My pants are way too tight for it to be almost Resolution Time. It’s the result of too many cocktails and chocolates and too much rushing around, sipping sugar-laden lattes, and using them as meal replacers. You are a cruel, heartless nemesis, Five-Bucks. And my wallet feels sore and violated. How dare you do this to me? And where the hell is my whipped cream? You’re out, but you have a vat of sugar I can roll around in for half the price? Yeah, sure, okay.
I don’t know about you, but the holidays came and went at rapid speed, and now I’m feeling petulant and cranky. The magical fairy dust has settled, and now I’ve got Elvis Costello’s This Is Hell on a loop in my head. People talk to me and smile and sometimes I think, “Yeah, okay, they’re genuine and nice,” but most of the time I can’t help but think “You’re fake. You’re fake. You’re fake.”
Not that people are fake, per say. More so, that smile is fake. That grin. That laugh. The way they act like they’re interested. They’re all kidding themselves. I mean, really, I am not that interesting.
I shouldn’t be so negative, I know, but right now, I am. My boy has pink eye in both eyes…which, I guess means he has pink eyes. Or Conjuctivitises. Or something. But he’s miserable which makes me miserable. Not to mention, it’s just disgusting. The doctor didn’t even want to see him. The nurse let out this maniacal little snicker on the phone and said, “We don’t want that in the office, I’ll call you in a prescription.” Like he’s a monster or something. And then I turned and looked into his goopy, green-slimed eyes, and I had to agree. Sorry, dear, but you’re really icky right now.
My youngest has become a pretentious little jerk over the last four days. He turned three and now he’s taken to kicking you in the shins and demanding chocolate milk on the rocks and refusing to bathe. I guess that’s what we get for having a baby the day after Christmas. Don’t do it, people. Not even if the doctor uses pretty words like “tax break.”
It’s also cold here. Frigid. Freezing. The ground is still green–a dull, dead-ish green, but green.
Go home Winter, we don’t want you.
The air smells like snow, which, if you’re a Texan, or a child under the age of twelve, or enjoy eating paint chips in your spare time, this is exciting news. For everyone else, though, it means icy roads, people who forget how to drive, and bundling up in about six layers just to go get the mail. This is when we all turn into hermits and watch entire seasons of shows on Netflix and have to plug our blankets into an outlet just to keep from freezing to death. The only real social engagements we attend are forced ones for work or our children’s schools or somewhere where it’s acceptable to consume large amounts of alcohol so that we forget that last winter we all lost at least three toes to frostbite. Which, at this point, I would like to remind you all to graciously tip your bartender with money and flattery. Acceptable compliments are: $5’s, $10’s, $20’s, etc. Non-monetary compliments in addition to gratuity: “You are a fantastic person and you rock at your job,” “I’ve never met a more interesting and attractive person in my life,” or, my personal favorite, “You are so captivating and wonderful that I am going to stop whining and demanding your attention and instead I will listen attentively to all you have to say.”
Really, though, tip your people. Not just bartenders, but Hair Stylists, Servers, Delivery people, taxi drivers, and so on and so forth. “I’ll catch you next time,” is not an acceptable statement. Oh, and spay and neuter your pets. And drink more water. And donate to a charity! And brush your teeth!