Happy Holidays: Throwin' 'Bows and Crackin' Nuts

Even though the malls have been swathed in candy canes and jingle bells since the day after Halloween, everyone knows that the "holiday season" doesn't officially start until Thanksgiving...and really technically the day after Thanksgiving.

Do not ever attempt to mix Halloween and Christmas. Unless you happen to be Tim Burton. Which you're not. Unless you are...Tim, if you read my blog, be a pal and pass me Johnny Depp's contact info.

I opted to forgo the annual family Thanksgiving gathering in Alabama. You know, too far, too expensive, not enough time, yada yada yada. There is typically a pretty good spread. Some of my favorites are cheese grits and sweet potato casserole. My mother always brings the ambrosia...which is essentially just mandarin oranges and coconut. I don't really know why it's called ambrosia, since this stuff pretty much sucks, and supposedly ambrosia is Greek for food of the gods or something. Whoever claimed the name "ambrosia" for this crap was blowing it more than a little out of proportion.

Evidently there were t-shirts at Thanksgiving this year. One can only hope that's a new annual tradition. After dinner, I'm sure everyone grabbed their shotguns and went out back to kill stuff and play on the tractor. Seriously.

Last year

I enjoyed a DiGiorno pizza on Thanksgiving. Actually I didn't really enjoy it that much, because I burned the crap out of it. Good thing I had a bag of Butterfinger bells to save the meal.

I wasn't going to hit the stores on Black Friday. In fact, I was considering a day of serious soul-searching. But after stumbling upon a Target ad for a door-buster (read: 4 a.m.) deal on a $12 air mattress cha-CHING, I decided I pretty much had no choice. Soul-searching will have to wait.

I made the two-mile drive from my apartment and found the Target parking lot...packed. At 4:17 in the morning. After a few minutes of mental preparation while playing, Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger," I made my way to the entrance, ready to throw some 'bows if necessary. I floated stealthily between bleary-eyed shoppers carrying TVs and made a beeline toward the camping supply area to locate my loot. Wah-waaahhhh. What a piece of shit. I couldn't believe I dragged my ass out into the 25-degree morning - coffeeless - for this. Well, I figured since I was already up, I might as well get into the fucking holiday spirit and check out the decorations, damn it.

A few minutes later, I emerged with a $20 plastic Canadian fir tree, and all four limbs.

Coffeeeee...

Let me just say that I can be a bit of a Scrooge at times. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I was really in the holiday spirit when I got home. If I had any eggnog, I would have been chugging it. If I owned a Santa sweater to wear over my candy cane turtleneck, I would have put it on. If I had Mariah Carey's Christmas album...all right, you got me, I own pretty much every album Mariah Carey ever released, but that's all in the past. It was a dark time in my life.

Anyway, I decked the halls.

Every time I added an ornament, I had to adjust the tree so it wouldn't fall to that side. 

I figured while I was at it, I would bust out my one and only collection. My mother started collections for all three girls when we were pretty young. 

Julia - Snowbabies

Anna - Madame Alexander dolls

And these are my Nutcrackers.

Some of these little suckers have been around for 20 years.

Yeah, they're pretty cute. But I am highly skeptical of any actual nut-cracking abilities.

Sunday Funday: Allison's Treasure Chest

I'm not a keeper.

I mean, I am a keeper; I don't keep stuff. Like many of my most lovable qualities, I get that from my mother. I think she's part Amish. She loved coming through our bedrooms regularly with Hefty bags and disappearing with anything that happened to be touching a surface - clothes, toys, homework, children...there used to be eight of us.

So aside from explaining the circumstances to my boyfriend, living for months with only an air mattress, a few clothes, and some paper plates wasn't that odd for me. But I do allow myself one Tupperware bin of random old crap.

Because Sol went home to New York for Thanksgiving, I spent today performing essential Sunday beauty rituals and cleaning my apartment. When I go out of town, he plays video games, shoots guns, and somehow manages to turn his apartment into a frat house. When he goes out of town, I watch chick flicks, eat Hostess cakes and turn my apartment into a salon.

While I waited for my honey and egg mask to soften my skin, my olive oil to condition my hair, and my nail polish to dry, I decided to clean out my junk bin.

You may know I am a bit of a pool shark. It really got going when I was bartending in Portland back in 2003. I joined the APA (American Poolplayers Association) and scored a sweet patch. For my denim jacket, of course.

That same year my coworkers begged me to join their bowling league. I don't think they ever actually let me bowl. I have a sneaking suspicion they needed an extra person.

Yeah I have a pager. What's up.

I guarantee this tape has The Cranberries and/or Sir Mix-A-Lot.

Let's take it back a little further. Now let me just explain that back in the day, my life consisted of exactly two things: breaking swimming records and making A's in school.

Nerd alert...

You're not seeing double. I was in the Academic Spotlight twice. I told the interviewer I was going to be an architect in North Carolina. Yeah, that didn't quite pan out.

Good thing I was also well on my way to being an entrepreneur.

But most of my celebrity has come from my swimming abilities.

You might notice the fine-looking hunk of teenage dude behind me and think, "Wow, I wonder what it would've been like to be a swimmer and hang out with hot, mostly-naked guys all the time?" Yeah, totally not that cool. Most of them were even dorkier than I was, and at 5 a.m. practice, they just smell like morning breath. The last thing you're thinking about is the fact that they're sporting banana hammocks. Also, they shave their legs and armpits several times a year. Point me to the soccer field.

Unfortunately, I was born with chlorine in my blood.

(OMG, Julia, you look so nerdy in this picture.)

So that's about the extent of the contents of my treasure chest, besides some old W-2s from Chili's and a couple of love letters from my mom. Wow, my life is infinitely cooler now.

I've lost my city feet.

I just got back from four days in New York. Bliss. (OK, two days in New York, two days in Jersey.) Photo essay samples in 3, 2, 1...

I went to MoMA and saw some fantastic art (albeit a lot of hoo-hoos and ha-has), downed my weight in pizza, bagels, and soy cappuccinos, walked approximately 29 miles in heels (atouristsayswhat?), and complained non-stop about the "cold" weather...which, incidentally, was the reason I wanted to visit in the first place. One huge disappointment? No hipster sightings whatsoever. What a load of crap.

Sigh...

 

*The last one is just photographic evidence that I am, in fact, taller than Shaunna.

Asphinctersayswhat

I know "Wayne's World" by heart. Including Garth's Foxy Lady dance.



You're probably asking yourself, "Why hasn't anyone snapped her up yet?" It might be my penchant for devouring french fries in socks and belt. Or my nasty feet. Or my love of onion dip and Jerry Springer. But probably not.

And now that my highly desirable Wayne and Garth knowledge is out on the interwebs, my phone should start ringing off the hook any minute. Aaannnny minute.

Facebook Hiatus

So I'm on Facebook hiatus.

Some people are addicted to crack. Some people are addicted to sex. Some people are addicted to food. I'm addicted to Facebook. I've been caught in a downward spiral ever since my departure from MySpace.

I know what you're thinking...that I used to rock a sweet mullet. Yes, yes I did.

If you've ever been in a 12-step program (which I assume most of you have), the first step is admitting you have a problem.

Check.

So now I've got to fill my days with more healthy pastimes, like:

• Over-watering my plants, Lucy, Ethel and Mint Plant.
• Drawing pages and pages of skulls in my sketchbook.
• Washing down tubs of garlic hummus with really strong coffee.
• Plucking out all my toe hair with tweezers.
• Planning trips to Budapest.
• Hammering.

All better than checking randos' lame TGIF, cute-thing-my-baby-just-did, and quote of the day status updates. The only downside? How much everyone will miss my awesome and hilarious status updates.

Belated Blog Birthday

My blog turned one year old last week.

I turned 31.

Don't worry, a fire extinguisher was on hand. Just a heads-up to anyone who hasn't hit this fantastic milestone yet, it's not nearly as painful as turning 30. And I didn't even set the "soft deadline" for myself.

Last year on my birthday, I had just moved back to Texas and was seriously considering putting Visine in all five roommates' coffee. I treated myself to some enchiladas at a Mexican place down the street, overdrawing my bank account. I didn't mind, considering I hadn't eaten in a couple of days.

So things are already looking up this year.

On a very rare serious note, a co-worker died very suddenly last week. She was 30. It always takes a tragedy to make you remember to live as though you might not see tomorrow. Because you might not.