Holiday Advice: Pump the Brakes on Assholery

One might say I’m biased because my birthday is today, Christmas Eve, and it’s always been less “pleasure and joy” and more “unnngghhh must finish Christmas shopping ON MY BIRTHDAY.”  Whatever my general holiday malaise stems from, surely I’m not the only person who notices that people invariably become even bigger asshats during the holidays, what with rushing around, cutting you off on the freeway, and fighting for the last sad toy of the year for their Very Special Children.  And maiming (or killing) others as a result.    Surprisingly, I am not down with this.  I may be filled on the inside with rage like a hateful Twinkie, but during the holidays I up my zen factor by about 400%.  Not really sure how that switch happens.

Perhaps for every insane outrage during this magical, nog-filled time of year, there’s a completely normal person who does not freak out every time they have a to-do list of over 3 things.  Perhaps.  Personally, I think the ratio is more like 4:1.  Look, people, just realize that you’re not going to get anywhere fast enough, your gifts to others do not have to be “just right” – just the giving itself is more than enough. Take a minute to look and see if the guy behind you in line has 2 items opposed to your 46.  Let him go in front of you.  Chances are you won’t die, and whatever you’re running late for can more than likely wait the 3.5 minutes it will take him to check out.  If you are in a moving vehicle in a parking lot and there are a shit-ton of people walking in front of your car, LET THEM.  Your propensity for getting hit directly outside the mall at the light that everyone else is at is high.  It’s ok to wait another few minutes for that to happen.

Whenever you feel over-encumbered and you can’t run through your holiday-time with lightning speed to get all your shit done, take a deep breath, have a glass of wine or a Loko or whatever, and realize that the people in your life don’t care what you give them.  They also don’t care if you arrive 20 minutes late.  What they do care about is you, and all they expect from you is for you to not be that asshole that sped up to pull in front of them today, only to make an abrupt right turn at a speed of 3 mph.  Without a turn signal.

Just dial it down a little this year – like DeBarge said, “the special love that’s deep inside our hearts will all reveal in time.”  Reveal that special love now.  Friends and strangers alike deserve it.

These clothes say Merry Fucking Holidays.

The Best Friendship Dream Ever

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. But BY GOD what I dreamt last night was so freaking cool that I have to write about it.  Let’s see if everyone else thinks so.

If you don’t know by now who Greta X is, that’s a damn shame.  But either way, here’s the completely amazing dream I had last night.

Stoney and Greta, Sarcastic Smile Mode

I have never, I repeat NEVER written down a dream before…until 3am this morning.  So without further adieu, let me tell the story.

It would appear that Greta and I have made hasty plans to visit St. Louis for the weekend.  While this is believable for me as I used to live there and know people there, I have no idea why Greta would agree to do this as a “fun girls’ weekend!”  I dare say, St. Louis is really not what you would call “irrational and reckless fun.”  We meet at the airport, and Greta is carrying a large, handled paper sack full of her dirty clothes.  This in no way seems strange to me.  We embark on our journey.

As we board the MegaPlane via the rear, Greta goes ahead and continues through the plane while I stop to use the plane’s laundry facilities.  And by “facilities,” I mean the plane’s one washer and one dryer.  Because I do so much laundry IRL, I suppose that this is just carrying over into my sleeping life.  After all, does it not seem absolutely natural to have the ability to do laundry everywhere, especially on a plane?

Needless to say, I have to do her laundry as well as my own, and by the time I get it all loaded, I am the last person to enter the actual plane.  But oh, wait, fuck me, this plane has TWO PARTS and I am somehow in the portion of the plane that will be travelling to BOSTON.  Greta, having entered the plane early enough to get a seat in the “St. Louis” portion of the plane, tragically does not know that I will suddenly not be joining her.

(I find out later in the dream by looking out a window that the plane is joined together by what looks like an accordion made out of a sock.  Surely this is the height of safety.) 

So after resigning myself to the fact that I will not make it to St. Louis or see Greta to tell her, I just sit back (sort of – there are no flight attendants, and I have not buckled in, so I slide around in my seat until I figure out that the lack of a seat belt could potentially be a real problem) and enjoy the incredibly WEIRD RIDE.  Which sort of feels like the plane is slowly going over each building, as if it were made of putty.  For some reason we are taking off from Houston, which is not where space rockets take off from (nor is it where either of us live), but we putty over a rocket launch tower, as the pilot comments on how proud the city must be to have that launching pad.  Rocket is indeed attached.

We bank extremely hard to the left and are more “in the air,” instead of just skimming rooftops, and there is a scheduled intermission for all passengers.  This intermission takes place in what I can only imagine is the accordion sock.  I see Greta!  Hurray!  I tell her what has happened, and how we are obviously beset on all sides by tragedy.  Our intermission time is over, and I make my sad way back to the Boston portion of the plane.  I scream silently to Greta, “Staaaaaaaaay with meeeeeeeeeeee!!!!”  She keeps walking.

But wait!  What soft light from yon window breaks?!   It IS Greta!  She is now stuck on my side of the sock!  If we can’t have St. Louis, then dammitall, we will have Boston.

The end.

But it wasn’t.  I woke up at this point, in total awe of this dream.  I wrote as much as I could (given the fact that I was half asleep) and my last line says “you got stuck on my plane!  YAY!”

This only made sense at 3AM

I returned to my slumber, and the dream continued.  Greta and I were magically transported to Las Vegas, where getting into a hotel is evidently really difficult to do, and they just give you a packet of guitar strings upon registration.

Thank god we are both gifted guitarists.  In dreamland.

Good Morning, Please Stop Talking

Yes.  I am an asshole.

From the hours of 6am (or earlier when necessary) to about 10am, I am a complete dick.  Really doesn’t matter what has happened, how I’ve slept, what I ate the night before, Nothing.  Matters.  At.  All.  I’ve tried and tried, and it’s like an unattainable floaty thing out of my grasp, to act like a decent human being in those hours.  I’m not sure what it is, but I wake up furious and it doesn’t go away for at least an hour, sometimes two.

This affects my loving husband only for the most part.  Which is terrible.  He’s the last person at whom I wish to lash out.  There’s a pretty elemental key, however, that he keeps forgetting:


There will be no purpose, no joyful outcome, nothing you might expect from a normal person.  You will YET AGAIN be disappointed, nay, enraged at my ability to be an absolute (insert any fashion of female-asshole-descriptive nouns here.)

I do apologize.  And for everyone’s information, it’s not something I shrug off and say “oh well it’s just who I am DEAL WITH IT.”  No.  I take my abhorrent behavior quite seriously, but upon realizing there is no fucking cure, I just try to not talk.  This is my brilliant solution.

The not talking, however, is just seen as yet another shitty evasive tactic.  I’m doing it for your own protection.  I promise.  Lest the words that next fly out of my mouth are words that no one is meant to hear.

The actual cure would be to somehow acquire a career that allows me to lounge in my robe for as long as possible.  Like writing.

Resolutions 2012: F*ck It, I Choose Reality

Ok, sure, let’s talk about all the shit you THINK you might stop in 2012, or start in 2012, or that you would like to accomplish, whatever.  We can talk about it.  It’s not going to make it real or make those temptations stop riding in on the backs of beautiful imaginary talking Clydesdales.  “Why, hellloo there, my child!”  (note:  Clydesdales have voices like God.)  “Looky here what I brought you!  It’s a big bowl of cherry pie filling sitting on a pedestal made entirely out of cartons of cigarettes and completely full wine bottles, surrounded by a bed of PIZZA AND FRENCH FRIES!!!  ENJOY!”  Fucking talking Clydesdales.  So destructive.

So yeah, I’ve made a list.  Let’s go ahead and get it rollin’ just for fun:

  1.  Lose 10 pounds.
  2.  Make backyard look as if non-homeless people live in it.
  3.  Keep trying to become a better derby player.
  4. Quit being an asshole every morning upon waking.  
  5. Get Organized!  Just because The Container Store says I should.  
  6. Join Costco.  
  7. Consider replacing fence.  
  8. Buy an oven that doesn’t catch on fire. 
  9. (Here is where “drink less!” would go) 
  10.  (Here is where “try to quit smoking!” would go) 

I’d say that’s a fairly ambitious list, even without 9 and 10.  I think losing the 10 pounds is manageable, but I lose hope and momentum down around 4.  That’s not really much of a start then, is it.  Or is it? It is technically still morning.  So I could just be continuing the Asshole Tradition.

White Russians: You Too Can Make This Delicious Shit

Crossposted and originally written for

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On the surface, you would think that sippin’ on a White Russian goes great with fireplaces, Yule tidings, and about 4 feet of snow on the ground. My friends, I am here to tell you that a White Russian goes great with fucking EVERYTHING.

Winter, Summer, Spring or Fall, it’s like a damn grown-ass milkshake, all for you and your tummy-tum to absorb into your thoroughly deprived-of-Awesome digestive tract, or Magical Unicorn Land, or wherever food and drink goes after you swallow it. I prefer to think of my bloodstream and intestines as a crisp, babbling brook made out of vodka, or lush verdant fields in which French Fry Fairies frolic. But I digress.

A perfectly-crafted White Russian only involves three ingredients:

Vodka (can substitute Everclear)

Kahlua (can substitute coffee grounds mixed with sugar and more vodka)

Half & half (can substitute milk and/or dishwater for coloring – how fucking thirsty are you? Own it.)

1. Okay, drink that pre-drink bottle of wine if it makes you feel fancier.

2. Rinse out a tumbler or milk jug. Whatever.

3. Add ice. Don’t go crazy. Ice is just for looks.

4. Pour in about a finger of Kahlua. (Hint: Use Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment as a measurement for “finger.” And I’m talking the Norton Critical Edition, NOT Bantam Classics measuring. That’s for sissies.)

5. Pour in about 4 Crime and Punishments of vodka. I personally like Monopolowa vodka I have no chance of pronouncing correctly.

6. Add the half & half up to whatever is equivalent to a “full glass” for you. I use fat free half & half, because there’s no sense in wasting all those delicious calories on something that’s just filler. Also, if you’ve done your literary measuring correctly, you won’t need that much.

7. Swirl it around with a swizzle stick, or a pencil, or your finger.

8. Drain it into your gullet like a thirsty hobo in a desert.

9. Repeat.

I promise, you won’t be disappointed. No need to pattern yourself after Lebowski at every turn, but a shabby robe is definitely de rigueur for this amalgamation of amazement. Add a turban, and you’re good. Who gives a shit if you’re at a party or in public. Be your own person. A White Russian in the hand says nothing but “I like drinking” to everyone around you. Oh yeah, and it drips class. True Fact.