Grumpy Santa, Unjolly People, and Cookies

My mom and I finally got a Christmas tree today!  With only three days left before Dec. 25th, it was getting down to the wire.  We ended up buying a little table top tree from a vendor in the ever classy neighborhood of Lakeport (or, as I like to call it:  Lake Puerto Rico).  Anyway, the guy selling trees was sitting in his truck, dressed up like Santa (kinda), and reading the newspaper.  He didn't get out of his truck until it was clear we had picked out the tree we wanted.  He came over, took our money, mumbled, "Merry Christmas", and lumbered back into his truck.  He didn't even help us put the little pine in the back of our car!  What kind of Christmas tree selling Santa was this?!  A grumpy one, that's what. 

Later I went to work, and I asked my boss what he was doing for Christmas.  He said, "Probably nothing."  To which I replied with horror, "You mean, you're going to be all alone?"  "Yup.  I'd say so."  He was the most unjolly sight I'd seen all day, and that's including Grumpy Santa. 

There are tons of cookies at work.  When I walked in, it looked like Betty Crocker had exploded deliciousness all over the workroom. 

Failure to Live Up to Potential.....Again

So, I neglected my blogular duties by not writing part two of my day of sucktitude.  Oh well.  Sometimes I don't follow through on things.  I try not to beat myself up over it, considering as it is human to fail.  But, I do feel bad.  And now, I just can't muster up the passion to finish my tale of woe...so I'll have to move on to more Christmasy things!

Christmas is four days away, people!  Four.  Days.  Away!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I feel like I'm six years old again. Except that when I was six I didn't have to stress out about what to get people.  This year I am epically underprepared.  I have a total of maybe four completed gifts for people and another six to eight gifts in various states of incompleteness.  I do not have enough time to finish everything, but I've decided to enjoy the holiday season anyway.  If people get a half finished scarf, or a single candle, so be it.  That's not what Christmas is about, after all.  Folks can consider it my heartfelt reminder that joy comes from family, not new i-pods and UGGs.  Ok...some amount of joy comes from those things, but that's not the point!

On a side note, I just had to yell at a room full of middle schoolers in the library who were being loud, disruptive, and offensive.  All five foot one of me marched right in there and bellowed in my ever-intimidating chipmunk voice, "Ok.  All of you, out!  Right now.  I've had five complaints about you, so I need you to collect your things and get out.  Right this instant!"  Surprisingly enough, they obeyed.  I did hear a few, "Bitch", "That Lady just yelled at a bunch of kids", and "Stupid cunt" expressions muttered under some breaths, but other than that it went pretty smoothly.  I'm kind of proud of myself now.

The Sucktitude of This Day: 12/16/2011

The last twenty four hours have been really vile.  I mean it.  Really. Vile.  Last night I had a fight with my mom.  Let me preface this by saying that my mom and I get along really well most of the time.  We're simpatico, two peas in a pod, on the same page.  But last night, I lost my shit.  Lost.  My.  Shit.  I didn't mean to.  It just happened.  I'd had a hectic day:  office Christmas party at 12:00, a final exam at 2:30, work from 5 to 8, and then I was planning on going back up to school to study and spend the night with my friend.  I had to go home after work to pack an overnight bag, and that's when the shit hit the fan.  I was greeted by my mom at the door, "I'm really worried about you going up to school tonight.  I'm worried you are going to drink.  I'm worried about your safety.  I'm worried about you spending money that you don't have.  I'm worried."  To which I replied, "Well, I'm just going up to study, but if you're really worried about it I'll stay home."  (Yes, this was definitely an overreaction, but I'd had a long day, which made me ripe for a mental breakdown, and it was the tail end of FINALS WEEK!!!!!)  So, after my mom said that she didn't want me to not go, she just wanted me to reassure her that I wasn't going to drink, or get into any kind of unsafe situation, I naturally threw my car keys across the floor (shattering my $50 key fob), tore off my coat, ran up the stairs in four and a half inch heels (almost killing myself numerous times), and flung myself down on the bed!  I sobbed for about five minutes, rubbed off all my eye make-up in a fit of self-loathing, and then changed into sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt before guiltily slinking downstairs to pick up the pieces of my key fob.  My mom was in the kitchen making dinner, and when she saw me, I said, "I'm going to put my car in the driveway.  I'll be right back."  I left before she could say anything, parked my car, sat with my head on the steering wheel while "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" played on the radio, and decided to go back inside versus stand in the middle of the street and wait for the next car to come run me over.  I proceeded to kneel on the floor and pick up the pieces of my key fob, which was when my mom decided to come over and tell me that she thought it was probably broken.  Thanks mom.  What would I do without you?  Of course, I'd be lost without her.  Literally.  Lost.  But, at that moment I just wanted her to evaporate like the mist over the Amazonian rain forest.  Poor moms.  They can't win.

Anyway, I found all but one piece of my key fob, and then sat on the floor for a few minutes and cried about how immature I was and how "I'm twenty-four and need to grow the fuck up!"  Then I ate a baked potato and refused to talk about why I was so upset.  The truth?  I'm have a quarter life crisis.  It involves feeling like life is closing in on me, and like I don't have much more time to have fun before convention forces me to settle down, get married, and have babies.  It's a sensation of being suffocated by my small town life and lack of social interaction (caused by being home schooled for the first eighteen years of my life).  But instead of buying a hot car (which I actually did do), my quarter life crisis has made me want to go dancing, stay up late watching bad movies with my friends, drink those exciting cocktails with the funny names that I've never had before (Sex On the Beach, Brain Hemorrhage, The Lindsay Lohan), and get parts of my body pierced.  To this I ask:  What's so wrong with that?  Doesn't everyone go through this stage in life where they drink too much, party too hard, make bad decisions, blow huge amounts of money, and end up with massive regrets?  I mean, it's a right of passage, isn't it?  Apparently it's a right of passage your loved ones will do everything in their power to stop you from going through.  Because it's unsafe, unwise, impractical, foolish, blah, blah, blah......

So, instead of explaining all of this, which I've sort of already done, I decided to just eat my potato and watch Ingrid Bergman's "Scenes From a Marriage".  Very.  Depressing. 

This morning I had to wake up at 6:30 a.m. because I had my French Final exam at 8 o'clock.  Between the two parts of the exam, I went to check my final grades for my other classes online.  This is when I found out that I just barely passed my Weather class.  Now:  I am a straight A student, folks.  Straight.  A's.  The only other non-A grade I've ever gotten was in Statistics, which I passed with a D.  So, this D- marked a new low.  Then, I pretty much bombed my French exam.  As one kid in my class so eloquently put it, "That exam just raped me up the ass." Agreed, dude.  Agreed.

Ok....I'm sick of writing, so I'll post Part II of "The Sucktitude of This Day:  12/16/2011" either later tonight, or tomorrow.  Pray for me, people.  Pray to the God of All Things Happy and Non-Sucktitudinal.

Zac Ephron: Man Child, or Elf?

So, last night I watched the movie 17 Again.  It was surprisingly entertaining, considering the premise, which was so cliche I thought I might throw up a little in my mouth.  But, Zac Ephron?  Not a man.  Definitely not a child (especially shirtless).  A man child maybe?  Or an elf?  The verdict is still out.  What do you think?

Some Common Types of Men

1.  Mormon pretending he's not a Mormon:  note the sexy dark rimmed spectacles, button-down shirt, pressed slacks, clean-shavenness, erect posture, impeccable manners, and religious pamphlet peeking out from breast pocket.  WARNING:  He will expect you to wear prairie skirts and bear hordes of children.  Oh, and for you to make nice with his other eight wives.

2.  Hippie Crunchie Guy:  t-shirt with eco-friendly logo, scruffy beard/man shadow/curly mop of uncombed hair, hemp friendship bracelet, dirty fingernails, expensive cup of organic Peruvian blend java.  WARNING:  You will never live up to his expectations of you.  You will never be Vegan enough, passionate enough about saving the whales, or enthusiastic enough about hiking....plus the second you use actual deodorant vs. the crystal he convinced you to try, you'll be out the door.

3.  Wankster from Suburbia:  baggy sweatpants, loose fitting white t-shirt, oversized sneakers of the DC variety, black puffy jacket, bling, backwards fitted baseball cap, biddies.  WARNING:  Read what I just wrote and if you're still not convinced, check his backpack for drugs.

4.  Never Been Kissed Guy:  toe shoes (and I do not mean the ones worn by members of the New York City Ballet), just slightly too short workouts pants, just slightly too fitted underarmor mockneck workout top, thin framed glasses, and a messenger bag.  WARNING:  There is a reason he's never been kissed and it's because he is WAY too OCD to allow the exchange of saliva.  Plus, even if you do manage to tear down his walls, once you've assured him he's worthy of dating, he'll leave you in search of someone much younger and prettier.

5.  Hipster Guy:  military jacket circa 1972, skinny jeans or corduroy pants, floppy effortlessly perfect hair, handmade scarf, Vans or Converse, canvas messenger bag, vintage vinyl collection.  WARNING:  Hipster Guy's middle name is narcissism.  The second you even joke about his Bonnaroo bumper sticker, or hemp Jesus sandals, he'll be gone. 

6.  Socially Awkward/Borderline Autistic Guy:  short nylon shorts, dirty white sneakers, plain colored t-shirt, i-pad, rolling luggage (even though he's not going anywhere), squinty eyes, and an uncomfortable smile that appears at inopportune times.  WARNING:  Though you may develop a soft spot for Socially Awkward Guy, never follow through on these feelings.  He is incapable of understanding humor or irony and will talk directly to your breasts.

These are just a few types of the men who are wandering around out there.  As you can see, it looks like there's something for everyone, but I'd argue that there is really almost nothing for anyone.   

Pensive Pemi

 

This was taken on the banks of the Pemigewasset River in Plymouth, NH.

Moon Ascending

Taken at my family's lake house on Saturday night.

"Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

This week is finals week, so I had a few final papers to write for my English classes.  One of them was a fairly involved research paper focusing on a short story of our choice that we had read in class.  We've read a lot of fantastic authors this semester, including Chekhov, Joyce, Mansfield, Welty, and O'Connor, so it was difficult to chose just one.  After doing some research, I realized that most of the topics I was interested in were dead-ends when it came to sources, so I finally decided to write about violence and femininity in Welty's "A Memory" and O'Connor's "A View of the Woods".  Surprisingly, there was a ton of information out there about these two stories and the themes of sexual deviance, southern womanhood, and domestic violence.

I have to say, I had more fun writing this paper than I've had in a long time!  Sad, huh?  The subject matter was just so provocative and the deeper I dug into the scholarly analyses that had been written on these stories the more absorbed I became in deconstructing the relationship between southern women, sado-masichism, and domestic abuse.  There exists a bizarre, yet relevant, relationship between the southern belle image and misogynistic victimization.  Part of being considered a lady involves subservience and impeccable manners, but another characteristic associated with southern womanhood is fiestiness.  I've named this paradox "Gone With the Wind Syndrome".  Unfortunately, it affects young women who are growing up in a society where stubbornness and independence are glamorized, but submission and domesticity are required.  The consequences of not obeying your father when you are young and your husband when you are grown, are serious and may involve corporal punishment.

Anyway, this was an extremely interesting topic to write about and I really hope my enthusiasm pays off!

Art I Love

http://daisywarejarrett.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/jerry.jpg?w=235&h=300

This Surrealist photograph has always been a favorite of mine.  I have a postcard of it pinned to the bulletin board above my desk at home.  It looks just like a house in one of my recurring dreams, but the dream happened long before I ever saw the photograph.

http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/73/e4/abstract,art,surreal-73e4166256566e0f3b43270ce69957c3_h.jpg

I love this image because of the feeling of freedom it conveys.  It seems to be saying, "Just let go."

http://www.enjoyart.com/library/subjects/animal_art_photo/large/CROW-IN-BOOTS.jpg

I gave my mom a card with this painting on it.  It's so playful and fun, yet the colors evoke Autumn and something bittersweet.

http://www.bitrebels.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/Graffiti-Illusions-10.jpg

Really?  How can you not think this defies logic.

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6tcYowEf5pOHhbdKp025rAxLYYUsrYXWNzbdulyYradRdIc6uGAnLv1CndBeT915LEpzJup-h4-3MtF-8MEAnHIXzZ5ncRfqRNQmGNuJjoid4BRQtXVO1CItivZEbvkyVWJLD6fKscKZ/s320/halloween-costume-a-ladybug-not-even-guinea-pigs-a.jpg

And this one just because!

Last Christmas

When I got to work this evening, my boss called me into his office to watch the music video for "Last Christmas" by WHAM.  Can anyone tell me why this song is so freakin' sad?! It almost reduced me to tears.  At work.  In my boss's office!  Is it in that sad key....E?  Does it call up some tragedy from my past that I can't quite place?  Does it tap into my empathy for poor caught-in-the-restroom-with-his-pants-down George Michael?  I don't know.  All I know is that every time I hear that song I feel like someone's punched me in my figurative nutsack.  It hurts on a deep, primal level, Folks. 

Maybe everyone has something in their life that's like this. Some song, or movie, or person that just hits them where it hurts.  For my mom it's Barry Manilow.  Anytime she sees him on TV or hears one of his songs, or even catches a glimpse of his image in a magazine, she starts balling.  It's like he has some kind of power over her.  Like he's her 'King of Pain'.  I think he's sweet and talented and all, but I certainly don't think about love lost and the ephemerality of life every time I see him.  She has said that he makes her feel wounded....like a bird whose wings have been clipped.  Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic, and maybe she never said that, but you know what I mean. 

And can you guess what the strange thing is?  All I want to do now is watch that video again.  Over and over.  Until all I can feel is the acute pang of regret induced by George Michael frolicking in the snow on a crisp winter's day.  

The Infamous Bumby Dance

Apparently, I have always had a desire to shake my grove thing in public.  This has not always garnered me the kind of attention one might think.  When I was very little, I'm talking like four or five, I used take all my clothes off at family gatherings, get up on a table (usually the one people were gathered around trying to eat at), and wiggle my bum.  I'd back right up into people's faces and shimmy that thing like it was going out of style.  I'd shake my arms and give coy looks and spank myself like a bona fide exotic dancer.  I have no idea where these 'moves' came from, or what instigated my need to make everyone aware of the glorious gift that was my bottom, but I can assure you I did not learn these behaviors from my parents.  If anything, my mom and dad were overprotective of me, and wouldn't even let me watch the more violent Disney movies that they thought might teach me hitting was ok.  No, folks.  This sexual kink came from somewhere deep inside me.  Some freaky little seed of the whore I would someday become.  Just kidding!  But really, I think it set the bar pretty high for exhibitionism...I mean, how can I top the naked table dances I was performing at age five?

Why People Suck

I know not everyone sucks, but you have to admit that there are a good quantity of people out there who suck so much that they make up for the folks that don't.  The other day I lost the diamond part of my nose stud, probably from playing with it in the night, which I've woken myself up before by doing.  So, this morning, I had to try and find something small enough to not look absolutely ridiculous in my nose.  All I could find was a teeny tiny hoop that had been given to me as the second half of a pair of earrings.  It was one of those ones that you have to stick the thin end inside of the thicker hollow end to close, and there was no way I could get it by myself, so I had to ask my poor mom to help me.  She was extremely off put by the whole affair, and told me afterwards that she felt like violated.  I said, "Mom, I had to have a stranger stick his fingers up my nose to pierce it, how do you think that made me feel?!"  But, then again, I willingly put myself in that position, because I'd wanted my nose pierced ever since I was eight, which is when I first met Andrea.  Andrea was a highschool student who would come over to my house once a week to tutor me in Spanish. She was Bohemian, had a lesbian haircut, and a nose ring, and I thought she was just about the coolest person I had ever met.  But I digress...

I had to work at the library today, and I knew that the ring, which is much more noticeable than the stud, would garner me some unwanted attention, but I had no other choice than to wear it.  If I didn't, the hole would close up.  Surprisingly my coworkers thought it was adorable.  They said they loved it and that it was really cool, and by 12:28 pm, not a single patron had said anything negative about it.  Then this older woman came up to the desk to check out some videos and asked if we had Wait Until Dark, which is this amazing movie about a blind woman (played by Audrey Hepburn) whose apartment is broken into because, unbeknownst to her, their is a doll with drugs hidden inside it somewhere in her place.  So, I told this patron that I loved that movie and that we used to have it, but don't anymore.  She was really sweet and said that she thought we should have it, and that she was surprised someone my age would even know about, much less have seen it.  I said I had unusual tastes and that I thought Alan Arkin was hot back in the day!  She laughed as I checked her books out.  Then, out of nowhere she points at my nose and says, "Why did you do this?  It looks terrible.".  I kind of giggled nervously and then said, "Oh, I know.  It looks weird today because I normally wear a stud, but I lost a piece of it, so I had to wear this."  "Good," she said when I told her the part about the diamond getting lost.  She said, "I hope you lose that one, too.  It does nothing for you."  I didn't know how to respond.  I thought to myself, "Well obviously I think it does something for me, otherwise I wouldn't be wearing it."  Instead, I just laughed nervously and responded, "I know, the stud is much better."  She didn't understand the reason behind having anything decorative on your nose and left in kind of a huff.  I thought people had evolved past this ape-like pasttime of flinging poop at those they dislike, but apparently not, because I have metaphorical poop stuck all over my hair.

What Happened to Me in the Bathroom at Cafe Monte Alto

Two days ago I was at my favorite coffee shop in downtown Plymouth.  I was there for a couple of hours, so I some point I needed to use their bathroom.  Someone had just left, so I went in and....you know.....did my business.  But when I went to flush the toilet, nothing happened!  The handle had no tension on it and it just flopped down under the weight of my hand.  "Oh great," I thought!  This is perfect.  That's when I heard a knock on the door.  Panic started to spread and I began to sweat.  What was I going to do?  This person is going to wonder what is taking me so long, but I can't just leave the toilet full!  Then I thought back to a time when my road was torn up so that the city could lay new sewer pipes.  We didn't have running water for over twenty four hours, so instead we used water in mop buckets that we had filled, in order to flush the toilet.  AHA!  Genius.  Only problem was, there was nothing for me to fill up in the Cafe's bathroom.  Shimminy.  Another knock on the door.  "Just a second!" I screamed in a slightly manic voice. Then I did the only other thing I could think of, I lifted up the cover on the back of the toilet tank and looked for some sign of trouble that I might possibly be able to fix.  Well, what do you know?  I saw that the hook that pushes down on the water release when you press the handle, had jumped its hold.  Easy enough fix.  Only, as I was struggling to lift the hook back onto its pin, I lost hold of the porcelain tank cover.  It fell back onto the tank with a horrible clanking thunk.  That's just great, I muttered, I know everyone in the cafe heard that and now think I am doing something strange and disturbing in the bathroom. I took a deep breath and lifted the cover back up.  Then I pulled with all my might on the hook.  It came up!  After I made sure it was secure, I tried flushing again, and it worked.  Thank the Lord Baby Jesus.  I washed my hands, took another deep breath, and opened the door.  Sure enough, everyone in the place was staring at me.  As I did the walk of shame back to my table, I saw the man who had been waiting for me to be done in there already! peer around the corner and into the bathroom only to decide he didn't really need to go that badly after all.  It wasn't my fault, Buddy. I was the victim here.