Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Make This YOUR New Year's Resolution:

Okay people, I am proud to say that I have kicked the caffiene. Doing the half-caf and no more headaches. Hooray. Consider that my New Year's resolution taken care of early.

Now, let's talk about all of you folks that get on my last nerve. You know who you are.

You're "IMing" on your little "cell phones" and typing really queer stuff like "CUL8R" and "LOL". You make me sick.

Please kill the person who came up with "LOL".

You know I used to pass notes in highschool, back when we used paper and pencil because, like, it was all we friggin' had. I used to say "j/k" and "cuz" or it's lesser known version "Bcuz", but I wrote out my laughs as "ha ha" or even "tee hee". I know I'm guilty of it. But I was fifteen and I thought it was cute. Well guess what, if you are over the age of twenty-five and still using those cutesy little terms, it's not cute. So there, lameasses.

You think you're so clever.

Oh, and another thing. Very over the lame little cartooned versions that people display as themselves. I don't know why, it just irritates me. Almost everybody has one of those Yu-Gi-Oh little people as their trademark. What's going on here? Get some real pictures, not that I'm one to talk because I still can't figure out how to do it...

SHOOOWEEE. Glad to get that off my chest.

Now Happy New Year, Everbody!!! And remember folks, if you're driving, don't drink. And if you're drinking, don't drive. (Yes, you've heard it before- Beastie Boys: Check Your Head)

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Slowly, but surely, my 30th birthday is approaching. There’s no stopping it. But oddly enough, it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.

What really bothers me, is that most likely, no one will remember. That’s what happens when you’re born the day after Christmas.

December 26th is not exactly the most fun day. Everyone’s worn out from the holidays, bloated, and fighting crowds of people for the after-Christmas-sales and returning all the crappy gifts they never wanted.

My sister, Michelle, got a turtleneck for Hanukkah from my Uncle’s cheap girlfriend. We went to the mall so that she could swap it for this eight dollar bracelet she picked only to find out to that she owed the cashier three dollars. The turtleneck’s original value was just short of five dollars before sales tax. It wasn’t the most wonderful start to that birthday.

So many lessons are learned on Christmas, and I’m not talking about how it’s better to give than to receive or "goodwill toward men" and all that. I’m talking about the real hardcore lessons of life, like who you spent too much money on for a gift that you actually fretted over whether or not they’d like it and then found out they couldn’t be bothered to spend a whole eight dollars on a turtleneck you didn’t even want in the first place.

You learn a lot about other people, too. They’re all right there with you in the department stores and malls, taking back what they never wanted or something that someone though they’d want and they are mortified not by that person’s taste, but that they could have mistaken that gift for their own taste. People begin to wonder what in the hell others really think of them afterall. For example, my parents have been the recipients of many novelty gifts. The fact that they play tennis has somehow lead others to believe that they would want tennis ball pillows and ugly miniature statues of Ziggy wearing a headband and holding a tennis racket.

So many more lessons are learned on the day after Christmas. You’re in debt, you’re disappointed in your loved ones for the bits of shit they gave you wrapped up to look like a gift and disapointed yourself for overindulging on too many cookies and saying things like, "Well, it only comes once a year!" while scarfing down another Schwetty ball chased with eggnog.
I don’t know what it is about this time of year, but I’ve never really been a fan. Too many people, too much stress, too many little details to fret over like going to the Post Office and getting the holiday stamps instead of the flag ones to stick on the Christmas card envelope that’s going to be thrown out anyway. Why do we do this to ourselves? In a society where most people are going out their minds overscheduling themselves on a daily basis, why do we push ourselves to the limit at the end of the year? It’s like, "Hurry up! The year’s almost over, give everybody else every last bit of sanity that you have left and lose your mind! And then make a promise that you’ll fix all your faults on the first day of the new year!" What the hell is that all about? I totally get why the suicidal rate skyrockets as soon as you hear a Salvation Army bell-ringer on every street corner. Killing yourself is the easy way out. It’s such a relief when it’s all over and everything is said, done, overeaten, and exchanged for something else.

Is this what God had in mind? Is this the way he really wanted his son’s birthday party to go every year? Why are we buying presents for everyone but Jesus? It’s his birthday. Yeah, yeah, don’t talk to me about how everybody’s giving a lot to charities and making bigger than usual donations to the church. That’s not going directly to Jesus. It’s going to other people and preists and nuns and stuff. They are not Jesus. They just work for him, there’s a difference. And has anyone ever bothered to think about what Jesus would like for his birthday? Has anyone ever asked? I’d really like to know.

Maybe that’s what God had in mind. Maybe God’s been looking for the perfect gift for his son. Like that new iPod with the video display. Tell me Jesus wouldn’t want one of those. But that’s a little out of my price range. Maybe I could get him one of those iTunes gift certificates, or download U2 songs for him on the hard drive so that he’d have something to listen to while he tried to figure out how to work the damn thing. I got to be honest, though, I really wouldn’t know how to program that stuff in there. Well, I’m sure he’d be able to figure it out eventually, I mean he turned water into wine.

Okay, so that takes care of him. Now for my birthday, I’d really like to just hang out and relax. I don’t really want anything, just some peace of mind. I’d like to have some laughs with friends and to be alone with my thoughts for a little while. Feed the birds and pet the cats. I just want a day off. A day where I can be me, and not have to fake it for anyone to fit into some kind of mold that conforms to their expectation of me. That would be the best birthday ever.
And I’m pretty cool about letting go of my twenties, almost as much so as was of leaving the teens, but not nearly as much as I was about going beyond the single digits. Turning ten was like I was finally on my way to having something in common with adults, we both had two numbers in our age. But I really believed that I would be regarded as an adult in my twenties, but much to my chagrin that never happened. Everyone would look at me as though I was still ten years old and say that I was "so young" which translates to "you’re a stupid baby, you don’t know anything, call yourself an adult, hah!" At least when you’re thirty, no one can really say that you’re a child anymore. I think that one is officially considered an adult when they have a three for the first number in their age.

Problem is, I still feel like I’m twelve. To think I’m going to be thirty boggles my mind. I thought when I turned thirty, I’d be like really grownup and mature and ladylike. But in my mind, I’m none of those things, not one. I don’t fit in with my peers. I fit in with a crowd of sixth-graders. So I’m constantly on the look out for children trapped in old people bodies. Oh, we’re out there, man. There’s tons of us putting on a face to work that says, "I’m an adult. I work at a job and pay bills. I have children and a spouse. I have responsibilites." But people like me only repeat that mantra to ourselves so that we can play the part and avoid having everyone else look at us like we have three heads.

Do you know how much energy it takes for me to contain my "inner child"? It takes everything I’ve got. I think that’s why it’s so hard for me to be an adult, because I’m not one. I wonder if when I was a kid that all the grown-up acting adults were doing the same thing. You know, trying to contain giggles and act all professionally grown-up when really they felt like a kid in this mature body. I mean I don’t doubt there were people like me before I realized I’m the way I am, I just wonder how they got on with their lives without just losing it.

It’s a lot more acceptable to kind of look into who you are nowadays. It certainly wasn’t that way fifty years ago. Why else did my grandmother drink instead of going on Zoloft? Because there wasn’t any. There wasn’t a lot help available to creative spirits, my grandmother, who played in what she always called an orchestra but was really a four or five piece band, put all that aside to become the "adult". She married, she had two kids and raised them, and was miserable about it and made everyone around her sorry that she had to grow up.

I think I’m in the same predicament. I’m staying at home with a child and struggling with my identity as well. Who am I? There’s the artist, the writer, the animal lover, the wife, the mother, the friend, the daughter, the sister, the aunt. I’m too many fucking people. I feel like I have to put on a different hat for every role I play, and I got to be honest, if I didn’t have so many responsiblities I needed to be in control of, I’d drink, too.

Well, Happy 30th Birthday to me. I know it’s not December 26th yet, but I am typing out this post from my birthday present- a new laptop (Suuuweeeet!). I may not be an adult, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have been allowed to play with this when I was a kid. And I guess that’s one advantage we have over the kids.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Checking myself into Maxwell House, which is like Betty Ford, but for caffeine addicts.

Thanks for all your letters, your encouraging comments, and of course the care packages overnighted to me filled with Coffee-Mate. You all have no idea what this means to me.

Wait a minute. No one did that! Guess who had to get out of her pajamas and go to the store- in freezing temperatures, no less? Who had to warm up the car for twenty-three minutes and scrape all the ice off the windsheild? Who wandered around the store, hair all a'muss, clothes on backwards, hopped up on codeine (to relieve pounding caffeine headache, only, of course) and in a complete fog searching for the dreamy, creamy, french vanilla beany nectar of the coffee creamer gods???? Huh? Huh? Just who exactly do you think ending up in that predicament?


This has got to stop. I'm putting an end to this right now.

Today is the first day of the rest of my
no-longer-dependent-on-caffiene life. I need to take back control. I will start as soon as I finish my tall hot cuppa steaming coffee (with french vanilla coffee-mate).

I can do this.

I will start to wean myself off this
substance. It has a demonic hold on my soul. And it can't be doing much for my anxiety issues, I suppose. It's going to be a little harder than it sounds. I've been using for a good 10 years.

It all started with a summer job at the "Unique Grind", which was a coffee shop and not a an artistic strip club as some might have assumed. I never even drank coffee before that. But it grew on me. A few months later I was back in school and the cafe was shut down. I started drinking coffee at home. Just one cup in the morning.

I started wanting a little "pick-me-up" in the afternoons, and found that coffee was doing the job so well, that I continued to use it whenever I felt that 2-4pm sluggishness.

At night, I'd drink a cup to stay up for clubbing. I mean, you can't hit any club untill after 11. That's when all the cool people come.

The next summer I was working in a drugstore. I was still drinking coffee at home. But there weren't any Dunkin' Donuts nearby where I could get my fix- keep in mind, this was in '96, before Starbucks had taken over every corner of every city and suburb. I quit after a year and took a job with The RoseCart Cafe. That's when this habit started to get really out of control.

I wasn't just drinking coffee anymore. I was onto espresso.

The Folgers and Maxwell House canned brands weren't doing it for me anymore. I needed something stronger. I started bring home bags of Guatemala Antigua from the cafe, which I ground with a newly purchased grinder. My mother thought it was a little too strong, but then she got a taste for it and requesting me to bring home other kinds like, Columbian, Sumatra, and French Roast.

A few years later, Starbucks came to town. People were paying four bucks and up for a cup of their brew. Grocery stores started to carry the beans, exposing the public to their seductive brand of coffee. Luring customers into the shops with the smell of fresh roasted toastiness and images of couples holding coffee mugs up to their noses, with their faces enveloped in steam.

Caribou Coffee has moved in down the street from me and they're even worse. Their cheery staff and goddamned good coffee is too hard to resist. The atmosphere, so alluring with it's ski lodge motif, cozy fireplaces, and enough cushy chairs for everybody and their caffeine addicted brother and you won't have to show up at 5am just to fight with another customer to get one. And of course, there's also a drive-thru for where you can get your fix without so much as leaving the confines of your vehicle.

A couple days later....

Took myself on over to Trader Joe's and picked up some Half-Caf Whole Beans the other day. So far, things are going okay. The coffee's still pretty good, I must admit. And there appears to be just enough caffeine to keep me from falling down and having a withdrawl seizure followed by hallucinations. I'm gonna keep weaning myself off. That's what my counsellor has advised me to do. I've got about 23 days left here at Maxwell House. I'm hoping to get out on a leave for the holidays, but they're pretty strict around here. Feel free to come and visit, write me a letter, or send me some flowers. And next time you have a nonfat-hafcaf-french-vanilla-latte with extra foam, remember to think of me.

Monday, December 05, 2005


Need more coffee. Ran out of Coffee-Mate. Can't drink coffee without Coffee-Mate. Must buy more Coffee-Mate so I might have another cup of deliciously artificially flavored French Vanillia coffee. And what the hell do the french really know about vanilla? What's the difference between that and plain vanilla? Doesn't matter, because without it, the coffee will be a black, bitter, hot cup of crap. If I don't get more Coffee-Mate for my coffee I'll start having caffeine withdrawl headaches. Please somebody help me for the love of GOD. I can't get to the store now, I'm still in my jammies, and I can't get out of my jammies untill I've had a good cup of coffee. I may never live to see another day without a headache or the strength to get out of my pj's.

Saturday, December 03, 2005