Blue__Summer's Xanga

Christmas Eve, Seven Fish, and a Very Merry Everything

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 13:22:54 GMT

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.

Where I Fail, Domestically

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 13:12:29 GMT

Yesterday, I was getting ready for company. There was cleaning, organizing, and cooking to be done. There was even the odd bits of cleaning, which never get done unless there’s coming to be company. (Reorganized the pantry, vacuumed under the couch, dusted the record player—and yes, people do still play records. Even those under 30.)

However, as I set about to put sheets on the bed, I realized that I am an abysmal failure when it comes to bed making. I can throw a comforter over a bed, and it’ll look pretty. But if you give me a full set of sheets/blankets, I attack the bed with all the skill of an eight year old child. Okay, that might be an insult to eight year old children everywhere.

This is why I never make my bed. All the elements are there—the sheets, the blankets. They’re all properly functional, but my bed always looks like a mess. It’s certainly been slept in. Possibly by a small tornado. I lack the finesse to put it together, elegantly. My justification is, “What’s the point? It’s only going to get messed up, anyway.”

However, bed making aside, there’s also the matter of holiday cards. I write them every year, and this year is no exception. I write my cards out carefully, because I have appallingly bad handwriting, if I rush. I always use purple ink, and I always fumble for what to say.

Yesterday, I got a card from a friend of mine. And it was lovely. It was thoughtful, and it made me laugh. And it made me slightly jealous. You see, my friend has perfect handwriting. It’s quite enviable. It’s flowery, but not so much that it’s illegible. It’s elegant, really. And it’s glaringly better than mine.

Oh, it’s not a contest. And it’s certainly not due to lack of effort. It’s just not something I’m skilled at.

I also cannot fold to save my life. If I fold a shirt, it’s mostly managed in a shirt-like heap. I hang up most of my clothing for a reason.

I can, however, cook and bake. I loathe cleaning, but I do it. I suppose I’ll never be Julia Child, June Clever, or even Bree Van Decamp. Perhaps I’ll be Dorothy Parker-like, someday.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Love Actually, Gift-Giving, Bridget Jones’s Diary, and Rambling

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 13:58:58 GMT

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.

Janus

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 19:32:00 GMT

The world spits out

liars, cretins cloaked in clever smiles,

slippery little sinners, sinking

only to rise above—

it’s easy, I imagine,

to manufacture victory

when villain and victim are the same,

and a puppeteer as Puppet?

I can only fathom the complications of that.

No matter.

it’s just the way it is,

and what the world spits out,

someone’s got to swallow—

and we’re all a little dirty, a little disheveled,

a little bit too far from home,

regardless of where our hearts are.

You don’t know

the things you’ve yet to discover.

The details, the devil that loves to lurk there,

clinging to each shadow, a lurid smile

all too ready to writhe with desire,

all those dark secrets, collected

carelessly

in coffee cups, casual conversations,

and half-said I Love Yous.

Yes, the world spits liars out, but lovers, too.

Sometimes,

they are one and the same. Sometimes,

your liar

is my lover—and we’re each

the one

with two different faces.

Confessions About Nothing

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 12:53:37 GMT

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?

When There's a Battle, Don't Declare War

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 13:06:24 GMT

I want to tell you the truth, but I don’t. The truth is vicious and forgetful of mercy. It flirts with revenge, tainted and entirely selfish. And like love gone wrong, it bleeds in order to drown. I could give in and slit the moment from this wreckage. I could take the power and abuse it. I could leave you stunned and aching, the world whinging from your grasp.

But Hannibal I am not. There is no eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Not in my heart, anyway. There is, however, sympathy for Prometheus and his torn out liver. Chained to a cliff for a supposedly devastating betrayal, he suffered the same fate. Over and over. I wonder if he came to like the pain. I wonder if he tried to get away. I wonder if he went just a little bit crazy, waiting for the inevitable.

I don’t fight back in the way that most people might. I won’t meet blow for blow. I won’t hurl things just to get even. I’ll square my shoulders and take the weapons as they come. I’ll speak as calmly as I can, one part Buddha, one part yearning Bitch. My words don’t come easily, but they spill over. They might be useless, uneventful, and even unheard—but they are mine to command. They do not lunge and explode as yours do. They do not declare open season on every miniature mistake, old and new.

I want to tell you the truth—the kind that leaves no prisoners. They kind that ravages and leaves the brave quaking. But I do not. I’ve declared an armistice, even if you do not abide by it. I will not fight hate for hate. I will not linger in bitterness. I will not deal in lies, poison, or vehement rage.

If that makes me weak in your eyes, so be it. We both know that I’m stronger than this, and you will not break me.

Sunsets and One Crazy Cat

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 13:04:34 GMT

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...)

Cell phone vs. a small, ridiculous puddle

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 13:11:20 GMT

Last night, I went to sleep with a glass of ice water on my nightstand. During the night, the damn thing made a small condensation puddle...right underneath my cell phone.

That's right, my cell phone drowned in a puddle. Not a big puddle, but big enough to make the little "wet" indicator glare at me with its little red eye.

I took it apart. I dried it out for an hour. I put it back together, and I'm fairly sure it laughed at me. I mean, if cell phones laughed. It scrolled through the menu, spastically, by itself--and it wouldn't stop. So, I took it apart again.

I don't know what else to do with it. Any ideas? It's only six months old.

Jersey Shore: You Have to Be Kidding Me

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 20:51:49 GMT

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?)

“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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ladies, what’s with the hair? Half of the time, you look like Elvira and Cher had a lovechild.
Getting “dolled up” should never equal spackling on your makeup. And what the HELL is with the animal print clothing? Sweetie, no. Just no.
Ripped abs aren’t a “situation.” They’re toned muscles.
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.

This was NOT the Frosty I Remembered

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 16:09:08 GMT

It was a typical Christmas celebration. A bunch of my family members, immediate and extended, were all huddled in the family room. Or living room. Whatever. The room with the couch and television.

It all seemed pretty normal, low-key, full of happy faces and ohhhhs/ahhhhs. And then it happened. A gift was unwrapped, and no one knew what to do. (Don't worry, it wasn't dirty. I think I'd STILL be laughing if it were. Was? Crap, I need more coffee.)

There was an animated snowman. This particular snowman did NOT look like Frosty. It was swaddled in pink. Not a big deal, right? WRONG.

The snowman was wearing a hat. Fine, right? WRONG. His "suit" was also trimmed in fur. White fluffy fur. His hat, too. That's not weird, right? WRONG.

Now, by this time, I completely froze. All I could do was stare at the carpeting. I knew that it was a mistake to move, breathe, or look at anyone else. If I did, I'd laugh just as much as I did when my professor FARTED in class. Afterwards. It took everything I had not to burst out laughing. (I told you all that story, didn't I?)

You see, this was no ordinary snowman. It was, in theory, supposed to be. It even had a name. I don't remember exactly what it was, but it was cheery and sickeningly Christmas-y. Probably Snowflake or something.

It shouldn't have been called Snowflake. Definitely not Snowflake. No, this snowman was later renamed Frosty the Snow Pimp. (Yeah, okay, it was renamed by me. But others agreed!)

I swear to God, it was the most horrifically wrong Christmas decoration I've ever seen. Hilarious, but ridiculously wrong. The person who purchased the gift seemed entirely oblivious.

In an effort to salvage the decoration, its pimp suit was removed. Unfortunately, when that happened, it just looked like a really naked snowman. So, we went from bad to worse, and poor Frosty the Snow Pimp met his fate in the Trash Can.

What's the most terrifying/ugly Christmas/holiday decoration you've ever seen?