Today is going to be like a marathon of Crazy. It usually is, and I'm okay with that. One of my family's traditions is to have a meal of seven different kinds of fish--and pasta. But that's a given. There is a lot of prep work that goes into this. It's a lovely tradition, but it is a pain in the butt. I wanted to have gumbo, a few other things, and then be done with it. But now. We're having marinara sauce with clams and mussels, shrimp scampi, shrimp cocktails, scallops in garlic sauce, spicy baked swordfish steak, crab legs, and the final fish comes on the antipasta--it's anchovies. I usually call them by the Italian name, but I must confess that I can speak the word, not spell it. At all. It'd just look like my fingers had a fit. So, you'll have to take my word for it.

For now, though, I'm drinking my coffee on this very rainy Thursday. I'm listening to music. I'm enjoying the moment, I suppose. Things might not be perfect. (Let's face it: few things are perfect--coffee being the general exception, and I've met someone who can actually screw up a cup of coffee. Really.) Things might not be easy. But even in the chaos, it's all quite magical.

I love. And I am loved.

And, well, at the risk of sounding like a sappy (sappier) mushball--thank you to all of you. You make my life a little brighter. For whatever you celebrate, or even if you don't celebrate a thing, I wish you a very merry day.

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that the human heart and logic are mortal enemies. And the very moment you foolishly assume you have control over yourself—BAM! Something alluringly sinister will happen, proving that you’re just as big an idiot as the next person. (Yes, I'm talking to you. No, not you. You. Oh, for Heaven's sake!)

Take Love Actually as a cinematic example. It’s a fantastic film. It’s full of unexpected depth, painful truths, brilliant writing, and a cast that is nearly perfect. (My only qualm is Denise Richards—aka Christmas Jones. Aka the worst Bond Girl EVER.)

I was watching it the other day, and I’ll probably watch it again. It’s what I do when I’m wrapping various Christmas presents. Anyway, as I was wrangling the paper and bows, I realized that I have a slight case of anxiety regarding Christmas presents. Well, presents in general. Let me explain.

I sent my best friend something for Christmas. I couldn’t wait until it got to her, and it took everything in my power NOT to behave like a small child. “Did you get it yet? No? How about now? No? Now? No? What about now? Did ya? Did ya get it?”

That’d be annoying (not that I can’t be annoying; I’m quite good at that). When I’ve picked something out for someone, I want to make sure that they like it/love it. I’m not a particularly patient person, either. It’s not really about the gift itself; it’s about showing someone that they matter. It’s a symbol of sorts. And it occurs to me that, at the end of the day, what we all want is really the very same thing.

To paraphrase Mark Darcy (mmm, Colin Firth) from the loveable Bridget Jones’s Diary: we want someone who likes us just as we are. Not taller, or thinner, or less prone to word vomit, or bouts of uncontrollable silliness. Someone who’ll believe in us, champion us, and pick us up when we’re knee-deep in Kleenx and self-pity. Someone who will send us a text just to say, “Hi” or “How are you?” Someone who will do ridiculous things just to make you smile—that person who makes you a better version of yourself, and who’ll make you go the distance.

Not someone who tries to change you—but who helps you to be better, whether directly or indirectly. If you find someone like that, it hits you hard. And it’s nearly inexplicable. It’s something I’ve always had difficulty putting into words.

But back to Love Actually. The movie also shows the crazy things we do when we’re in love. The risks we take, and the lengths we go to—even if we might fall spectacularly on are faces. Or asses. Or hearts.

So, here is what I know.

We all want that kind of love that turns us into idiots. The kind that makes us arrange silly little scenarios, involving notes and cue cards—and blue soup. We all want to be wonderfully surprised that another person could care so deeply for us that he/she would step outside of their comfort zone.

We all want Love, actually. No substitutes or imitations. The road there isn't always easy, and it's far from immediate. But if you've found that Thing, two things are in order: cherishing it and saying it out loud.

As they teach you in Creative Writing--show, instead of tell. Bake cookies, send a sweet card, or just write a charming note.

Go the extra mile. It's almost always worth it.

I’m in a deliriously silly mood this morning. I really shouldn’t be blogging. I barely slept, and I haven’t had enough coffee. But here we are. Read on at your own peril. I’ve been thinking about quirks. Not the OCD kind, or the really annoying habits that everyone has. No, I mean the covert habits.

For instance, have you ever been in a situation where someone says something that he/she thinks is profound? It’s not actually profound, but the person expresses the sentiment or fact like it will SAVE THE WORLD. Every since time that happens, while I’m busy trying to not look perplexed, all I can think of is a line from Empire Records: The Fat Man walks alone. It’s non-sequitor (how in the holy hell do you spell that word?) in the movie itself, so it works. But it amuses me greatly.

My inner monologue can be quite hilarious. Especially if I’m having an argument and the other person is asking questions with supposedly clear answers. The following examples aren’t related, having to do with the same conversation, and aren’t necessarily all the same person.

Person A: Am I crazy?

Internal Monologue: Crazy as a march hare dipped in LSD, honey.

Person A: I mean what’s the point? Everything sucks!

Internal Monologue: You’re so right. Life is just fucked. There’s no point in trying to make things better. We’ll blame global warming.

Person A: Am I right?

Internal Monologue: Yes, you are—in some parallel universe, where I don’t drink coffee and I’m blonde.

Person A: I just want your opinion.

Internal Monologue: No, you want me to make the decision for you. And then blame me if it doesn’t work out. How do I get out of this?

Person A: You don’t like coconut.

Me [out loud]: Yes, I do.

Person A: You do? No, you don’t. You’ve always hated coconut.

Internal Monologue: No, that was my evil twin. My evil twin hated coconut. Hold on a minute, she’ll be along shortly. I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Me [out loud]: I’m pretty sure that I never hated coconut.

Person A: Are you sure?

Internal Monologue: No, I’m not sure. I’ve also suddenly forgotten my own name. Who am I, and how did I get here? Also, what’s up with your hair?

What are some of your hidden quirks/habits?

In lieu of a written blog, here are a couple of amusing pictures. Well, they amuse me. Enjoy!

(Cat vs. Blanket. I'm pretty sure that she thought she was winning...)

(I just liked the way this turned out.)

(Love the sky in this one...)

Let me clear up a few things. Okay? *cracks knuckles* I’m Italian. No, I’m not from Italy, but that’s my heritage. 100% Italian. As such, I know the proper way to pronounce the following words: mozzarella, prosciutto, calamari, manicotti, and cannoli. I also know that Chef Boyardee is a travesty, and that eating sauce out of a can/jar/bottle is a cardinal sin. It makes me want to weep tears of blood like that really crappy villain from Casino Royale.

I was also born and raised in New Jersey. You know what that means? I know that not every Jersey Girl tawks like this, and I know how to navigate a circle. (Or a roundabout, but no one uses that term.) I know that it is actually the Garden state has farms, and it’s not one long episode of The Sopranos.

But, more importantly, I know that Jersey Shore (on MTV) fills me with rage and horror. And I’d just like to set the record straight. Otherwise, I might have to punch someone. (No, you do not mess with a Jersey girl. Savvy?)

1. “Guido” and “Guidette” are not positive terms. If you called me that, I’d be angry. Also, Guidette? SERIOUSLY? That’s not even slang. That’s a bastardization of slang. Oh, and you don’t “live up to [a] lifestyle”—and being a giant tool isn’t a lifestyle. Mmmkay?
2. If you are from RHODE ISLAND, you shouldn’t have an accent like you’re from Queens NY. You know what that makes you? A poser. Oh, and Pauly D? Sunny D would like its marketing idea back, and your hair looks like freakin’ Ace Ventura styled it.
3. An intense love of hair gel isn’t inherently Italian. Instead, it prequalifies you for a position in Spence Pratt’s entourage. Or as a fill-in for Vanity Smurf.
4. Having an Oompa Loompa tan is NOT attractive. Owning a tanning bed is probably a sign that you need psychological help. Ever hear the term tanorexic? You have a problem.
5. Being an Italian-American does not entitle you to a nickname, especially a lame one. While I’m at it, spelling it incorrectly makes you seem like an even bigger tool.
6. Ladies, what’s with the hair? Half of the time, you look like Elvira and Cher had a lovechild.
7. Getting “dolled up” should never equal spackling on your makeup. And what the HELL is with the animal print clothing? Sweetie, no. Just no.
8. Ripped abs aren’t a “situation.” They’re toned muscles.
9. The jewelry has to go. The wardrobe, too.

Quite frankly, Jersey Shore makes me REALLY angry. It’s insulting. It’s obnoxious. I watched five minutes of the recap (research), and I found myself yelling at the computer. That’s not normal, but I was just horrified. Of course, watching the clip did clarify one mystery. I now know who is keeping the Bump It people in business.