December 2007

My plans? Not extraordinary … which means I must buy an extraordinary outfit to compensate. I hope I can find something with sparkles. And maybe a tiara and feather boa. (I am mostly kidding about that last part.)


“Why don’t you leave if you’re feeling so sick? We can close without you.”

“Because I wouldn’t go home and go to bed, I would go home and watch a movie with a boy.”

“Ooo, a boy. Someone new you’re dating?”

“No, just a boy that I like to lie on and watch movies.”

“Aww, I MISS that.”

“Miss that? You have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and when you’re on top of a boyfriend, they like, expect stuff. It sucks.”

Last year when an older gentleman inquired as to my plans for the New Year, he informed me that my plans were very important because the way one spends New Year’s Eve is indicative of the way one will spend the following year.

The last two New Year’s Eves were spent working and drinking at The Wine Bar, waiting for The Kid From Boston to call from out of state. My last two years could not be summed up more efficiently.

This year I have been trying to make an EXTRA effort to make plans, to have fun, to celebrate a night that is, essentially, drinking at the bar and hoping for a kiss at midnight. (Now why does that agenda sound familiar?)

And, since I have decided to make it a huge deal, Karma has decided to be a bitch and do everything it can to make it difficult for me. The Girls From High School are going on trips with their boyfriends/fiancés, the Bestest Friend is in Florida with her family, plane tickets to see my best friend The Hair Stylist in LA are too expensive, college friends are in their hometowns for the holidays, and the others: out of town, romantic interlude, and required work shifts. (I do not have that many friends –I really don’t like too many people).  I have a few friends I could call, but I don’t know if my evening’s enjoyment would rival that to being alone. 

What does it say about this coming year if I plan to get drunk by myself? Or ignore everyone and just go to bed at 9pm? Work on some potential freelance writing projects?  This is going to be a great year.

I celebrated Christmas with my mother’s family. Even if we weren’t family, I like to think the cousins and I would be friends … or at least drinking buddies. My mother is the fifth child of six, which means that the bulk of my cousins are older and married with children of their own, some as old as middle school. Despite being parents, they are still fun –Baileys was spooned over ice cream and Grand Marnier poured into champagne, that extra bang for the holiday buck –and young; their stories of recent drunken escapades, which included golf course flip cup and bar-top dancing, proved better than those of the twenty-somethings crowd.

We all drank a lot and it was quite delicious and amusing. Just like it always is. Unfortunately for me, most of the cousins could hold their own better than I could. The alcohol hit me quickly, stemming from sleep deficiencies (late-night bedtimes of 5am followed by early alarms of 8am) and skipped meals. That and, ok, maybe quantity was a factor.

Splendid. Apparently, this was the year for me to be “that guy”.

Although the dirty jokes should have been my first tip-off, I didn’t realize just how drunk I was until a younger cousin, who is a junior at a southwestern university, and I started debating politics, and I facetiously countered, “You’re right, not everyone deserves equal rights –let’s not only keep marriage from the gays, but let’s take it away from the blacks as well!”

Not my most rational rebuttal, but I thought it better than a “You’re wrong. And stupid.” Christmas is probably not the best time to indirectly tell family members that their right-wing views are bigoted. Classy. I cut myself off, went upstairs to call The Bestest Friend and pass out, barely waking up when The Sister tried to force-feed water and insist on contact removal. Instead of my appreciation, I told her, “I hate you.” Luckily, she laughed … at all four declarations. She understands that I like me some sleep.

I hope everyone enjoyed their family, in whatever way they chose to demonstrate it, this holiday season.

He called me fine, which caused an eye roll; he called me beautiful, which caused a blush.  

He said I was a sweetheart; I said, with a half-smile, that it was all an act –even though I felt, for the first time in a long time, that when this one looked at me, he actually saw me.

He said he noticed that I tried to hide my unhappiness, but sometimes, when my guard was down, I had a spark inside me that shined and hinted at how I must have used to be, before when I was happy.

He said the ex was a complete moron to let me go and that if he had me, there’s no way he would let me leave his side, much less live in another state.

He said he wished circumstances were different, so that he could have a chance with me.

But the circumstances couldn’t be changed.  So we slept on separate couches.

My fidgeting and distraction-susceptibility the day before the Christmas break while at work in corporate America is worse than that experienced in grade school … because they EXPECT actual work.  Where is the party? Where is the movie? Teachers at least realize the shortened attention span and do they fight against it? Nay, they succomb. My boss should take notes.

But ah HA! Instead of working I am reading blogs. And laughing (out loud) in my cube, subsequently alienating all my co-workers because I am that crazy girl who sits and laughs to excel spreadsheets.

Here are (a few of) the random posts that have made me laugh today:

The Baby Seals Club


Road Kills Toys (via Mighty Goods)

More later.  Unless I decide to skip out early … 

Last night at The Wine Bar, I was bullshitting with two of my favorite customers, who were on their second bottle, while stacking their three dozen pieces of dishware.  I usually clear all plates at the same time, mostly because I am lazy, but also because otherwise it hinders my drinking on the job.  It’s more efficient to do the job only once.

When the customer’s story was over, I nonchalantly picked up my stack of dishes to bus back to the kitchen.  She looked at me, amazed and slack-jawed, and said, “You’re carrying all of those?  But you’re so little!  Your forearms must be MASSIVE.”  And while I was questioning how to go about answering a remark such as that (“thank you”?  or “no, they’re really quite normal-sized”?), she said, “Hey!  You would be PERFECT for my nephew!”

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