Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day
Nervous looking Man: My girlfriend wants the big boob bra in purple. She's...um...a size small?
Sales Girl: Okay, great! Do you know what cup size?
NLM: Um. I....I don't know (scopes girls around him looking for similar boobs)
SG: Okay, are they more the size of apples, oranges or grapefruits?
NLM: (thinks hard)
Monday, December 28, 2009
Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Confession: I ate Christmas Cookies for dinner last night.
Confession: I have no intention of buying presents for people I won't see before Christmas until after Christmas.
Confession: I bought all my own gifts this year.
Confession: When I was ten I asked for a bra for Christmas. I got a stuffed bear. I was wicked pissed. But not as pissed as I was about the fact that CK ate the head off the reindeer cookie I specially decorated for Santa. I distinctly recall that there were many tears shed on both sides as CK was convinced that now Santa wouldn't leave her anything and so we wrote a special note and left him a headless cookie and some cheese and summer sausage on Ritz crackers. Because we thought he needed some protein. Apparently.
Confession: I sometimes listen to Christmas CD's in the middle of summer. I especially like Rockin' Eighties Christmas because it's got the Waitresses "Christmas Wrapping" which is my favorite Christmas song.
Confession: I regift. One time, I spent WEEKS shopping for a gift for a friend. She gave me one of those stupid scarf/hat/glove gift sets from Kmart. So the next year, I gave that exact set back to her and she loved it and I felt like a total bitch.
Confession: The thing I'm most excited about this year is the fact that I don't have to cook Christmas dinner.
Confession: Possibly my all time favorite story about M (aside from the Fried Chicken Incident) is from the Christmas she was two. There were seventeen people in my parents house and she comes out of her room stark naked and wearing my Daddy's black leather motorcycle boots and I said to her "M, I don't want you to be a naked baby" and she looked right at me, cocked her little curled head to the side and said "Too late!" then laughed maniacally and clomped off.
Confession: Christmas is the only time of year I wish I had more children. Just because I miss their ability to believe in Santa.
Confession: I still kind of believe in Santa.
(PS. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I'm not totally dead. Just down with that wretched chest nonsense that's going around. Which is basically just an excuse to be completely high on codeine cough medicine and drink a shit ton of whiskey. It's like Santa and Baby Jesus teamed up to ensure that I got exactly what I wanted. Except for the coughing. That I could do with out.)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
When I was 13 I begged my mother for a subscription to Cosmo magazine. The campaign lasted days. Even though it's all ads for liquor and reproductions of 1960's Playboy layouts my Mormon mother caved provided I paid half.
I was a prodigious babysitter back in the day, so I readily handed over the $16 (four hours worth of snot-wiping, I'll have you know!) and filled out the little fall away card with my information.
It took FOREVER before the first magazine arrived and I eagerly devoured every page. Was I a Bad Girl? how well did I know him (him who? are you kidding me? Boys = cooties) should I buy the Calvin Klein or the Ann Taylor? Which better suited my lifestyle a chic urban condo or a sweet little cottage? Suddenly the world was more than ZumZum dresses and Brass Plum shoes. I cut up the pages and made huge collages of things that I would have in the great someday of the future. A vacation house! A BMW! A walk in closet full of shoes! An array of men with delicious accents!
Yeah. So. I live in a cookie cutter house in the suburbs, drive a 15 year old Ford Bronco (the OJ Simpson model) and have been married since I was 21.
Some things have stuck with me in the intervening twenty years. Things that I didn't realize until just the other night as I stood in front of my (non-walk-in, overly crowded, messy) closet deciding what to wear. My choices include a collection of jeans and black shirts. Literally dozens of each.
Then, it hit me.
In 1992 numerology was the Big. Thing. and Cosmo did a whole ten page spread about it. My number is a seven. Which is kind of awesome since my birthday is also the seventh (probably the only reason I remember it) and I've always considered that a profound number in my life. Not a lucky number, exactly, but certainly a portent of good luck. My happiest years have been lived in homes with a seven in the address. Some of my best years have had a seven in them. It's silly, but whatever. Anyway, this numerology article had things like "your best color" (navy), your best career (something creative (I'm an accountant...HAHA)), your best mate (bookworm), and so on. At some point the article said "people remember you for your unfailing ability to dress in a black teeshirt and perfectly fitted jeans every day and still look smashing" or something along that line.
I remember pawing through my drawers, tossing pastel after pastel into the pile for Goodwill that afternoon. Trying on all my jeans, pinning and hemming until they looked custom made (hello, we was poo' folks.) and counting out my wads of one dollar bills. From that day on I've always chosen black when faced with which shirt to buy. I've gone through dozens of cuts and brands of jeans.
It's funny what sticks with you. The little one-off things that wiggle into your life and shape you.
I bet my mom is glad I chose that one and not the Why It's Okay To Be a Slut! article instead.
(ps. here's a link to a "100 things to do before you die" list similar to the one I tore out of Cosmo and carried around until that one time when I got really drunk, spilled Wild Turkey on myself, stripped to my skivvies in the communal laundry room and threw everything else including my wallet, keys (the washer locked during the cycle so I spent 30 minutes hiding behind a door while everyone else went to class), and six Jolly Rancher "fire" candies into the washing machine. The list never recovered, but I still ate the candy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
What a difference a year makes! It's so awesome to watch a baby change through their first year. Especially when you're not the one that has to get up with her in the middle of the night. Or change her shitty nappies. All *I* have to do is buy her things that her mother doesn't want her to have (like a box of Kleenex...then showed her how to pull them out one by one. She LOVED it!) and feed her things she shouldn't eat (like nacho cheese...what? She liked it!) and snuggle her as she sleeps. Watch her first drunken-staggery steps and applaud as she figures out how to stand up on her own without immediately falling back down and smacking her head. It's almost enough sweetness bundled up in one tulle tutu to make me want another one.
Labels: Weekend Update
Friday, December 4, 2009
When my sisters and I were young, our mother worked for the Seattle Indian Center (now renamed something less offensive like Northwest Center for Native American Heritage). It was, as indicated in the name, primarily dedicated to social services for disenfranchised Natives. They had day cares, work centers, etc.
They also frequently hosted pow wows, pot latches and other cultural events.
At the dedication of their new building, the room was packed with elders and members of all the local tribes. We were, I'm sure, the only pale faces in the crowd. Our blond or red hair shown like beacons and KL, who was three and both very loud and very precocious was holding court amid a group of grandmothers resplendent in their very nicest clothing and beaded jewelry.
As the ceremony is ready to begin a hush fell over the room and a dancer dressed in full regalia entered the room.
And then my loud ass sister shouts out "OH MY! Mommy! Look! It's a REAL INDIAN!"
Now, if you've ever taken a toddler to church you know that anything they say that is inappropriate is going to be crystal clear and loud enough to embarrass you.
Every pair of brown eyes in the room turns to look at us. CK and I begin surveying escape routes, but my mom says to KL
"You know Axl (my mothers Aleutian drunk bush pilot work boyfriend)?" and KL agrees she does know him. "And you know Rosemary? (the stunningly beautiful receptionist)" and KL agrees that she does "Well, what do you think they are?"
KL, little fists on her hips doesn't miss a beat and in the tone that children reserve for their parents when they're being especially retarded says;
"They're your FRIENDS"
Later, when Robin the transgendered ex-con got drunk and tried to sell Mum her shoes, she slurrily told her how glad she was that my mother had raised such lovely, classy children.
Which is why today my sisters and I will be posing like this for our holiday cards.