May 15, 2009 (aka Decemberish 2008)

Dear loved ones near and far,

To quote Mark Twain: The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.  Pretend you are receiving this letter in mid December of 2008.  Most of us were ready to kick the old year right in into the grave on New Year’s Eve, so how is 2009 shaping up so far?  Right out of the chute, we witnessed several everyday miracles:  Sully’s dramatic landing on the Hudson River, the inauguration of Barrack Hussein Obama—and the Arizona Cardinals at the Super Bowl.

For our family, the miracles actually began on November 9, 2008, with the birth of Dominic James Haprian.   Katie spent Thanksgiving with Angie, Jim and her newborn nephew, fell hopelessly in love and stayed for three weeks.   Which I’m sure her sister appreciated.   Nothing quite like another pair of willing hands when you’re feeling that new-mother exhaustion, nursing every 90 minutes and trying to eek out time to sleep, shower, dress, brush your teeth—or eat.  That’s when I started living in a robe and stopped shaving my legs or wearing makeup.

The Haprian family braved a cross-country trip to sunny Arizona this April but Murphy had a field day.  Shortly after his arrival, Dominic fell to a snotty-nose virus that left him congested, bewildered and cranky.  By trip’s end, the cherub was recovering but the adults were dropping like flies.  Angie’s eardrum burst on the flight home and the rest of us were listening to each other from the bottom of a swimming pool.  What?  Huh?  Grammy M was just grateful for so many hours of “comforting Dominic” and Aunt Lizzy was ecstatic to hold him for the very first time.  We’re hoping to coax the Haprian family back onto an airplane again sometime in the first half of the 21^st century…even if they have to wear surgical masks to ward off the latest pandemic.  Oh PLEEEEZE, don’t get me started on our alarmist, terrorizing media.

Another 2008 milestone was Katie’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin with a Master’s in International Public Affairs.  The majestic State Capitol building hosted the regal ceremony, followed by a reception at the elite Madison Club.  The event plans were all hers, as she had no intention of leaving that moment of glory in less capable hands.  After a lingering sabbatical in Phoenix and a “test the waters” autumn stay with friends in South Hadley, MA, she bit the bullet in January and moved willy-nilly into “the city” for a last-gamble attempt to land a job and start a life.  Which she did, God bless her brave little soul.  She stood right in the middle of Boston Common and tossed her hat in the air.  (An image that will only make the older readers smile!)  As of today, Katie is gainfully employed by the Macquarie Group, an international company with a stellar record of profitability and lots of executives with Australian accents.  She’s already disillusioned with Corporate America, which is perfect.  Nothing less would fuel this kid’s rocket into the stars.  Discontent is a wondrous catalyst until the breeze catches your inner fire of desire and you end up dancing freely in the sun of your own highest purpose.  Or until you get married and have babies, whichever comes first.

And speaking of breezes, there’s Lizzy.  Those of us close to her thought she would be finalizing her master’s program at Keele University in England at this time—but nay, she returned to Flagstaff following an extensive tour of Europe and East Europe last summer.  Blame it on snafus with her student visa.  But I must say that the two of us enjoyed a brief send-off tour of San Francisco that was hysterically memorable, crowned by a desperate search for a public restroom.  To avoid yet another cup of tea at some tiny café, we ducked into a Holiday Inn along the route of our accidental walking tour through Marginal Neighborhoods. My admonition to “act like you are staying here” was ludicrous as it turned out.  Once in the restroom (thankfully adjacent to the elevators, where we headed to “fake” our guest status), I spoke loudly and freely, as I am prone to do.  “Oh my God, Lizzy,” I said from my stall.  “We are the only non-Asians in this entire hotel...did you feel the breeze from all the heads that turned in the lobby?”  But I didn’t stop there. Oh no, I had to comment on the facilities.  “Can you believe the force of the backwash in these toilets?  They could sell as bidets in Europe.”   Lizzy’s silence was my first clue that something was amiss.  Upon emerging, I found her crumpled over in embarrassed laughter, trying to catch her breath long enough to inform me “we had not been alone.”  For more than one reason, I wanted to crawl out a window, find a fire escape or just stay in the bathroom for a couple of hours.  But Lizzy quickly morphed into “the adult” and told me to get a grip:  “We’re walking out the same way we came in.  Now let’s go.”

At the moment, Lizzy is back on South Fountaine Street, the one where the lawn ornaments are rusted water heaters and the ice cream truck doesn’t sell ice cream.  She even returned to the little hovel they named Crackle Rock.  (I’m only guessing that to be a blend of Fraggle Rock with the nickname for her neighborhood—Crack Street.  Always music to a mother’s ears.)   Lizzy would love to move up in the world—or at least to another street— but the rent is low.  As well it should be.  As for gainful employment, the only doors that flung wide open have had babies and children on the other side.  She’s juggling jobs like nanny, babysitter and a counselor in a program for abused children.  You have to know Lizzy’s anti-kid history to really appreciate the irony.  Over the holidays, Katie and I were with her in a grocery line and Lizzy pointed out a cute baby.  I turned to Katie and said, “If you check the Weather Channel when we get home, I’m sure you’ll find that hell just froze over.”

Some of you out there might wonder why I haven’t already published a book and made earth-shattering breakthroughs in a creative writing career.  After all, she’s been sitting on her duff in North Scottsdale for nearly two years now.  What’s the hold up?  Ah the angst of a blocked creative.  Or as Linus would say, “No burden is heavier than great potential.”  The good news is that domestic bliss continues.  His-and-her family pictures are scattered around the place.  We’ve learned a great deal more about what drives each other nuts—always helpful in close relationships.  Our competitive natures still draw us into light-hearted clashes that make us break into laughter most of the time.  Bill’s knee replacement surgery last February was a killer for both of us. You might say he had a rough go of it.  The afternoon of the first home therapist’s visit, I had yet to brush my teeth, comb my hair, get dressed or eat a bite of food.  Neither one of us was getting any sleep.  When the doorbell rang, I welcomed her to the Cuckoo’s Nest and introduced myself as Nurse Ratched.  As she was leaving, I tugged on her sleeve and said, “Can I go home with you?”  These days are much brighter.  To ensure stellar results, Bill needed to find enough extra weight to push the knee backward to a full extension.  So I offered my thighs and rear end.  Every day we get on the floor and I literally kneel on his leg for the big push down while Bill turns purple and moans.  (Where’s that black leather bikini and a little whip to crack over his head?)

Here’s hoping you receive another “holiday letter” from this address sometime before 2010.  God only knows what events and changes will be afoot by then!  Keep the faith, hold peace in your hearts, and remember this tidbit of inspiration in tough times:  Only move in with your relatives if it’s absolutely, completely necessary!