the ocean

What a crazy year it was! At least I think so based on my review of numerous online compendia of the year's events, many of which I had forgotten happened. Sorry about that, Pope Benedict. You died during what must have been a pretty tumultuous time in my life, or I was streaming something particularly compelling, who knows. Anyway, here are some things I did remember!

President Trump Charged. And charged, and charged. I mean, innocent until proven guilty, am I right? Unless you're an African-American teen falsely accused of sexual assault that is.

Taylor Swift Eras Tour. I can't say I 100% get it but I'm not like actively opposed to it, either. We need something to keep white ladies off the streets. 

Ukraine War. Yes, still a thing. I'm definitely not in favor of war. I'll take a strong stand for preferring people alive. And you can just copy and paste this trenchant commentary for Gaza.

Exploding SpaceX Rocket. So I take it that the whole exploding thing was not the intended result? Sorry for, you know, whoever.

Strikes! I support the working man. Even if that working man produced scripts for Two and a Half Men. Even if that working man is Tilda Swinton. I'm just supportive, generally. Kind of my thing.

King Charles. Whatever voodoo he used to get Well Known Attractive Man Dominic West cast as him for The Crown is impressive. But I'm sad no one asked me to read a poem at the coronation or anything.

That Submarine Thing. Yikes. Not even on my list of ways to go. 

Barbenheimer. Why does everything have to be a thing? Like, two movies came out the same weekend, a thing that happens pretty much all the time. And there were costumes for it?

X. This thing kind of has Crystal Pepsi vibes, not going to lie.

Maui Wildfires. Terrible, terrible. And it's actually not helpful for you to post about how much you enjoyed your vacation in Hawaii.

Speaker of the House Mess. The only worse job I can think of is CEO of X.

Hot Takes on Famous People Dying. Shall we refrain?

Beyonce. I just wanted to mention her, honestly. She's welcome to come over and hang any time she wants. Ideally she'd bring Taco Bell.

I am seriously considering retiring from writing holiday greetings for several totally real and verifiable reasons.  First, I would like to spend more time with Tom Brady’s family.  He is clearly far too busy aping human emotions in those Hertz commercials, and I am an excellent role model for children, as long as you want them gay and mouthy.  Second, if Hallmark movies are any indication, there are literally dozens of holiday traditions I’m missing out on, from threatening to close a lonely widow’s family ski lodge so a hedge fund can build a soulless corporate singles resort to trading places with my overworked twin sister so I can learn the true meaning of Epiphany and she can church kiss with an attorney-turned-handyman with great hair.  Third, and most pressingly, I am running out of ideas.  After several decades of drafting heartfelt but hardly Seventh Heaven-ready holiday messages, I sometimes struggle to find fresh sentiments to express.  I am sure Hemingway felt the same way sometimes, until he remembered that he was drunk and racist and needed money.

But you are reading this message, or perhaps having it read to you by your loyal manservant Jacques, so clearly I have not retired.  I soldier on because I love the holidays and I love all of you, and in some cases rely on you to not disclose the details of what happened after I drank that bottle of Aftershock and decided to roller blade to the Hard Rock Cafe.  The holidays are when we all come together to festively decorate our Christmas trees, as though deforestation does not cost us biodiversity at a rate of 50,000 species each year, and share tasty delicacies that upon closer inspection contain many of the same chemical components as rat poison.  They give us a break from our sometimes dark reality, although of course not from reality television, which is actively in production on no fewer than six series in which single mothers compete in a series of physical challenges and backstab each other over string cheese while attempting to win the heart of the Von Maur Santa Claus.

This holiday season caps another embarrassingly great year for the Schleppington household, which included trips to the U.S. Virgin Islands (beaches, driving on what is objectively the wrong side of the road), Berlin (national guilt, giant pretzels), and Prague (hourlong museum tour accidentally taken in Czech).  We also spent a lot of time at home in Old Town, defiantly not killing one another despite innumerable visits from salt of the earth repairmen with surprising amounts of unsolicited life advice to provide.  I continued working as a white collar criminal defense attorney at Dechert LLP, all the better for close-talking strangers at cocktail parties to ask me for advice about that one time they maybe submitted tons of falsified data to the FDA.  Ian continued working from home, which sounds amazing but ends up with sort of a The Shining vibe.  I wrote and performed another cabaret show, as part of my continued embrace of genres that Real America finds awkward and inexplicable, and released a book of sketch comedy, which coincidentally (hugely) you can purchase on Amazon via the links embedded below on this bog.  Because cross-promotion is the real Reason for the Season.  There’s a reason the Baby Jesus laid his head in a Farm & Fleet brand manger sponsored by Jennifer Garner for Huggies.

And just like that (minus Che Diaz), 2023 is coming to its close.  It was a fantastic year for Taylor Swift, Barbie, and Beyonce, who thus far have resisted my calls to form a crime-fighting supergroup.  The rest of us probably cannot claim to have reached similar heights, but there’s something to be said for just hanging in there.  Here’s to doing our best to remain defiantly unretired in 2024!

Ian was in Ireland for work this past week, which was obviously all about me. Yes, he had to endure flight delays and jet lag, but I had to take care of an intransigent little beagle by myself all week, not to mention having to hide from the cleaning lady. Oh, and the car wouldn't start, so I had to call for a jump all by myself and then patiently get lectured about how I should get better insulation in my garage and use premium gasoline. These, of course, are ordinary things that people do all the time without concern or complaint, but it's funny how we can get so used to having a spouse's help. I truly think the best marriages have some semblance of dog poop scooping parity.

This week it's my turn to head to Brooklyn for work for two days. Before anyone tries to convince me that Brooklyn is fun, keep in mind that I'll literally be doing work at the hotel the entire time. I guarantee that the LaGuardia food court will be the highlight of this trip. I had some chicken strips there a few trips ago that were absolute fire.

We had a strange but somewhat wonderful Thanksgiving holiday here at Schleppington Manor, as my sister and her family all got COVID and were unable to join us. Since so much of what we typically do revolves around the children, that was a bit of a change, but it turned out pretty well. With an adults only Thanksgiving, we were able to swear as much as we wanted and walk around topless, which of course we did not do. Basically, we went to our buffet luncheon and talked about the kids instead of talking to them. And the cornbread chorizo stuffing was absolute fire, as one would expect.

As is our usual practice, we watched both the Macy's parade and the sad Chicago parade as we decorated, which was cozy. I'm a huge fan of the random combinatorics that leads to things like a Jennie O Turkey float with Paula Abdul dancing like there literally might not be a tomorrow because her joints are killing her. On the Chicago side, it's more of a learning that things exist vibe, as traditional Lithuanian dancers and Ghostbusters enthusiasts debut on State Street. Fine background for discovering lights have burnt out after getting them on the tree and nitpicking the placement of ornaments.

I also took my mom to see Twelfth Night at Chicago Shakespeare, since she didn't get the excitement of the children this year. We enjoyed it immensely, particularly since they had pared it down to a tight two hours with intermission. There's almost nothing I enjoy so much I don't want it over quickly.