Mildy Amusing Annual Online Christmas Card, 2012

If you’re reading this letter with the assumption it will be filled with a mildly amusing summary of this past year, then you are mistaken.  If you were hoping for me to comment on all of the amazing accomplishments we’ve achieved as a family, such that Ellyana can now attend an entire tumbling class without leaving the room to say “hi” to us, or that Wade has successfully passed onto the stage of his development where he no longer needs to taste everything he sees and now instead will only eat under very specific and constantly adjusting circumstances, then sorry.

            

 2012, ladies and gentlemen, was not about us.  2012, once again, was not even about you.  These past twelve months, for our family, was the Year of the Vole. 

             

That’s right.  The vole.

             

What is a vole, you ask? 

Good.  I’m glad you asked, because if you asked, that means you’ve unlikely spent thirty-eight minutes spraying water into a series of vole holes in your backyard like a crazy person.  If you don’t know what a vole is, then you’ve probably never used a garden rake as a samurai weapon.  I do know what a vole is, and so I’ve done both of these bizarre things.  I’ve also thrown bricks at my shrubbery and basketballs at my sidewalk, all in the vain attempt to eradicate my yard and my life of this devilish creature.

             

So, again, what is a vole?

 If you combined the earth-moving skills of a mole, the skittering abilities of a mouse, and the landscaping-destroying powers of a coked-up Labrador, then you begin to have an idea as to what it means to be a vole.  I hate them.  I never had a beautiful lawn to begin with, and by the end of this summer, what was once unimpressive had become a true eye sore.  By July the perimeter of our house had become so pockmarked with vole holes, trails and collapsed tunnels, I stopped even pretending to care what the outside of our home looked like.

Eventually we contacted a professional, who recommended we use glue traps.  Rat poison would also work, he mentioned, but all this occurred during the height of Wade’s “Tastes of the Earth” world tour, and so we nixed that idea pretty quick.  At least if the resident toddler had the audacity to taste an actual glue trap we would probably notice before he digested very much of it.

             

Thus, we secured the glue traps and placed them in what we thought were fairly strategic locations:  next to their vole holes and along their runs.  The problem with putting the traps in the grass is that grass is green, or at least was green until the worst drought in a century made it less than green, and the traps were white.  I don’t know if voles have good eye sight, but apparently it’s decent enough to very rarely scamper over a solid white glue trap amidst a sea of parched lawn.

            

 Traps set, I watched in anticipation from my bedroom window as the voles consistently escaped capture.  This was actually fairly entertaining; much more so than watching television, because, after all, when I watch TV, I have no vested interest in whether anyone gets stuck in glue.  Unfortunately, very few were caught.  Instead they would scamper out of their holes, piddle about their paths, meekly walk up to the trap, sniff it, and then dart back into their holes in terror.

             

Again, as to whether the voles smelled the glue or saw the trap, I don’t know.  We caught about three animals in all.   I’m pretty sure these poor creatures either all lost a bet or voluntarily removed themselves from the colony in order to keep us from getting serious and calling in the big guns, and by big guns I mean someone with a vole rifle and an empty afternoon.

             

One thing I do know, however, is that sparrows, apparently, can neither smell glue nor see it because I ended up rescuing two of those idiots from the same trap.  This was pretty traumatic for both me and the birds and should, in my opinion, balance out some of the bad karma I’ve generated over the years for eating fried chicken.

             

In closing, the varmints disappeared around the end of August.  Either the drought was too much for them or they become so annoyed by my Wile E. Coyote routine that they simply moved on.  Whatever.  I don’t care.  I just know that it is winter now and my yard looks like the remnants of an immense G.I. Joe military campaign.

             

I gave up making New Years resolutions a couple years ago because I realized they were just a good excuse to gorge myself from Thanksgiving on.  However, after this year’s vole encounter, I’ll probably consider at least one main goal for 2013:  find a spray paint that matches my lawn.

           

And I Feel Fine

A few short days from now, according to some interpretations of the Mayan calendar, the world will end.  On the positive side, of course, is that this is the last time we’ll have to listen to people tell us how much they don’t care for Mondays.  The down side is that if you’re like me, you spent your last Saturday on earth doing something quite lame, like buying groceries you’re not even going to be able to eat.  

I know we each have our own list of things to do before the end of time.  For example, I’m going to go see The Hobbit.  I understand that early reviews have been less than stellar, but who cares?  I will also open presents early, drink fancy coffee, and read books to my children, even the long ones without plots.   We have about twenty hours’ worth of PBS children’s programming saved on our DVR, and so we will be watching a lot of that, too.

           

 Personally, the end of the world works in my favor, anyway.   Now it is very unlikely I will ever be tempted to purchase one of those stand-up bath tubs you see advertised in magazines like Parade or AARP.  It’s a neat idea I guess, but seriously.  Bath tubs with doors?  Get real. Why don’t I just nix the suspense and pour a bucket of warm water on the floor?

             

Historically speaking, the fiery destruction of the planet will be good for the country as a whole, too. This way we won’t have to worry about paying back all the money we borrowed from China.  We won’t have to sit through another two-year presidential election cycle, and we’ll never have to hear another baseball fan lament, “Well, maybe next year.”

             

After all, you really can’t play a lot of baseball without bats, which will almost certainly be incinerated sometime during the big fat game of “nuclear tag” getting ready to happen.   Or maybe they will be smashed by the comet, or saturated to uselessness by all the exploding icebergs.

I don’t know.  The Mayans weren’t too specific.  The point is, after December 21^st, no more baseball. 

           

 Now, I hope it goes without saying that I am being entirely facetious.  I am not about to let my children sit through more than sixty minutes of television, regardless of how educational it is, without asking them to turn the channel.   I also have every intention of waking up on Saturday, December 22^nd to find that PBS and every other public service prone to fiscal gutting will be functional, or, at the very least, as functional as they ever were.  Why? 

             

Because humans cannot predict the end of the world. 

Oh, I know.  We’re quite clever, we humans.  We discovered penicillin, after all.  We’ve been to the moon.  We know how to breed fully grown dogs that will fit into shirt pockets.  Yes, yes, I know, we’re great, the Mayans were great, everyone is basically great, but still, no one knows when the world will end.  

Many humans like to think they know when the world will end for the same reason many people like to ride roller coasters:  to be scared and/or distracted. These two conditions are bad enough by themselves.  However, when we combine fear and distraction, they become particularly noxious.  People get so worried, flustered, distracted and confused, they’re unable to concentrate on what should be their main focus in the first place:  making the world better.

So, to conclude, do make plans for the end of 2012, and for the end of 2013, too, which is when the next installment of The Hobbit will premiere, anyway.  Making plans will help fill another one of those common human impulses:  the need to look forward.