christmas day

At midnight, when superparents around the world (or the block) were climbing onto their roofs in faux reindeer hooves and sleigh bells to create the magic of the real meaning of Christmas for their kids, I was in church, getting burned by wax, at a candlelight service at my mom's church.  I tried to get out of it this year; I was annoyed, tired, and cold, and my sweatshirt and sweats were so much more appealing than pretty much anything else I could wear.  Alas, I lost that battle, because at Christmas, my mom gets what she wants, at least, she does from me (hence, my solidly cemented "golden child" status).

I woke up this morning just after 7AM to a dog barreling through my bedroom door that doesn't close all the way, activating the winds chimes that are inexplicably hanging on the back of it, after which, he stood extremely still at the edge of the bed, stared me down, and waited for me to open my eyes, move or grunt.   And with a very slight shift of my foot, the mutt pounced on my bed and started licking my face and hand.  I don't ever remember being that obnoxious on Christmas morning; I certainly never licked my mother, though I also never waited until past 6AM to wake her up, so I guess it's give and take.  He escorted me into the living room where I was pleasantly surprised that I was, in fact, not on Santa's naughty list this year (hooray!)...I guess Santa isn't always watching, kids (*wink*).

However, before the traditional gift distro and opening was tackled, I had two very important items of business to take care of--find an open Starbucks, and find an open grocery store.  Sacramento is not like Los Angeles, things actually shut down on Christmas, and I had to travel outside of the neighborhood to find a Starbucks.

To take care of this second very important thing, I had to travel outside of my comfort zone.  Those of you who know me (not biblically), know that I do not typically shop at places that have any of the following in their name: a number, "Sav-" "Valu-" or "Mart."  However, desperate times call for desperate measures, and when no other place is open and a key ingredient needed for the holiday is missing, one must do what one must do, and SaveMart, the double whammy of grocery stores, was what I had to do.

I was only slightly mortified when at 8:20AM, the checkout clerk called out, "Can we please get assistance for this lady right here at the liquor cabinet?" over the abnormally loud PA system.  I say "slightly" because the people that were shopping at this one store didn't seem to be the type that would care too much about such a request at such a time of day.

And PS, check out that sale price!  SaveMart, indeed.

I came home, gifts were opened, and everyone was pretty happy.  Wondermutt got some new squeak toys, bones, and the poop bags he's been eyeing, and my gramma seemed to be pretty excited about that IHOP gift card I got her; I'm pretty sure that was the pièce de résistance.  Although, I did get The Neverending Story on DVD and that's like getting a part of my childhood back (Falcor!).  Kinda hard to top that.

Here's hoping your Christmas Day is shaping up to be just as FUNderful...or at least you, too, have a bottle of something that can make it FUNderful.  Cheers!

christmas eve

Since the world survived the non-apocalypse, I had to prepare for the next potential uh-oh:  going home for Christmas.   As you may recall, I skipped this adventure at Thanksgiving this year in favor of avoiding both the drive on the 5, and the wrath of the grandma, but I just couldn't bring myself to go full-Scrooge and skip out on my mom on this holiday, the holiest of holy holidays (besides her golden child's [that would be me] birthday).  As I've gotten older, I've ascribed to the notion that the "a little dab'll do ya" mentality completely applies when it comes to going home.  Where once I used to take two weeks off for Christmas and spend nearly the entire time with family, I find less is more-better, for everyone...except Wondermutt, who has a fan club here in the 'burbs of Sac, and as soon as the sun comes up, all of the neighbors will be over here to see him, to get his autograph, to get their pet on, and maybe, if they have time, throw me an, "Oh.  You're here, too?  Huh."  And then go back to adoring the boy wonder.  It's fine, I understand.  He always comes bearing homemade gifts for them and leaves them on their lawns.  I'm not quite as giving.

Wondermutt is comin' to town.

I drove up yesterday, and despite white knuckling it for the last 100 miles or so, it wasn't too bad.  Now, I think in a past life, if there is such a thing, I was a race car driver, because very few things on the road scare me.  I don't even have to turn down the radio when I park, or when I'm looking at directions.  There have only been three times in my life where I have white knuckled it with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel:  driving from Pullman, WA to Sacramento in winter, through the mountains, on a narrow two lane highway, in a storm, with one windshield wiper (the other one froze to my windshield and then snapped off) in a Saturn coupe; driving in North Carolina through a storm (that was a pre-cursor to a tornado I was trying to outdrive) with hail so large I swore my windshield would break and the body of my Land Rover would be pitted unrecognizably--I actually had to pull over for that one and turned off the radio so God could hear my prayers; and then there was this 100-mile stretch yesterday.  It wasn't just the weather, it was actually a combo of the rain, wind, and the fuck-tards that were going apeshit on the road, which normally wouldn't call for the 10 and 2 approach, but I had the mutt in the car, and when I have another being's life in my hands, that ups the ante.  How would I explain showing up without him to the neighbors, no matter if I was hurt, or on life support myself?  "What happened to Wondermutt?!?" they'd shout in horror.  There'd be public outcry.  They'd cancel Christmas forever.  I'd cancel Christmas forever.  Drama.  Anyway.  We made it.  Crisis averted.


I'm back in my old room from high school, and it doesn't feel like much has changed, except it feels more frilly and flowery--I guess that's the mom go-to motif, you can never have too many flowers or frills, or tote bags, or pictures up of your children when they were going through their awkward phase (years 6 - 26, those years are the same for everyone, right?), but you still think they were cute...which is impossible because clearly they were not.  Because no kid who was missing two random teeth in the front, had cheeks the size of grapefruits, eyes that seemed to looked two different directions in some pictures and eyebrows that wrapped around their entire forehead is cute.  And these pictures that parents lie about only start family arguments and thievery will eventually ensue.  And then, when they comment on how nice the fire in the fireplace feels but later in the evening say, "where did you find the wood or paper to start it with," after everyone is warm and cozy, it'll be noticed that those pictures are missing, and laughs will be laughed (by the culprit) and then--war will break out.  Fingers will be pointed, shouts will be shouted, babies will cry, vows of "never again!" will be vowed, dogs will bark, sirens will wail, mothers will sob, doors will be slammed...it's all part of the miracle of Christmas.  Hooray!  What fun!  Who wants pie?

I will say, in all my destitution, when I do come home, it does begin to look and feel more like Christmas.  After all, home is where I can get the full experience; there's a real fake tree, lights inside and outside, decorations galore, one, two, maybe even three baby Jesuses, wrapped presents (Santa Claus still leaves gifts in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve--this is almost contractual and can never end), there's central heating and even food in the cupboards AND refrigerator.  I'm even sleeping in a bed that's in the shape of a sleigh.  And I happen to know where I can get a reindeer on very short notice.......

And so, I make the drive and hope for the best, brace for the rest, and pray that Belvedere is on sale.

Merry Christmas!

Drive-thru ATM

Yesterday was a Saturday.  Wondermutt didn’t (and still doesn’t) care.  He can’t tell time (officially) and he cares nothing for calendars.  And since he holds a grudge against my job that keeps me away from him 10-12 hours a day, five days a week, he couldn’t care less that I was exhausted due to an eleven hour turnaround from the time I left work on Thursday and was back at my desk on Friday.  Some people would probably tell me to quit my bitching.  But those are the same people I’d tell to quit their bitching if they should come over to my foodless and dirty apartment, with fur tumbleweeds at their feet rolling around the floor to the sound of some random Western theme style whistling music, as they try to find somewhere acceptable to sit amongst the squalor, the dust, the 3-foot high pile of two weeks worth of laundry, including several of Victoria’s dirty little secrets—because my personal life does not happen and things do not get done when I am mentally and physically exhausted because of long days and short turnarounds in my professional life.  But, I digress.  The mutt woke me up to start the day and start the play, as if it were any other day, around 6:00…that’s A.M….on a Saturday, which, in at least one (acknowledged) religion, is the Sabbath, the Lord’s Day, the day of REST.  Wondermutt is obviously not a Jew.

I had shit to do today.  First on my list was to rearrange a few things to see if I might have some money until next payday with which to do these things.  Some people might call this “moving around some assets,” probably the same people who’d bitch about my foodless and dirty apartment.  I call this trying to “find an asset,” or just another week in my single, post-college, assistant-job life.  I made a payment to a credit card earlier this week, so I could turn around and use the credit it gave me (the exact amount I paid) to get me by for another week, to, perhaps, get some food, a little gas, and to pay the 14-year old girl (who is a hustler and is serious about getting paid on time) who walks Wondermutt during the week.  I was less concerned about the food and gas than I was about paying the teenager—I would hate to come home one day to just a tuft of his fur taped to a note that read, “you’ll get the rest when I get paid!”  As I took my credit card into two banks in an effort to get a cash advance (apparently hustlers, even the ones who are teenagers with braces, don’t take plastic) and was told twice that my particular card wouldn’t allow for that for some unknown reason, I decided my only option was to play a financial Russian Roulette, and withdraw cash from my bank account, in hopes that one of my bills won’t clear until I get paid again.

Since I was the pre-shower, pre-deodorant, pre-“could give a fuck” version of myself, I decided I had had enough face-to-face engagement for the morning, and rolled up to a drive thru ATM.  Now, these drive thru ATM situations are utter bullshit, because not once have I been able to, nor have I seen any other individual be able to pull up to these things and get close enough to the machine without taking off their side mirror to actually stay safely in their car and do the necessary transaction.  100% of the time, someone will unbuckle their seatbelt, and proceed to hang half way out side of their rolled down window, with their driver’s side door open, their fingers outstretched all the way, dancing and barely grazing the key pad, and trying to grab at their “fast cash” while trying not to dent or scratch their car door against the ill-placed painted poles in front of the ATM, until they finally snatch their cash, breathe again and sit back in their seat exhausted.  I can safely say, it’s not just me who experiences this.  In this, for once, I am not alone. 

And this drive thru ATM was no different.  Until, it kind of was.  I pulled up to the machine, got as close as I could, put the car in park, unbuckled the seat belt, and commenced with the outside-of-the-window hang.  I quickly pushed my card in, but not too far in because I had to “quickly remove it” and I was still kind of far from the machine—at this point, it had turned into a full-on pilates session with the immense stretching and balancing I was doing.  Nope, first try didn’t work, please try again.  So I did, and it worked.  I was so focused on getting the card into the slot and being able to grab it back again, that I almost didn’t see the receipt that was hanging out of the machine from a previous transaction, from a car that I never saw arrive or leave.  I assume that person couldn’t be bothered to stretch one last time to collect their receipt, so they just left it…for me to collect.  And why wouldn’t I?  I’m an honest gal.  The person that comes after me could do something unscrupulous with any information contained on that receipt, but me—I would just throw it away for the stranger who left it (and maybe blog about it later).  So, with a final heave, I grabbed my cash, grabbed the stranger’s receipt, breathed again, sat back down in my seat, threw the cash and crumpled receipt in my purse and drove off….

I think it was maybe eight blocks before I decided that before I threw away this receipt, maybe I could just take a look at it, and see if the person who came before me was in the same unfortunate and sinking financial boat I was in, and then, again, I could feel “not alone in this.”  I wasn’t going to do anything unscrupulous with the information, I was just going to look at it, maybe shrug a little, maybe give a little “meh,” and be on my merry way.  I rolled up to a stop sign, and pulled out the crumpled receipt with the two 20s I pulled out of the machine, which eventually will cost me at least an additional $34 in overdraft fees--$40 for the bargain price of $74…but I’m thinking, whatever, the person who this receipt belongs to is probably in the same boat.  I’m not alone in my destitution.

Until I realized I was not in a boat, because boat is too fancy a word.  Dinghy, perhaps, could be more accurate, or maybe an inflatable life raft one could find on clearance at Kmart.  Because when I opened the receipt and saw that this stranger’s remaining and available balance was over $320,000 (that’s nearly 1/3 of a million dollars, for those who like math), I could swear I heard a pop and slow squeak of the air being let out of my inner tube...that’s not a euphemism for “I had gas” either, because, in fact, I did not.  Literally.

I finally closed my mouth and popped my eyes back into their sockets, but I think I’m still suffering from shock.  People actually live like that.  And those people, of course, don’t need their receipt, that’s why they didn’t bother taking it.  Because it doesn’t matter what their balance is, because whatever it is, it’s enough.  It will always be enough.  And they don’t have to balance their checkbook every time they get a $5 footlong at Subway, and they don’t have to decide what’s more important, food or gas, because they can afford both—forever.  I California-rolled through the stop sign as a third warning light lit up on my car’s dash, making me even more aware that not only was I out of money, but I was about to be out of gas, too.  Immediately I thought, whoever this receiptless person was, I had a few words for them:  “thank you very little,” and, furthermore, “are you single and/or willing to adopt a 31-year old girl?”

It does make me feel a little better, that even though as far as our finances are concerned, and that person is in a yacht, and I’m now holding onto a piece of deflated rubber that used to float a little (metaphorically), neither of us can escape the pain in the ass that is the drive thru ATM.  I didn’t look at the receipt again, and I haven’t thrown it away either.  I’m not sure what happens next.  But I bet you anything my dog will wake me up at 6:00AM again tomorrow with the sound of him playing with a squeaky toy in his mouth.  Because when you’re a dog, what else is there that really matters?

I can think of at least 320,000 things…

Romantic Comedy?

I do enjoy a good romance.  97% of the time, I'm referring to the ones that are fake and on screen...2.5% of the time I'm referring to the ones that I make up in my head, and the remaining .5% is  a mixed bag of: 1) my one-ish relationship; 2) a romp in the sack that ends on a good note; and 3) amazing take-out dinners, with take-out dinners in a very decent lead ahead of the other two.  I didn't used to cry at anything I'd see on screen--no sweet movies; or television with a thought provoking, kind, and hopeful message; not even commercials for tutoring services.  I'm not sure if it's because sensitivity and sentiment (not to be confused with sediment) grew with age, or because it wasn't even a thought in my mind that whatever romantic and lovely scene that I would see on a screen couldn't or wouldn't ever really happen to me in my life, so there was no need for tears or fears.  Because, I so willfully thought, of course super sweet Brad Pitt was going to get hit by a car and die, come back as the Angel of Death, fall in love with me--a doctor with a trust fund, he'd speak Jamaican to my patients, decide he wanted to have me enough to kill me and take me with him to heaven/hell but then decide to spare me after my father (who'd have a British accent) pleaded for him to reconsider, he'd go back to heaven/hell, and then re-emerge unscathed as the Brad Pitt character that got hit by the car in the beginning of the movie, and would come back to life and watch fireworks with me at my dad's mansion in the Hamptons (Meet Joe Black, yes please).  And don't be silly, of course that hot senior Jake Ryan would initially not notice me at school because he was dating the hot senior chick with the big boobs, but then he'd track me down at my high-as-a-kite sister's wedding and be waiting outside of the church in a Chicago suburb, his angelic presence only to be revealed when the wedding crowd dispersed, and then he'd whisk me off in his expensive red car, neither of us caring that I was missing the reception, and we'd end up sitting on top of his dining room table with a birthday cake in between us as we made out (and yes, this was going to happen on my 16th birthday like in 16 Candles).  Yes, I thought this was all possible in my naïve youth.  Damn you, Hollywood, and your trickery embedded in messages of love and hope with hunks!

Cut to, I'm 31 in two-ish weeks, and have never had an actual Valentine.  There's been no one who has or would "walk 500 miles and then walk 500 more and then fall down at my door," no John Cusack standing outside of my house with a boombox over his head, no meet-cute with Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle/Brentwood?)or in the middle of a New York garden where our meeting after some clandestine email activity (You've Got Mail) was simply, "mmmmagic."  Every year, usually twice a year (Valentine's Day and Christmas), another romantic movie premise gets kicked off my list of "Possible Real-Life Love Scenarios" after I watch it and realize that what I'm watching  is not how my interactions with the male species have ever gone down.  Ever.  My romantic life has been closer to Night at the Roxbury meets The Truth About Cats & Dogs meets the first half of Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion meets a Roto Rooter commercial.  Yes, that great.  So, perhaps it's a no-brainer why I now cry at run of the mill rom-com movies.  However, I still have no explanation for tears during Care Bears cartoons or Sylvan Learning commercials.

I'm not all cynicism, though.  Even now, as I sit on my couch with my niece's dog (who I am now the legal guardian of, as my niece is off to be all that she can be in the Army), and we both stare at my front door with our sad little hearts, waiting for whoever left our lives to come back to us as a redemptive soundtrack gets bumped up in the background, knowing full well all that awaits is iTunes and half bottle of Belvedere, and the only thing coming through my front door tonight is the sound of CNN blaring from my creepy old neighbor's TV set next door.  However, I still have an inner Bridget Jones, that is optimistic.  I keep the optimism under wraps more often than not, but it's there, tucked into Spanxy granny briefs four sizes too small in order to impress the hot boy at the party with my artificially flatter tummy, and smooth ass and thighs, in order that he might like what he thinks he sees and stays long after the illusion is gone.  It's a very slim glimmer of optimism, slimmer now more than ever (I hope my ass follows suit), but it's present.

Maybe the previously mentioned "not-a-match match" who lived his life (and our "interlude," as it were) as though he were in Jerry Maguire was onto something.  Maybe he just wanted the happy ending, where love wins, completes, and has Renee Zellweger at "hello."  Though if he really knew me, he would've known I'm not quite as easy as Renee, and it takes a whole lot more than a "hello" to have me.  A horse-drawn pumpkin-converted carriage would be a good start, followed by an, "I'm sorry for being a douche" Valentine's Day card (regardless of the day, I'm not that unreasonable) or vice versa.

Interestingly enough, or maybe not, as I type this and finish my fourth vodka based beverage and my cheeks are numb, suddenly anything is possible again.  I could be that easy, where a simple knock at the door followed by a "hello" just might suffice, and complete me.

.....unless at my door is the creepy neighbor.

Spin Class

I recently gave up cable.  As in, I turned off my service and turned in the cable box.  I held on to the remote for a couple weeks, since I have an extremely difficult time saying goodbye.  One could call this my pre-Lent sacrifice several months early (I tend to be early to parties/events, too, but I'm working on that [i.e., circling the block for however long it takes for me to arrive with the masses, or just after them] since I've discovered the whole early arrival obligation of help-the-host-set-up makes me feel less of a guest and more like "the help" and I gave up being in the domestic help industry a few years ago when I got a "real job" that pays less [plus, my Spanglish was lacking]).  OR it's me giving into the fact that I should be living under a freeway overpass, with a Ralph's shopping cart serving as my roll-in closet, and my early morning showers provided by homeowners that do not believe in water conservation and have exceptionally green lawns.  In addition to my dismal bank accounts (I have three, which would be slightly more impressive if their combined balances would have a number, any number, in front of the decimal point), I thought the lack of television would compel me to do something more constructive with my time, like write, workout, soak up some vitamin D, or perhaps, if I was really bored, actively participate in life instead of live it vicariously through Iron Chefs, dog whisperers, and Real not-Housewives.  None of the aforementioned things have happened often enough to make this little "experiment" worth it.  I've been watching DVDs where the girl gets the guy/guy gets the girls/kid gets the puppy/Kate Beckinsale gets out of a Thai prison/Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifinakis and Ed Helms get over their hangover, all of which make me lonely and depressed, or reading Craigslist postings (whatever, everyone without the Hallmark Channel and The Nanny marathons does this on Friday and Saturday nights) that make me laugh, and then feel lonely and depressed that I'm not a "BBW," "submissive," "dominatrix," "420 friendly," or "under 30" gal that Craig's friends are, by and large, in search of falling into everlasting, or nightly, love with.  I've also been eating more, which, given my financial status, makes no sense.  The poor are not supposed to be Rubenesque (great word, learned it on Craigslist = active learning).  So to combat most of these issues (except my non-BBW/dominatrix/420 friendly-ness, I decided to make actual and regular use of my gym membership again.  To my delight the treadmill didn't break during my run, and since that went so well, I thought to myself,  "why not kick my molasses-like post-Christmas metabolism into high gear and take a spin class??"  Of course.  Why not?

Several reasons why not.  Most of which I'll share.

This latest class I indulged in was not my first, mind you.  I've taken three others, but for some reason I've never had as vile and, frankly, rude an experience as I did during this last endeavor.  My heart races before going into any situation that I see as a potential battle; for example--interviews, signing a one-year lease or agreement of any kind that requires my commitment, dates, sexual encounters, and group workout classes.  Nevermind that there's a good chance I'll be in an enclosed space and less than three feet away from a stranger while sweating (applicable in all of the above examples), but add in an instructor with a mic and fast moving body parts, and I get a little apprehensive about what I willingly signed myself up for.  I signed up online and picked a bike that was in the far corner of the room, furthest away from ridicule and seemingly far enough away from the bikes that would be to my right and left.  Upon entering the actual room, the situation was not as depicted.  Yes, I was in a far corner, but no I was not far away from the bikes to my left and right.  I was actually cornered in.  My only hope was that  the bikes that had me cornered would be unoccupied, hopes that were dashed immediately by a Rubenesque (love that word, thanks, Craig) older-something woman, who looked just as pathetic as me, but with proper spin shoes.

The instructor couldn't have been sweeter.  She set me up with the gear, the little feet buckets that attach to the pedals for those of us who aren't serious and don't pay $400 for shoes that were meant for spinning, or are just coordinationally retarded, and adjusted my bike to, presumably, suit my body.  Her energetic and enthusiastic nature was, at first, reassuring that I would survive my little hour long bike ride.  I had no idea that 20 minutes in, I'd want to throw one of my foot buckets at her head, or hope that her sweat would make her mic short out and class would be immediately over as the bikers in the front would try to resuscitate her electrically charged body.  I started pedaling casually, to I guess warm up (I was just doing what the people with the fancy shoes were doing) before the actual start of the class, already deciding that my ass and I would not be friends by the time this was over.   And then, the mic was turned on, the music was turned up, the door was closed and we were off.

There was no graceful way out, as 30 seconds in, I started to develop a callous on my lady bits.  By the three minute mark, my corner of the room started to smell like someone shit their pants out of fear.  It wasn't me, but it's equally embarrassing just to be in the general vicinity of the Bog of Eternal Stench because in the eyes of others, I could be the culprit.  But the instructor was saying such Zen-like phrases like, "Remember why you're here, in this studio, taking this class, and fight for it.  Let go of everything else," and I did my best to transcend the stink.  I wanted to turn to my neighbor and say, "well, don't let go of everything," but I guess my brain-to-mouth filter was turned off by the chapped ass I was quickly developing.  The only miniscule reprieve I received was when we would pedal standing up, until my ankle would unceremoniously decide that it did not want to pedal while standing and give out from sheer exhaust and put me back into the cement-like saddle.  I'd like to be able to say that from the immense discomfort I forgot all about everything else, alas, I did not.  I became resentful and angry at the 25-year old instructor's voice, there was no way she could really believe what she was saying.  I didn't.  "Forget all your worries.  Forget what he did to you.  There is no try, just do!"

"Wait," I thought, "did she just say, 'forget what he did to you?'"  Ahh.  Clarity.  Her annoying rantings now made sense.  This was a girl biking up that mythical hill, away from her heartache while I was desperately wanting to run away from my cooch-ache.  But neither of us were going to be successful in this hour.  I powered through it, only by becoming numb from the groin down, something that may have been visually apparent given the look I received from the douche a few bikes down to my right who kept looking at me with a concerned face.  Brain-to-mouth filter released, I shot back at him with my death look and mouthed "mind your business!" to him.  He immediately looked at his bicep and then faced forward, and I felt better, like I could finish the last five minutes of this trip through the Hell Himalayas.

And I did.  After a full hour of self-imposed torture, I peeled my nether-regions off of the banana seat, and hobbled out of the room, cold from my own sweat drenched clothing, and vowing never to go back into that room again if I know what's good for me (and my ass).  Two days later, physically I'm 95% recovered.  Mentally, well those scars are for life.