Monday, December 21, 2009

Ho ho ho?

I don't want to rain on anybody's Christmas parade, but on the way to work this morning I had some fairly disturbing thoughts about Santa Claus. These thoughts were prompted by that good ol' holiday favorite, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.

First off, has anybody ever really thought about the concept of Santa? Santa's an intruder. Uninvited, he just enters people's homes and starts eating their food and drinking their nog. (Or milk. Or my latest favorite, Soy Nog.)

Secondly, Santa is a peeping Tom. He sees you when you're sleeping? He knows when you're awake? Does Santa see me in the shower too? How about bent over after a night of too much wine? Then he passes judgment on the actions he sees when he is actually the violating perv? If I dated, and then dumped Santa, I'd slap his ass with a restraining order faster than you can say, "On Blitzen."

Finally the song in question itself, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Santa's magical charm perpetuates infidelity. Consider these lyrics:

Then, I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus
Underneath his beard so snowy white;
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy had only seen
Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.
Really? Mommy tickled Santa under his beard when Daddy wasn't looking? Something tells me Daddy might not be too thrilled at Santa's actions and perhaps punch his nog-drunk ass underneath his beard so snowy white. Unless Daddy was banging the babysitter. Or Daddy was a derelict.

I don't want to cast a damper on the season, but I just had to share with you these thoughts at one of the most festive times of the year. Enjoy the days leading up to Christmas, there are only a couple of days left.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Won't you be my neighbor?

I've lived in my current apartment for nearly four years. I first decided I liked this place when I saw that a major focal point of the inside was a 70s-tastic love nook with fireplace and built in vinyl seating. The bedroom is a loft. The walls are wood paneling. All this disco fabulous living, and it wasn't in such a bad part of town, so I moved in. But since moving in, strange things have been happening in the neighborhood, and now I'm wondering just where I'm living.

I affectionately refer to my neighbors across the parking lot as "Domestic Dispute." During one of their brilliant fights last summer, the guy living there nearly drove his Jeep Cherokee through their sliding glass door. He got out of the vehicle yelling four-letter words at his... girlfriend? Wife? Baby mama? And I had half a mind to jump in his running vehicle and drive it to the 7-11 just to be funny. I decided against making that incident interactive and instead settled back onto my porch to watch the show.

Why just last week "Domestic Dispute" put on another stellar display, culminating in her throwing a bar-b-que grill lid across the parking lot at his head. While I can't give her points for substance (typical four-letter words and basic defamation of his sexuality) I can give her style points. I keep waiting to wake up one morning to even more police officers casing their joint because one of them has killed the other.

Speaking of deaths around my neighborhood, I don't know if I ever mentioned the guy who died last fall in the back half of my duplex. They partied a little too much, and when I got home from the gym the next day the whole area was blocked off with yellow police tape. I thought I killed someone when I left the house with New Kids on the Block blasting on the stereo just to passive-aggressively "get back at them" for keeping me up the previous night. But it wasn't KNOTB that offed him, he apparently overdosed. In the other half of my duplex. Dead. There's something a bit unnerving about seeing a fully-zipped body bag being wheeled past your back door.

Almost as unnerving as that day is the sight of my new neighbor's decor I just noticed when I came home for lunch today. Maybe I'm a bit cranky because new back half of the duplex neighbor was having a good time with his bass knob last night, but I couldn't help but take this little photo of his fantastic new curtains that I'm fortunate enough to see each time I walk up to my own front door:

Asian bordello? No sir, that's the back half of where I live!

I shouldn't complain, at least I have somewhere to live. And it's warm. And it's covered in wood paneling. But who are these people that live around me?

Monday, December 14, 2009

Culinary Snafu

I damn near chopped off my finger last night. I was cutting up a lemon for vodka lemon chicken and it all just sort of slipped and I took out a chunk of my left index finger. With a really big, really sharp knife (thanks, Henckels Knives!) To make matters worse, I started passing out from the shock and awe of it all, and as I went to sit down on the kitchen floor, smacked my head on the counter. Yep, I passed out because I'm a wuss and can't stand the sight of my own blood or the thought of my own pain. I can watch an evening of Freddy Kreugar's antics, but when it the bleeding is on my own person, I'm a five-year-old.

I'll live, it's no big deal, but today I was thinking something much more profound about the whole experience. About five seconds before I stabbed myself, I knew it was going to happen. I pictured the scenario and I even thought to myself, "I'm totally going to cut my finger open." Lo' and behold, what happened? I became a fainting kabob.

We are so quick to dismiss our instincts with a "duh, that's lame," rather than trusting that maybe there's some truth in how we feel. So many times I have believed that I was just being stupid, given into pragmatism and ended up hosed. This pragmatism applies to so much more in my life than just this one instance; I find that I'm dismissing my instincts when it comes to situations or even the people with whom I share my life and time. For example, I have found myself putting up with inordinate amounts of crap from the men I date and dismissing red flags for a "that's just me being stupid/impatient/harsh." In these instances, my heightened instincts get cast aside for my inability to give up or move on or let go, and then I ultimately end up bleeding.

What have I learned from last night's kitchen cutting? Next time, drink the vodka and leave the chicken to the grill. Oh, and trust in my hunches just a little bit more inside the kitchen and out.