Uno Año

I believe this sufficiently depicts the evolution of a sugar high. And the joy that is cake and babies.

Apples and trees and no, this isn't about gravity.

I made my New Year's resolution to watch 2 hours or less of television a day. I know, that is a sissy resolution and what am I doing watching that much television as an adult in nursing school anyway. But, you guys, have you seeeeeen Workaholics? And Gold Rush? And you know Jersey Shore is back on, right?

Anyway, I'm doing a pretty good job keeping to the 2-hour max... okay, there was a sort of hangover day where I watched way more than that, but to be fair, it did make me really annoyed. To fill the extra time, I've started a few good books, signed up to plan a baby shower, did a photo shoot with sweet little Iris, and have been going to the Y to do yoga. I'm also cooking a lot more often, the dishes stay pretty done, and I am way on top of laundry.

Learning pharmacology, though. I have not yet become that desperate.

Tonight, after I turned off the Betty White birthday special, I decided to go through some photos from Christmas. That's when I found this gem.

Much like having Renee was like being a grown up and getting to know Shannon all over again, except this time I was 30 years older than she, having Kieron is like getting to see Renee if she was a baby boy.

He feels so familiar in that video that I spent a couple of hours tonight going through Shannon's old blog and watching videos of Renee when she was a brand new baby. This just proves that genetic stuff is uncanny.

Renee was a little ham hock when she was a baby, so tight and stacked it earned her the nickname The Meat. Well, if she was The Meat, Kieron is The Sausage.

He is already more than 20 pounds, he eats in his sleep, and if babies could play football, he'd be a starting player. They have the exact same nose, the exact same disdain for being annoyed, and the exact same ability to make their auntie do ridiculous things to make them laugh.

Wishy Washy

Someone's got a birthday coming up, and since she's got the smartest auntie in the world, she is learning some valuable skills in preparation for the big day.

While "where's your nose" isn't going as well as we hoped, she's pretty much there with giving five and has basically mastered this vital skill...

Why does the fan have all that shit on it?

My "Uncle Ron" died of pancreatic cancer.

My mom got in a fender bender.

Charles lost his job.

Hey, 2012, lay the fuck off, okay. And just because you deserve it, here's me and Ben giving you a giant middle finger because THAT'S HOW HE DRAWS HANDS.

My List of Things that Are Destroying Humanity

Sorry, but I can't keep this in anymore.

1. Crocs
They're just rubber toe jam vessels. It's disgusting, just revolting, to think of cooks, dishwashers, nurses and surgeons wearing these foot condoms. Look, guys, tying isn't that hard, and if you "cain't bend," the last thing you need is a shoe to enable you.

2. Recliners
I like to lay down and watch TV as much as the next person, but when you're being that lazy, you shouldn't have an audience. You should be filled with a quiet shame that keeps you from making sitting on your ass in a Cadillac chair your favorite past time. The recliner is in the living room, where other people are living. You do not need to show off your sleep apnea and how close you are to death by sleeping in a recliner. 

3. Snuggies
Really? Is it that hard to keep the blanket up by your neck? Are your arms really so cold all the time that you simply have to have a backwards fleece robe to keep from getting hypothermia? Is a throw blanket seriously not cutting it for you? If you put on a Snuggie, even if it's at an outdoor sporting event, someone needs to slap you.

4. Forever Lazy
These actually have a way to zip open the ass. ZIP OPEN THE ASS. Why bother? If you're in a Forever Lazy, you're probably shitting your pants anyway because getting up to go to the bathroom, sitting down on the toilet, and squeezing out a loaf is just something you're too lazy to do. Forever Lazy ought to be called Mostly Dead.

5. Fast Food
This shouldn't even get to be called "food" anymore (except Wendy's, which does actually manage to cook some things themselves). It's chemically engineered mouth garbage, and it's worse for our humanity than meth. I'm convinced that both of them make you mentally retarded if overconsumed. I know the deliciousness of a McDonald's French Fry, and even knowing they're toxic, I sometimes succumb to them. By sometimes I mean once every 5 years. Some people consider this cotton candy shaped as burgers and fries as suitable for breakfast, lunch, and dinner... for themselves AND THEIR KIDS. We tax cigarettes and alcohol and those are now killing fewer people than fast food. That fast food isn't being taxed is a sin.

6. Walmart
Just going in to Walmart gives me anxiety. I usually last about 3 minutes before I've got to get out of there or else I'm going to start buying stuff to make bombs. I don't even care that Morningstar Sausage Patties are $1.30 cheaper there than at Kroger. I would pay $6 more just to avoid seeing those people driving their carts and filling them with ice cream, pork chops, and Mountain Dew, knowing they have health insurance and I don't.

7. Suburbs
Strip malls and cars and sameness, oh my. And I don't know why, but people triple in size in the suburbs. I grew up in the suburbs, and the suburbs of my youth are not the suburbs of today. We moved to the suburbs so we could ride our bikes and play in the safety of a cul de sac. Now when I end up in the suburbs, I never see a kid riding a bike or shooting basketball. I see fences and rigidly landscaped yards with Japanese Maples and giant garages. I know people live in the suburbs, but you never see them. 

8. PINK Sweatpants
I used to think PINK Sweatpants, the "college"of Victoria's Secret, were kind of cute. That is, until 90% of the women in my college starting wearing them to school. Sweatpants are fine if you're prepping to kick Creed's ass by racing up the stairs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. They're even fine if you're wearing them at home so that you don't resort to wearing a Forever Lazy. Sweatpants, however, are not appropriate attire for the public. Has the fashion sense of women really devolved so much in 50 years that sweatpants and Ugg boots are the best we can do? Am I crazy to think that jeans and a shirt aren't that hard to put on?

9. Cigarettes
These are worse than fast food by like a millimeter. Maybe even a micrometer. Maybe they're just as bad. As a past social smoker and an intermittent drunk smoker, I just wish they'd do me and everyone else in the world a favor and ban these things already.

10. Cars
People drive these 4,000 pound missiles like their riding in a little red wagon. They text and fiddle with the radio and talk on the phone and then they try to kill me in a crosswalk or run over me on my bike. Not to mention their contribution to our environmental woes and our sedentary lifestyles. We have one car, and when it's 17 degrees outside, I'm incredibly grateful for it. But I don't use it as a kitchen, I understand how a 4-way stop works, and if it's 17 degrees out, I'm conscientious enough to give way to the pedestrians.

Endings and Beginnings

My dad's oldest brother, Uncle Bobby, passed away just before Thanksgiving. I don't have too many memories about him, but I adore my cousins Magnolia and Shannon and once pretended I was Scarlett O'Hara at his sprawling country house in Simpsonville.

Bobby's was the second funeral for me in November, the first being Sarah's sweet, wonderful mom Sally. In the weird twists of life, I actually knew Sally better than my Uncle Bobby. She brought me a set of screwdrivers for a housewarming gift when I bought my first home on Picadome, and I brought her a cake for her 43rd wedding anniversary. I know she thought I was the reason Sarah always smelled like smoke in high school, but despite my bad reputation, she trusted me to flush her IV and thus was my first patient that I nursed without supervision. I barely recognized my Uncle Bobby at the family reunion/Pa's 100th birthday party in April.

Family is immensely important to me, and not just my immediate family. I have Scotts that I am bound to, Hensleys that I have adopted, Bachmans that I grew up with, and friends who are so close they feel like family. I'm not always as good to them as I should be, but when it really counts, I try to be there. So when Uncle Bobby died, when that loss left my dad with an oozing sadness, I headed to Louisville with chicken noodle soup, crusty bread, pumpkin cookies, and my camera.

I sat with my Aunt Cindy, my dad, and my cousins and poured over pictures of Uncle Bobby. I listened to stories of limo rides in New York City, laughed at all the what-were-we-thinking hairstyles, stared in disbelief at how much he looked like James Caan, and got to know the man who sent all of us those sweatshirts with the Manhattan skyline when I was in elementary school.

This year has been saturated with endings -- Uncle Bobby, Sally, the Onheiser's dad, Jess's dad. But it's also been one filled with beginnings -- Lilly, Kieron, Elly Gail, Charlotte, Anna, Hanley. I don't know what 2012 holds, but if 2011 taught me anything, it's to live every day like the end of the world is on its way.

Tacky/FABULOUS

I recently met a fella named Michael at a gal named Seana's sweet potato-inspired birthday party. Leigh introduced us, telling me that Michael was the one who'd had that awesome Martha Stewarty Halloween party that we missed because we met the Terminator that night (and maybe did one too many of a shot called Treehouse). I was already feeling like a kindred spirit, and then he sealed the deal when he said he said he was planning a Tacky Sweater Christmas party.

You guys, I was at a party devoted to sweet potatoes! I was talking to a Halloweenster! There were plans for a Tacky Sweater Christmas Party!

In anticipation of this spirited affair, Leigh and I spent weeks scouring the thrift stores. I knew I wanted a knit sweater and not some crap with reindeer in a hot tub on it, so I ended up buying pretty much every knit Christmas sweater I uncovered. I also got the one with the reindeer in a hot tub on it, just in case.

None of them were maximum tacky, so I decided to enhance two of the finest with lights and jingle bells to really bring home the kitsch. Then I decided to add some flair to the other ones, and before you knew it, I had a full on collection... a perfect addition to the Hensley Family Christmas Traditions. 

Leigh and I got to the party early, and thank god we did.

Tacky sweaters just scream for awkward family photos.

I have never met a gay man who doesn't know how to make punch. Michael had built an ice cave, had anchored snowflakes to the ceiling, had a train track on his mantle, had a Christmas tree so beautiful it could have been in a magazine, but the poor guy thought you could make hummus with a cake mixer. What he lacks in cooking skills, though, he more than makes up for in hunting down extraordinary kitchy oddities, so after we got the food figured out, we toured his home museum.

This man has collections that make me want to collect, but where mine would look like a hoarder's paradise, his look like, well, like a gay man's decor. Snooping through his house (I actually asked for permission!) was fabulous, as was his sweater with names of some stranger's family members ironed-on in Scrabble fashion. There was also a Liz Wear sweater with quilt-like squares that had things like reindeer and sleighs and ALIENS?!! on it that was pretty amazing. That party was a blast.

And so was revealing our new tradition to my wonderful, and no doubt grateful, family.