Archive | December, 2009

Dear New Year’s Eve

31 Dec

Dear New Year’s Eve,

Here’s the thing. You have got to be the most disappointing night of the year, bar none. And I go into you with such low expectations!

This is what we want New Year’s Eve to look like, theoretically. When we are ten or so. By the time you’re in your mid-20s, past experience with New Year’s has beaten you so far down you don’t even dream that it will be like this:

You arrive at the masquerade ball in a glittering dress, cut down to there and up to here, hair a cascade of curls, beaded mask not able to disguise the smolder of your eyes. A handsome waiter glides past you with a tray of champagne, which you lightly lift as you look about. A chandelier dazzles from the soaring cathedral ceilings of the ballroom as the band strikes up (you know how to dance). You whirl from the arms of one stranger to another as the champagne flows freely and the celebration brings in a new year full of promise. (All your girlfriends are there and you regularly swap meaningful eye contact about the men in the room and rush off to the bathroom, where you find your hair is still perfect and not a touch of sweat mars your perfect brow.) At midnight, the man who has returned again and again to take you in his arms and glide you across the floor returns. He is tall, dark, and handsome. He slips off your mask as the countdown begins, and kisses you softly, then madly, as bottles pop and voices rise in Auld Lang Syne.

You forget where you are and make out on the dance floor. Then boogie. Then make out some more, drink straight out of a champagne bottle, wake up with a wicked hangover and some questionable decisions behind you.

I’m all about it. Let’s do it. Anybody have a dress, band, man, ballroom, a couple hundred extras (duh the room has to be full or it doesn’t work), and some perfect hair I can borrow?

This is what New Year’s usually looks like:

No one will commit to all meet up in one place because everyone’s holding out for something bigger and better. Going downtown is too expensive and taxis are a pain in the ass to get and it’s dangerous to drive around on New Year’s. No one wants to do just do the “same old thing”. Or bar crawl. If you bar crawl or party hop, you’re just likely to miss the most fun forty-five minutes of any given party, which, to be honest, is about all most parties get. Finally, you block at a place “to start”. You appease everybody by assuring them that after you all meet up, you can all move on to someplace “more fun”. Half the people bail anyway, deciding the night will either be a bust and deciding to stay home with the cat or deciding at the last minute to go to “that asshole’s party I don’t even like but at least there will be a lot of people and booze there.” The other half show up and spend a solid amount of the time complaining that they want to go/be somewhere else. No one can agree on where. You all give up and walk down to the nearest dive bar. There are some people there, but not enough to satisfy that one friend who is always convinced the next bar will be better. Besides, s/he says, the music sucks here. You all walk down the street to the next bar. You get convinced to go downtown, against your better judgment. It takes an hour for the taxi to get the bar. It’s 11:30. It takes 20 minutes to get downtown, where you discover it’s going to be $30 to get into the party that doesn’t even look that awesome. You all argue about it and decide to pay, because it’s too late to get yourselves anywhere else. But it’s cash only. You’re in the 7-11 across the street getting cash back when it turns midnight. The sketchy guy behind the counter wiggles his eyebrows at you and you gag a little bit. Happy New Year’s, you mumble, as you hurry out the door. You hug your girlfriends. You wait three hours for a taxi and finally call your younger brother to come get you. He’s wasted and making out with his girlfriend. You’re sober enough to drive but you don’t have a car, because this was not how it was supposed to go.


Anyway, tonight I will go to my sister’s, where I will try to convince everyone to just stay there and not try to go downtown at the last minute to some party somebody heard something about. I will agree to walk ten minutes to the neighborhood bar which is having a no-cover old-school dance party. If even that is a bust I will eat more homemade carmel corn and play scattergories. And it will be fun.

And at midnight I will pop a popper. Which is really all I ask of New Year’s at this point.

Though, if anyone wants to plan a massive masquerade ball for next year…tell me now so I can start raising my hopes from the very low mundane place they now call home on New Year’s Eve. It wouldn’t do to go to a masquerade in my sweatpants.




Dear Weeds

28 Dec

Dear Weeds,

I honestly don’t know why I watch you. Okay, through seasons one and two, I was highly amused.

But after Silas cut a hole in the condom to try to keep his deaf girlfriend from going to an Ivy League school so she would stay home and have more sex with him, I lost patience. Every time Silas was on the screen I had to refrain myself from trying to beat him up. It wouldn’t have gone well. Given he’s a fictional character living in a tv.

Then I also got tired of Nancy Botwin’s ceaseless whining. Wah wah wah I sell pot and my life is hard and I got involved with all these other drug-type people and now they’re being mean to me. Wah.

So be the time season three started, I was pretty over it. I got all the way episode five (favorite part of disc one? when the scary heroin dealer named “U-Turn” tells Nancy to “Get a f***ing job” if she needs money). This means I had one episode left on disc one, which I had paid to rent from the video store (it’s this place where you go, pick out a movie, and get to take it home for a few days. I know, I know, ancient, get with the times, yada). I returned the disc without watching the last episode.

I had realized that I spent every single minute of every single episode hating every character every time they opened their lazy, whiny, substance-abusing suburban mouths. And I was still filled with rage every time Silas even walked through a room. This all seemed to rather defeat the purpose of watching a tv show. For fun.

Then again, a friend left season three at my sister’s house, and it’s just sitting there, and I never did watch that last episode…

Quick, somebody send me something else. Give me some wholesome bread to chew on (The Wire?) instead of this nasty marshmallow peep that’s going to make me feel sick to my stomach by the time I finish. No? No one?

Shoot. Here I go.


PS– Mary Louise, I get that you’re hot and all and I will be happy if I look like you at your age but WOMAN PUT SOME CLOTHES ON and quit biting your lip on the cover of every DVD. You are not K.Stew and even she wears both pants and sleeves sometimes.

Dear Holiday Parking Lots

23 Dec

Dear Holiday Parking Lots,

Ooooh you make me CRAZY. Why can’t people maintain frontal lobe function during the holidays?

I think I saw Mother Theresa hitting the hood of someone’s car with her wimple this morning. She really wanted to park her heavenly scooter in that space.

Maybe I should ask for a novelty car horn for Christmas…maybe one that plays “Empire State of Mind” or “All I want for Christmas Is You” since those seem to be permanently stuck in everyone’s mind anyway. How mad would that make you, if you’d just gotten rid of one of those, and someone honked and their horn starting blaring the chorus?

Or maybe “Silent Night.” Ha. IRONY.

Be aggressive! Bee-e-ee a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e!

Oh wait. No, that’s not right…um….ah….

Be safe. That’s the one I’m looking for.



Dear Tights

18 Dec

Dear Tights,

With the awesome vertical stitching and general cute-ness: you say one size fits all.

YET. I am 5’6″.

Also known as NOT THAT TALL and your crotch doesn’t reach my crotch and that means we have a PROBLEM. I am making the universal sign for crotch-to-crotch dysfunction right now. It came out of trying on vintage onesies and jumpsuits but it is applicable here and now so I am putting it into service. Someday there will be a youtube video. You heard it here first. Such a gesture exists and it comes in handy surprisingly often.

Also known as I went out and bought three different pairs of tights because it was the mall and there was a live band playing and children screaming and strollers blocking the escalators and my mother and sister discussing minute details of fabric compositions and salespeople offering “three for $27” and the people and music and lights, my god, the very holiday spirit of it all throwing up all over me…

When I was little, I hated tights. They pulled in places that you don’t want things pulling, then now or ever. As a result, I forced my mother to buy my tights just a *little* bigger than I needed them.

A Very Merry Matching Velvet Christmas (and yes, I think that is a pizza)

As a result, I had saggy knees from the ages of about two to six (oh all right then, nine). At which point I refused to wear tights entirely.

It's like I'm wearing leg warmers for crying out loud.

Now I’m an adult, so I am fractionally more tolerant of things that aren’t comfortable. Thought I still mostly get dressed by the feel test: ie, how soft does this feel? does it have stretch? (Hey people, don’t judge. Some of my classes are three hours long and yes we sit in those individual table-chair amalgamations that might actually be relics from medieval days of torture.)

But above and beyond that, today my sister said, “I just got these tights that I’m wearing. And they’re a little too big. And they are so much more comfortable this way.”

Yep. That happened.



PS– If any of you want to share your old Santa photos / matching-velvet-dresses-with-lace-collars pictures, you know where to find me.

PPS– What is that Santa looking at? How did two children manage to look straight into the camera, and he, who not only is an adult but looks into that cheeping stuffed animal’s eyes professionally, is staring way off into right field?

Dear Christmas Card

15 Dec

Dear Christmas Card,

It's Seattle! On my refrigerator!

You made my day.

Thank you.



PS– Happy Holidays, everyone!

…Let the madness begin.

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