|Some family members were busy displaying their anuses at press time.|
Gabe and I did not divorce, though he threatened a few times. Yeah, I know, right?
2012 clarified for me that if I could only bring one of the kids on a lifeboat, it would be Lucca. Unless the lifeboat was anywhere near a sushi joint, and then it would be Zev.
I wrote a book. Okay, technically it's not yet published, no one has read it but me and it includes the word spokesdolphin. But I'm feeling bullish: it's a book. Ish.
Paleo almost killed my ability to run. That's why I had to bring back Lucky Charms.
I am ripped.*
Gabe almost got shat on by a dragon.**
Thanks to Spanish immersion school, Zev now knows that pene and peine are not the same thing.
|Evil comes in all shapes and sizes|
Also on the crime beat: I was the victim of an egregious conspiracy culminating in the extortion of significant monies. Fair warning: If anyone who calls herself an optometrist or the pretentious version of same but with that tricky "H" stuck in there utters these words to you, they just might be out to fleece you of your rightfully earned income by pathologizing what is really just simple eye fatigue brought on by trying to write a bestselling novel or any publishable novel: "So you're 44? Yeah, that's about when it happens. It's called presbyopia. You're at the very beginning of the process, so you'll get the weakest prescription. Walgreen's? Oh, no -- those affordable ones won't work for you." Be on the alert for these con artists, who often wear white lab coats like that mouthless muppet and have good Asian hair.
Gabe is still skinny.
Zev's 2012 idiosyncracies, in no particular order: bending over and displaying his butthole, bending over and displaying his butthole for up to an hour without any observers present; picking boogers and eating them; picking blood clots and eating them; picking boogers and blood clots and talking about eating them; collecting and pocketing garbage; complaining about his teachers' dislike of him collecting and pocketing garbage; sucking rocks; kicking his friend Jack in the nuts; asking Jack to kick him in the nuts; drawing pictures without a top and bottom; sleeping in his neon green belt and quiver; yelling "I hate you!" with relish and then immediately asking for dessert; running until he faints; performing karate kicks at inopportune times; tiny boxes...just tiny boxes.
Zev also became a crack shot with a bow and arrow this year.
|"You can stab each other in a minute."|
Lucca still plays the piano. It's mostly unpleasant.
Gabe enters his 17th year of bringing home dotcommish shwag and paychecks and has developed a fondness for Facebook-sourced coconut water. Gabe was an intended victim of the same conspiracy that ensnared Kim, but Gabe managed to evade the perps by not returning to the crime scene and trying on eyeglasses. Gabe is currently working on having his name changed legally to The Trifecta, reflecting his mastery of the three qualifications of the Eternal San Francisco Hipster Who Has Not Lost His Edge & Sends His Children to Public School™: (1) attends at least one dance or spoken-word performance/year in which there is a Flemish, Haitian, burlesque or clowning component; (2) takes a class in underwater pole dancing, cardio-stripping or trapeze (flying or stationary), commuting to said via bicycle or plug-in car; and (3) ate at Mission Chinese before anyone ate at Mission Chinese, with an actual Chinese person.***
Kim had copywriting work.
Actually, the last tidbit is worth elaborating upon: What Kim had in 2012 was the Greatest Failed Job Interview of All Time™.
Let me explain.
Kim does freelance copywriting because she hasn't written a saleable book since she had two fallopian tubes. Some of her gigs come from friends, some from people who possess unspeakable habits that are known to Kim, and some from LinkedIn. One day in 2012, an earnest young man contacted Kim via LinkedIn and asked her to begin an interview process for an anemic freelance gig. The interview process was excessive -- a red flag to someone of Kim's professional caliber and dedicated unwillingness to don clothing for trips downtown -- but Kim rationalized that the otherwise intelligent young man was blinded by his passion for bringing Yet Another Useless Content-Stuffed Interwebby Gadget™ to market. So what if the earnest young man didn't realize his mission from God would end within the year, not in triumph, but in a lackadaisical corporate acquisition and perfunctory liquidation of fleshly assets?
|When it comes to relevance, Kim takes the long view.|
Then there was the panel interview.
Because every measly 2K project requires 300 hours of candidate inquisition, right? That's how companies achieve profitability.
Kim wore her Professional Smart Pleasant Undemanding Punctual & Punctuational Copywriter™ costume. It involves a cleavage-masking black shirt, unbuttoned dark trouser jeans and a laptop case with Rorschach splatters on it in the shape of a hipster beard. The panel of earnest young interviewers consisted of Earnest Young Hiring Manager Man in White Tennies Who Thinks Kim Is The One, Excessively Good-looking Guy, Prematurely Balding Funny Guy and Frigid Unfunny Threatened Girl. Within minutes, Kim's confidence, levity and incisive grasp of the project's Unprecedented Except When Precedented Obstacles™ won over the boys (okay, except maybe Good-looking Guy, who was too busy texting his hookups and hairdresser to pay much attention).
Then the Clenched Buttcheeks Incident™ occurred.
|Millenial females' greatest professional nightmare|
|Who needs sexual liberation when there are high-waisted Laura Ashley skirts?|
Little did Kim know she had walked into a generational minefield.
The IEDs were officially defused a day later, when Earnest Young Hiring Manager Man in White Tennies Who Thinks Kim Is The One told Kim that "some team members weren't sure if Kim had shown sufficient commitment to this project." (Kim immediately interpreted this as "some team members who wear girls' tights and fake eyeglasses don't think that clenched buttcheeks are funny.") Kim replied that his lack of trust in the face of ample evidence that Kim was the best candidate was a Major Worky Work Red Flag™ and she didn't think his company met Kim's rigorous requirements for Engaging in Worky Work™ together. Also: Frigid Unfunny Threatened Girl is frigid and unfunny.
All this to say that Kim had copywriting work this year and younger women don't want to fuck your husband so much as they want to stab you in the muffintop and steal your job.
Zev successfully completed a soccer season. He did not urinate on the field. He did not quit. At the end-of-season party -- at which Kim consumed eighteen glasses of champagne and ranted about something that currently escapes me/Kim -- Zev was awarded the best ball-handling skills certificate by Coaches Mario and Jorge.
Balls. Were. Handled.
As we greet 2013, the Wassergreens wish you much happiness and mojo. We want you to know that should you feel the urge to utter "clenched buttcheeks" or, yes, even clench your buttcheeks in our presence, we will forgive you the impulse. As 2012 squeezes to a close, we clench our buttcheeks in solidarity with buttcheek-clenchers and buttcheek-clench-mentioners everywhere.
Kim Green & the Other, Lesser Wassergreens
*By Mississippi standards.
***The censor objected to the original form of this statement on the grounds that it is patently false. Kim objected to the censor's objection on the grounds that it is falsely patented (and that any colleagues who purchased whores with the censor while "at an industry conference" in Scottsdale would know satire when they see it). Nevertheless, the fact that the censor brings home considerably more bacon than the writer at the present time and is generally regarded as a better person by the writer's family and the writer, and the writer's dentist and therapist, convinced the writer that she should remove the following statement to spare the censor undue angst: