Gift-giving among friends can be tricky. I prefer not to exchange gifts with friends, rather to go out for a nice dinner and have a great time. I can't stand being forced to buy people gifts just for the sake of a holiday. I much prefer to find things throughout the year that suit the person and get and give them at that time.
So last Christmas, 2003, I had no intention of getting CL a gift of any kind. He had a girlfriend and is the kind of friend that disappears whenever he meets a new prospect. I can't blame him - most women don't want their men hanging out with their exes. I even encourage him to ditch me at those times. Anyhow, he was pretty consumed in that situation and I really didn't plan on any sort of holiday exchange until he called to see when I would be around so he could drop off my present. Oh crap, I thought. So I ran out and bought him a new crowbar - the one he had seen months back in a catalogue that was out of stock at the time. He is a mechanic, after all. Useful and something he wanted. Good enough, right?
He arrived at my house all smiles with a small gift box. I knew it was jewelry immediately. It turns out he had bought me the diamond and tanzanite necklace I had loved at a jewelry store when we went shopping together a month back. The necklace cost more than $400. The crowbar? $30. I told him to take it back, it was too much. He blathered on about what a great friend I am and how he wanted me to have something nice, blah, blah, blah. I pretended I was a nice Jewish girl and took it. He was disappointed in his crowbar and just said, "there's always next year." I disregarded the remark and admired my shiney new necklace. Oooh, pretty...
Flash forward to this Christmas season. CL called the day after Thanksgiving to announce he had outdone himself this year - that my gift was better than last year. Great, I thought, now I have to get him something nice.
Problem is that CL has recently proclaimed his love for me and determined I am his soul mate and that he will do whatever it takes to get me back. I have told him repeatedly that I am not interested and there is nothing he can do to change that. Alas, he has a thick skull and a pea brain.
So, rather than take the hard line and tell him to return whatever he got me, I decided to get him a cheap leather jacket. I knew he wouldn't know the difference and figured I could get a decent one on sale for less than $100 and he'd be pleased as punch. I didn't intend to get a super cheap one until I was at Kmart buying Christmas lights. Just so you know, I don't frequent Kmart but there is one by my office and I needed lights for the tree. I certainly don't buy clothing other than those lined flannel shirts there (my mom loves them).
Anyhow, as luck would have it, right as I walked in there was a display of cheap "genuine leather" men's jackets. Perfect, they were even half-price, $50. I thought I had scored. The jacket didn't look too bad. It wasn't high quality but it would work. It did seem cut a bit wide but I didn't think CL, the jeans and sweatshirt type, would mind. I bought it, took it home, and wrapped it nicely.
On Christmas Eve CL came over and gave me my annual necklace and this time complete with matching earrings. Nice stuff, diamonds and, again, tanzanite - this time in silver. In case you aren't aware, the world's supply of tanzanite is just about depleted so it's value has gone up and will continue to do so. It's a nice investment for the ladies in your life.
Anyhow, he opened his package and loved the jacket. Whew! Smelled like leather, felt nice. He exclaimed that he knew I would do something good this year to make up for the last year - that irritated me as I didn't want to do anything this year - just felt like I had to. Anyhow, he liked the jacket, took it out of the box, put it on, ran to the mirror, and frowned...it didn't look right. Damn, I thought. He said he didn't know if the style was right for him, that it was too loose. When did he become so fashion-conscious?!?! I tried to say it didn't look bad, made him look thinner, that baggy is in, etc. He wasn't buying it.
Then he said, "That's okay...you still have the receipt, right? Where did you get it? We can go exchange it for something else."
I stumbled on my words, said I wasn't sure, that I bought it in another town, that I would return it and we could go to the leather store in the local mall to get a replacement. I was backpedaling - I couldn't let him know I had bought a leather jacket at Kmart for him. He was so excited about it. I told him I would have to find the receipt and then we'd go together to get a new one.
So today I was rifling through my box of receipts and couldn't find the receipt. Now I'm stuck with a jacket I don't want and I have to go spend hundreds of dollars on CL.
Anyone interested in a cheap leather jacket, size large, cut loose? I can cut you a deal...
Friday, December 31, 2004
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Christmas with the C's
Eaaa...eaaa...eaaaa...
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Rick Springfield's DNA Sample Available Now
While trying to stay awake at Sunday's Christmas party we ended up discussing our first concert experiences. Mine was as vivid as if had happened yesterday...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
Monday, December 20, 2004
Cheese Pie and Canned Cherries
Everyone worries about single people at Christmas. Co-workers feign concern, family members fret, married friends attempt to include you, and the other singles rally and have parties for the similarly situated.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
'Tis the Season
For holiday parties and this weekend was no exception.
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
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