Holiday! Celebrate!

It took me a little longer than usual to get into the holiday spirit this Christmas. It doesn't help that I'm in California and the sun is constantly shining, the wind breezing through the plethora of palms. I still don't even have a tree to decorate. The worst part is that I miss my family and it makes me realize that the part I like about Christmas the most is being with them. I like the way we do Christmas, the way we each take turns opening presents and the way we always argue over if we should open one or two presents on Christmas Eve. Jill always says she's saving her presents until the next morning but then gets gift envy when the rest of us are enjoying our new belongings. My dad picks the smallest of his presents to open the night before, and he usually tries to guess (with like a 90% success rate) what's inside. My mum picks the biggest of her presents, then my dad says, "Gaye, why don't you open this one." and it will be a beautiful necklace or a little pin that's he's so thoughtfully picked out to match her personality. Leah's gifts are always wrapped with perfection with little funky tags and giant elaborate ribbons. She wins the secret gift wrapping competition every year.... a secret because no one actually wants to admit that there's a competition. Maybe it's just me. All the while, jazzy Christmas greats are lulling us into that euphoric spirit that seems to bring us all together just when we need each other most.

Breakfast the next morning has become the new "first thing to do" over presents because we're not 5 years old anymore and dying to know what Santa brought us in his sleigh. Plus we're usually still intoxicated from the free flowing champagne and red wine the night before. Nothing a few crepes and sausages couldn't cure. The first person up knows their duty is to make the coffee and turn on the Christmas lights. I like making the coffee because then I have an excuse to clink the mugs together to wake up my parents.

Oh, I almost completely forgot! The STOCKINGS! Almost a special occasion all on its own, everyone gets a "socking" full of little goodies like mini nail polishes, gift cards, trinkets, and tiny stuffages that would otherwise get lost in the tree's foliage, for sure. Then there are all the years that the entire foot of the socking was filled with mandarin oranges. Jill and I, being the little spoiled brats that we were, would complain that it wasn't a true socking and that we had been cheated out of a few more inches worth of gifts. HA. Now it's a running joke. In fact, I really think I would be disappointed if I didn't find an orange in the toe of my socking.

More music, bubbly mimosas, sweet crepes with real whipped cream and raspberries, my great family. What I am looking forward to is learning the Christmas traditions of my brother-in-laws.

I've spent only a couple Christmases with Scotty, but one that stands out was him in his PJs on his couch in Anchorage, opening up this giant present with the most ridiculous joker hat inside. It was massive with these little jingle bells all over it. He threw it on his head immediately and looked around waiting to see the expressions on our faces. Of course, we rolled with laughter. That year was fun because we were all in Alaska in Leah's cozy Cedar house with snow falling gently against the frosted windows. It was a true White Christmas.

I guess all of this is what makes it so hard to really get into the festivities. This year, I will be spending Christmas much differently. Maybe I'm stuck in my ways, but it just won't be the same. I'm grateful, nonetheless, to be spending Christmas with someone's family. I'll be sure to find out what holiday traditions the Pessins have. And maybe I can offer a little of the Bryant tradition and get them all sockings.

Hey, who started calling them sockings anyway?

Whose blog is this?

This is my blog. But I feel I need to censor the stuff I write. Worst of all, it's not weird. I know what I can and cannot say.

Red Sox Nation

So the Sox have made it to the World Series again. It's interesting that, not one to watch every game or lose sleep if the Boston team is doing poorly compared to a certain arch nemesis NY team, I actually was thrilled to come home, crack a micro and settle in to watch the three hour battle against the Colorado Rockies.

Some people say baseball is boring. Sure, there are lulls in the game, or if the opposing team goes down without so much as a run, or watching all 157 three hour games every year, yeah, the game is boring. But I've come to really enjoy the hidden intensity, especially in the pennant and world series. For example, a pitcher and a catcher have to have such a relationship that they almost know what the other is thinking. Almost like an old married couple. The pitcher and catcher also have to study hard to understand the other teams strengths and weaknesses, so they can out-pitch the batter. Likewise, the batter has to know what pitches the pitcher has up his sleeve and anticipate what's about to be thrown.

Double plays, bunts, pop-flies, sac-flies, runs batted in, errors, stealing, walk-off home runs, reading other players' subtlest of moves, catching every ball in your 25 square yard zone, AND being able to tell if a tiny ball flying at you at 98mph will be in your strike zone in less than 2 seconds.

Yeah, baseball, to me, is the least boring game of them all.

Working Girl

Almost as if I had known that working your way up the corporate ladder is more about who you know rather than what you know, I'm grateful that I developed my social skills more than my discipline to get to class on time, if at all. God, I say that like I never went to class. I did my penance. I took all my tests. I even suffered through multiple 8am math classes. Whose brilliant idea was it to learn how to prove mathematical equations and theories at 8am in the bloody morning? I can barely process what shirt I'm going to wear. I'm also not the most pleasant person to talk to in the morning, so finding a partner for group work was yet another nightmare. Why do they make school so completely different than the real world? Anyway, I digress.

I was about to say that while I did learn to become less socially awkward, I never learned how to be fake. Knowing I needed reinforcements, I actually picked up a few skills along the way. What i didn't know is that these skills would be practically void in the real world. And so I start in on my rant of why social skills are more important than brains in our messed up society. We know that women are capable of achieving celebrity status based solely on breast-size. If you don't agree, what did Pam Anderson ever do besides get the most ginormous breast implants ever? and maybe take off her clothes and show everyone these implants. Is she particularly smart? Who the hell knows? She's famous for her boobs. (Maybe the social status of her boobs supersede her own famosity, but that's a whole other topic called "Working Boobs.") We see celebrity drunk drivers skirt passed the law, pay a fine and go right back to the Hollywood party, only to get in their car after 10 too many. Do they not make enough to pay a chauffeur? a cabbie? Or are they super humans, fearless and elite, not touchable by these laws for the common civilian? A blank check ought to cover anything. But it doesn't stop at celebrities. Companies promote these sociable humans into upper management by the truckload. Who cares if they know what they are doing? They can charm the pants off of you. Let the peasants do the actual work. We'll just take credit for it. I'm the peasant though. And even if i was this grandiose socialite working my way up by schmoozing and faking this I-truly-do-care-about-you-but-let's-face-it-i'm-more-important-than-you attitude, I wouldn't feel right about it or my promotion.

Now, I start to question my ability as an employee to ever be promoted. Maybe I'm jealous of these promotees and maybe I really do lack the skills necessary to do their job. And this is why I'm not in their position. At what point, then, do I say, that's enough? When do I walk out and find something better? After all my confidence has been shattered by management's rejection? Until I'm humiliated and being escorted to the front door, carrying a box of my personal belongings? What can I do? I'm at the whim of my paycheck. It drives me, not the other way around. Unfortunately, just the smell of this stuff is enough to make people act with all sorts of bad behavior, pushing anyone and anything out of their way. Keep your eyes on the prize, as they say. My eyes just so happen to see the masses waiting patiently in line while this sucker committs a childish "cutsies."

Financially Challenged

It's confusing to think that education in this century is supposed to prepare you for the years to come and equip you with a problem-solving, idea-spewing mind to use to find a job and live a dream. Did I miss some classes? Maybe I slept through them. Where's the class that shows you how to negotiate a raise or gives you the hands-on experience to clean a couch? What happened to the course that shows you how to budget your measly paycheck so you can somewhat live a life of luxury? Oh, who am I kidding? It's more like a life of poverty with a few luxuries thrown in so you don't feel pinched by your empty money clip.

Everywhere I look there are young adults splurging on crazy concerts and trendy happy hours, road tripping to Vegas and LA for leisurely gambling and Rodeo Drive shopping sprees, planning weekends at the Water Park or a vineyard, and ultimately just having a downright good time. Not to say that I haven't done any of these activities. In fact, if I haven't done them, they are planned and waiting on the next few pages of my calendar. I'm keeping up with the Jones's, as they say.

But the dream...

MY dream -- to have a house with a backyard and a washer and dryer. Sounds lame, but it's really REALLY something I've always wanted. I think it's because I've moved around so much and when my parents finally got a house, a big comfortable house that we all fit in, Jill and I left for school. I've been in dorms and apartments since then. I've moved every year since 2000. Make that 1998, when it all began. And before 1998, I believe the Bryants occupied 7 other residences all over Alaska (with one small stint in Illinois). So in essence, I've never stopped moving. Buying a house would ensure that I would be in one place for at least 5 years, which would be the second longest length of time I've ever stayed anywhere. Will I get bored? Will I get the urge to move again? I don't know. But I want to come home and know that all the walls and light bulbs and paint colors and mail are mine. Not some landlord's who lives downstairs, or a property management company that takes a month to fix the leaking toilet. I want to own laundry machines so I do not have to carry my dirty laundry out into the public one more time or slyly give the grocery clerk just enough cash to maximize the number of precious quarters given back as change.


... How is it all possible? I'm missing something, a trick. Something that you are taught only after you've suffered for years. Or maybe my ambition is premature. Did our parents have their own quality home when they were 26? I'm pretty sure my father was in a trailer with a motorcycle parked out front and my mother with a 7 year old in tow was moving in to that trailer. And probably why we moved the 7 times before was because their dream of owning a house wasn't possible yet either. They were doing the same thing I'm doing, but with kids.

Now I know I'm spoiled, complaining about the "tragedy" known as my finances when in reality I think I'm better off than my parents were at my age. And look at them now. They have two beautiful houses on opposite ends of the country so that they can spend time with their three daughters. Maybe the trick is hard work and patience. Trust that if you work hard enough and maybe skip one of those concerts and stay in, or wear that threadbare undergarment just once more, you'll reach your new home someday.

Reflective Personality

I do this thing where I reflect on how I think others might view me. I'm constantly doing this and it has come to annoy me. At no point will I ever escape negative opinions from others. These are inevitable, no matter how hard I reflect and attempt to change. So why should I care that I talk too much about myself or that maybe I'm a little snobby. I'm not even that great of a friend, forgetting birthdays, breaking promises... But I know what I like: comfortability. The ability to have comfort. My comfort zone is about 4 feet in diameter with a soundproof, bulletproof, shatter-resistant surrounding pane of clear glass. I can see out, but people can't see in. It's here that I am me. And the door is mostly always open, except when I am walking down 7th Avenue or in dark parking garages. People are welcome into my space, given that they are clean and quiet. Hell, I'll even put out some chips and homemade salsa. Go nuts. Just don't spill. Or annoy me. Is this a disease? Do I have social anxiety? Or am I making diseases up because I need an excuse to be spoiled? No one can have their way all the time, except for my grandmother, whose even allowed to call people fat to their face without it being rude. So is it discipline to accept that which I cannot change? (ie. that the kitchen gets messy when you cook in it, complete organization is as mystic of an idea as nirvana, and nothing will ever fully be in your autonomous control.)

At the end of the day, after the never-ending struggle to be the cleanest, smartest, funniest, most humble, perfect, and optimistic person I can ever be, my couch offers up it's coziest corner, and gives me a moment or two to contemplate if I am or will be any of these things and if it's worth the self-doubt, the shrouding of my lack of confidence with an overly confident coat of witty comments and low-maintenance appearance and the crazy self-conflicting thoughts that put me on a daily emotional roller coaster.

Party Planning 101

One of my most favorite things to do is plan parties. As an avid party-goer, I appreciate the time and effort put into getting people together for a pub crawl or a birthday or a beach BBQ. I especially love the little details that make a guest feel so invited, such as place cards and personalized candy. My subscription to Real Simple has certainly offered plenty of ideas for cozy decorations, neat invitations, seating arrangements, and cost effective food platters. And while I love being a hostess, two things hold me back. Firstly, my apartment. It's tiny. I could fit a small gathering of 5 or 6, but we'd have to eat separated and spread out over the stunted square footage of the living room and balcony with our plates in our laps. Secondly, and the main reason planning is so extremely difficult for me, I'm a perfectionist. I swear my mind runs on this mantra: "If I can't do it perfectly, then I don't want to do it at all." Trying to break this habit has been challenging to say the least. I read in an article once that to curb perfectionism, I should sign up up for things that I know I'm bad at. Like singing lessons, or basketball (ironically, i should be really good at basketball since I'm 5'10" but my lay-up makes me look like I ride the short bus). I've also resorted to constantly repeating to myself that everything will turn out fine, just take one step at a time. Plan a party to which I would be thrilled to be invited.

So I've been given the honor to plan my sister's last night out as a 26 year old bachelorette. It could have been helpful if I had been to a bachelorette party that involved a large city and even larger plans, but the one bach party I've attended (in Mexico) include four women, watered down shots, and an early turn in. It was fun at the time, but my sister deserves the ultimate party. As it is, one of her best friends can't make it. So it must be extra special. This clearly adds more pressure to be perfect causing me to procrastinate and push back on deadlines and other important to-do's.

But I must go on. My determination to give Jill the best party ever keeps me going, sifting through the pile of phone calls and sorting out the tiniest of details. I will get it done. And my only wish is that she remembers this night to be one of her favorites from her single life.

No further explanation needed

Have you ever met anyone that, by the sheer sight of their written name, you are filled with a kind of anger and resentment that fills your entire body within seconds, causing your face to flush and your fists to clench? Yeah, it's that bad. What can I do? I refuse to make anyone choose sides, that's lame. But I can't live with it. It is not jealousy, it's a plain distaste for being treated like I don't exist.