“I’ll just be hanging around the mistletoe, hoping to be kissed.”
I think I should just be honest with you fine folks. Bare my soul, get the secret out in the open, throw caution to the wind, damn the torpedoes…you get the idea.
I’ve been listening to Christmas music since before Halloween.
Yes, I’m one of those people. But really, how do you not love this stuff? How do you not think of caroling (in four-part harmony with your high school chamber singers) and cookies and warm fires and pretty red wrapping paper with silver ribbons and hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps and a candy cane stirrer and friggin’ Bing “All Things Good and Soothing” Crosby when you hear the sounds of the holiday season? How?
As far as I’m concerned, I can listen to this stuff in July if it makes me feel this good. Because, (to continue the soul-baring), I have not been feeling good. I’ve been sick. And tired. And tipsy. And irreverent. And annoyed. And grumpy. And fine*. But not good**.
Maybe it’s because I grew up without Christmas (shout out to all my fellow Chosen People…and then shoot me for saying “shout out”), but I just love the Jesus out of this holiday. Besides XMPR and Red Sox coverage, the Christmas stations (yes, there are several) are what I miss most about XM radio.
I own three ornaments and one stocking. This year I was thinking of treating myself to having the stocking embroidered with my name. First and middle, for those of you who know me that way (Hi Agent! And College Roommate!). I am also hoping to find an adorable miniature (real) tree under which I’ll put any presents and cards I receive. (That means I hope to receive presents^. And cards. Ahem.) God help me, this year I may even go see The Nutcracker. If I had a boyfriend, I swear there’d be a darn Eartha Kitt^^ impression going on in my apartment. As it is, I’m giving Mariah a run for her money when I belt it out in the safety of my car.
I’ve already told my mother that we’re having a family sing-along on Christmas Eve (and by “family” I mean that my dad will sit quietly and listen while those of us who can carry a tune sing). I’ve promised to bring home Love Actually for us to watch (as soon as I call the Ex-ALM and ask to borrow it). And of course I’ll bake up a sugar/butter storm.
So there, I’ve admitted it. I L-O-V-E LOVE Christmas. And I’m already celebrating.
How ’bout you?
*For the record, I did NOT mean “fiiiiiiiiiine” as in the word that follows “Baby, you’re lookin’…”
**I also haven’t been feeling like using proper grammar. Suck it.
^Handwritten cards that aren’t just a picture and/or a State of the Family note FULLY count as presents. Really. Nilsa sent a handwritten note a while back and it brought me all kinds of silly joy. And not just because that woman has THE COOLEST handwriting.
^^Minus the female impersonators.
The non-piggy flu
Oooh, hi! Yoohoo! Yes, you! Remember me? I’ve been absent and I know you all assumed the hot neighbor whisked me off to Paris for a steamy weekend twisted up in extremely high thread count sheets, but alas, I’ve just been sick. Really sick. Feeling-like-death sick.
(And besides, the neighbor grew a goatee – making him un-hot – so I’ve resorted to staring at his ass.)
I was so sick that I actually had to talk myself into wearing a bra when I went to Walgreens for tissues and a thermometer. Full-on conversation arguing both sides. Out loud.
(I won.)
But while you all were doing exciting stuff like working and, well, getting out of bed, I was busy learning things. That’s right, LEARNING.
For instance, I learned that you can go a full day watching only Law and Order or CSI and their various spin-offs. And that there’s a whole show on Bravo devoted to a woman with an indefinable accent who takes over hair salons and makes them better. And that there are times when you might consider asking an ex-boyfriend to come over to hold you up in the shower. I said consider people. Sheesh.
Now on to other things.
So yes, there was Halloween. And we looked hot. Lots of men driving by while we waited two hours for a cab told us so. And they were obviously classy guys what with the yelling and the whistling. I can’t entirely blame them, I mean, I WAS wearing red lipstick. And, um, fishnets.
See?
Someone in the course of the evening told me that your costume only works if people can get it without an explanation. If that’s true, then mine was a big fat fail, but here, I’ll try to help you out. Those light panels on my skirt are newspaper collages. Here’s one up close.
And those yellow strips on my wrists are actually fake wrist slits. And then on my head (not pictured) there was a fedora. Man how I love a fedora. Still not getting it? I’m not surprised. Don’t bother guessing, I’ll just tell you. I went as The Death of Print Media. It worked in my head, I swear. And did I mention that I got to wear a fedora?
Besides the whole sick thing, my post-Halloween week included a showing of Where the Wild Things Are (in true Dave Eggers fashion, it made me want to cry and then bite someone), some fun times chatting with a cab driver after I locked myself out of my apartment and had to cross the city (twice) to pick up spare keys from my property manager, and two mornings that began with my car going “clickclickclick” but not starting when I turned the key. Fun times, people, fun times.
I combated all this poo with the purchase of the new Michael Bublé CD. And I’m not even embarrassed. I blame the fedora.
Relationship Mementos (again)
The Dangerous Ex IMed a moment ago to tell me that he loved the song I was listening to (I live with my Adium status on iTunes).
“I know,” I replied. I’ve known for years. Since he called me to tell me how much he liked it. How it made him think of me. [I should add right now, before you gag (or mistakenly think the Dangerous Ex has something resembling a soul), that our conversation went on to include exchanges like this: "My friend said my penis and I have separate cell phones." "Wait, it let you get a cell phone?"] And whenever I hear it, his voice comes to mind.
I’ve talked before about relationship mementos, how I keep them and why. With this most recent move I had to go through it all again. And I kept it all again. I gave away Minnie Mouse, but kept Winnie the Pooh. I’d long since taken down pictures of the Ex-ALM, but I kept the funny note he sent with roses on Valentine’s Day.
I didn’t expect it to be different this time, I’m just wondering if I’m alone. Do you keep things from past relationships? If not, when/why did you toss them?
MeMe
Way back before I left for Germany, Mara over at In so many words… gave me the MeMe award, which was, well, superduperawesome of her. Perhaps it’s because she knows how I like to talk about myself. (Point of information: My favorite topic is actually shoulder freckles, but apparently that award doesn’t exist.) So, now I’m to list seven strange tidbits about moi. I have a feeling I could come up with more than seven, but many are known (see shoulder freckles, bathtubs, fear of stairs, dancing in the elevator) and you fine folks deserve something new to wrinkle your nose at when you call me weird.
1) Any kind of father/daughter thing makes me cry (think the end of the movie Blow).
2) Hazelnuts set my teeth on edge as if I were chewing on aluminum foil.
3) I love products made for babies. Wait, that sounds weird. It’s not like I’m sitting here in Pampers or anything, I promise, but Aveeno Baby Wash and Burt’s Bees Baby Bee line rock my world. These days I’ve switched to Korres products, but it’s not at all unusual to find me poking around in the baby aisle at Target.
4) I’m not a recipe cook. That is, I like recipes, I love to read them and I’m constantly collecting them, but I can’t remember when I last followed one to the letter. Probably elementary school. This means that the things I cook and bake are sometimes sub par, frequently well-above edible, and occasionally tremendous. I’d rather figure out the idea behind a dish and then tweak it to suit my needs.
5) I smile whenever I hear “Sweet Caroline.” On a bad day I sing along. On a good one, I do a little dance AND sing along.
6) My bra set off the metal detector at Dulles on Tuesday. It seems my Chantelle underwires are dangerous.
7) I still have an unreasonable crush on The Southerner.
Friday Four
I’m listening to “That’s Life” by Frank Sinatra.
I’m reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Want. Dog. Now.
I’m craving whatever will make this migraine go away.
I’m coveting more vacation time.
Observations in Deutschland
Let’s start with gross generalizations because they’re the most fun.
Italian tourists are the pushiest, French tourists are the snottiest, German tourists are the loudest, and American tourists are the worst dressed. Russian tourists are pushy, snotty, loud, AND badly dressed. I’m talking to you, fuckwit who pushed in front of me at baggage claim, yelled through me to your companion, and wore the plaid pants un-ironically. Da, you.
German men don’t help with your suitcase or hold a door, but German women always do. We were told beforehand that this would be the case and were shocked by how true it was. We think perhaps it has to do with some concern about being seen as intrusive or amorous because the German people, overall, are incredibly considerate and polite.
I’m in love with this coat. And yes, I know that it’s not high fashion, but I’ve always thought of myself as far more British hunting lodge than pierced Berlin alt-goth.
Visiting Dachau, or one of the other memorial sites, is arresting, frightening, absorbing, terrible, and absolutely necessary. It was, in my own small way, a matter of bearing witness. Particularly when there are South Carolina Republicans about.
Winter is completely overrated.
The Cologne cathedral – with the organ playing and the choir singing and the light streaming in sideways through the new Gerhard Richter window – could bring me to God. For a woman who’s scared of stairs, the descent down the 533 spiraled steps of the tower nearly convinced me to make a pact with the devil.
I could write Bavaria a sonnet. The pretzels, the bread, the BEER, the people, the medieval towns, the way Munich handles its Nazi past. Just…wow.
Nürnberger Rostbratwurst are itty bitty happy-makers. Try them, you’ll see I’m right.
I have certain skills, among them navigating foreign cities. Why this did not stop my directionally-challenged mother from questioning me at every turn, I’ll never know. I didn’t question her when she said the choir was singing a major 6th chord. (Unless asking, “what’s a major 6th?” counts.)
I could absolutely pick up German if the language consisted only of nouns. I also know how to say, “dead” but I’m hoping that wouldn’t come in particularly handy.
The most overrated sight for us was the Jewish Museum in Berlin. We kept trying, but we just didn’t like the place.
On the other hand, the Pergamon made me fall in love with art again.
Quark!
This may have been the coolest thing I saw in Germany. I completely geek out on anything having to do with the fate of art during WWII.
Forget “ciao”, “tschüß” is officially the most adorable way to say goodbye.
I’ll have pictures as soon as my mom sends them to me. I might even throw in the towel on this whole anonymity thing and post one with my face.
The again, I might not.
And I’m off
OK, so it’s 11:42 on Wednesday and I’ve had three glasses of wine, gone to the ballet, and determined that my book club needs an annual trip to Vegas. I’ll wake up in four and a half hours, take a quick shower, and board a plane for Germany with my disturbingly-chipper-in-the-morning mother. (I’ve also agreed to review one more contract while waiting for my plane – yes, I’m an idiot.) And then I’m off the grid until the 21st.
So be well, perform random acts of kindness, wear cute shoes, and we’ll chat again in two weeks.
auf wiedersehen,
BS
Answering my own question
As you may have guessed, the question in the previous post didn’t just materialize. I’ve had a few conversations recently about dating and paying.
My feminist credentials are well-established (I went to Wellesley for the love of Nietzsche*), but over the last three months, I’ve had to re-evaluate and come to terms with some things.
Namely, I would prefer that a man buy me a drink/dinner/movie tickets on a first date.
In theory, I agree with those who say that whoever asks pays, but I would also prefer that he ask. I don’t say that he should – should brings with it all sorts of baggage – but I prefer it. This isn’t a logic thing. In rational, logical terms, I agree with Nilsa. Or at least I agree that it presents some feminist inconsistencies to always expect a man to pay, but to want equal treatment in all other areas. But the problem I keep running into is that attraction isn’t about logic and therefore neither are first dates.
If I’m honest with myself, I’d admit that I resent it when a man asks me out then lets me pay (because of course I always offer). If I’m brutally honest, I’d say I resent it when we’re set up by a third party and he lets me pay. I may not have the reasoning behind it all sorted in my head, but I have an honorary PhD (self-awarded) in acknowledging my own emotions and I most certainly recognize the ugly ones like resentment. It’s not, for me, about feminism or being able to pay (though that’s a little more challenging as of late) or being “taken care of,” it’s about being pursued. It may not be socially acceptable to acknowledge, but I want to be wanted. I want to be courted. And I’ve come to terms with it.
*If you know where I stole this, my only explanation is that I have a crush on LL Cool J as the show is pretty terrible.
Quick questionnaire
Ladies (and any lingering gentlemen),
Out of curiosity (and assuming we’re talking about a heterosexual couple)…
Do you prefer it when the man pays on a first date?
Answers that articulate your reasoning would be appreciated.
Friday Four
I’m working from home today, which is sufficiently rare that it should be celebrated. I just wish management would realize that I’m about three times more productive when I get to sit in a light-filled apartment wearing my pajamas. Really, I am.
I’m listening to Piano Concerto #6 in C by John Field. Classical music helps me concentrate.
I’m (still) reading An Echo in the Bone by Diana Gabaldon (and picturing Kevin McKidd).
I’m craving frozen yogurt from the place down the street (original with mango and mochi). Though I generally prefer this.
