You know, in some cultures 13 is considered lucky...

Coming up on the end of another year. Actually, quite a lot happened in 2012.

My incredible husband got his second raise in two years and now makes more than twice as much as he did when we married, two short years ago. The fact that he is not afraid to ask for a 60% raise both impresses and terrifies me. I could never be that bold.

I got a promotion, of sorts. That is to say, I am working for the same company in an entirely different position which is much more enjoyable and fulfilling.

We went to Scotland again and to Disneyland together for the first time. Both trips were fantastic, romantic, and everything an annoying friend would brag to you about.

We moved into a fantastic new apartment with a full-sized oven and more cupboard space than we truly need! We even know each of our neighbors by name.

I got pregnant with our first child.

I lost our first child.

We lived through December 21st 2012, despite all Mayan prophecies to the contrary.

I took my husband camping, complained the whole time, and enjoyed it in spite of myself.

We went to NYC for a holiday weekend and saw the amazing and delicious Wicked on broadway between bites of Magnolia's cupcakes and carriage rides round central park.

We lived, once again, happily ever after for another full year.

All dressed up (in my high school choir dress) for a pre-New Year's Downton Abbey party. I stole this picture from my sister's blog.

Have yourself a [steampunk] little Christmas

In keeping with our yearly tradition, we have once again decked our little tree in homemade and totally disposable ornaments. We're calling this year's installment "A Clockwork Christmas" and oh, it is so very, very nerdy up in here.

Clock gear ornaments made out of cinnamon, apple sauce, and craft glue. Also some paint.

It's pretty (if you don't get too close to the very non-symmetrical ornaments) but it doesn't actually smell like cinnamon.

Christmas morning! We don't smell like cinnamon either. Sorry.

Check out these ornaments which look totally professional and do not at all resemble a kindergarten art project.

And then we made peppermint marshmallows.

Word to the wise: DO NOT touch marshmallow batter. Do not attempt to scrape down the bowl while mixing it. Just beat it up and pour in onto the pan. The stickiness of this stuff is beyond any spatula you own and should you get it on your finger...well, heaven help you, my friend. Heaven help you.

Merry Christmas!!

No More Mrs. Nice Christmas

Next year I am Christmassing the hell out of this place.

As per usual, this year I had my tree and village and nativity up right after my Thanksgiving nap. And when I have access to the pictures we took, I'll probably post them and we can all agree that my propensity to craft new decorations every year is equal parts unique and ridiculous. Meanwhile, a small rant.

My tree is fake. Fakety fake fake. It's lovely and proportional and perfectly green. For the last two years I have loved that plastic pine and felt more than a little sad to put the poor dear away come January. This year, though, I can see my neighbors' trees through their front windows, all real and imperfect and tree-sized. Then I get home to my tiny, plastic tree and I think "You suck, little tree." Even the clockwork ornaments and leather tree skirt are not enough to redeem the fact that it smells like nothing! I can smell the tree in apartment 1a when I walk through the freaking foyer, and there you sit, little tree, emitting ZERO odors! You suck, little tree. You suck.

Also, my village scene, while innovative and "different" is made of paper and contains no mulitcolored lights. "Multicolored lights?" you ask "Whyever would you want multicolored lights in your house?" And I have no response to that other than that I am sorry you were apparently born without a soul. (I'm looking at you, husband.)

And my nativity? It's this lovely little crystal thing with Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and three oddly Caucasian wise men. My brother gave it to me years ago and it is still as lovely and classy as it was then. It is also still totally lacking in the Shepherd/Angel category. It's is composed almost entirely of little rich white men, like the GOP of Christmas nativities.

Oh but next year. Next year, I tell you! I will get a real tree.  A huge, lopsided, REAL tree. And I will FLOCK that sucker. Oh yes! Fake snow up it's little wazzoo! And I will cover that thing in colored lights. Blue and red and pink and green and yellow and purple and awesome! And if I have to build it out of dried spaghetti and elastic bands, there will be a full angel/shepherd cohort attending the birth of little crystal Jesus.

(This is a pretty good imitation of what these rants of mine would look like in real life.)

Whipped

A conversation had late last night (or perhaps early this morning) while Mr. Awesome and I slept.

Silence and Sleeping

Mr Awesome: [snore] . . . [snore]

Me: [faint whisper] "No snoring."

Him: [faint whisper] "Sorry"

Silence

And that, my friends, is how to housebreak a husband.

I do love this crazy, snoring boy.

In my defense, Facebook told me to do it.

Yesterday everyone was telling me to vote. So I did. And now half of them are pissed about it.

Seriously, why is it that democracy brings out the worst in us? And natural disasters bring out the best? This past week the right to vote had us calling each other all kinds of bad names, ending friendships, and predicting the end of the world. Meanwhile, a hurricane devastating the east coast had us coming together, donating money and time to help others, and making friendships with total strangers.

Seriously, ya'll. What's that about?

Granted, I must sound all high and mighty given that I voted for the man who won. Apologies if it comes off like that. I'd like to think if the other dude won, I would be disappointed but not catatonic about it. True, I did tell my husband that a vote for Romney meant he hates women, puppies, and America. But I was mostly joking about that one. Still, I cannot guarantee I would not have indulged in some form of histrionics (though I like to hope I'd restrain myself). Meanwhile, according to my Utah friends' status updates, gun sales should be skyrocketing today. And while I understand that they are very upset that Romney lost, I'm still not sure that's a good reason to shoot him.

Neither is it a good reason to basically flip off the rest of the country because "You lost, neiner neiner" (Though I applaud you for trying to make "neiner neiner" happen again, people). Obama's victory, while nice for you, isn't really a coop for civil-rights-and-women-everywhere-excessive-punctuation. It's probably not going to change all that much, really. Voting for him did not make you smarter, sexier, or cooler than your republican counterparts. And it won't solve all of our problems (not hardly, but that's a blog for another day...and another blogger.)

In the end, next year some dude will be president. He'll struggle to work with a democratic senate and a republican house to reduce a staggering debt and get a fragile economy off of life support. He'll kiss babies and appoint judges and give really long winded speeches. He doesn't hate America or want to make illicit deals with the Russians. But then, neither did the other guy.

A liberal and a conservative in love. Awww. (This is the part where we all join hands and sing kumbayah.)

Three years ago today...

Jeremy and I had our first date on Halloween...

Fitting, isn't it?

"Everything Happens for a Reason"

I see these pins and posts everywhere about remembering that everything happens for a reason, and I want to reach out and shake the poor lost people who post them. No, no, stop cheating yourself! Stop expecting some bearded dude in the sky to plan out your life for you and make all the hard decisions for you and turn the hard things into part of some big plan for you.

You need to take responsibility for your own choices and your own desires. And you know what? Shit happens. Really, Forest, it does. And there is no celestial reason behind the shit that life will fling at you. And it will be awful and hurtful and hopefully it won't last too long. And then maybe you'll look back on it and mold it into something that fits the paradigm that you have chosen to explain your life. You will look back and invent reasons why it's better this way, why it had to happen like this, what you were supposed to learn from it. But really, unless it teaches you how to more efficiently pick your ass up off the ground the next time life backhands you, it will do you no real good. You, and you alone, are responsible for your life choices.

If you are the master of your destiny (up to a point, see previous paragraph regarding shit-happens) then spending your days waiting for someone else to confirm your decisions--or worse yet, make them for you--is pathetic and asinine and dangerous. It is an excuse for you not to do hard things, take scary risks, and accept the full weight of your own stupid decisions and failures. Either way, you make bad decisions and you totally fail. You fail because you are not as good at something as you want to be. You fail because someone else is better at it than you are. You fail, because you fail. Not because some divine weirdo waved his magic hands around and aligned the cosmos to make your failure inevitable. You failed, dude. You just failed.

(PS. This doesn't mean I don't believe in God. It just means I don't need Him to tell me which shoes to wear today. Or to convince me that my coworker is a tool "for a reason".)