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Don’t you just love a New Years Day with symmetry? I know I do.

Ones and repetitiveness aside, what I love most about New Years is it’s bright freshy clean new-car smell of newness headed our way. The implied hope. The yearned-for change. The expectant want.

And honestly?

I think that one.one.one-one promises all of these things and maybe, just maybe, if we’re lucky, just a little bit more.

Hey, a girl can hope.

I’m scratchin’ my head and I’m thinkin’ to the way-way back when Miss Carol and me moved to the beach to escape cold weather and snow and all the things I hate about winter so’s we could spend our lives warmly tanning in bikinis and thongs and drinking beer and foot-ploughing furrows in the hot sand.

I don’t remember this crap being a part of our Welcome To Your Dream Life At The Beach brochure.

Either somebody lied to us or something else is going on.

Whatever whichaway, I’m wonderin’ if maybe we’re not building far enough south.

I hate this shit.

Miss Carol and me hope your Christmas and New Years are full of tiny sparkly bikini angels surfing into your home on waves of golden light bringing you oceans of happiness in 2011.

I’m constantly amazed that you folks actually take the time of out your busy day to read my drivel and I want you to know much I appreciate your support.

Thanks for everything and I hope all y’all have a wonderful year.

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I wrote this post last year and included the recipe for Apple Crack and I know it’s lame to double up on posts and even lamer to foist a link on ya’ll, but this stuff is freakin’ amazing.

Try it and I promise, you’ll believe and come into the light and eventually hate me.

Merry Christmas.

I wrote and re-wrote the stupid Christmas letter that we send out each year, refining it, making it flow, making it something that I didn’t want to just ball up and throw in the trash.

When Miss Carol read the final iteration last night she looked at me and said-

“Is this different from what you wrote before”?

So.

How about some bikinis instead?

Merry Christmas.

Is there anything more sadly pathetic than an unornamented Christmas tree?

I think not.

It’s Christmastime once again and so once again I dragged a dead shrub into our house and leaned it up in the corner. We’ll cover it in lights and ornaments and call it beautiful.

And it will be.

But, more and more , I wonder why we do it.

It’s just Miss Carol and me and Cutter and Tug and I know I could care less and I’m pretty sure Cutter and Tug are fairly unaffected about the whole Christmas thing so that leaves Miss Carol boldly pushing our holiday down the well beaten path.

And you know what?

It’s a good thing she does, ’cause otherwise I’d probably be spending Christmas on a lonely barstool bitching and moaning about life and Cutter and Tug wouldn’t have a blazing tree to bask in.

I loves my Miss Carol.

When I started reading this I was, like, it’s amazingly effervescent.

And then I hit mid-book and I was, like, it’s OK cute.

And then I kept reading even though I didn’t want to, and by the time I finished it I was like, whatever.

I wanted Robert to do BIG- he was a blogger gone novel and I’d wished he was gonna push the envelope.

But he didn’t.

But he DID get published. And distributed. And all that stuff. And I wish I could say the book is better than it is but it’s not.

And that’s not to say it’s not worth reading ’cause it is- kinda the same way cotton candy’s worth eating.

It’s starting.

The oft prodded slowly awakening juggernaut has been loosed.

I met the contractor whose gonna push the fill around and install the septic system and pilings on Sunday and we put up the construction post with our lot number, building permit, and plans and stuff and made it real.

It’s happening.

And I’m excited. Kinda. But I’m also starting to realize what it is I’ve done. I’m an idea guy. I like dangling what-ifs out there over the fence of actual reality. It’s fun and not real and imaginary and therefore, inconsequential. Who cares if I fuck around for three years drawing and re-drawing a make believe house?

And usually, looooong before the reality rubber hits the road I’ve pulled out of the parking lot, tires smoking and squealing. I’ve got lots of other fun thoughts to play with.

But not this time.

Standing there yesterday morning staring at the beginnings of what I had wrought, I suddenly realized that pulling the trigger and doing something is waaaaay different from messing around with the what-ifs and the maybe-somedays. It was a scary grown-up feeling and I didn’t like it one bit. It’s funny-you work for something and then when you get it you’re not sure if you want it anymore. Weird.

So I took a deep breath and thought WTF. We’re gonna do this thing. At some point, you gotta stop dreaming and start doing and keep at it ’til it’s done. I’m sure my enthusiasm will wax and wane over the next several months and I’m pretty sure I might even regret ever having prodded the beast in the first place.

It’s hard to stuff the genie back into the bottle.

It’s starting.

Miss Carol and me went to a party over the weekend, which in and of itself, isn’t weird- we go to a LOT of parties.

But what was weird was how hard the synergy hit. You know what I’m talkin’ about- the one plus one equals three shit. The wildly stupid contact high stuff that shouldn’t happen but does.

At least to me.

If people were smoking weed I could understand it and maybe even revel in it. But this was all beer and wine and it still hit me with the same blunt force trauma. I drank three beers and felt like I’d guzzled thirty.

I lurched home and walked the dogs and passed out before dinner and nursed a huge synergy-matic hangover on Sunday and was frankly astounded by the power of party.

Jesus, I becoming a pussy.

Does this happen to everybody? Or is just me?

Miss Carol was out of town this week, down in Raleigh NC for training.

I’m pretty sure Cutter and Tug at least LIKE me since I feed them and walk them and pick up their poops and hang with them EVERY day.

But. I KNOW they loooooooooves Miss Carol.

So when Miss Carol leaves they spend every Miss Carol-less evening staring out the window- ignoring me and waiting and wanting Miss Carol to come home.

And, you know, its not like it’s a competition or a yearning love-want or anything.

But sometimes? It’s like, hey, c’mon dudes.