Christmas Check-List

Since I utilize this blog to share everything that goes through my twisted little brain with you people, I thought you'd all enjoy being privy to my Christmas Check-List -- you know, the list of things I have to accomplish before the most festive, and depressing holiday of the year is upon us. The goal is to put a little check next to each item on the list which signifies "task accomplished". Let's see how successful I've been so far this holiday season, shall we?

-- Gifts for Mom, Dad, Step Mom, Sister, Uncle, Godmother, Nephews, Cousins, Aunt -- CHECK!
-- Donations made to worthwhile children's charities -- CHECK!
-- Recipe for spice cake downloaded from internet and ingredients purchased -- half-CHECK!
-- Alienation by friends I've had for years who chose the holiday with the highest suicide rate to prove to be useless and good for absolutely nothing worthwhile in my life -- CHECK!
-- Receipt of guilt from family for not being able to fix irreperable rift between certain key members of said family -- CHECK!
-- Failure to succeed at attempts to be a better person, friend, employee, writer, the latter due to the fact that all creativity and skill goes out the window when one resorts to using lists as blog fodder -- CHECK!
-- Ingestion of 1 gazillion calories in celebratory carbs and alcohol - CHECK!
-- Purchase of 3 Calvin Klein dresses (on sale) to salve hurt feelings over several of the above items, using much-needed Christmas and bill-paying funds -- CHECK!
-- Depressive morass within which to sink, with the help of Bing Crosby and Christmas chocolate, with a vodka chaser. Ok, several vodka chasers -- CHECK!
-- Pre-New Year's resolutions to stop letting the wrong people reside in my life, and to stop caring so much about what these wrong people think when I kick their asses OUT! -- CHECK!

Looks like a pretty successful holiday season so far. Merry Christmas everyone. If anyone is wondering what I would like from Kris Kringle, how about a straight razor and cyanide?

That was a joke. Please don't call any hotlines on my behalf. It's called "caustic humor", everyone. But I could use some more vodka.

Follow the train

So, here's the train of thought that has been choo-chooing through my little brain for the past week or so:

Although the thought of relationships still makes me cringe (and, in some cases break out in hives) lately I keep thinking of all of the idiots that could have been, all the men I've somewhat liked before, all the dudes who couldn't find my car (figuratively speaking, of course), and these thoughts have been leaving me a feeling somewhat akin to regret.

Anyway, I've decided that maybe it's not all the idiots of the past but rather the idea of them that's getting to me. It's the idea of finding a Jim to my Pam, a Tony to my Angela, a Bruce Willis to my Cybill Shepherd. Not just anyone, mind you, but someone smart, someone funny, someone who actually makes my heart beat faster instead of coming to a dead stop for once. Maybe, just maybe I'm ready to let the next dude find my car, sink my Titanic or [insert your own insipid pop culture-laced phrase here]. Maybe I'm ready for love.

Orrrrrr... maybe not. Because it usually doesn't take long for me to snap out of this line of nonsensical thinking. But it's an interesting train to follow while it lasts.

One more blog off the horse

I'm so lucky -- I have friends who actually make me happy. Sounds simple -- don't everyone's friends make them happy? Actually, no. I know a lot of people who hang out with people who actually make them sad, bitter, prone to back biting. I have those kinds of people in my life, too. But as luck would have it, I also have real friends -- who take me out for a beer when life gets rough; who yell "That bastard!" when someone breaks my heart; and who text me from 2,000 miles away just to make me giggle so I'll miss them less. And I'm so grateful. Really, truly grateful.

I promise a surly, sarcastic blog soon. Truly I do. I'm just writing shit as I see it right now. I'll get back on the entertaining, bitchy horse just as soon as I can. Pinky swear.

Being allowed to cry

It's easier to cry over the little things -- the broken date, the petty argument, the stupid boy who didn't mean shit to me to begin with. What's happening to you is too big. Too unbridled. If I start crying over this I might never stop.

I can't talk about it. If I do people might misunderstand, think I'm looking for sympathy. I don't even know how to write this stupid blog. Because it's not happening to me. It's happening around me. It's happening to you.

I wish it were happening to me -- if it were than maybe I could control some of it, stop it from being so big and daunting. You wouldn't be able to say things like, "Look at my worthless fucking life", not if I was in control. I wouldn't let it get that dramatic. I would make all these problems small, and petty, and meaningless. If I were in control we could still be angry about the little things. And we'd be allowed to cry.

I'm sorry this is happening to you. I'm sorry I can't fix it. I'm sorry I'm not crying right now. It's not for any other reason than I can't, I swear.

Advice to men going on a first date with me

Please, please, please... DO NOT continue to rub my thigh after I have repeatedly moved my chair away from yours. It's called "Taking a hint". Why do you think I keep moving away? Seriously. If I wanted your hand there I wouldn't be grimacing and my chair would still be on your side of the table.

Beware of twins prone to panic

This is to prove that although some of us (read: ME) are real bitches, my friends and I really do care about each other A LOT. Even if the following is a comedy of errors.

I was out a couple nights ago with my temporary roomie and my former roomie having a couple of beers in midtown when my sister called to say that she got a cryptic email from our mutual friend, Ronnie. It said, "I just wanted to reach out to you about Christine". Jessica texted and called him back, then called Christine, and then called me when neither one of them answered here. I, in turn, called Christine, Ron, and every single other person we know in common, none of whom answered, except for one, whom I sent into a little panic with my "Do you know if Christine is alive?" questioning.

At some point, amidst all of this calling, my sister finally got Ron to answer the phone and he said he was talking to Christine before he texted Jess, and accidentally typed her name but he really meant to say "I just wanted to reach out to you about THE WEDDING", his pending nuptials, in which my sister will play Flower Girl (and please don't ask why a 31 year-old woman will be the Flower Girl because I don't have time to answer). In the meantime, Christine texted me all concerned because she had two missed calls from me and wanted to find out if I was okay, which I was now that I was no longer picturing her lying in the emergency room.

Which proves that my friends are a caring bunch. Or Jessica and I are just easily prone to panic. Because even if Ron had typed the word "Christine" in that text to Jessica, what made us think it was due to some kind of emergency? Maybe he was saying, "I'm reaching out to plan Christine's birthday party" or "I'm reaching out because Christine told me you like baklava". Could have been anything really.

What not to do... if you're a woman

I had an awesome afternoon. I had to go to go to a 2 1/2 hour client meeting, the first half-hour of which was spent raking me over the coals. Which was super fun, lemme tell you.

It's not worth going into what I did wrong. That would involve explaining exactly what it is I do for a living, and then going on to explain the intricacies of my working relationships with various travel professionals... You're asleep already, aren't you?

The point is I pissed someone off. Basically, I stood up for myself when a bully pushed me in the schoolyard. And now I'm paying for it. The bully in question is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things to me or anyone else whose job isn't based on kissing the wrong asses... and often. Even though he started the verbal shoving match, I'm in the wrong because my client says so. Because to men of a certain age and supposed pedigree, being "pushed too far" can be accomplished with any degree of pushing when it is done by a female. That's what it came down to. I was too young, too female and too smart, frankly, to be allowed to talk to him that way, no matter what he said to provoke me.

The moral of this tale, specifically to be taken seriously by any young, smart, upwardly mobile women who may be reading this? Men suck. Especially middle-aged white men. There have been some exceptions throughout history -- Elvis, Bill Clinton, my Uncle Frank. But by and large, middle-aged white men as a demographic SUCK ASS. And NOT in the good way.