It's Kind of Like Fruitcake

Poster's Note: As a novice blogger desperate for content, I post our holiday letter, fully ready to take whatever editorial arrows are directed my way. Don't you love how I pretend that someone will actually read this?


Frankly, I’m intimidated.

For whatever reason, the quality of the holiday “here’s what’s been happening in our lives” epistles seems to have risen significantly this year.

If only I could read just one hopelessly pathetic, poorly constructed, ill-phrased, rampant with spelling errors letter, then I’d feel better and tackle this task willingly.

(And it wouldn’t hurt if just one of the letters, instead of casually mentioning that a son or daughter had recently won the Nobel Prize and will be featured in an Anderson Cooper interview, admitted instead that both kids had been imprisoned in Texas for horse-stealing . . . but perhaps that is too much to ask.)

I’m kidding, I’m kidding -- we need MORE Nobel Prize winners from among the offspring of our good friends.

Anyway, with all of those disclaimers firmly in place, here is what has been going on in the lives of the Dicciccos of 20 Westaway Lane, Warrington, Pennsylvania.

We started the year with the four of us living together in one suddenly smaller house, along with two dogs: our cocker spaniel (and old family buddy) Princess, and Michael’s dog, a rat terrier named Magic, who was prone to running about the place in a state of crazed agitation, jumping in the air, leaping from sofa to loveseat, occasionally pausing in mid-flight to bite Princess on the nose.

(I am convinced that Michael was spiking her water dish with Red Bull.)

However, for the most part, the dogs tolerated each other and (deep down) shared some sincere affection.

Their relationship was suggestive of how the four of us homo sapiens got along as well: with much love (deep down) and a reasonable amount of tolerance. Occasionally, of course, someone bit someone else on the nose.

Mariliz had a very interesting year. She moved during the course of it from working in the marketing department of a company called Scirex to a position at a children’s theater in Bethlehem (which included the job of stage managing Babes in Toyland) and a developing business as an Arbonne representative. She tells me that the Arbonne products are the best of their kind but when I asked what I could use to reduce some of the wisdom lines on my face, she suggested that it was too late for anything to work. (If you are not so far gone as I apparently am, Mariliz will be happy to provide product suggestions and pricing to help you maintain your youthful glow.)

Michael’s year moved him from unemployed college graduate to very much employed (and working hard) Assistant Media Planner for a sizzling hot ad firm in San Francisco called Venables Bell and Partners.

(Let us have a moment of silence as competitive envy washes over me – Michael’s agency recently won the $70 million Audi creative account. Watch for some great new Audi advertising to appear sometime in 2007.)

For those who know the city, Michael lives on California Street just below Stockton. He has a great view of the bay from the rooftop deck of his apartment building and is enjoying life as a San Francisconian. (Is that a word?)

Additional note: Michael does not have much furniture, but he does own a WII (the new Nintendo video game). Such are the choices one makes at 23 years old.

And what about Fran? For her, 2006 could be labeled the Year of Living Dangerously. (The snide among you may well be thinking that this title could easily apply to EVERY YEAR since she married me – if so, stifle yourself.)

Fran went to Costa Rica last July as part of a continuing education program.

Big deal, you say. She speaks beautiful Spanish so language is no problem, it’s a tourist spot, wherein lies the danger?

Oh, no place in particular. Except for the times when she was precariously hooked to some ineptly-engineered pulley and harness contraption and being “zipped” from tree to tree deep in the Costa Rican jungle and far from the reaches of even the finest Medevac helicopter pilot.

Except for those moments when the horse she was riding decided that Fran’s excellent Spanish was nonetheless inadequate to the task of directing him. This being the case, the animal summarily chose his own paths and pace going up and down the mountain until Fran was finally forced to disembark and walk the creature in what she imagined to be the direction of civilization. (Please – do not annoy me with protests of “What about the guides?” They were nowhere to be seen as soon as the afternoon monsoons struck.)

And then there was the rafting episode that dumped Fran and two others into a boiling white water froth of stage 4 rapids (a by-product of the aforementioned monsoons).

They tell you, should this happen, to simply hold onto your paddle and you WILL return to the surface. They are, however, modestly cavalier about the LENGTH OF TIME which might elapse between the going under part and the returning to the surface part. Fran was, I believe, pleasantly surprised at learning just how long she could hold her breath under water.

Eventually, though, she got back into the raft and was returned to the loving arms of her family.

(Out of concern for her shaken condition, no one bit her on the nose for a full week.)

Any aftermath? Let’s just say that Fran now wears a life jacket whenever she takes a simple soak in her bathtub, especially if the jets are on. Bubbling water seems to trigger flashbacks of her brush with the hereafter.

And me? Same old, same old. Besides, this holiday letter is running excessively long.

So that’s all for this year’s letter. Have a wonderful holiday and a terrific 2007.

And may all of you win at least one Nobel Prize before the year is out.