As I ponder the magic and beauty of wintertime and the individuality of each snow flake there is much to be thankful for as the year comes to a close. There's a smart new President getting ready to move into the White House... The constitution-ignoring, love-it-or-leave-it extreme right-wing numbnuts have been made to say uncle... We can be friends with France again (Yay! and, Yum!)...the scandal involving the Governor of Illinois has erased much of the stain New York Governors left on the national psyche this year...and we all learned a new curse word care of an Iraqi journalist ("Son of a shoe") that comes with a physical gesture that simultaneously allows us to express our distain for public figures while also unloading the unwanted dregs from our closet floor.
On a more personal note I am grateful that I finally rediscovered the name (Steve S.) of the guy who lit my hair on fire at a party back in high school. No adults were present and I never ratted him out. I just pushed the whole thing to one of the farthest corners of my mind and forgot about it. But being lit on fire has a way of gnawing at one as the years go by. It was especially irksome since even though I was completely sober at the time and still remember the friend who helped me cut the burnt end of my pony tail off in the bathroom afterwards, I couldn't remember who had done it. Thanks to the long tentacles of Facebook, I now know who he is and where he lives should I ever choose to track him down and light his ass on fire. I'm just keeping it as an option and possessing that nugget of imaginary power alone has quieted down some long- restless part of me.
And I think to myself: what a wonderful world.
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