January Sucks Unless the Steelers Are in the Playoffs

No playoff football to divert my attention. Thank heavens for hockey and Pitt basketball.

The holidays were lovely. I had a blast from the Friday before Christmas until New Year's Day. I spent fun times with wonderful friends. I went out with nice guys. Tom even bought me a rather sweet (but completely unexpected) gift that really only makes sense to the two of us: a talking "Ralphie" doll from A Christmas Story. I bought myself a very expensive bottle of champagne (yes, it was Dom) for New Year's Eve; dressed in a killer lace top, pencil skirt with a lovely peekaboo thigh-high slit, and (what else?) fuck me shoes; threw a champagne flute in my bag; and met an entire barful of good friends. I drank the whole bottle of Dom myself and split a bottle of spumante with a friend. Lots of kisses at midnight and home with just myself and a good feeling of fellowship. And on New Year's Day, I cooked Grampa Schnell's pork and sauerkraut at Karen and Paul's where we ate and played Texas hold 'em with Tiger and Cora, Jon and Renee, and Step and Anita. A very nice start to 2007.

But, as always, the reality of January hits me square in the head the next day. And poisons the whole month, especially if I do not have enough distraction (thus my mourning for football). Daddy died, suddenly and shockingly, on January 2, 1999. Mommy died, bravely and slowly and painfully, on January 28, 2001. January is a month of birth and death. It is often depicted that way in literature and now it has become that in real life for me. I'm as optimistic as I can ever be for myself this new year. But at the same time, I look back and mourn what is gone. The month is aptly named, at least in my mind. Janus-like, I eagerly face a new period of my life with the lessons of the past firmly fixed in my gaze.