The Hedgehog

1) Do a Google image search on "Ron Jeremy Photos" just before your wife walks into the room.

2) Explain, "no, Sweetie, it's for the Christmas card!"

3) Ho ho ho!
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Congratulations to Andy and Sara Jewett on the birth of little Lucy Grace on December 16th. Beautiful people!

iPod!

I'm not going to sour grape about how a Christmas near family and other loved ones is too stressful and overblown and, boy, it's so nice to just relax on Christmas Day without having to run around and see everybody. Truthfully, there's a part of me that likes the fevered frenzy of getting time in with our nearest and dearest. Has to be said, though: I've really grown to enjoy the lazy Christmas at home with the wife.

Some terrific loot, too. As always, Amazon insured a very Merry Christmas (with a few notable exceptions. Carey's gift from my Mom was broken into and ransacked, one of her presents stolen. Then, the fiend had the gall to put the stuff he didn't take back into the box, tie it up with a rubber band and send it through...! Wh--! Why not just steal the whole thing, if you're going that far with it?! Tt!)

But this year's Grand Poobah Christmas Gift: a new 20GB iPod.

Both of us, really. Carey and I each received the blessed 'pod from the other. Sh-shudder!

For the entire Christmas weekend, we were rapt in the glory of the Apple 20GB iPod. This thing is unbelievable... 5,000 songs, man. Somewhere in the neighborhood of three solid weeks of music can fit onto one of these ridiculous devices. I really can't imagine what would drive a person to get the 40GB or the 60GB, but I suppose the hard drive space is a nice bonus.

What a relief, though, to be finished with CDs. They were cluttering our cars, our home and our lives. But no more! No! Enough digging through CD cases while wiggling down the 405. Enough lending out a disc or borrowing a disc and worrying about whether you'll ever see it again. Enough scratches and track skipping. Goodbye hardship and pain.

Hello click wheel!

"I never thought it was such a bad little tree."

Merry Christmas.

If you haven't already seen it, I've posted this year's Christmas Card. Take a look and have a very very blessed holiday.

In which we hear from Mom

I typically find stories that begin with "dude, you should've been there. We were so drunk, it was hilarious!" very tedious, so I'm not going to bother telling any. I'll instead mention that Carey's company Christmas party last night was very memorable and several of her work friends really are a lot of fun.

There.
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Carey and I have received several Christmas cards thusfar and we've really enjoyed them all. Some of you lot are really getting creative, by the way. You know who you are.

And since Family Updates often go hand in hand with the spirit of the season, my mom decided to include one with her cards. I found it very thoughtful and touching and I hope she doesn't mind if I post it here for all to read.

Goodnight.

Christmas Rapping

In the good old days, see, Christmas shopping was easy: I was a kid with no money or transportation, so I'd cut out a square of construction paper and write on it:

To: Mom
From: Jeremy

This coupon is good for one (backrub/clean room/miscellaneous act of service performable by an 8-year-old). Merry Christmas!

I'd give her the coupon and that was that. Mom would make all the appropriate comments: "oh, honey, that's so sweet, thank you! Boy, this'll sure come in handy !" And, of course, that thing would be deposited promptly into the trash.

And why shouldn't it? What kind of horrible mother taps her 8-year-old on the shoulder while he's in the middle of playing with his G.I.Joes, hands him a coupon and tells him, "I'll take that backrub now"?

Although, I have to say, part of me is still waiting for Mom to show up on my doorstep one day with a briefcase full of mangled bits of construction paper, demanding I massage her shoulders, do the dishes, take out the trash and clean up her bedroom. (Rrr! Idiot! Why didn't I put an expiration date on those things?!)

But check. Me. Out: A week before Christmas and all my shopping is bought, wrapped, sent and stuffed in the appropriate stocking. I'm the original frenzied-Christmas-Eve-mall-shopper, but not this year, son. I have enough to worry about this year without fighting other irresponsible guys in the sock isle at Target at 11:30 PM on 12/24.

PS - I'd like to dedicate this particular post to whoever came up with the idea of the Amazon.com Wish List. From buying gifts to receiving gifts, you've made Christmas a much lovelier experience, dear friend. I wish you nothing but prosperity and joy this holiday season.

The Nutcracker Theory

First, a very special welcome to Benjamin Biechler, a hefty young man who can look forward to a life of being cheated out of really terrific birthday presents, thank you Santa Claus. Lil' Ben was born on Saturday to my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, Kelly and Jim. I'm told the labor was long and not without incident, but, hey. The kid's out, right?

Seriously, congratulations and here's wishing a speedy recovery to poor Kelly. This is child number four, which is enough to leave any tough-as-nails woman pooped.

So, I guess I'm an uncle. Again. (I always feel a little guilty saying that, though. I love these kids to death, but I can't help but feel as if marrying into unclehood is a pretty sneaky way to do it. In fact, whenever Leah, Luke and Hannah refer to me as "Uncle Jeremy", there's a tiny part of me that wants to assure them that they don't have to call me that if they don't want to. Just "Jeremy" is fine. Or "Jer". Or "dude". Or "lame-o". Or "my Aunt Carey settled for you? What, are you kidding?")
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A week or so ago, Carey and I were driving past the Long Beach Convention center and we noticed an advertisement to the various performances of The Nutcracker. "Oh," said Carey. "The Nutcracker."

"Yeah," I said.

"Hm."

"Maybe we should go see it," I said. "After all, it's Christmas."

"...Yeah..."

"Ah, screw it. Who cares about the friggin' Nutcracker? Actually, you know, now that I think about it? I don't think ANYONE really likes The Nutcracker. I mean, do you?"

"Well, it's... not really."

And it's true.

Everybody thinks, 'oh, it's Christmas, I've gotta go out and do something that makes me feel Christmassy and cultured. How about The Nutcracker?' Meanwhile, it's drudgery. NOBODY'S having as good a time as the dancers. You're sitting there for an hour, listening to all this music that you thought you'd remember but nothing's ringing a bell. You thinking, 'when are the Sugarplum Fairies coming out? Give me something, here!' Then, the Sugarplum Fairies eventually do come out and they're an enormous disappointment. Then another hour of praying for this thing to end. The only upside to this wretched production is being able to tell people you went to see it, proving you're some kid-at-heart intellectual. And, of course, you're obligated to tell everyone it's wonderful.

I told Chad my theory and he said, "I don't know. I think women like it."

"They do?"

"Well... they say they do..."

News & Appeals

Why we're put in this mess
Is anybody’s guess
It might be a test
Or it might not be anything you need to worry about
But if you’re still in doubt
Go and knock yourself out

Erin sent me this article from the Canton Repository (today's front page apparently). I'm told that, last night, the story was all over the local television news as well.

And, in a very strange way, I'm not sure I've ever been prouder of my broken little family.

I was as surprised as anyone to read that Bill has an appeal option open... I thought there wasn't any room for that in the case of a guilty plea, but it looks like he can try to get his sentences to run concurrently instead of consecutively. Felonious assault alone netted him 10 of the 12 years, though, so my guess is he won't be able to get more than a two year reduction, even if his lawyers pull off a miracle.

Um, haven't posted any BeckySpellman.com media stories on the sentence yet, but they're coming.

And since December 8th will always be known as the Day that will Live in Infamy, Mom also closed on her new condo. She'll move in fairly soon. Needless to say, it was a very very big day.

Verdict

About twenty minutes ago, Mom gave me a call on the way out of the courthouse. The judge had come to a decision on Bill's sentence:

12 years.

It's hard to describe how enormously relieved we are. The prosecutor had given us the impression that the maximum sentence was 10 and it was highly unlikely that he would get even that. We'd heard opinions all across the board from the legal community, some telling us we should prepare ourselves for the reality of Bill being free in 2-1/2 years. Horrifying, but we tried our best to steel ourselves for the worst.

I asked Mom how much of those 12 years he'd have to physically serve and she assured me that the only thing that could reduce his sentence is good behavior... one month earns him one day. So, with absolutely spotless behavior, the very least he can hope to serve is a shade over 11-1/2 years.

And Bill's no spring chicken. He's 68 now, which puts him at a very ripe 80, come 2016.

I'm really regretting not being there for it. I wish I would have just made it work somehow. Mom said she'd make sure we obtained a copy of the court transcripts.

Everyone made statements: Mom, obviously, and Bill. I contributed a few words to a statement Erin and Lauren had put together and read also. Apparently, there were even a couple of folks that stood up in Bill's defense and felt it important to point out that he'd taught Sunday School and, I don't know, had a really smokin' golf game or something. To no effect, though, as the judge had prepared a lengthy statement of his own.

Mom tells me that the judge was fair and focused and gave terrific attention to the support system around Mom in the form of friends and family. He told Bill that he should have known, being a lawyer, that the consequences of planning, researching, premeditating and orchestrating an act so savage would be substantially harsher than a spur-of-the-moment crime of passion sentencing.

A lot left to say and it'll surely be all over the news, so be on the lookout (I'll continue to update BeckySpellman.com with media links as I get them).

Mostly, thanks again for the overwhelming amount of prayers and support. This sentence is more than we'd hoped for and, most importantly, it's meant the world to my dear mom's peace of mind.

O Cashmas Tree

This week's Who-Gives-A-Crap-Other-Than-Me Landmark Moment: for the first time in about three years, I was forced to put on a coat.

For some reason, southern California is beginning the coldest winter in recent history and, boy, are Carey and I ever feelin' it. Granted, not snow-level temperatures, but we were told that it dropped to the high 30s over the weekend.

Ripoff! Why'd we move here anyway?!

To make matters worse, our heater is broken, which hasn't ever been much of a problem before. But, now, we rely on our gas fireplace to warm the place up. While romantic and rustic, it doesn't do such a great job of keeping everyone toasty. What's worse, it's not safe to keep it burning while we're away, so we often come home to living room-style flurries and icicles hanging from our cats' angry little noses.

Anyhow, coats on and hoods up, we trudged over to the Christmas tree lot Sunday night and picked out a tree. It had been raining for the past couple of days, so the lot attendants looked miserable. Hey, I don't blame 'em.

Carey and I have been using the same Christmas tree supplier since we moved here. Granted, they're slightly pricey, but the trees are straight and beautiful and (our favorite perk) for an extra five bucks, they fix a disposable base and sealed watering reservoir to each tree, no fuss. We can literally take the tree home, set it down and... done.

Hoofah, though, man, HOOFAH! those prices. For some reason I had it in my head that the whole operation cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $50-60, but no way. Including the tip for the attendant, that thing set us back nearly $90!

Happy Birthday, Jesus.

Hrmph.

Me a trendy monkey! Ook ook ook!

Since the office Christmas party is tonight, Carey decided that my current wardrobe is inadequate, so she took me out last night to get Gap-ified. Normally, I resist all that the Gap stands for: I have no illusions that 40 of those 60 dollars I'm plunking down for jeans goes toward anything other than expensive celebrity marketing. Nonetheless, I'm told they're nice clothes and, anyway, Carey likes how I look in them.

So we picked out a slimming little shirt-sweater-jeans combo and I tried not to wince too much at the price (even though they were supposedly on sale... kah!)

I dunno. I think I'm too fat and awkward for true trendiness. Carey disagrees, so I guess I'll take her word for it for the time being.
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IRS update:

Talked to Stephanie, who recommended the accountant to us. She's being audited. She has another friend who uses this accountant. Also audited.

Something's fishy!

IRS'd!

Received an ominous little parcel from the IRS and, upon opening it... apparently Carey and I are being audited.

Let me tell you, this could not have come at a worse time. Not only are we on very thin ice with money at the moment (what with Christmas and all), we're both booked solid, schedule-wise. We can't afford to pay these ornery buggers off and we don't have the time to sift through every bit of everything we should have saved from 2003 to defend our tax statement.

"I told you that bastard that did our taxes was a shady character!" I said to Carey. She insists that it's a random thing and all our deductions are legit (which they really were).

Cripes! Why now?