Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Aunty Christ and the holiday breakdown

So, good ol’ Mr. Middlebrow over there at A Drinking Song wants to know Five Things About Me You May Not Already Know (and Have Never Before Revealed on This Blog). Which isn’t much of a challenge, really, considering that this blog has only been active for four posts now, so we’ll change that to Five Things About Me You May Not Already Know (and Have Never Before Revealed on This Any Blog). And since I already was going to write a blog post about something else entirely, I’ll just try to work the Five Things into my already insanely interesting piece about … well, crap. I don’t know what it’s about yet. This is what we call the Beginning of the Writing Process. From here all good things flow.

I managed to miss most of the holiday season this year—all of the fun (assuming there is fun to be had at Xmas time), some of the stress, and most of the eating. Not a single Xmas cookie touched these lips! Not one slice of deep-fried turkey! Why then do I feel so obese? Well, that’s something that we’ll be discussing with the therapist later on today (Fun Fact #1: I am seeing a therapist later today for my possible BDD, among other things—unless I decide to back out because it’s stupid, which I might because it is), I imagine, so I’ll get back to you on that. Though of course this food baby I’m carrying could be the gallon or so of vodka I’ve put away in the last few days, and not a figment of my dastardly imagination.

In an effort to abort said baby, I managed to rouse myself from bed at the unholy hour of 8 a.m. this morning. Yoga is at 9 a.m., and the yoga studio is a good 20-minute drive from here. And they take no latecomers, according to the sign on the door. And it always takes me longer to come than I think it will. (Fun Fact #2: I am sexually immature, and this causes me to make bad, unfunny, and more or less inscrutable jokes.) I arrived at the yoga studio moments before the appointed hour, only to find that it was closed until after the new year, which makes me sad, not so much because I was dying to yoga this morning (missing the class was rather a relief in a sense), but because I thought the holidays were over, done, finis—and now we discover that there is more holiday to be had. Is there really another week of this bullshit?

Because I do hate holidays. That much. For reasons that are (mostly) beyond my grasp. Sure, I hate buying presents. It’s stressful—and not just the part about trying to find a parking spot and going into the store surrounded by other shoppers, who are likely to be of the rude, jostling, unpleasant-smelling sort, and spending money that, although you may have it, you certainly (this year) are not going to be replacing it anytime soon. No, more than that is the potential for disaster after the shopping is done. You’ve gone to the store; purchased the items on the list; returned home; wrapped the purchased consumer gifts in order to conceal the fact that they are only mass-produced, mid-grade commodities that one could procure with little thought or effort; and now you wait. Wait for the moment when you can give said gaily wrapped commodities to your friends and loved ones and they open them and pretend that they are happy to see … the bathroom scale. The novel that was #1 on the New York Times bestseller list for weeks. The gift certificate. Oh, it’s enough to make one cry, it is. The exchange of gifts is not special, and it does not say what it’s meant to say. What it’s meant to say is that I get you, and I am a thoughtful, insightful person who cares a great deal about you. More and more, my presents are of the type that say, “I got your email,” or “So, I hear you like television.” (Fun Fact #3: I don’t have a television anymore, but I enjoy watching streaming episodes of Ugly Betty and Heroes because I’m lame. And frankly, that’s less lame than watching reality TV 18 hours a day, which is what used to happen on a regular basis in my house.) I’m thinking that the better gift would be to not force friends and loved ones to act as though they were happy to see whatever new crap I’ve now given them to find space for in the hall closet.

On the other hand, there is receiving presents—also something I am not good at. I find, more and more, that I don’t really need stuff. Or, perhaps I need stuff, but I don’t want it. Or maybe I want stuff, but it’s the kind of stuff that you can’t really expect people to buy for you: like a bike, or a new wardrobe, complete with sassy accessories. A new hairstyle would be nice, or a massage, or a dogwalker—though I suppose those aren’t really what one would consider “stuff.” Point is, the things that people wanted to give me this year were things that I didn’t really want. A card table. A two-night stay at a ritzy hotel on the coast. And any of these things would have been fine, except that I also was expected to do a lot of footwork myself in order to procure this gift that I didn’t want: running around the downtown metropolitan area on foot, say, or searching for ritzy hotels on the internet. (Fun Fact #4: Although I spend nearly all my time on the internet these days, I find it cumbersome and boring to actually look for any specific thing, which is why I didn’t do my Xmas shopping online this year. Instead, I spend my time equally divided between reading blogs, obsessing over my empty email inbox, and reading about celebrity fashion gaffes—schadenfreude much? Why yes, thanks for asking, Britney!) And then there was the awkward moment when I realized that the elder Mr. and Mrs. Bachelor had brought a gift to Xmas lunch for their son’s girlie. Fuck. In order to clarify, we should mention that we liked Mr. and Mrs. Bachelor, and were pleased and a little bit flummoxed to have been invited to said lunch at all. Really? Xmas lunch with the fam? It’s too much, too generous. But the Mister and Missus were indeed very nice and generous, and I know from whence springs the impulse to get a little sumpthing for the girl who you’ve never met but who your son is bringing to the lunch where you had planned on giving him his stuff. It’s something that Dear Abby or Miss Manners would propose, and it’s—again!—very nice of them to think that since Rich has all his crap to open, why don’t we get a little sumpthing for the girl too. And, by definition, it has to be something that Any Random Girl (no matter who she is or what her deal is) might find equally pleasing or displeasing: soap, for example, or, oh I don’t know, notecards.

While the impulse is understandable and very, very thoughtful, my hatred of receiving gifts—and indeed, of any kind of attention whatsoever, including the kind that one gets when opening a gift in front of others—made for an unpleasant blotch on an otherwise pleasant afternoon. I would try to describe it, but the embarrassment is still too fresh in my mind. Suffice it to say that it was one of those terribly awkward moments that is best captured—and left—in a Ben Stiller rom-com, and left everyone with the impression that I am a big fat pig who loves chocolate and is unsatisfied with anything else. And also, I think, that I’m an ungrateful little tart.

To be fair, however, I must say that, were I in the same position as Mr. and Mrs. Bachelor, I surely would have thought through option A (not getting little tart anything) and option B (getting little tart something) and instead forgone lunch, begging off with a headache—perhaps one of those migraines I’ve heard so much about. (Fun Fact #5: I have never had a migraine, but I see excellent excuse potential in them, and plan to start getting them as soon as I land my next job.) And that is just one of the things that makes me a horrible person, I’m sure. As it was, I managed to back out of Xmas eve plans with my sister due to fear of public present-openings; I said I felt ill, and I didn’t, but yes. I would have.

On the other hand, only one more week until I can leave the apartment again without fear of some kind of holiday ambush. Sunday night is amateur night, and after this week, clearly I’m a drinking professional.

Monday, December 25, 2006

Aunty Christ and the spam poem

Yum! Holiday-themed spam is even more delish when shaped into a beautiful Xmas poem, baked at 450˚ for 25 minutes, and served with a garnish of parsley and bitter, lonely tears. Enjoy, fellow festivity-makers, hat-wearers, and humbuggers!


or, Look and see what I did Xmas evening, 2006 (and then pity/ridicule me), or Man, am I glad this shit is over

This central holiday does not play at great, happy,
or the mischievous,
or acknowledge in the ivy nervous
facts as seen on your TV (wacky makeover abuse,
O’s top nutritious kitchen). Instead,
vectorial holidays keep secret no easy cash,
while analgesics work an additional
exquisite payday. Pay fast, quark! Learn to covet
rectangular yokemat, to take on
an authorization to cash the $250 with memo:
“Crucial system/replica guitar.” Narcotic
medicine is hesitant. The act, the need—get up fast,
go fast.

Merry Denial-and-Boozin Day, all. Me, I just can’t wait until St. Nap Day.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Aunty Christ and the good breakup

I forget whether we’ve discussed this or not, but there is a right way and a wrong way to break up with someone—agreed? Even in the case where, as too often is the case in my own life, no relationship has been established except, perhaps, in someone’s mind. When I first arrived in this unnamed municipality, I went out on a few dates with Some Dude. We went to a bar for a drink and some appetizers. We went to a movie. We went to a pub and listened to music. I wasn’t feeling it, and I told him so—one clear mistake was also telling him that we could be friends.

Yesterday, several weeks later, I found myself the recipient of the angry telephone call. Oh that! you say. Everyone knows the angry telephone call, and nobody enjoys it, but when you’re the dumper, it’s just something you have to listen to and absorb—let the poor dump├ęd get whatever’s bothering him off his mind. We’ve all been there, after all. God knows I have, many many times.

The thing is, of course, in this case, that we went out three times, and didn’t have sex, and have hung out “as friends” maybe a couple additional times, and I told him it was over rather uncruelly, and now is a long time from then. And of course I’m willing to accept insults from those I’ve made feel bad about themselves. Of course I am. But it’s starting to seem less like something I should have to do, you know? When the period of martyrdom outlasts the period that you were supposedly dating by a multiple of—what, now? 10?

Him: You hold all the cards. You get to decide whether you want to see me or not.

Well, yes. I’ve often found it unfair that we can’t go around kidnapping people and forcing them to spend a pleasant afternoon with us whenever wed like. Excellent point.

Him: I never felt like you appreciated me.

It’s true that I typically hand out the sonnets I’ve written extolling the virtues of mah man on the third date, but in your case, I already knew it wasn’t working, and I spent my time instead composing that fine email telling you that although you’re a very nice person, etc.

Him: You’re so flakey.

Which I’ve certainly been accused of before, by people much more qualified to know. However, as I did point out to This Dude, now that he’s started cataloging all my flaws, he should be well on the Road to Leaving Me the Fuck Alone. What’s that you say? I’m illogical and mean? Should be easy to stop picking up the phone and dialing my infernal number, in that case.

Him: I just feel like you’re manipulating me. What else can I do? How else can I act? You say you want to be friends, but I just feel like you never gave me a chance.

Oh wow. When he puts it like that, clearly I am manipulating him. I did not give him a chance. But as it turns out, I don’t want to be friends.

The ultimate outcome of the above being that we will no longer be including among our hobbies Trying to Be Friends with Crazies. (Or at least not crazies who are no fun.)

Back to our lede, up there in the first paragraph, this all could have been avoided had I not broken up with the man in a completely inappropriate manner: Explaining to him in a thought-out, rational way that this wasn’t for me, giving a few examples to back up said idea. When will I learn? Clearly the only proper way to break up with someone is by feigning head injury (medical), saying that you’ve been called out of the country by the Agency for an unknown period of time (geographical), or explaining that you’ve finally accepted your inner pedophile, and your niece’s school is looking for a teacher’s aide (lifestyle change). I shan’t be making that mistake again.

In a possibly related subject, lately I feel as though I make at least three large, irreparable mistakes per day. Don’t know why. It’s enough to make a 96-year-old lady cry out in frustration: Life is so … stupid.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Aunty Christ and the Xmas spirit

This reminds me of when I had that vaginal rejuvenation procedure and then didn’t get laid for six years. God, what gives? Nothing bloggy’s going on these days.

I’ve convinced my parents that next year each family member will buy gifts only for his or her own self, but we’ll all thank the rest of the clan for our purchases. (Thanks for the rabbit, Dad!) That’s in the future, though. My dad’s early Xmas gift to me this year was a rain poncho for each of my dogs (now named Goofus and Gallant, for blogging purposes only—since really, who in this equation would be Gallant? “Goofus shits in the living room and eats some of it. Gallant abstains from eating his own shit after defecating on the living room floor.”). Now, there are a couple of things wrong with this, one being that, even as an unemployed person—even as an unemployed person who complains endlessly about how bored she is—I can think of better things to do with my time than chase Goofus and Gallant around the house, trying to put rain ponchos on them; the other being that I have inadequate storage space for unused doggy rain gear, and negligible tolerance for useless plastic crap. On the other hand, they look so freaking cute in their ponchos, and so miserable as well. Like unhappy lawn-furniture covers. It’s adorable. Just like when they joined the KKK.

(Coming soon: Real blog posts. Not like this crap.)

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Aunty Christ is so tired of your needs

Just because you're only five and want to play Sorry! with Aunty Christ doesn't mean that you're not a selfish little bitch. What about my needs? Did you ever think about that? Because honestly, I've been drinking all day, and I either need to make myself another vodka tonic, or I need a vicodin and a bucket of chicken. Either way, you're shit out of luck, cutie

Sorry! It's not just a board game; it's a fact of life. Get used to it.

Now get the hell out of here.