Martinis

Well, so far so good.

Which is not to say that I'm not availing myself of the occasional beer (when hanging out with the in-laws, I'm afraid the "no beer, no cigarettes" rule does not apply. I am not made of stone). But, for the most part, I am trying to turn myself both into a classy broad who makes herself a martini and screams at the television during the New Hampshire primaries, and also become a better alcoholic. How soon before the taste of vodka does not make me shudder like a 16-year-old drinking her first non-Zima?

So far, the vodka's we've tried:

Grey Goose. First, I'm not linking to the original site because it makes you say if you're 21 or not and for some reason alcohol websites are full of flash animation, and it's like, hey dopes, way not to understand your audience - someone who's that committed to look up a brand of booze on the internet does not have the patience or single vision to click on the tiny little "skip intro" sign. Second, Grey Goose is totally the Bose Stereos of vodkas. There is no reason on earth that this vodka should cost as much as it does. It is mediocre at best.

Second: Ciroc which is distilled from grapes, is in a very nice bottle and taste like someone dipped a medicine-tainted ballbag in it. My husband likes this vodka, because he likes ballbags and medicine.

Third (and currently): Finlandia. This has more of the vodka benefits, which is to say that the gross rubbing alcohol flavor is at least slightly drowned out by the olive juice that I am currently making my martinis with in a 1:1 ratio with vodka. I will experiment around until I find something ideal.

Please do not mention gin to me. I went through a gin phase and I just don't have the patience for that anymore. If I wanted to drink a Christmas wreath, I would.

I almost choked to death on the olive toothpick last night. I might have been playing the PS3 and zoned out on Benadryl, and tried to eat the last olive off the toothpick no-handed, thinking it would be frictiony but instead it flew off the toothpick in the opposite way and I almost inhaled a festive red little wooden stick of death.

Hooray martinis!

New Year

Just a couple of thoughts:

I am not a big enacter of resolutions. Why set myself up for failure? thinkest I. I am, in my heart, a lazy, underaccomplished Lothario with less drive than desire, and resultions just go to show how little I grow in a year-upon-year scenario.

My spouse and I have begun writing letters to ourselves at the new year, establishing things we're concerned about, achievable goals, etc., and then read them the previous year. We're supposed to wait until the new year but we usually read them when we're taking out the Christmas decorations (which is, in fact, the handiest place to store them).

No letters this year, although I am sure I will be forced into it, like I am with many things that end up being worth it.

A couple of things on my plate for attempted resolution:

1) I caught a glance of myself on New Year's Eve wearing red Adidas capri-length track pants and a blue-and-white-striped t-shirt. I looked like a braless tubby American Flag. Also, I looked like my mother, a little bit (although to be fair to her, she has less clashing taste). I should point out that I was at home, drinking some champagne and lounging about indolently, and nothing says indolent like my fat ass in clashing clothes and lack of supportive undergarments.

It's time I take matters into my own hands. I'd like to perhaps have the option of giving birth to a non-Maury baby at some point, and also not lose, like, my feet.

So, it's all Weight Watchers and martinis, and no beer and pasta for Tubsy over here.

It's a good thing that I have discovered the true and firm glory that is the extra-dirty vodka martini. I know, I know, it's so very 1997 of me. It's just, you should really see this belly.

Christmas

I never noticed it before I moved out to the 'burbs, so I'm not sure if they're just a recent development or if it's only a thing out here, but prior to Christmas, there are slews of median-cluttering signs ostensibly one's ability to hang Christmas Lights (and how to badly stencil). "We Hang Christmas Lights" followed by a number, which, I guess, if you call, summons some people (I like to imagine that it's one person, accustomed to the Royal We form, and then I think about how I should start a business of people dressed as luminaries who perform odd jobs - I could call it "DisplomaServants" or something like that) to come clamber about your HOA-adhering-pitch-level roof with a staple gun and a string of lights, in order to ensure that you, friend, will meet the Neighborhoodly Unspoken Requirements for Belonging.

There are some people on our block who are not Christian, culturally or otherwise. I believe they celebrate Diwali, but it's really a guess because honestly, how much research am I expected to do, and it's not like I'm going to tromp over there and ask them why the fuck they hate the baby Jesus. I bring this up not because I believe that, far from it, in fact, as anyone who knows me knows my disdain for religion goes far enough to be extreme (not far enough, however, to preclude ornaments and presents and gluttony). I bring it up only to point out that their house is the only inhabited one on my block that has not been decorated for Christmas. It is conspicuous in its inconspicuousness.

Which all brings me back around to the Unspoken Law of Decorating For Christmas. Which is, Do It, Preferably Hiring Some Underpaid DomestiServant To Hang Custom Measured Lights For You And Then Stick An Inflatable GeeGaw On Your Lawn At Least Or We're All Going To Think You Murder Children.

Being that my household is firmly morally opposed to paying for many things other suburban people seem to think worthy of paying for (such as: light changing, sprinkler repair, fence refinishing, brake pad replacement, tree removal/installation, landscaping - although lawn upkeep is a hiring offense, and one that I am happy to pay for), we installed our lights ourselves.

Thus, our lights are only on the first floor of the house, accessible via height with the help of a 4' ladder, and wrapped around everything that didn't move or have what appeared to be visible bugs inhabiting it.

It's bright as hell, and I am pretty sure the outdoors(ish) power squid is going to start a calamitous fire one of these days, but it does the job. The neighbors are comforted with our minimal efforts to fit in. Invisibility is key.

The Beginning

I’m going to be honest. I’ve had a blog before. Except it was back before we called them “blogs” and back when “’blog” was spelled with the apostrophe in the front. It was a hard-scrabble time in the world of online writing, and I, while never a star on the Lucha Libre circuit of great online journals, I did have my fair share of attention. I credit to liberally peppering every other sentence with the f-bomb. People love to read swear words. It’s amazing the kind of replacement they can be for actual original thought.

I stopped writing my journal because I ran out of things to say. I felt a strong pressure to continue to be “funny” and when I didn’t update I felt guilty, and when I did, I felt like I was phoning it in, especially when I thought the best part of what I did tended to be the most unpopular, but you post one time about politics and use words like “assmonkey” and suddenly you are a brief celebrity with an actual honest-to-god flamewar in your comments section.

So let’s make this a little about me (well, a lot about me, in reality, because what is more narcissistic than a blog or journal or whatever this is) - I’m a woman who lives in a suburb of a medium-sized city in the United States of America. I have a husband, two cats, and no children. Our house is too big for us, and we belong to a country club. I am not blonde, I am not skinny, I was not popular in high school, and I am pretty sure that I have no idea what the rest of the women in my tranquilly-named development are like.

There was a time, when I was young, when I was in the “scene.” I used to go see punk bands and do terrible things to my body in the name of rebellion, and in general, considered myself very, very cool. Of course, in retrospect, I was not, in fact, cool, but just as self-obsessed as I am now, and had the advantage of having cool friends who liked having a friend whose mom paid for her car and apartment.

I was raised in a relatively wealthy environment, to which I never felt like I belonged (see above with the lack of blonde, skinny, popular, etc.). I was a stridently earnest child who felt like the worst thing in the world I had ever seen was racism, and that the clear solution was to write earnest, terrible, rhyming poems with rainbow metaphors in the “can’t we all just get along” vein. I was constantly praised by teachers and parents for being incredibly brilliant, because a girl of slightly above average intelligence was, apparently, some sort of marvel of nature. I guess the fact that I could tie my shoes and read before the age of seven set me apart.

I have, since the onset of adulthood, felt like one of those about-to-drown polar bears that Al Gore keeps guilt-tripping us with (as I reside in a 3000+ square foot house for two people) – one foot trapped on a piece of ice that is flowing one way and the other that is flowing the other way, and I’m windmilling my arms and trying to figure out what, exactly, it is that I want.

I am, depending on the hour, a shallow, craven, materialistic bitch with fantasies of playing tennis and drinking Pimm’s Cups with other Country Club© wives, or a self-loathing, hardcore feminist who fantasizes about lighting my house on fire and walking away from the rubble. And then I remember that I have all that stuff in there, and the cycle begins again.

The point of this “blog” or “journal” is not to brag about my life. I don’t really feel braggy, especially when I am pretty sure that my German car is going to run out of gas on the way home tonight because some poor financial planning has resulted in my seriously considering changing out $6.35 in pennies I have accumulated over a year in order to actually be able to come to work tomorrow. I don’t live a fabulous lifestyle; I am a spendthrift and a psycho and here I am, living in June Cleaver land, struggling with the dichotomy between loving it and hating it.

No, no, the point of all of this is to make you, dear reader, feel better if you are not living in suburban hell, since clearly, you made the right decision, and if you are, well, take solace in the company of others.