for being a part of this crazy journey of life. I’m amazed every day by your willingness to be a part of it. May your holidays be rum-soaked and your 2012 possibility-filled.
It’s motherfucking-yule-time, bitches. Happy Merry Everything.