City Wendy

The Problem with Having Ten Nominations

I love working from home for many reasons — cats as coworkers, wine with lunch, and a pants optional dress code to name a few — but it does get lonely from time to time and there are days when my thoughts are spoken outloud a little more than I'd like to admit. Thankfully, I have a wonderful remedy for this kind of loneliness and it's called Trader Joe's.

Just like working from home, Trader Joe's is awesome for many reasons. Their food is tasty and cheap, they always have free samples, and the people who work there are very friendly. Like, super friendly. Like, if Trader Joe's was a high school instead of a grocery store and I was a student there, I'd never want to graduate! It's like a nonstop love fest there. Staffers are always, "Hey, what's up? How's it going? You ever tried those Mochi balls? What do you think of them?" And: "Woah, that's a lot of cheese! You having a dinner party? Whatcha gonna make? Who are you inviting?" And while I can appreciate how this might be annoying for people who are actually, like, around other people all day and just want to relish grocery shopping in peace and quiet, for a lonesome bird like me, it's great! In a 45 minute visit, I get all the friendly small talk of an office environment without the awkwardness of sharing a bathroom with my co-workers.

...Which takes me to the downside of all that yapping. Sometimes, it just isn't, well, convenient. Take last Thursday, for example. Last Thursday I had a lunch date with my friend, Jo. It was restaurant week here in NYC, so we took advantage of a great deal at Olives, the fancy restaurant in the W hotel. As another benefit of working for myself, I enjoyed a leisurely two-hour lunch, catching up and eating fabulous food, and then decided to take the rest of the day off (I'd had a very productive morning, after all). So after we finished and paid the bill, I headed over to Trader Joe's a few blocks away to do a little shopping. Now, if you're at all familiar with the TJ's in NYC, you know they get extremely crowded. I've developed a routine where I just get in line right away and do my shopping as I weave in and out of the aisles.

I did just that this past Thursday, throwing pita bread and cheese and soy ginger dressing into my cart as I passed them. But then, right around the time I hit the free sample stand, my stomach started cramping. I don't want to blame the fancy restaurant in the W hotel. It may have been the dinner I had the night before or maybe all the caramels I'd eaten for breakfast that morning. But whatever the cause, it wasn't good. Within minutes, I was in serious need of a bathroom. Only, I had this cart full of stuff and the line was so long! Was I supposed to just abandon my cheese and dressing and leave empty-handed? No. I would stick it out.

And so I did. I made it all the way to check-out and then ... disaster! I got the chattiest, chattiest, chattiest employee in Trader Joe's history ever. He was a film buff and he wanted to talk Oscar movies with me. Any other time, I would have been more than happy with this. I like movies too! But on that day, all I wanted was for him to shut the fuck up, scan my shit, and let me find a bathroom. But, no. He wanted to discuss every single nominated movie, perfomance and director. And at one point, when he couldn't remember all ten movies nominated for best picture, he literally took out a pad of paper and started writing the titles down.

"Now, let's see," he said, tapping his pen on the cash register as I squeezed my legs together tighter, "I've got 'Black Swan,' 'True Grit,' 'The King's Speech,' 'Toy Story 3,' 'The Fighter,' 'Winter's Bone,' '127 Hours,' 'Social Network,' and ... oh! 'Inception'! Wait, that's only nine. I'm still missing one. Shit, what am I missing? 'Black Swan,' 'True Grit,' 'The King's Speech,' 'Toy St—"

"'The Kids are Alright!" I yelled, my bowels painfully close to exploding. "The Kids! Are! Alright!"

"'The Kids are Alright!" he repeated, slapping my hand in a high-five. "That was a good one.'

Good or not, I'm begging you, Oscar people, please, please, for the health and safety of people everywhere, can you please go back to nominating only five movies for best picture? I'm sure I can't be the only Trader Joe's customer in the world who will thank you for that.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

I don't mean to brag or anything, but I think it's to my credit that I have not really mentioned the weather too much this winter, and like those of you in the Northeast and elsewhere, the weather has been a main story lately. Sure, it may not be the most exciting story, much as our local news stations may seem to argue otherwise, but it's definitely a main narrative arc in most of our lives. Don't worry; I'm not going to write a whole post about the weather or about how Drew and I got caught in a blizzard last night after a double date in Williamsburg and there were a few minutes where we weren't sure our cab driver would safely make it to our place (he did, but I'm still worried about how he fared once he dropped us off).

And I'm not going to write about how beautiful the snow is — especially when you work from home and don't have to commute in it ... or even get dressed and walk outside if you don't want to. I won't write about how I bundle up and stand on our balcony and look across the snow-covered trees and feel a kind of peace that's often hard to find in NYC. And I won't write about how I haven't even really minded this winter, despite its record snow and cold temps, and I'm not sure if that's because I'm living in Brooklyn and it's just so lovely out here or because I'm exercising regularly and releasing all those endorphins or because I'm generally in a better "head space" lately or what. I'm not going to write about all that, but I did want to at least get this post up and say, "Aren't you glad I'm not writing a whole post about the weather?"

Oh, wait.

Launching Dear Wendy

Back in mid-December, two weeks before Christmas, I was laid off from my full-time writing and marketing job at The Frisky. Because "Dear Wendy," my relationship advice column there, had become so popular, I decided the time was ripe to launch my own site based around the column. Some things had to be worked out first though, which is the reason for the stress I've been under recently (well, and getting laid off during the holidays sucks major donkey balls), but I'm thrilled and happy to report that today I am able to launch DearWendy.com!

If you're familiar with my advice column, which has also appeared regularly on CNN.com for the last year, you know I give "tough love" answers to provocative questions that often incite quite a bit of debate in the comment section. That will stay the same on my own site. In addition, I have some other new features I'm excited to debut, so bookmark DearWendy.com and please come check it out.

If you're a very long time reader of CityWendy.com, you may remember way back in 2006 when the Dear Wendy advice column made its debut and appeared here twice a month for about eight months. I loved writing the column, but it was a lot of work and back then I wasn't really sure how to monetize it, so I tabled it until I got the gig at The Frisky. Even after I started working there, it took about a year before I was able to publish the column on the site. Luckily, readers liked it and I had a blast writing it. Soon, it became the most popular column on the site, was published regularly on CNN.com, and I received upwards of 75 letters a week.

Now, I'm excited to take a new step with the column, and I hope its one that continues to lead to bigger opportunities. Going forward, I'll still appear on The Frisky once or twice a week, as well as on CNN from time to time, too, but DearWendy.com will be the official home of my column. The big goal is to eventually run my column in lots of publications — online and in print — and I'm going to pursue that right away. If it doesn't pan out? Well, I suppose I've got nothing to lose for trying. In the meantime, I'm also in the market for part-time and/or freelance writing and editing work, so if you have any leads, please let me know. Oh, and you can follow me — well, my Dear Wendy alter-ego — on Twitter and on Facebook, too. Thanks for your support!

My Way Or The Highway

Last week I went to Chicago for an extended "Winter Warmup Weekend" because what better place to visit in the middle of January than Chicago, right? The truth is, it wasn't really any colder than New York has been, and a visit with my good friends was definitely in order after the stress I've experienced over the last six weeks or so. Sadly, I arrived with a cold and left with a bit of food poisoning, but I still managed to enjoy myself, which is a testament to either my stubborness or my friends' good humor. Or maybe the champagne.

On Friday night, a few hours after I got in and after I dropped a pretty penny on a delicious dinner at a fancy new Cajun-inspired place in Andersonville, a few of us trekked up to my favorite old haunt, Cafe Bong. For those who are relatively new readers and unfamiliar with Cafe Bong, it's a little karaoke dive bar owned by a wonderful Korean woman named Chinny (or, Ginny, if you prefer). It's located on the northern tip of Andersonville, which was once, ten years ago or so, sort of a "boho" neighborhood I guess, but has become something of an overpriced interior design/foodie/gay mecca in recent years. It's also the hood I called home for most of my time in Chicago.

Anyway, Cafe Bong is a special place, the kind of place where random groups of visitors become close friends by the end of the night, and where, even if you didn't know you lost it (or that you had it in the first place), you can find your soul. And once upon a time we almost lost Cafe Bong. I was never very clear on the details — one day I went in and Chinny was gone and had been replaced with this fratty yuppie guy who told me Chinny had sold the Bong to him and that he would be "changing things around here" immediately. Sure enough, the next week, I went back and the place at been re-painted and the mens and womens bathrooms were swapped. He even had sports on the karaoke screens!! And when I asked if I could sing, he told me karaoke didn't start until late at night.

In one week, every trace of the Bong's soul had been tragically sucked out in a vacuum and what remained was a thing of nightmares: blonde bimbo bartenders in half shirts and guys with backward baseball caps giving each other high fives and man hugs after each homerun. I was heartbroken. How did this happen? Where was Chinny? Why didn't we even get any warning so we could say good-bye? None of it made any sense. So, I took to this here blog and wrote out my frustration. And then something miraculous happened. Chinny came back! The bong was restored. As quickly as it was taken away from me, it was given back (just in time for my going away party!). Just like that! And when I asked what happened, the only definitive answer I got was, "You wrote about it. You put it on the internet."

I still don't know what that means or how something I wrote on this blog could have any effect on a neighborhood business, but to this day, several years later, when I make it back to Cafe Bong — and I promised when I moved, I'd always come visit when I made it back to town — I get the royal treatment and Chinny never fails to thank me for whatever it is I did or whatever it is I helped to start. There was a movement, for sure. You could feel it. You can still feel it. The energy in there is very much "Fuck the man," which is one I whole-heartedly embrace with every fiber of my being, and was something I desperately needed to tap into when I found my way to the Bong this past Friday night.

As I've hinted, things in my professional life have been wacky lately and they still aren't resolved, but in the past few weeks I've added a new song to my karaoke repetoire that has helped me deal with the mess. I've been singing Frank Sinatra's "My Way" and when I took the mic on Friday night at Cafe Bong — to a full house, I might add (something I'd never seen there before) — I sang the shit out of that song and dare I say, I brought the fucking house down. And look, I'm no great singer. But I've got heart. And I've got soul. And singing that song to the cheers of friends and strangers alike, I was reminded of that. As I triumphantly hit that final note, my heart thumping in my chest, I was reminded that just like Chinny and just like my beloved Cafe Bong and just like that tiny corner of Andersonville that has resisted yuppification, I've got fight in me. So, "the record shows, I took the blows and did it myyyyy wayyyy!!"

Tales of a Child (Disa)Star

Reminiscing about my gum surgery last week got me thinking about all the ways I was a rather unfortunate child. I don't mean that in the lifestyle sense. My family was firmly middle class, and I had a room full of toys and a closet full of clothes to prove it. But when it came to sheer aesthetics and age-appropriate development, I was a wee bit challenged. And not in a Cameron Diaz "I was such a gawky cheerleader" sort of way either. I mean, I was messed up. From head to toe. Let's go down the list, shall we?

1. I was pigeon-toed.

You know back in junior high or high school some of the cute, popular girls would stand around at their lockers with their toes coquettishly pointed inward? I was not that girl. I was the five year old who wore special metal inserts in her Buster Brown shoes to coax her toes out so she wouldn't trip on them on her way to school. I don't remember excactly when I stopped wearing the metal inserts, but I'm happy to report that these days my toes point straight ahead.

2. I was a bed-wetter.

I had a serious bed wetting problem well into kindergarten and possibly first grade, though if I wore night-time diapers that long, I've successfully blocked the memory. I do remember wearing Pampers as late five, though, which meant I was able to put them on and change them myself. I have a distinct memory of spending the night at my neighbor friend, Julie's, house one night and as we were getting ready to watch "Charlie's Angels," I told her I had to put on my diaper so I wouldn't forget later. I'll always remember the look on Julie's face and those initial moments when I suddenly realized I was a little ... special. My parents had done such a great job nurturing my self-esteem, I didn't even realize I had good reason to be embarassed.

3. I had no upper lip.

This isn't exactly true. I did have an upper lip — it just curled under because the piece of tissue that connected it to my gum was too short. So, I had it snipped off when I was four (the piece of tissue). I still have a tiny scar on my gum and little bit of a "tag" on my lip where it used to be. But now I can smile real big.

4. I wore hideous glasses.

As if it weren't bad enough that I had to start wearing glasses in first grade when most of my peers were still years away from similar ridicule, it was 19-freakin'-83, which wasn't exactly the height of eyewear fashion. My mom thought she was doing me a favor when she picked out frames that "matched my hair." My hair was orange, so... so no, no favors there. By third grade, my eyesight was so bad and my prescription so strong, that my glasses were thick like coke bottles and covered half my face. Thankfully, when I was nine it was determined I was mature enough to handle contact lenses and I haven't looked back since. Well, with the exception of this day in the park. Ahem.

5. I sucked my thumb 'til I was 11.

Yes, eleven! And I only stopped then because I got braces and there simply wasn't enough room in my mouth for my thumb and all that metal. Until then, my parents tried everything to get me to stop: bribery, shame tactics, withholding privileges, covering my thumb with nail polish. None of it worked. By the time I started school, I knew enough that I had to keep my thumb-sucking a secret, so I did it on the DL: in bed at night, on night-time road trips, in the bath tub, on the airplane buried under piles of blankets. Better than milkshakes, ice cream, and taffy put together, it was my drug of choice and even now, all these years later, I can still remember the way my thumb fit perfectly against the roof of my mouth and the sweet, sweet relief that pairing provided.

6. My teeth were giving me grief.

You can imagine with all that thumb-sucking, my teeth took a bit of a hit. Really, I would have fit right in on an episode of "Hee Haw." Not only did my teeth jut straight out in an obscene overbite, I had an enormous gap in the front that I could fit a regular size straw through. It took four years of braces and who knows how many thousands of dollars to give me the grin I've got today. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

7. I rocked myself to sleep every night until college.

I've written about this before — how, until I had to share a room with another human being in college, my bedtime routine consisted of me getting on all fours in bed and thrashing my body from side to side until I finally passed out. I'd like to say I fully conquered that particular demon, but to this day, when I'm feeling particularly stressed out, I have reason to suspect that when I'm asleep and unconscious, I re-visit that old ritual for a few moments at a time. But seeing as I've also been guilty of sleep-walking, it's not the worst thing Drew's had to deal with.. (Happily, for both of us, I've long since been cured of the bed-wetting...).

8. I had bad gums.

I've mentioned the surgery, but I haven't said much about what I looked like before and immediately after. By the time surgery was warranted when I was 12 and had been in braces for over a year, my gums had gotten so puffy it looked like I had a mouth full of red hots — red hots and metal and spaces in all the wrong places. This, you can imagine, didn't endear me to any of the boys at school whom I had crushes on. But what was even worse was my post-surgery look. While I was recovering, I had to sport this plaster stuff over my gums, like a mouth guard, for two whole weeks. Luck was on my side though, and as soon as the plaster was removed and my gums were healed and I somewhat resembled a normal kid again, we moved from Korea to Germany and I was able to reinvent myself! Instead of a shy, socially awkward preteen with ugly gums, I became a shy, socially awkward teen with average gums, so it was a real step up.

9. My freckles were out of control.

I mean, they were really out of control. I had this one freckle, in particular, that I got when I was about five. It was basically the size of dime and it sat at the tip of my nose and it was horrible. For years I had to endure constant stares and people mistaking it for something else, thinking they were being kind and saying, "Hey, you have some dirt or something on your nose," while brushing their own nose with their index finger. When I was old enough to start wearing makeup, the first thing I did wasn't investing in all the colors of Bonne Belle lipgloss like my girlfriends did; I got all the coverup I could find and I did my best to camouflage my little friend. But even the best cosmetics couldn't get the job done, so a few weeks before I started college, I decided to reinvent myself again and got that sucker lasered off. Unforntunately, the rudimentary laser left a dimple in my nose where that freckle was and to this day, it remains one of the things I'm most self-conscious about.

10. My boobs were humongous.

Ironically, I was a bit of a late bloomer, but by the time I turned 18, I registered to vote in one district while I had to register my boobs in a different district. That's because I was wearing a size 36 Triple-D bra. My ta-tas were huge and heavy and I was sick of it. Clothes didn't fit, my back always hurt, and no one ever looked me in the eye. There was no way — no way — I was going to go the rest of my life with tits like that. So, I told my parents that while I was still covered under their health insurance, I wanted to get a boob reduction. To their credit, they were very supportive and only tried to talk me out of it enough to call themselves responsible. When they realized how serious I was and how much I'd thought it over and had already researched, they helped me find a great plastic surgeon in St. Louis and gave me their blessing. My grandmother, who lived a few miles from the surgeon's office, accompanied to my initial appointment and when she saw my nekkid boobs for the first time, even she had to admit I was making the right decision. "They were old lady boobs!" she eloquently said later. And she was right. That surgery remains one of the best things I've ever done for myself. That, and burning my mom jeans in '98.

So, now that I've thoroughly exhausted my earliest and deepest insecurities, what are some of yours? C'mon, group therapy time. Can you top my thumb-sucking and bed-rocking?

The Dark Spot

I went to the dentist today. I hate to admit it, but it was my first dentist appointment since I moved to New York almost three and half years ago, which makes it noteworthy, you see. I hadn't meant to wait so long, but I was without dental inurance before I married Drew last summer and then ... well, time just got away, I guess.

"I have some anxiety around dental ... stuff," I explained to my new dentist this morning as he lowered the chair into a deep recline, "So I'm sorry if I seem tense."

"Well, it's no wonder." he replied, kindly. "You had gum surgery as a kid. That would give anyone some anxiety."

I'd just told him what I tell every dentist: "I have great teeth but bad gums." When I was a gawky 12 year-old in braces, my gums were so inflamed and infected I had to have intense surgery on them. I endured 20 shots in my gums before the surgery even began and though I was numb for most of it, I'm still haunted by the sounds of the tools ripping my gums open, scraping and pulling. I'm still haunted by the sight of all that blood. And yet, sometimes, when I try to think back, it hardly seems like that girl in the chair all those years ago with the paper mask over her face was really me. Was that really me?

"You're missing your wisdom teeth," my dentist said, nodding at the digital X-Rays. X-Rays have turned digital since my last trip to the dentist.

"Yeah," I replied, "I got them out when I was a kid."

I tried to remember how old I was when they came out. Thirteen? Fourteen? Younger? I'm 34 now. Memories are beginning to fuzz a little around the edges. I know it was summer, because I remember recuperating at my grandparents house in St. Louis. And I remember waking up in the recovery room and not knowing if I was still asleep and dreaming or if this was real life.

"This is real life, honey," a woman in a white jacket said.

"I want a cheeseburger," I replied.

"You've had sealants put in, too." The dentist said after I opened my mouth wide and he stuck some tools inside.

"Hm-mm," I mumbled, suddenly conscious of the drool beginning to pool at the corner of my lips.

"It looks completely worn away here," he said, pointing to a molar, "Unless they didn't put any sealants on that tooth. I wonder why they'd skip that tooth though."

"Hmmmm," I said, sort of shrugging my shoulders.

I tried to remember when I got those sealants put on. Junior high? High school, maybe? Right before college? I can still see the waiting room, the parking lot outside the window, the complimentary toothbrush, but I can't see myself. Was I supposed to have gotten new sealants at some point? Were they supposed to last forever? I just don't remember. It's all so fuzzy.

The dentist put his tools down, pulled off his rubber gloves and began raising my chair.

"I have great teeth, but bad gums," I recited again, just to fill the space with something. I suddenly realized I'd been holding my armrest with a death grip, so I folded my hands lightly on my lap while I waited for the verdict.

"Your gums are actually OK," he replied. "With the exception of a couple spots, they look fine. Your flossing is paying off."

I nodded, pleased with myself. "Floss daily" was a New Year's resolution back in, I don't know, '05 or '06, and one of the resolutions I've been most successful in keeping.

I have great teeth, and OK gums, I thought to myself, trying it on for size.

"But you have your first cavity," the dentist said.

"What?!" I asked.

"Right here," he replied, pointing again to the digital X-Ray. "You see that dark area?"

"Uh-huh," I said, lying.

"That's a cavity."

On my walk back to the subway, I silently repeated to myself: I have bad teeth and OK gums. I have bad teeth but OK gums. I have OK teeth. My teeth are OK. I was 34 when I got my first cavity. I have a cavity. I have a cavity. IIII have a cavity.

I have OK teeth and OK gums.

I am 34.

2011 In The House

You may remember this gold and black sequin vintage dress I found at the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market back in April. Remember? I posed in it with my faux fur coat for an impromptu roof top photo shoot? Well, I've been saving it all this time to wear on the occasion of New Year's Eve, intent that nothing would stand in my way. It didn't even matter to me if we never left the apartment; I was going to wear that dress on the evening of New Year's Eve 2010, no matter what. This was so important to me that the few times Drew asked if I was ready for baby-making, I told him it'd have to wait 'til after New Year's so I was sure to still fit in that dress. I wish I could explain why this was so important to me, but all I can say is I felt supersticious as soon as I saw it hanging in the flea market. Like, I knew immediately that if I wore that dress to ring in 2011, I'd be destined to have a wonderful year.

And so, after a particularly trying month — one of the most trying months in recent memory — and after much stress and holiday eating, I pulled up my Spanx (well, not Spanx actually, but Flexees, which I think are far superior), put on some pantyhose and poured myself into my dress. Luckily, it still fit. When I stood up. Sitting down was a different story. But it fit well enough to take me into 2011 in style and that's all that matters.

The past three years, Drew and I have thrown a NYE party, but this year I wanted to keep it low-key. We made this decision back in November, and though it took a little convincing on my part to get Drew to go along with it — the guy likes any excuse to throw a party — it turned out to be a blessing that we kept things simple. As I said, December proved to be a very stressful month — most of it job-related and so I can't really get into the details — and I was happy not to have the added stress (and expense!) of hosting a party. Instead, we invited a few friends over, I made a huge pot of jambalaya, we drank about six bottles of champagne, spent a couple hours singing on my brand new karaoke set  — an awesome Christmas gift from Drew — and then yelled and screamed on our balcony at midnight. Afterward, we threw on our coats and headed to a fancy cocktail bar in our neighborhood for a couple more drinks, and it was perfect.

The whole holiday season was perfect, really, or as perfect as it can be when you are dealing with the kind of stuff I had to deal with last month. Though I missed my family — it was only the second time ever I missed Christmas with them — we enjoyed a spontaneous conference Skype call on Christmas morning with my sister in Austin and my parents in Germany. I'd actually never Skyped before and I had no idea you could do a three-way Skype call. We were able to watch each other open presents and everything. It was sweet. Afterward, I made biscuits and gravy for breakfast — a family tradition — and Drew and I spent the second half of the day in typical Jewish fashion: a movie (Black Swan) and Chinese food. We capped off the holiday with a small party at our neghbor's, where I ate too many meatballs and mini cheesecakes. But what's Christmas without too many meatballs and mini cheesecakes, huh?

The next day, as I'm sure you've heard way too much about by now, we had the "GREAT BLIZZARD OF 2010." It was our first snowfall in Brooklyn and it was as lovely and romantic as I thought it would be. Snow is always beautiful when it's the first of the season and you don't have to shovel or commute in it. Once again, I was grateful I'd decided to stay home for Christmas this year and not travel to my parents' in Germany. We'd have hit the blizzard in Europe on the way there and the blizzard in NY on the way back. My nerves already frazzled, a commute like that would have just put me over the edge.

Anyway, it's a new month now — a new year — and I wore my lucky dress to ring it in so I felt confident 2011 will be fantastic. I hope you are feeling equally optimistic, and are getting back into the swing of things after what was hopefully a wonderful and warm holiday season. Happy 2011, everyone!

Ho Ho Ho

If I had my act together, there'd be a photo in this spot right now of Drew and me in our new hats with a caption that said: "One of these hats was bought before three margaritas and one was bought after. Can you tell which is which?" And then maybe some of you would chuckle and leave a comment guessing that Drew's hat was the drunk purchase and you'd be right.

But that photo is not here because I don't have my act together. Or, rather, I do have my act together — as much as I can — but the act is happening elsewhere at the moment and not on this here blog. And if anyone cares, I'm sorry about that. It's just been a crazy, chaotic month and I have plenty to say, but am forbidden to say any of it now. How's that for elusive?

I'm not pregnant, by the way. I've learned in the last year and a half since getting hitched, that seems to be the news people most expect to hear from me. But no, not yet. Maybe next spring. Or summer. We'll see.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to a low-key Christmas in my very own home this year. Drew and I decided to save our vacation days and travel budget and stay put instead of flying to Germany to see my parents, and although I'm terribly sad to be missing them this year — especially since I saw them only a total of three days all year — considering the weather-related travel safus in Europe right now, I think it's for the best we didn't attempt the long trip this time. Instead, we will stay in Brooklyn, drink eggnog, go see movies, and maybe eat some Chinese food (Drew's Jewish, after all). I'm excited to see my cats tear open their gifts on Christmas morning. Oh yes, they get gifts. And this will be our first Christmas together, so I'm going all out.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

The Giving Tree

There are many things about my mom that I love. And there are many things about her that are ridiculous. Most of the time, what I love about my mom and what is ridiculous about her is the same, and that is never truer than when it comes to gift-giving. To be sure, my mom is a very generous gift-giver. Especially when it comes to Christmas. She starts shopping for the holiday a year in advance — sometimes even earlier than that. I wouldn't be surpised if she already has a few gifts socked away for next Christmas. In fact, I'm almost sure she does. And if I read her emails carefully enough, I could probably figure out exactly what it is she has socked away.

That's because my mother cannot stop herself from telling me in advance what she's giving me (and others, of course) for any gift-giving occasion. Part of the reason for this is practical, I guess. She always asks for a list of suggestions, I send her some links to things I like, and she lets me know if there's anything on the list she didn't get in case I want to buy it for myself before it sells out. Fair enough. But, this invariably leads to a discussion of what she did decide to buy me instead. Or, she'll tell me enough about what she didn't buy me that I can figure out what she did end up getting. Or, she'll have her own gift idea for me and instead of just buying it, wrapping it up and letting it be a surprise, she'll run the idea by me first. And it won't even be, "Hey, do you need dishes?" It will be, "Hey do you need dishes? Because I saw these (link included) at Coldwater Creek and wondered if you might like them." And then we'll have a back-and-forth over email for the afternoon, during which time she'll let me pick out the pattern, the color, the size and so forth, all the while, worrying that the color I chose might now match my Le Crueset pots and pans well enough.

I got a big box from Coldwater Creek last week. I can't imagine what might be inside.

"I didn't get you any clothes this year," my mom lamented the other day, which I could have guessed since I didn't send links to any clothes. "I just got you lots of accessories and stuff like that," she said (which is exactly what I did send links to). She then went on to say it was too bad because, after all, "Clothes are always my favorite gift to receive!"

I did not get my mom any clothes for Christmas this year.

For my birthday in September, I told my mom I'd like some rainboots. I knew she'd want to know what kind, so I went ahead and sent a link to the brand I like. She wanted to know what color I preferred and I gave her a choice of three or so. "Do you want the purple ones or the green ones?" she asked, not content to choose the color herself. "I think the purple ones are cute!" she added.

"I like the purple ones, too." I confirmed.

"But do you have a purple umbrella?" she asked, suddenly worried.

I told her I didn't — that I had a couple black umbrellas and the green umbrella she gave me for christmas the year before. Within minutes, she sent links to several purple umbrellas and asked if I liked any of them. I didn't really, and told her not to worry about getting a purple umbrella — that the purple rainboots would be plenty by themselves.

A week later, I got a birthday card from my parents. Inside, was a picture of a purple umbrella and a note that said: "I ordered this for you from a website in China. You should be receiving it in a few days."

Good thing she warned me. I might not have known what to do with a surprise package addressed to me, otherwise.

It's Holly Berry Season, Motherfuckers*

Tonight's the first night of Hanukkah, which means I'm gonna pull up a step stool, reach for the box of holiday crap at the top of our hall closet and start decorating the shit out of our apartment. I'm talking a menorah here, some stockings there, and some good ol' fucking Christmas greens spread all over the mantel. We don't really have a mantel, but I'm gonna improvise. I might even go crazy and get a tree and hang lights and ornaments and maybe even some tinsel from its branches. At the top I'll put something big and sparkly, like maybe a disco ball or a five point-fucking star, it's the holidays, bitches!

It used to be I only celebrated Christmas and that was fun enough, but now I'm married to a Jewish dude, which means double the fun because it's Chrismukkah all damn month, y'all. We're gonna eat latkes and jelly donuts and play dreidel and light candles and sing "Jingle Bells" for the next four weeks and we're gonna like it! I'm gonna make mulled wine every other night so our apartment doesn't just look like Santa and Hannukah Harry barfed all over it, it's going to smell like it too. I'm gonna wrap the cats up in Christmas paper and put bows on their heads and make them take photos for our family holiday cards and write a letter full of highlights of every month of the whole last year, it's the holidays, assholes!

I'm gonna bundle up because it's getting cold outside and I'm gonna get on the subway and smile ear-to-fucking-ear at all my co-passengers because it's the holidays and I'm full of jolly good cheer. If I'm on a car with a mariachi band or a singing quartet or even just a guy who's down on his luck and needs some help getting a sandwich or something, I'm gonna line all their pockets with the bills in my wallet because it's the holidays and I'm all about giving this year. When I pass those Salvation Army people outside the post office or K-Mart ringing their ring-a-lingin' bells, I'm gonna tear open a big ass roll of quarters and let each coin drop to the bottom of the pail — clinkity, clinkity, clink, clink, clink — like a goddamn slot machine win, it's the holidays, fuckheads!!

I'm gonna go to every single holiday party I get invited to and curl my hair and wear earrings that tear my earlobes and heels that give me bunions and satin-trimmed velvet shirts that make everyone wanna touch me like a fuckin' bunny. I'm gonna bring champagne bottles wrapped in celophane and mixed CDs with Christmas songs and sugar cookies shaped like Santa and I'm gonna drink too much and turn red in the face and make inappropriate remarks to people I don't know too well and then look them up on Facebook the next afternoon and apologize for making them uncomfortable because its the holidays, bitches.

On New Year's Eve, I'm gonna count down to midnight with a room full of drunks I don't even like and watch the ball drop on TV and make resolutions I have no intention of keeping, and mess up all the words to that song no one can pronounce, and hug a bunch of strangers cause it's that time of year, and that's just what you fucking do!

Happy Holidays, assholes. Now, go spread some good cheer.

*This post was inspired by one of my all-time favorite pieces of literature, "IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS"