Saturday, December 19, 2009

Later on, we'll expire, as we dream by the fire...

(I thought those were the correct lyrics to Winter Wonderland until about a year ago. Yep. I should really consider donating by brain to science.)
Words: shit-tons

Caffeine: midafternoon mocha
Evil Calories: Fudge, fudge and fudge. With a little fudge. Oh, and fudge.

First of all, since I know you're all planning to buy me Christmas presents, let's clear up any confusion. I do not need soap (or any incarnation of soap ie. body wash, body oil, body scrub, body butter, body brine, body engine coolant, body fertilizer etc). Nor do I need a dry heave-inducing sweater from the clearance rack at Sears. I know it's tempting because it's only 75 cents, but seriously, just walk away. I also have little need for a porcelain statue of a droopy eyed dog with a bonnet in its mouth. Yes, I know. I'm dead inside.

I do, however, need this:

Yes. It's a Princess Leia Polly Pockets fashion set. My favorite part is the little framed picture of Han Solo. Though, just between you and me, I doubt Princess Leia would ever have a framed picture of Han on her wall. That's just not how she rolls.

I would also settle for a Chia Pet, a Snuggie (zebra print, please) or the Clapper.

On another note, you all may (or probably not at all) be wondering what's going on with my writing. It's funny, because I notice that when I'm heavy into my writing, I rarely blog about it, and when I barely manage to eek out a paragraph over a three month span, I'll yap about my writing incessantly. So, read between the lines. I'm not talking about my writing. (Okay, well I am right now, but I'm just trying to make a point.) Not talking about my writing, meaning, things are moving, progressing, and I see something, sparkling off in the distance. Actually not in the distance. A lot closer than in the distance. We'll call it "just up ahead and slightly on the left".

SHAZAM! is all I have to say about that.

And lastly, I'd just like to take this opportunity to wish you, my faithful reader,
bonnes fêtes, which, thanks to my awesome sister and her drive-by, ambush emailed French lessons, I now know means "happy holidays".

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Sip a nice hot cup of coo-coo

Words: 1245
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cinnamon spiced tea
Evil Calories: Milkshake from the Sander's store at the mall. Don't know what came over me. I blame Jon and Kate Goslin. Just cuz.

You know what I love? The mall at Christmas. Yes, it's a complete zoo and the parking lots alone are like an episode of American Gladiators, but there's a certain charm to it that I cannot resist. Of course, I love the decorations and the music and hung over Santa who looks like he's going to honk Milwaukee's Best all over a set of triplets in matching pink dresses. But what I really love are the people. You know which people I'm talking about, right? The little old ladies in high water green pants with their purses strapped around their shoulders, triple knotted and bungee corded to their waists to stave off the pickpockets after the thirty-two cents in their wallets (I can make fun because I will be one of these goofy old bats one day). The dude in the mustard stained Tasmanian Devil Harley-Davidson t-shirt sucking on a Super Big Gulp as he gawks at the sale window in Spencer Gifts. The angry man in ill-fitting slacks and a comb over. No one knows what has made him so mad. You'd think relying on four wispy strands of hair to give the illusion of a full quaff would make you more of a "glass half full" person, but no. He's pissed, and dammit, and you best get the f!@# out of his way, pronto! Then there's the disgruntled MAC girl on her fifteen, stuck in line at Starbucks behind an elderly couple who look as if they haven't left their house since 1972 and want to know what "expresso" is. And then my personal favorite, the people who decide to have defcon-5 shit-fits on the poor, underpaid sales people. I know it's frustrating when your 50% off coupon from 1987 is no longer valid, but that's no reason to go all Gary Busey. You do realize there are people who live with war in their countries, right? Just pay for your crap and SHUT IT.

I'm sensitive because I was once one of these poor, underpaid sales people. I lived in the Bay Area and worked at a Gloria Jeans in the mall in my late teens. One Christmas, I actually had a woman pour a Mocha on me because we didn't have the cow-in-a-moo-moo sugar and creamer set she was looking for. And then there was the guy who told me I'd live a long, sad, lonely life and die in a gutter with rats eating at my eyes because I wouldn't call the Gloria Jeans in San Francisco (who we had NO affiliation with) and have someone drive a pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain to his mother's house in Berkley. Cuz, you know, it's totally normal for a coffee shop to make house calls.

I'm much happier now just being a distant observer of the coo-coo pants behavior. (Though...okay, I DID elbow my way into the line at Starbucks and made the tween in front of me paranoid about her weight just to get my hands on the last banana chip muffin, but that's it. Other than that, I've been totally sane.)