It is What it Is

Mills on Mills

Normally, I like shopping. In fact, normally, I love shopping.

I can pass hours in the mall. I once killed seven hours inside a single department store (Marshall Fields, how I love thee). In high school, I got a 10% discount on food at the Galleria because I was there so much, they just assumed I was a mall employee. In grad school, I used to study in the food court on Sunday afternoons. I liked the buzz of people around me and the odor of bad Chinese food from Manchu-Wok. I try to slip the word "kiosk" into every day conversation as much as is humanly possible. And, the only math I can do in my hand involves the percentage of clearance markdowns.

But, I do not like the mall at Christmas time. In fact, I despise it. I find that merely being in the vicinity of a mall during the holidays replaces my festive Christmas spirit with outright anger and misanthropy. (You might want to reference my previous post on Black Friday for examples of manifestations of these feelings.)

MyHeritage - photo albums with facial recognition"> I thought this would be a fun self-esteem boost. After all, if you're willing to see who your celebrity look-alikes are, aren't you looking for a quick pick me up? Little did I know, that they would pick a guy! A guy! It seems I resemble the star of "Chronicles of Narnia" (I had to imdb him to know that) more than I do Kristen Bell. (Not that I really thought that I looked like Kristen Bell, but, at least I thought I looked like a girl.) Maybe I overreacted to the fact that a man on "The Price is Right" was named Laurel. Maybe my name (and face) are unisex after all. I pray that it's just the bangs.

Nature or Nurture?

Some days, I feel like I am becoming my father. (Please don't see this as an opportunity for stray thoughts about excessive body hair or other effects of testosterone. As a single woman during the holidays, it's not fair to kick a girl when she's down. I'm only speaking of behavioral attributes here.) At times, the sensation is subtle, like an inability to change the TV from a Dennis Quaid movie or ordering a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist when I thought I was going to have a cabernet only a few seconds before. And, other times, it's more oppressive - like today, when I found myself behind a particularly slow driver attempting to make a left hand turn from a stop sign onto a four-lane road screaming, "COME ON! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GROW SOME BALLS?!?!" while throwing my arms up in the air. I guess I should check back in with someone about my road rage issues.

A Friendly Suggestion

On Saturday night, I went to a party with some friends. I ended up sitting next to a girl I didn't know, and we proceeded to engage in the usual kinds of small talk. I told her that I had just moved to Nashville, and she wanted to know how I liked it, etc. Here's a sampling of our conversation: Me: So far, I like Nashville a lot. Plus, I think I needed a change of scenery. New Girl (or NG from here on out): Yeah, I can understand that. Sometimes you really need some space after you graduate college. Me: Actually, I didn't just graduate college. I'm 27, so I've been out of school for awhile. NG: Oh, wow. I mean, wow. I had no idea you were any older than 23. Me: No worries, I get that a lot - mostly from bartenders who seem to think I'm using a fake id. NG: Well, don't you ever let anyone make you feel old...27 isn't really that old...really. Oh, new girl, I don't think that was the best way to minimize our age difference. I can honestly say that I wasn't concerned about being 27 before that moment. For future reference, if you don't want someone to feel old, don't tell them not to feel old in the course of a conversation that does not involve some sort of drunken, birthday-related crying along the lines of "I'm ancient now!" In most situation, if no one else has used the o-word, it's best not to be the one to bring it up. Trust me on this.

Accessories

I think my biggest pet peeve of the week involves people who keep that little ear piece from their cell phone on their head all the time. It bothers me enough when people conduct phone conversations through the ear piece. Most of the time, I don't realize that they're talking on the phone. I think they're either talking to themselves out loud (which increases my anxiety because I think I've had the misfortune of awaiting public transportation next to a delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person who might push me in front of a bus at any moment) or that they're talking to me (and that's when I provide an awkward response thinking we're in a conversation before the stranger stares at me like I'm nuts while whispering to the person that they're actually talking to on the phone how some delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person has tried to engage them in the park.) Yet, despite all that, it bothers me even more when people wear the ear piece when they're not talking on the phone - like they're so important they might get an urgent call at any moment that trumps all other people or conversation and is so vital that they can't even be bothered with the time delay mere mortals struggle with when they flip open a phone to take to a call. Seriously, few phone calls are that important. For a point of reference, when's the last time you spotted anyone in scrubs with an ear piece on? And, perhaps most disturbing, is that whenever you see people constantly wearing the ear piece, you're not on the floor of the stock exchange or at some incredibly hip eatery that agents and Hollywood starlets frequent. No, the place you're going to see the ear-piece-wearer is in line at Krispy Kreme or scarfing down boneless buffalo wings at the Ruby Tuesday. Certainly, I'm not necessarily the one to judge delusions of grandeur, but I want to guarantee anyone with lingering doubts that an ear piece does not portray importance or social significance. It certainly doesn't matter to anyone in the T.G.I. Friday's happy hour crowd who probably came to play NTN Trivia at the bar while sipping on an ice cream and liquor concoction known as the "Blue Storm" and arguing the finer points of reality television with "the regulars." (Are these really the people you're trying to impress anyway?) Of course, by "anyone" I'm not at all referring to myself in times of guilty pleasure, extreme sadness, or on Tuesdays at 5:30.

Still Reminiscing

So, speaking of major holidays and vomiting (because who doesn't want those two subjects tied together in memory?), today I remembered a Christmas when I actually threw up at the table during Christmas dinner. The culprit was congealed salad, and I haven't been able to taste or look at it since. This makes me wonder if that kind of reaction has something to do with age. After all, the occasional similar experience in the years since has never had the same kind of deterrent effects with red wine. I guess that's just one more reason I'd pick alcohol over strange incarnations of fruit given the chance.

More Holiday Memories

At my (Episcopalian) elementary school, our biggest production was the annual "Lessons and Carols" Christmas songfest. Every year, on the first weekend of December, we would put on a very long program of everyone’s favorite Christmas carols (if your favorites included the Jesus-friendly "O’ Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I Saw Three Ships" as opposed to the more secular "Jingle Bells") intermixed with readings about the birth of Christ.

(Even as I’m typing this, I want to write that the show amounted to three hours, but I’m sure that someone will correct me or balk. Just let me assure you that "Lessons and Carols" felt four times longer than it actually was. And, that’s not just my childhood attention span talking - my father would agree.)

Each year concluded with rounds of applause and all of our teachers crying as we sang "O’ Holy Night" in the candlelight in French. Despite the fact that "Lessons and Carols" led to massive adoration, praise, and clapping, there were few events I despised as much as it.

We always started practicing about two weeks after school started in August (seriously), and we spent a big part of every week trapped in music class with our obviously-frustrated-with-the-direction-of-his-career teacher as he ranted at us and held out the part of playing the triangle like it was the equivalent of be given a puppy or taken to the chocolate store with an unlimited budget.

Plus, since the program never changed, it’s not like there was a lot of variety to the days ... or years. Also, when we consider the fact that I’m tone deaf, I think you can imagine how much I got yelled at and how many practices ran long because of all the mid-song stops made when "someone was off-key."

Unfortunately still, as much as I dreaded every day of the fall because it involved "Lessons and Carols" practice, nothing was as bad as my third grade year. Third grade was the first year that you had to make it through the entire "Lessons and Carols" program in the church. Students in kindergarten through second grade got to enter the chapel for a few songs and then leave to return to their classrooms when they were done. For third graders, those days of ease and mirth were over.

Not Normal

Last week, while I was getting a facial (yes, I am that spoiled), I opened my eyes while the mask was on my face (because it is impossible for me to sit still for ten minutes). And, since the mask covered my eyes and only left small openings for my nostrils and mouth, the only thing I could make out was a small patch of white ceiling and a dimmed fluorescent light. That's when I realized that if I were in an accident and woke up in a full body cast or was like one of the characters on my soap operas who ended up with a completely bandaged face (usually because the character "died" and the original actor is about to be replaced by a new actor who will look nothing like the first actor but will be playing the same part so this must be explained by a "disfiguring accident"), that's all I would be able to see of the world when I woke up. So, like any rational person, I immediately added a new anxiety to my list of fears.

I Miss School

I think yesterday was one of those days when I could actually feel myself getting dumber. (Actually, the trend might have started Wednesday night when I said "Lance Bass" instead of "Lance Armstrong" while touting my celebrity gossip knowledge/skills. Oh, the irony...) First, I couldn't solve the medium level of sudoku in the morning paper(which normally isn't a problem). On my lunch break, it took me almost twenty minutes to find the fire extinguishers at Target. And, when I went out to the parking lot, it took me another ten to find my car, and later at the car wash, I was literally impressed/near giddy as the different colored soaps covered my windows. Then, when I was back at my desk, I tried to roll my chair away to visit a co-worker's, but I still had my headphones around my neck, so instead I yanked the headphones out of the computer and knocked over all of my notes and a book while the office watched with pity. But, what truly frightened me is that on the way home from work, I found myself doubting how to spell "wrapping paper." I started to wonder if "wrapping paper" was the same as Saran wrap or wrapping a film. It started to seem odd that Christmas wrap would be spelled with a "w." And, much like sometimes saying the same word over and over again can start to make that very word seem odd ("hotdog" does it to me every time, and yes, i do use the word "hotdog" often enough for this to happen), the more I thought about "wrapping paper," the more perplexed I became. Eventually, I reasoned with myself that it certainly wasn't "rapping paper" as "rap" defines a genre of music and probably wouldn't apply to other objects. (Not to mention the fact that you are actively engaged in the act of "wrapping" when you cover a present in paper.) But, I really don't think the thought process should have gotten to such dire depths. Maybe I really do need to start eating breakfast.

Strange Encounters

I tried to watch "Haunting" on the Sci-Fi channel tonight. (You know, they interview families who have lived in haunted houses, had encounters with poltergeists, etc. I thought it would be like "Unsolved Mysteries," and "The Office" wasn't on.) But, tonight, the family they interviewed would only be on the show on the condition that the producers would "protect their anonymity." They were in the dark, and you couldn't make out anyone's facial features. And, I still don't understand - protect their anonymity from what? The ghosts? Do they think the dead confederate soldier in the basement will retaliate because they "testified against him"? Are they worried about being sued for slander by spirits? If there are ghosts, would they even watch television? It just doesn't make sense, and, truthfully, I'm relatively speechless.