Oh, the Holiday Shenanigans!

I’m probably a little late getting to this, but for those of you who have only just received or accepted your holiday party invitations, feel free to print this blog entry. You or someone close to you needs it.

This time of year there are tons of articles about “party etiquette” or being on your best behavior at an office party, as though we don’t already know all of this. Oh, how we know it. And yet, which of us hasn’t woken up the morning after the night before wearing mistletoe for undies, a lampshade nightcap, and a very real sense of dread.

I hope y’all have read enough from me to know by now that the last thing I’m doing is judging. I have no intention of joining the legions of other writers who will remind you not to over-indulge in front of your boss, to definitely hire a taxi, or whip out the tried-and-true adage, “minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” Though all of this is true, I’m going to assume you don’t need a reminder and head to a more practical, and let’s face it, more realistic place.

RSVP
It should go without saying that when an invitation is extended, you should, within a reasonable time, respond to your host. Bear in mind that this isn’t a meeting invitation at work; you can’t just RSVP “Accept” then not show up; nor can you “Decline” then magically appear on someone’s doorstep. Though you should always RSVP and stick to it, regardless of the time of year, at holiday time, this is particularly important. Most of these occasions are more formal. Your host/ess is doing a head count for food, booze, and maybe even place settings. Don’t be a jackass. Your singular attendance, or lack thereof, is not going to make or break the party, so don’t act like issuing your RSVP is anything more than it actually is: a yes or no.

You’ve heard of it: The Hostess Gift
Whether it’s the holidays, or a mid-summer barbeque, it is never, ever acceptable to show up at a party empty-handed. Never. Ever. Are we clear? Do not call, text, or email your hostess with “What can I bring?” She is only going to say, “Nothing at all! It’s your company we crave!” True as this may be, only maybe half of you were actually considering what to bring; the other half are trying to appear gracious but are secretly hoping to hear you’re off the hook. Now that that’s out in the open, let’s talk about what you should bring no matter what your hostess says.

Wine, beer, spirits: all good. Do make an effort to ensure it’s something your host enjoys, and that you’re not treating the gathering as a BYOB unless the invitation specifically stated it as such. It’s incredibly rude to show up with a bottle of your favorite scotch as “gift,” then proceed to drink it yourself.

Food: not always good. Backyard barbeques are an excellent time to bring your favorite dish and let’s face it, no matter what you bring, it will be appreciated and enjoyed. When it comes to holiday parties though, remember that your hostess has planned a menu that may or may not include the need for potato salad. Dessert is a better option if it’s food you must bring, but remember, you most likely will not see it on your dessert plate. Don’t be insulted! If you’ve brought cookies, or bunt cake, or fudge, you can rest assured that in the upcoming days, it will not go to waste… only waist.

Alternate Suggestion: a holiday ornament, small decorated greens, or perhaps a poinsettia. Of course, each of these has its own pitfall: the ornament may not be your host’s “style,” allergies to holiday greens are becoming more prevalent, and the poinsettia is poisonous to pets. The point is, think about where you’re going and who has invited you – then choose accordingly. FYI: Pinot Grigio. Just so you know…

Attire
Who doesn’t love an opportunity to get spiffed up a bit? Yeah… let’s talk about what that means. It’s simple for men: Suits for “cocktail” attire requests, trousers and a button down for everything else. No t-shirts, no sneakers, nothing with a hole no matter how “fashionable.”

Ladies, it’s almost easier for you. Keep your tits, ass, and who-ha tucked out of view. Done! The holidays are not an opportunity to run amok, displaying your obvious “assets” and lack of good breeding. It’s 100% possible to look sexy without dipping a nipple in the gravy boat as it passes.

Liquor consumption: the root of your humiliation.
We all know I enjoy my wine and vodka as much as the next gal, and I’m always happy for a reason to gather with my friends and a few bottles. Whether it’s in someone’s kitchen, or you’re out for a night on the town, People, you have got to learn to manage your intake.

In addition to my day job and this blog, I’m also a bartender. It’s all false eyelashes, big hair, and fishnet stockings so you’ll just have to take my word for it when I tell you, I’ve literally seen it all. You are not funnier, more attractive or even slightly more interesting when you’re slurring your words or channeling your celebrity crush. Even less attractive (ladies!), the bump and grind cha-cha, or an impromptu table dance. “Hot” is not the adjective that comes to mind. In a time of instant technology, consider how many hours you want to unknowingly be tagged in a photo – drunken a showing your bits – for the whole world including your employer and your father, to see. Where is your dignity and self-respect?

Gentlemen: a note to you on drunk and disorderly. No. Just… no. This is a time of joy and glad tidings! All of the worst nights in every girl’s dating history include some drunken, overly “amorous” or belligerent man with a singular focus on fondle or fight. Fellas, dinner is not a claim stake. Your open bar office party is not unspoken permission to feel up your girl in public. Mind your manners this holiday season. You want to attract a girl? Try channeling Clark Gable or Sean Connery; not Yosemite Sam or Charlie Sheen.

I suppose that covers it. In a nutshell, look pretty and don’t act like an ass. Try on a shade of elegance. Like lipstick, and scotch, there really is one for everybody.

Re-Gifting

Huh... I typed that title, now I feel like there might actually be a blog hiding in it somewhere. Oh well, while I sort that out, I thought I'd share a couple of oldies-but-goodies which seem to stand the test of time.

Click here! December 2009

Sanitation

*jumps up and down waving frantically*

“Oh! Oh! I have a suburb idea! How about instead of raising kids to understand that life is fraught with competition, disappointment, and rejection, let’s teach them that everyone’s always a winner and let’s never keep score!”

…and we wonder how we ended up with a generation of selfish, smart-mouthed, over-indulged, lazy, self-righteous, freeloaders whose “life goal” is to be on a reality television show.

*glares*

Honestly, there are days when I’m entirely uncertain I’ll get through the supermarket without smacking a soccer mom whose kid is pushing me out of the way to climb the shelving for a $5 bottle of ginseng iced tea, while she “explains” to me the importance of his self-expression; and that manners will come later. Later? Later when exactly? Will that be before or after I self-express her rude kid into a freezer and drag her off to the butcher counter to let nature take its course?

It’s a shame that I can’t actually do that. I can’t even raise my voice in their general direction!

[sidebar: technically I can, but I’m falling victim to… continue reading]

Why? Because we’re living in a sanitized society. We've had to clean up our language and our actions for the most ridiculous of ridiculous reasons:

We certainly wouldn’t want little Johnny to think that there are consequences for his behavior. That might upset his delicate sensibilities thus causing him to wonder if there’s a such thing as individuality. Also very important that we erase the lines between gender and cultures while we’re at it! No sense letting anyone *feel* different. That could lead to free thought and ambition, which apparently is not the way we raise children anymore. No... we're safer as a eunuch society. We should all wear white, too (*sarcasm*... in case you're missing it).

I’m not saying that the way I was raised was superior. In fact, my childhood should be a case study in how not to parent. But this is no better! Competition is healthy. Losing as a child teaches you to be graceful about it as an adult. Adulation should be saved for actual accomplishment. What, specifically, are you trying to teach your little brat by congratulating or rewarding for doing what he should be doing as a matter of daily course? You’re teaching nothing. You’re setting them up for a crash course in adult misery. You’re ensuring they are totally ill-equipped to actually DEAL with life’s trials and tribulations. You’re a shitty parent.

Surely someone is starting a study on suicide rates of Gen-Y (aka "Generation Next," but next to what, I can't imagine).

And before y’all get all snotty because I don’t have children of the two-legged variety, mull this over. I’ve potty trained 4 under the age of 5, taught the difference between right and wrong, molded manners, and created appropriate behaviors to mammals with the language comprehension of a 5 year old, yet no ability to communicate back. Seems to me you should be able to get your 14 year old daughter’s tits back in her shirt and teach her to tuck her ass crack away from public viewing. You should be able to convince your son that his smart mouth is going to get him kicked in the teeth – preferably before it actually happens. You do realize it’s not okay for your children to tell you “no” or “I don’t want to,” or my personal favorite, “you do it!” at a simple request, right?

This “self-expression” is not character building. It’s annoying. It’s rude. It’s incredibly impolite, and as my Grandmother used to say, “no manners is worse than no money!”

Self-reliance: the skill that will teach your kid how to extricate himself from the freezer bin I stuff him in.

Pick Your Fight

I do not care about your hybrid of any sort; your Prius, your Fit, your Leaf, your Volt, your Insight, your SmartCar.

In fact, I think the smart thing to do is to get your Fred Flintstone, Vespa-sounding, hunk of tin out of the left lane so that my gigantic steel cage on four huge wheels can get down the road at a rate faster than the apparent maximum eco-car speed of 45mph.

*glares*

I expect that this one may bring on the hate mail from the tree-huggers who will most likely stop reading right about…. here… in order to “have their say, dang it!” but frankly, I don’t care. I motor about in a big, gas guzzling, 4-wheel drive, I-can-climb-over-your-trunk-if-I-feel-like-it, gorgeous piece of imported fantastic-ness. I spent my American-made dollars on a vehicle whose manufacturer did not consider that long, skinny pedal on the right, part of an “options package.”

Don’t flip me off when I pass you at a “breathtaking” 60mph. You’re jealous. I know it. You know it. You were trying to be a part of “something bigger” most likely because your life is small, and instead your balls are now the size of raisins and the valet snickers at you when you pass the keys.

You need to save the world? How about you quit rattling on about your eco-friendly car “savings” (which statistically don’t actually exist according to the IIHS) and look into ways to put an end to puppy mills?

You need a cause? How about getting our teachers paid more and our politicians paid less?

Can’t figure out what to do with your spare time now that your kids are all in school and your live-in nanny is scrubbing your toilets? How about finding a way to support the arts in those very schools?

Itching to create a placard? Try this: Love is Love! Support marriage equality for gays and lesbians in all states!

Oh wait. You just need to rant about something to feel important? How about you do that during a regularly scheduled pedicure so that random passers-by are no longer exposed to that hot mess revealed by your nasty flip-flops, or your ridiculous opinions on my choice of vehicle.

Go ahead. Pick your fight. Just not with me. I’m in the mood to crush someone just for being stupid and I’m fairly certain the valet will point me in the right direction.

I May Not Know Jeans, But I KNOW Shoes!

I can't believe September almost got away without a single post. Please forgive me... On the upside, I've been spending more time watching and less time on random rants - which gave birth to the following!

Generally speaking, I do not speak to fashion. Not because it doesn’t interest me, it definitely does! I notice all things fashion. I’m a lover of the classic styles (think Chanel and hats and gloves), but I’m also well in touch with my inner hippie. Basically, I believe the topic spouting is best left to the trained professionals.

Now, that said, I feel there are some grossly overlooked issues surrounding footwear that should be addressed in that straight forward, no bullshit way some people might say is hurtful, while others know is just the truth as it’s meant to be told.

Ladies, and okay – gentlemen, if you cannot walk in a pair of high heels without appearing as though there are eggshells under the soles, wear flats. Seems like every time I turn around, I see some woman "walking" along in a pair of platforms like she’s terrified she’s going to fall off with the next step. So not sexy. 

Today I spied yet another of the “no knees” walker variety who stiff –legs every step like a toy soldier. Might I suggest jackboots?

Oh look! There’s the “cop a squat.” This gal has apparently never watched a beauty pageant of any kind – not even drag – otherwise she would know that no matter how expensive your footwear, clomping along with your ankles 12 inches apart makes you look like a linebacker needing to poop. 

And how can we overlook the “stick up her ass” sashay. Her stride is so miniscule you can’t help but wonder if she really does have an aspirin between her knees. Relax already! No one is going to steal your shoes if they leave the ground for more than a nanosecond. You look like a wind-up toy straight out of the McDonald's Happy Meal.

We have the “leaner” who pitches dangerously forward like her puppeteer is distracted, and the “Big Girl” who crams her size 8 feet into a size 7 for… well, I don’t know why anyone would do that, bit those appendages now look like stuffed sausages.

So here are the rules:

If they aren’t 100% comfortable in the store, they will not “break in.”

If you generally live in flip-flops, you should know that you don’t actually have a fashion sense and should not be left to your own devices in the shoe department. Oh I know you think you know… I also know that you don’t. Find yourself a friend, and good luck.

If you’ve left high school, yet just bought a “cocktail” dress in the “prom” section of a department store, don’t try to match your shoes to the dress. Return the dress. You know why.

If you can’t run, yes run, at least one-quarter mile in the shoes, you need to believe me when I tell you that you cannot walk across a room in them either. I don’t care how amazing you think you look, in truth it’s more “mommy’s closet” than “hot mama.”

Finally, for the sake of public safety and viewing,  you must ensure that both your toes and your heels are held within the confines or dimensions of the shoe. You should know better, you foul little thing...

Whether you’re stomping it out like a runway model, or elegantly cutting a swath, you have got to look and feel comfortable in those shoes! Otherwise, the impression you leave it that of a foolish little girl trying to be someone she isn’t. For the record, I don’t wear shoes with less than a three inch heel. To me, that IS a flat. And yes, I can run at least a quarter-mile in all 73 pair.

Glide ladies! Glide!

Who Are You?

Yes, I’m painfully well aware of the fact that there is no grace in giggling with delight over the prospect of watching The Universe prepare to dole out its "enough is enough" via an unexpected source. Nonetheless…

*does a little dance in front row seat*

Okay, now that I’m done acting like a child, I kind of want to look at a peculiar social phenomenon. I’m going to call it “When I Grow Up Syndrome” or WIGUS. There are really two varieties – one for men, one for women. Note that throughout my writings, I never say “men and women” but rather refer to gender specifics as “boys and girls.” I point this out because WIGUS is not a childhood affliction and I want there to be no confusion. Nope, this happens to supposed grown adults.

At its root, When I Grow Up Syndrome is all about making it past say, age 30 or so, and still having no idea who you are. It’s not about family or career; it’s about morphing in and out of personalities like Sybil! Let’s talk about the ladies first, since they’re the most entertaining.

We all know at least a few of these women. She wants to date a rocker; she becomes a rocker. She’s dating a Librarian, and suddenly she’s wearing reading glasses. Her “friends” switch from drinking martinis to drinking bourbon, and no matter how much she detests it, she switches too. She talks shit on people, or shares information she shouldn’t just to be “popular.” She has no idea who she is… so she’s just “them.”

Having never been one of these women, I’m not sure I understand the point of faking your way through relationships. Why pretend you’re someone or something you’re not, all the while declaring to everyone within earshot how different you are, when you’re so obviously the exactly the same? It’s weird to watch, yet incredibly difficult to look away! I expect some sort of nervous breakdown should anyone declare to the WIGUS woman that she is merely a lemming.

Now, because everyone loves a train wreck…

When these women “find” one another, it’s like the worst Lifetime Made for Television movie ever produced! They're like feral cats! I used to think it was just me, watching with my mouth hanging wide open in amazement and confusion, but lately I’ve discovered that the audience is huge! Some people wait for the inevitable implosion, others like myself, just stare in wonderment at the WIGUS of it all.

In men, WIGUS isn’t particularly entertaining and looks a lot like Peter Pan Syndrome. No news there! The only real difference I’ve found is that they generally don’t take their phases too seriously and are good-natured about a good ribbing. I haven't seen too many of these men make a real outward spectacle of themselves. They're infinitely more subtle most of the time. I'm not saying they never show their ass - they totally do! But it seems to manifest itself more often in drink, an awkward walking gait, or bad fashion choices.

I can only imagine how insecure, and perhaps lonely, these people are. They obviously have no real sense of self – and let’s face it, after 30, if you don’t have that, you’ve nothing. It appears as though their whole existence is based on trying to be what they think someone else wants. It’s a slippery slope when that behavior includes poor manners, or insinuating themselves where they don’t belong in an effort to feel important. Long after whatever relationship was involved is well over, people will only remember the unattractive bits of their behavior. It’s what inevitably leads to reputation demise. It’s interesting that they don’t see it coming. Perhaps it’s just too much to believe that after all the energy they put into being “someone” ultimately they’ll still be exactly who they are… or aren’t.

I would imagine the only chance these men and women have is a lot of therapy! Is it a self-esteem issue? Is it jealousy? Is it just years and years of being overshadowed by siblings or friends? I have no idea. I do have this idea about gathering them all up and putting them on the Minnow though!

Good Morning, Mourning

I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I am not the kind of person who can be unemployed – for a number of reasons, really. First, I spend every single “free” minute stressing out over not having an income. Secondly, I’ve discovered that I can only stand my own company for six minutes. Not six minutes at a time – but total for the waking period. I don’t find myself that interesting.

It’s probably important to note that I would have less trouble with having nothing to do if there were someone in my life to support me.

So I’ve been painting during my down time. Not creatively; no this has been completely utilitarian. I’ve been painting interior doors.

[Sidebar: semi-gloss is the devil.]

The up side of this hideous chore is that, like mowing the lawn or scrubbing grout, it gives me plenty of time to think in a leisurely manner. No rush, I’m gonna be here all day anyway…

Finally! The point of that long introduction:

It occurred to me while cursing those damned fancy doors, that there are a number of things in my life I’ve been managing all “wrong” because I didn’t see them “right.”

It appears that I’ve been carrying on relationships, one in particular but several in general, only in my head. What I mean is that the relationship I thought I was having, didn’t actually exist in real life the way I insisted it did inside my little “Life Bubble.” I don’t like to see the ugly bits life doles out – I’ve seen enough, thank you very much – so I just paint them a color I like and pretend it was never ugly to begin with, employing the “if you don’t talk about it, it never happened” approach. Gee. That’s smart…*sarcasm*

Nonetheless, the up side is that since I shocked myself into reality with this revelation, I’m not paralyzed by mourning any longer. And it feels great! And brave! Like I can say all the things that have been swirling around in my head because I don’t have concern myself with the outcome. Which leads me to…

Do you ever think about the things you say to yourself before you go to sleep? The conversations you’ll never have with people you really want to set straight? Or the little lies we tell ourselves:
I’m happy.
It’s all perfectly fine.
Tomorrow, I will add on to my exercise program to lose these last five pounds.

It’s as though by whispering it late at night, it’ll stick. It will all be true in the morning. I do it all the time for whatever mad reason. Though I suppose now it’s because I never knew how bad it could hurt to lose something I never really had.