Such a long, strange winter it's been.
Holiday-season travel, I've decided, is like everything else that happens that time of year: far more disruptive and involved than if you'd simply nipped off on a cruise in March or September.
Between getting ready to go (while cramming all holiday chores and most holiday celebrations into the same timeframe) and coming back (to add "take down decorations" to the laundry mountain and the work catch-up), it's more akin to moving than it is to vacation.
We did have a wonderful time on our cruise of Mexico, the Panama Canal and the Caribbean, made all the more wonderful by knowing that our neighbors spent that three weeks digging out from under record snowfalls.
But coming home to a very sick little dog a month ago (plus the laundry, plus the holiday take-down) has derailed so much of life that here I am, second week of February--and this will be the first full work-week of the new year.
I'm ready--and so is little dog Dicksie, who is on the mend. Last week, her diagnosis was finalized: EPI, or Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency. Treating her inability to absorb nutrients, intestinal infections and nutritional deficiencies will take the rest of her lifetime--but she's stabilizing, gaining weight, and coming back to her old lively self.
I do wish I could say the same.
I've been home for a month, and spent the bulk of it cleaning up. Cleaning up after the dog, cleaning up after the trip, cleaning up after the holidays. Spending two days a week at the vet's office, charting Dicksie's every bite and symptom, and cleaning the carpets and floors has delayed putting away the last of the holiday season.
Which, yesterday afternoon, meant reviewing the Christmas cards. Who's moved? Who's lost loved ones or gained new family members by birth or marriage?
Taking notes and updating my address book, I was forced to notice the complete absence of holiday ANYTHING from my relatives in Reno.
Oh, my mother sent a card, along with an insincere New Year's e-mail blatting away about "It's New Years Day and I decided to call everyone I loved today ...."
Of which Brighid asked, "Is this a joke?" I wish it were, sad to say.
From my sister and her family, my brother and his wife? Nothing. Not even thank-you notes from the nephews for their Christmas gifts.
My mother's little "let's all hate Cynthia" shit-storm has passed, but like always, the onlookers mill around, dazed and bleeding, while she flits on to the next victim.
My sister's birthday approaches in a couple of weeks. Should I continue to do the "right" thing, even when she ignored my own day (again) this year?
Or should I just pack up Hello Kitty and return it--and give up any hope of a relationship with the Reno crowd?
Happy New Year. It'll be a relief to get back to work on my projects.