It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year


I don't know how many times I've heard it in the past few weeks, but it seems to be a hot topic every year: How can those sales clerks stand to listen to Christmas music for hours at a time, day in and day out?

Well, as your resident expert (I spent over five years in the retail world), let me tell you. At first, it's great! Mostly because it's a welcome change from the previous cd the store has been making you listen to for the past six months. I have a theory that this is why Black Friday is such a success year in and year out: the sales people are so happy to have new music on that it puts a bounce in their step and a twinkle in their eye. Who wouldn't want to buy from them?

Fast forward a week: this is when you start memorizing the tunes you hear. This is not the worst stage, as you will see, but it is the point where the Christmas music goes bad. You don't know how many more times you can rock around the Christmas tree, or deck the halls. You rush to your car after work and turn on the radio -- only to hear more Christmas music! Ack! It's an attack. You turn off the radio and sing all the songs from Grease 1 and 2.

Another week goes by, and your brain is working overtime. By now you know all the words to all the Christmas songs, including Jessica Simpson's rendition of Santa Cutie (let's just pretend), AND the order the songs are played in. So when you go to your car for escape, there's something about the end of that Alanis Morissette song (you've exhausted your repertoire by now) that makes you want to segue into Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

Another week goes by. You want to run around the store and scream because you know the next song is sung by Kid Rock (ugh, really, who would want him to spread the Christmas cheer? Bad choice). On top of it all, you are beginning to wish that there really were just 12 days of Christmas.

Another week goes by. By now you would have tuned out the music because it is so ingrained in your brain that you practically sing it in your sleep, but your manager finally pushes the shuffle button. This is particularly torturous because you expect to hear Up on the Rooftop, but instead you get White Christmas. It really messes with you. Many sales people develop ticks.

Alas, it all ends Christmas Eve. You turn off the lights to the store. You go to the cd player and remove Christmas Mix 2006. You leave the store. You start a small fire in the parking lot. You roast chestnuts on the open fire, and the cd (crackling and sizzling in the flames) finally provides just the right background music.

Happy Holidays!

Coincidentally...

I went back home to Colorado for my Thanksgiving adventures. Well, truthfully it wasn't at all very adventurous, but you might say there were moments of melodrama.

As many of you know, I am getting married in February. The planning is in full gear, meaning the invitations have been sent, the dress has been bought, and the florist has been contacted. The RSVP deadline is on Friday. But guess who's not coming -- my grandmother, who I've become very close to since my parents divorced several years ago. First, my dad told me she wasn't coming. Then my brother told me she wasn't coming. I still thought my powers of pursuasion would prevail, and that I could guilt her into coming, or somehow convince her that a trip to the mountains in the middle of winter is nothing but routine. But alas, my powers were too weak. She still said no.

My grandmother has not spoken to me face to face about her not coming, or even over the phone. Our main exchange was over email, because I knew I would never get two words in if I tried to talk over the phone, and supposedly she starts crying any time she thinks about it. It's very difficult to convey the entire situation (my grandma's fear of travelling anywhere, the usual old-person health issues, and her downright stubborness, for starters), but suffice it to say that I was expecting from her a heart-felt, possibly emotional, decline of invitation. It never came. It seemed she never intended to speak to me of the wedding.

Enter the bride, headed to Colorado for the Thanksgiving holiday. Bride had not spoken to grandmother in a month, still waiting for some word of regret. Nothing. Bride calls grandmother on Thanksgiving holiday. Grandmother makes no mention of wedding. Bride visits grandmother the day after Thanksgiving. As grandmother continues making no mention of wedding (she is sorting through her collection of newspaper clippings, trying to find something she had just quoted), over the radio plays the grand wedding march. The song everyone associates with the wedding. Bride opens her eyes wide, not believing what she is hearing. Grandmother pauses in her paper clipping search and says, "Well, listen to what they are playing," and hastily returns to her precious task.

I had never seen an 800-pound gorilla in the room. It's more terrible than seeing one at the zoo. I wondered if it was a sign? No, I decided, not for me. For her. And she didn't take it.

If there are psychologists who study the workings of the elderly brain, I completely admire them, yet wonder how they get anywhere. I just don't get it. I can't understand my grandmother's reasons. I'm sure she has many. I'm trying to accept that, but I think it's going to take me a long time.

Oh My Head, My Aching Head

What a great week to come to work with a hangover. Let the holidays begin!

In honor of my nausea and head crunch, let's look at famous alcoholics. I was able to find several lists of these people. However, I don't know what qualifies someone as a famous alcoholic. First, you must be famous, that is obvious. But was the alcoholism famous too? Here's what I found:

Katherine Hepburn was on the list, but when I searched her profile on Wikipedia, I couldn't find anything about a drinking problem. True, there was so much going on about this woman that maybe the alcoholism just wasn't as interesting. All I can think of is the Philadelphia Story, which was written for her, and contains a fantastic drunken scene the night before her wedding.
Hangover cure: two aspirins and a cool cloth for your forehead

Dylan Thomas is a man who was known for his drinking. I've heard stories about him at readings, so drunk his breat smelled up the room (actually, I made that up). But he did like his drink, and ended up dying as a result at the age of 39. Apparently, he once returned from a night of drinking and announced his 18 straight whiskies must be a record. Why bother with the glass at that point? Just pour it straight down the hatch, that's what I say.
Hangover cure: a bottle of aspirin, and set up a cot by the toilet, you're going to need it

Reading about real people is getting depressing. The body can only take so much. I read about Billy Holiday (no wonder her voice sounds so sad), and Babe Ruth (although evidence of his drinking is hard to pull out through all the batting stats). Here are some people who never have to worry about their livers, but I suspect are heavy drinkers:

Santa Claus has a jolly red nose, and it's not from living at the North Pole. I suspect that Mrs. Claus keeps quite a liquor cabinet and that the couple raids it often. And what do they do with all those cookies the children leave out for Santa? He takes them home and dips them in spiked egg nog.
Hangover cure: more booze and eight aspirin for the reindeer (remember, Rudolf also has a red nose)

Bigfoot must be smarter than all of us to avoid being caught all the time. Even so, we have all seen the footage of the big man running through the woods. If we were to revisit that short movie, we would see the way Bigfoot holds his arms out for balance. He's clearly innebriated. And where does he get his booze? No, stealing from campers is too easy. He makes his own from tree bark.
Hangover cure: a nice long mud bath

Mickey Mouse is a closeted alcoholic. His problem is tough to pick out because he seems like the All-American mouse. But look at his friends. Don't tell me Daffy Duck slurs becauses he has a speech impediment. Goofy has that laugh that only comes out after you've downed a few stiff drinks. And don't even get me started on Minnie. Drunkeness is the only explanation for wearing so many polka dots.
Hangover cure: cartoons can bounce back from anything; just move to the next scene

Addicted to Shopping

I recently went shopping. Before any of this blog can make sense, you must know that I spent all $17K that I was able to earn in high school on clothing, gas for my car, and the occasional movie or restaurant meal. I can't believe I used to live like that. Now times have changed. Currently, about 2/3 of my budget goes to tuition, with precious little left over for gas, credit card payments, insurance, and my long lost buddy--shopping.

I don't go shopping very often because it adds up. But do you know what else adds up? The urge to go shopping. After a couple of months my skin starts to tingle and all I can think about is how I have nothing to wear at home (even though I have enough clothing to wear something different every day for at least four months, doesn't mean I actually want to wear every thing I have). If you repeat something to yourself often enough, you'll eventually believe it, and that is how I end up at the mall three times a year.

At first I set a strict budget. "No more than $100," I tell myself. But then I see many items with great prices, and I can't help myself. "I guess I can put it on my card," is my inevitable white-flag of surrender, waving limply in the air.

I was curious to see if the signs of substance abuse align with the signs of :


* Smell of substance on breath, body or clothes.
Sweat, from the labors of shopping? Or maybe it's the yummy spiced chai I was drinking...
* Extreme hyperactivity; excessive talkativeness.
There is no way this one describes a shopper!
* Needle marks or bruises on lower arm, legs or bottom of feet.
I don't know about needle marks, but maybe pen marks, from signing too many sales slips.
* Changes in friends: new hang-outs, avoidance of old crowd, new friends are drug users.
I do like to shop with a new person every now and then. And who knows, they may be drug users...
* Change in activities; loss of interest in things that were important before.
What's more important than shopping?
* Defensiveness, temper tantrums, resentful behavior (everything's a hassle).
Yeah, everything is a hassle when you realize all your pants flare out at the bottom when everyone else is wearing the skinny leg pant.
* Unexplained silliness or giddiness.
This may be due to increased caffeine consumption while shopping. Or, seeing the pretty red shoe on my foot and trying to think of all the things I could wear with it. Ahh, like floating on a cloud!
* Paranoia -- suspiciousness.
What if the sale ends before I get there?
* Excessive need for privacy; keeps door locked or closed, won't let people in.
No, I will not show you how fat I look in this dress. And don't come in while I'm changing, I need to do laundry and I'm wearing granny underwear.
* Chronic dishonesty.
I didn't spend that much...
* Unexplained need for money; can't explain where money goes; stealing.
The need for money I can see, but I've never stolen a thing. Finally, a sign that my problem isn't as serious as it could be.
* Unusual effort to cover arms, legs.
Duh!
* Change in personal grooming habits.
I would hope that buying new clothing would encourage snazzier style.
* Possession of drug paraphernalia.
The only drug paraphernalia I can think of are crisp $100 bills.

Procrasty Nation

I'm at a point where I can see many Tasks lined up in front of me, waiting to be selected and completed. I could work on my Virginia Woolf Paper. I could work on My Novel, or My Thesis. I could finish my Homework for Monday (or start it). I could settle up with the Florists for the wedding. I could Clean my House. But that is not my reality. I sit here, on my throne of procrastination and rule over these Tasks without force or undue action. I have no expectations of them, except that they remain near to me, fill my court, and worship the possibility that I could master them in a few hours if I wish.

And how do my subjects repay me? They move closer to my arch-nemisis, the Due Date. I have no idea what that horrendous villain could possibly do for them. Due Date calls first to my Monday Homework: "Come nearer, I can make you more significant. I can give you power; move toward my light and you will influence your former master in torturous ways." Because Due Date knows that if one of my subjects moves to his side for good, and passes by, that he will have won.

I cannot let that happen. Yet I always wait for Due Date to call upon my Tasks at hand. Why doesn't he just leave them alone? I've never been given the chance to see if the Tasks of my kingdom will interract in such a way that Virginia Woolf Paper will Clean the House, or if the Florist knows anything about My Thesis. No, the Tasks do not rely on each other this way. Due Date knows this, and he calls them, every time.

Battle of the Sick

I last posted about my use of sick days. And wouldn't you know it? The sick day won.

I called in sick yesterday. And I was sick. My head hurt, I woke up unrested (and we all know rest is the key to getting over anything), and the thought of dragging my unhealthy body to a work place that only provides a course two-ply tissue for repeated rubbing of my runny nose just wasn't doing it for me. So, I sent the email to work announcing they would not be graced with my presence, and I went back to bed for three more hours.

I had hopes of making the most of my sick day. I thought David and I could go look at suits for the wedding. I thought we might take Oscar for a nice walk. I thought we might replenish the supplies in our fridge. But instead I watched Emma (for the second time in two days), took a nap, registered for wedding gifts, and watched Ghost Hunters. I feel better today, but I would have stayed home again...if I had any more sick time left.

Achoo! I'm back at work today, and I've brought my own box of lotioned, vitamin E-ed, and aloed kleenex with me. Just another month and a half until I get more sick days.

Careful With Those Sick Days

I used a sick day last week after staying up all night to finish my novel submission for class. Was I sick? No. Did I feel well? No. Yet I feel justified in taking the sick day, and don't regret it.

But here I am four days later with the beginnings of a sore throat. My lower back is aching, even though I've already popped two ibuprofen. And have I considered throwing in the towel for the day and going home sick? Yes. Will I follow through? No.

I'm not the first person to recognize this problem--that some of us store up those sick days for when we really need them--which is definitely not at the sign of a sniffle or a tummy rumble. I suppose we are lucky, because when we really are sick it's never enough to keep us under the covers. Even if we did stay away from work, we'd still find ourselves out shopping or finishing up a few errands. I pity those who rely on the sick time to actually get well.

So I'll sit here for the rest of the day, convincing myself that my aches and pains are nothing that won't go away on their own, and plan how I'm going to use my remaining 12 hours of sick time before the year is up.

Be well.

Special: Sleep 30% Off

I'm sleep deprived, folks. So if none of the following entry makes sense, or there are major errors in grammer or spelling (as if there was a standard for blogging), you know why. In the past three days, I have slept twelve hours.

Which is why I have this brilliant idea. It could never work, because there is no way to change the effects of sleep, but suppose we lived in a world where you were only rationed 7 hours of sleep a night. Some people would not use all of their sleep, and some people would use theirs up at the beginning of the week, and some people would become very regular 7-hours-a-night-sleepers. At first I was thinking it would be nice for the people who use less than their 7 hours to be able to sell their hours to the unrested. But that's not really fair. I'm thinking this system would be more of a use-it-or-lose-it kind of thing. However, for those who need more sleep, why not allow them to take a potion that makes their sleep 25% more effective. So if they only sleep for four hours, they wake up feeling like they slept for five. If seven isn't enough, they take the potion and feel like they slept for over eight.

Maybe when I wake up I'll realize how silly this sounds. But think about it...we take drugs to make our awake time more effective (caffeine, atterol, speed...), why not find something that makes sleep more effective, something better than just a sleeping pill.

Signing off....Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z