To quote Tom Keifer of ’80s hair metal band Cinderella, “You don’t know what you’ve got, till it’s gone.”

Today, the West Zone neighborsgo staff said goodbye to a good friend. A companion. A confidant. A sweet gal. A vending machine.

Let’s forget about the days and weeks when we neglected Vendeth (this neglect led to her being taken from us). Let’s relive some of the better moments

• The delivery day

• The trash can conundrum

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Check out this insanely sweet Buick (I think) that’s parked at Dubberley Motors on Mill Street. Each year, the car dealer donates a vehicle to Lewisville High School's Art Club, and they go to town for their homecoming fundraiser (beats selling candy bars). In past years, the cars have been painted and even modified with computer parts. This year the art club members turned the clunker into a kitty cat. Nice work!

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That can be the only logical explanation for why assistant editor Greg Tepper found a miniscule wrist watch this afternoon. Who has a wrist this small?

If this is your watch, please leave a comment saying where you left it here and the name of the watchmaker. … If you’re a pixie — Kim Deal especially — feel free to e-mail me directly at rtracy@neighborsgo.com. I am un chien Andalusia ...

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In the words of Lucky (101 Dalmations): "I'm tired, and I'm hungry. And my tail's froze. And my nose is froze. And my ears are froze. And my toes are froze." (more)

I’m really not the type to complain about things. It’s easy to keep me happy — hot coffee, fresh produce and music that isn’t made by Miley Cyrus, for starters, and I’m a happy camper. Another thing that’s on my appeasement short list — being able to feel my hands.

You see, it’s about 4 p.m. on Dec. 30 in Lewisville, and the good people at Accuweather say it’s 72 degrees outside — unseasonable weather that North Texans are adoring. However, warmth is not what we’ve got at 131 W. Main St. It couldn’t be colder. As I type this, my fingers are tingling, and it’s not because I spilled a bottle of Denorex on my hands.

Funny thing: I used to scoff at former coworkers at other newspapers who complained about a chilly office. They used to employ all sorts of tactics to keep from hypothermia — winter coats, scarves, ski caps (toques or toboggans, anyone?) and even fingerless gloves and space heaters. Yep, they did everything short of starting a trash can fire and cocooning inside a ton-ton. And I, in turn, gave them no sympathy. I just mocked them. Good times.

So I guess I now have a better understanding of my former coworkers’ plight. Sure, I could just waltz over to the thermostat and adjust it to a non-Hoth level. Problem solved, right? Yeah, but then I would have nothing to blog about. Priorities, people! Priorities.

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Unorthodox hall decking is the order of the day in the West Zone office, or at least in my cube. This festive greenery is the rebel of holiday decorations — filled with angst, aggression and … er, well, no, actually it’s just loaded to the hilt with neighborsgo paraphernalia (Go balls, pencils, notepads).

I usually attach the standard red ribbon and pine cones that come in the wreath’s box. However, this year’s add-ons were inadvertently tossed away. Left to my own devices (a box of items we hand out at community events) my cherished wreath now has a refreshing “D.I.Y., use-what-ya- got” spirit that makes me love punk rock music, style and attitude. No one would confuse 131 W. Main St. for CBGBs (R.I.P.), but I like to think Johnny Thunders and Deborah Harry would approve.

Regardless of what is sticking out of the wreath, this an annual gift from my Grandmother Tracy is a holiday treat. She specially orders these fine specimen from Nova Scotia for family members. It’s nice knowing that however infrequently we gather and no matter how far our family circle spreads, we’re all bound by these wreaths.
 

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I'm a patriot. I don't think there's any denying that.

As a result of my patriotism, I voted in the election this morning. I woke up very early and arrived at my polling place at 6:30 a.m., a full thirty minutes before the polls opened.

I was the 12th person in line, which is pretty good considering about 150 were in line behind me when the polls opened at 7 a.m.

So in I walked, checking in and filling out my ballot. I fed the ballot into the magical ballot-eating machine, as the 12th person to vote in my precinct that day.

There was a volunteer standing next to the machine to help me. After the machine ate my ballot, I asked her the important question:

"So, do you have my 'I Voted' sticker?"

Her answer still haunts me.

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