Every year of my twenties has been punctuated by pre-birthday mental turmoil.  A period of time in which I take mental stock of my life and realize I am failing miserably at that elusive thing called “Adult.”  Although on any normal day, I think to myself: “Self.  You’ve got it together.  You’re doing your thing and that’s good.  Way to go.”  Pre-birthday mental turmoil is always the opposite.  It includes berating and shining a spotlight on what I consider my downfalls.  It’s like a modified biological clock that measures what I perceive to be success.  Whatever that is.  This year my mental turmoil is all about my imagined barometer of an Adult.

This year it’s arrived very premature, propelled by my friend’s and family’s seeming advancements into Adulthood.  My little bro is going to propose to his girlfriend AND have his first child.  The oldest of my younger sisters is graduating and may make a partial cross-country relocation.  My Ma is getting married for the fifth time.  My friend has an impending engagement that she does not want to accept.  I have two weddings on the docket this year, and two possible weddings next year.  The Gorgeous Man is one year from thirty.  If I had any friends that weren’t already married and/or had babies, they’d all be getting married and having babies.  Instead they are contemplating purchasing double wide trailers.

My claim to maturity is purchasing an iPhone so I can immediately input my purchases from Sephora and Nordstrom into my personal finance software.  Really, it’s so I know exactly how much money I have left to spend on wine.

So I’m having a little bit of the biological clocksies.  Every other day I hear updates on so-and-so who had a baby or blah-blah person who just got married and that someone who’s buying a house.  I’ve officially reached that age when the only time you’re gonna see all your homies and have some real party fun is at someone’s wedding.  Lame.  I’m lucky, I have a very small group of friends, and none of them are immediately making maturity jumps in the form of job relocations, condo purchases or engagements.  But timetables have been established; timetables and speculation are big with people of my decade.  Everything and everybody is evaluated, and then key life hurdles are scheduled.  This person’s turning some-odd age in November and is going to buy a house by then.  Someone’s been with X-company for six months so they are going to be President of Awesomeness at X-company by the end of 2009.  Blank’s baby is due in June so the wedding will be the following August.  This girl and that guy have been living together for three months so his proposal is coming within twelve months.  She wants to have a baby by that age, and she’s already this age, which means she’s got to get engaged then married then knocked up within yadda-yadda years, but he’s got no money to do any of that.  I’m in it too.  But my timetables aren’t defined, in fact I find then to be indefinable.  When am I moving to the East Coast?  I dunno.  When am I buying a piece-o-American Dream, depreciating money pit, real estate?  Unknown.  Even little things, like when am I going to train my dog to not be a jerk or when am I going to paint those lamps I’ve wanted to paint for two and a half years?  I have no idea.  I’m stuck in a tar pit of immaturity.

I’d like to set some schedules.  Part of me wants to define some life hurdles.  But when I sit down and contemplate by what age I should be impregnated, thoughts of all the things I can’t have pop up.  Pregnant = no martini Fridays.  Swollen feet and ankles = no stilettos.  Mortgage payment = no shoe fund.  Homeowner’s dues = no more dining out.  Crying, snot-nosed, poo-smelling, money-eater = no more $200 trips to Sephora purchasing skin care items I probably won’t even use.  Instead I find myself scheduling events that have nothing to do with growing as an Adult.  Like making Fridays a weekly Cocktails at Fluer’s night.  And Wednesdays should be Ladies’ sewing night.  And start a pool league.  And devote myself to that new yoga spa.  And take up Salsa, Belly Dancing and Tango again.  And buy a road bike and a goofy pet trailer to attach to it and go on massive bike rides, towing my little pup along.  But if I did all of those, I’d feel like I was sliding backwards from maturity. 

Maybe it’s just that I equate selflessness with maturity.  All the above seem selfish to me.  These are things I want to do; but having a baby, then the focus shifts.  It’s not about ‘you’ it’s about ‘it,’ with ‘it’ being your baby or your mortgage or your spouse.  I want a selfless item to put on my timetable.  As selfish as that sounds.  I want to join the conversation and not just be a spectator.  When my girlfriends talk about their impending engagement timetable, I want to say, “Yea!  I know!  So stressful, this growing up thing.  I mean, I’m totally trying to save for a condo.  I’m gonna buy one in one point five years.  But the market <insert blah-blah> and interest rates <more blah-blah>.”  I want to relate.  ‘Cause right now, I can’t.  When they talk about a baby schedule, I talk about when I can buy a 63” tv so I can move the 52” into my bedroom.  House down payment discussions are met with me discussing the food porn theme I want for my kitchen decor.  Engagement anticipation is answered with my anticipation of a real vacation in 2010, assuming no one plans a wedding for that year.  

On my imagined barometer of an Adult, I’m really failing.  I have no ticks in the checkboxes of life advances.  Beneath my name, there is not a list of accomplishments that I have achieved or am attempting to achieve.  And if someone from my past ran into me today and asked what I’ve been doing for the past seven years, I’d stammer and tell them that I have a dog.  He’s a French Bulldog.  He’s a year and a half.  No, he’s not trained.  No, he’s not fully housebroken.  No, he doesn’t listen to anything I say.  But, I have a lot of points on my Sephora Beauty Insider card.  And my iPhone has an Atomic Fart application. 

Way to go.  I’m really making progress towards some sweet, free samples at Sephora.

DECLARATION: 2009 will not be my year.

Everybody makes the same new year initiation phrase: this is the year.  The year of fitness and love and book reading and self exploration and travel and personal growth and making millions and on and on.  It never works out.  Last year: crappy year.  Year before: I can’t remember that far back so I’m inclined to believe it never happened and/or it was crappy.  Like last year.

The positive to this declaration is this: if a declaration made at the initiation of the new year, more often than not, does not come true, then by reason of logic, making the declaration of a wish/hope/prayer that you do not want to come true (but perhaps, actually think will come true?), should result in the opposite of said declaration.  Which, in theory, would be a good thing.

So, if by chance, 2009 happens to not be not my year, I will be pleasantly astonished.  And my backwards/opposite plan is working.  So far this is my2009:

I got a raise, woot!

I also got a bonus!  Suck it economy!

Company matched retirement plan.  Here I come early retirement.

I’m going to the casino on Friday and I’m very excited.  I might win money.  I might loose it all, I don’t care.

My tax refund is going to F-A-T.  More than a month’s salary, which is how I planned it.  And I can't wait to spend it on hospital bills.

I’m going to Scottsdale, AZ with a couple I actually like and a Gorgeous Man who pleases my eyes in a bathing suit.  We got an incredible deal.  It will be warm.  I will swim.  There will be fruity drinks and I may be able to convince some naive pool boy to put that drink in a coconut.  I could get laid. 

I have two weddings I’m going to attend.  Which means I will get gussied up in a fancy dress with pretty make up and high heels, then I will drink and dance and eat on someone else’s bill.  Both weddings are in cities that are novel and cool and I could get laid again.

I will become an Aunt to my brother’s spawn child.  And I might get a sister-in-law. Actually, I’m lukewarm about this.

The Gorgeous Man and I will have been dating for three years (at some point this year, we have no anniversary, which makes my little, pink, marshmallow, girl heart hurt) and he still likes me!  Small pleasures.

My dog, despite pooing uncontrollable for a week+, is still living!  And even recovering!  Enough to attack me on a daily basis.  You can’t beat the love of a dog for it’s Ma.

Dude, two zombie games and like, 5 zombie books this year and it's only 13 days deep in 2009.  'Nuf said.

See?  I’m on a 'not year' roll. Here’s looking at you 2009 for not being my year.

This is a major problem in the city.  With narrow sidewalks crowded with commuters that area already pissed off for whatever reason, there is no reason to add to the general discourse during a sprinkling of precipitation.  Don’t be a Sp.Ed.**, leave your golf umbrella with a caddy.

I got hit on by a lesbian last night. 

This is super cool to  me.  I am not fodder for lesbian attraction.  Not that I actively try to coerce people into hitting on me, but I’ve always kind of wondered why lesbians don’t like me.  I get hit on by guys all the time.  Ok, that didn’t come out right.  I get hit on by gentlemen with a frequency that would denote that I am neither hideous nor intimidatingly beautiful but am eye-pleasing enough for interest and homely enough to be approachable.  Flirting from the hetero-man genre of sexuality is taken by me as either, amusing, ridiculous or insulting and is accompanied with a laugh and shove brush off, an eye-roll and hair sweep or one very pissed shorty.  Mostly it’s insulting because I (incorrectly) believe men should just KNOW I’m not available, but we all know men are not intuitive. 

Having determined that I could procreate if I ever developed that wild oat-sowing desire I’ve instead settled quite well with a man that flirts with me constantly (and is always received as amusing), but I’m still baffled by why, oh why am I not approached by lesbians?  Seattle is ripe with alternative genres of sexuality and we run a full spectrum of proclivities.  I live in very close proximity to Gay Central and I’ve already determined that my features do not make people run screaming or attempt to gouge their eyes out to avoid look upon my freakish face.  So where’s the lesbian love?

Last night I was hitting the local Borders to fulfill my Zombie book appetite and the nice, tall, tattoo’d and Mohawk-sportin’ lady commences to flirt with me through my transaction.  I guess I sparked her interest with my book purchases: a novel about Texan Zombies and (unbeknownst to me at the time ‘cause I got it out of the 75% box) an erotic Vampire novel.  DON’T JUDGE ME!  I didn’t realize what I had until I was reading the back panel this morning, talk about judging a book by its cover, I thought it was Bram Stoker-esgque novel.  Any who, as she dilly-dallies through my purchase, she asks if I’ve read World War Z (no, I’ve never warmed up to first-person accounts) or the Zombie Survival Guide (same author) then proceeds to discuss with me graphic zombie novels, of which I have no knowledge because I have not fallen down that Rabbit Hole of Zombie-Geekdom.  Yet.  Actually, I’m not a graphic novel person, something about books with pictures makes me feel like I’m, uh, 2 IQ points away from Simple Jack (Get the Tropic Thunder reference?! amazing!) 

Speaking about books with pictures, a few weeks ago I was chillin like a villain, alone sipping a martini and reading a book on Fleur’s Friday Post-Work Martini – I haven’t yet made it weekly installment – when a guy asked me if my book was good (“yes”, return attention to book) then asked if it had pictures (pause, “no”, return to book) and followed up with “I don’t read anything that doesn’t have pictures.  For some reason I can’t get interested.” (pause, swig of martini, “I avoid things with pictures because they make me feel illiterate”, ZING!)

Back to the story at hand.  I listened to her talk about some well known zombie graphic novel writer, nodded at appropriate times, smiled occasionally, said polite things, “Ahh.” and “Interesting.”  She finally handed over my bag of books and concluded our conversation with offer to lend me some of her zombie graphic novels.  Awww, how sweet!  Wait a second….YES!  I was officially inducted onto the lesbian radar. 

Perhaps, under normal circumstances not muddled with zombie novels, women of the lesbian persuasion can sniff me out.  A waft of my Fancy perfumed head sets of the “Straight” light and I fail to register.  I’ll be honest, I figured I could be mistaken for a lipstick lesbian because I coif my hair and were makeup, but apparently not.  Or maybe they can just tell that not only have I never kissed a girl (or liked the taste of her cherry chapstick – Oh Em Gee, another reference, I’m on a roll) but it’s never been appealing.  There was never a One-time-at-college and I have no stories about a Melissa Etheridge concert, at which I was drinking Apple Pucker.  Well, there was that one time with Pam Anderson.  She made me call her Pam Anderson, not Pam or Pammy, but that was in my youth and there are only so many decades a sex symbol can get away with wearing thick black eyeliner (and nothing else) before the world realizes she’s using it to disguise her old-lady eye bags and crow’s feet.

Either way.  My “why-don’t-lesbians-like-me” curiosity has been cured but now I have to find a new Borders to visit.

Sidenote: Book about Zombie Lesbians?  I think I’m onto something here.

I would make a terrible mother.  I’m glad I’m only 25 and wasn’t born in an era when marrying at 12 was appropriate and child rearing was expected immediately.  I’d pretend I was a boy.  Or refuse to emerge from my mother’s womb.

I have a little Rabid Beastie instead of children and I’m damned happy about that.  I’m holding off on having little Fleur clones until my uterus dries up and I have a real reason not to contribute to Earthly over population.  Or at least until I’m 35 and my significant other roofies me, and that will be an awkward conversation the next morning.  25 is, in my egomaniacal opinion, too young.  Although my littlest brother, at the ripe and fresh age of 24 (today’s his birfday) has already put a bun in his girlfriends oven.  Vicariously, I will emotionally-abuse his children.

I’d be a horrible, terrible mother and I’m learning it thanks to my Rabid Beast.  He’s small and sometimes very annoying and he needs my attention, like always, and instead of repeating “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! MOM!” over and over, he steals my nail file or takes off with my one of my bras in my mouth.  Just as annoying and more expensive too, because bras are not cheap and I have not learned how to repair teeth shred on satin and lace.  I also had to buy a plastic case to store my nail file in.  How ridiculous is that?

I’m also a worrier and I’ve known this and the Gorgeous Man has adapted to this personality flaw, but the Rabid Beast brings out the WORRY like no other.  If I’m not worrying about what he just ate off the sidewalk (two days ago: a huge wad of blue gum that still smelled like mint and was probably 3 pieces combined) then I’m worrying about why I can’t see him/hear him.  Because the quiet moments are when he does the most damage.

The most recent worry is explosive diarrhea and I truly never thought I’d have to worry about that, except on the rare occasions I go ape-shit on McGutbomb Big Macs and in that case, I’d be worrying about my toosh and also about assaulting the Gorgeous Man olfactory, not a small 22 pound creature that can create the most disgusting, heave-worthy poos imaginable.  Under normal circumstances, I’d probably just be disgusted and tell the Gorgeous Man that explosive diarrhea is a man job and besides, he’s your buddy.  But, Rabid Beast has this forlorn look he gives me and he just looks so sorry!  Then I melt and meld into a clingy, worrier doggie-mommy.

I’m pretty sure, or at least I’ve been told, that the most annoying thing a mother could do is be overbearing, clingy and overprotective.  Add bossy, moody, and the unique ability to never be satisfied with the cleanliness of the homestead, and you have me.  That last one actually makes me cranky and pissy, so add those personality traits to the Cuisinart, hit pulse three to seven times until you have a substance resembling pus and that is me.  I’m also a spoiler.  You know what kind of booger-eater that makes?  A slightly insecure, hypochondriac that is jumpy, passive-aggressive, needy, incapable of handling anything but has a sense of entitlement and too many toys.  When applied to a dog you get a hyperactive chewing machine that thinks the middle of the bed is his spot and who will randomly attack me when I look at it wrong with too many toys.  I think I’m better off parenting creatures that I can legally cage and bark at when I get pissed off.

In the Rabid Beastie’s case, it’s good that I worried.  We ended up having to hustle him to the vet when his explosive pooing was tinged with blood and he was vomiting everything and shaking.  Now he’s back home safe and secure with prescribed meds and cans of $13 special bland food after we ran the gamut of possibilities and tests at the vet’s and received IV fluids.  Did you know that they don’t put an IV in a dog, as in to give him fluids?  Yep.  They just put all the fluid under the pup’s hide and it’s slowly absorbed by the body.  But in the meantime, the pup has a huge bump where the liquid is.  The Rabid Beast looked like a hunch back ‘cause they put fluids right in between his shoulder blades.  I called him the Hunchback and tried not to touch it, but the bump was like, the size of his head!

I’m sleep deprived from repeated bouts of comforting him during the night and strung out tighter than tight wire thanks worrying that something else might go wrong with his little puppy intestines and too much coffee to counteract the lack of sleep.  On the bright side, I don’t need to worry about saving for his college.

Yea, yea.  Christmas is over, New Year’s is one fart from being over and in two farts time, we can all get back to the scheduled farts of 2009.  I’m pretty dag-gone pleased about that.

I have a thing with farts.  They are, believe me on this one, hilarious.  You’ve never seen a girl so delighted as I am when the Gorgeous Man rips one around me.  Laughing ensues. It’s such a rare occasion that I have to laugh it up.

Lets recap:  Christmas was a day of unbridled spoiling.  I was spoiled by the Gorgeous Man with a fancy, extra awesome digital SLR Nikon camera – which was a total and complete surprise.  Ever since he placed my three professionally wrapped gifts under the tree weeks ago in a crazed form of Christmas torture, I have been guessing by the visuals. I was not allowed to touch them, let alone shake them, and I wasn’t even allowed to verbalize my guesses, but I’m so damn cute that the Gorgeous Man entertained my guesses periodically.  Always retorting with “I will send them back!  No more guessing!” He loves me.

I’ve, obviously, been a good girl this year.

My Ma and step Ma and dad and grandparents spoiled me with things I didn’t know I needed or wanted but now have no idea how I’ve lived without them, like a bohemian scarf and patent-leather rain poncho, cute snowflake bowls and mugs, and money and other stuff.  My little sister got me a sweet ass NY Giants throw and she has been deemed most awesomest Giant’s gift giver.  The Gorgeous Man’s family spoiled me to the nth degree, extra spoiled, really, considering I’m of no relation and have stolen their son/brother/grandson/nephew away from the East Coast.  To which I will return him, eventually, with me in tow.  I’m getting some stunner shades and bought myself a bounty at Sephora, slated some monies for a mindblowingly cool mp3 player and have a romantic date with the Gorgeous Man at an Italian restaurant to look forward to as well. 

The Rabid Beast sucks at giving Christmas gifts, I’ll tell ya.  His gift was to wake us up at four in the morning with explosive diarrhea.  After I took him onto our balcony – where his doggie potty is – and he poo’d what amounted to creamy water, he would not sleep.  My doggie mommy intuition told me that he had more pooping to do.  I had to dress myself, leash him, grab an elevator, go down 17 floors, through the parking garage, out into the frozen, icy tundra of Seattle’s streets and stand in front of bum-ville as my dog painted the sidewalk brown.  With an audience of homeless people who were quite intrigued by the little girl in a pink hat, rain boots and pissed off look on her face and her projectile shitting dog. 

Upon return to the warm cozy confines of my home, Rabid Beast still would not sleep.  So instead of laying my brunette head down on a fluffy pillow in my warm, pillow-top bed with my own personal heater known as the Gorgeous Man, I had to hang out in the living room. With my sick dog that kept making tortured faces at me and running around nervously. After half an hour or trying to cajole him into relaxing with me on the couch, he made the “I’m gonna puke” sounds, I dragged him into the bathroom, he vomited three times, I found a new appreciation for parenting little things that heave smelly, slimy stuff out both ends and we went back to bed.

He wishes you a Merry Christmas from Santa Paws.

Turns out, we had gotten some expired samples of all-natural dog food from our yuppie dog store, and of course we fed it to him unknowingly.  Poor buddy, I still feel incredibly bad for force feeding food poisoning on him.

And now it’s New Years.  And I’m pretty freaking relieved to be putting 2008 away in a box, sticking it under my bed and forgetting it existed.  Although, I won’t be able to entirely, seeing as how a few people related to me died and my sibling’s girlfriend is incubating a spawn and another sibling visited me from a far way place and we had so much fun.

So I’m partying like it’s 1983 – because that’s my birth year and I figure that you can’t top the excitement that I assume a person has when they are about to be pushed from a va-jay-jay and start ‘life.’  I would think that’s quite an exciting event and maybe me, as a little almost-born embryo, laughed a lot and knocked back bottles of champagne, took stupid pictures wearing glasses that spelled out 1-9-8-3, said “Wooo!” a lot, kissed strangers and entered the new year crying.  Ahhh hells yea.  That's what I'm gonna be doing TONIGHT!

Love, Peace and Chicken Grease, homies.

Hot Toddys?  My house.  What is a hot toddy?  Eh, doesn’t matter.  You provide the booze, I’ll proved the witty banter and eye candy. 

Because of the POTENTIAL for trace amounts of snow tomorrow morning, my office is going to be closed tomorrow.  After a morning yoga and pilates session, I think I’ll have Bailey’s in my coffee.  Or maybe Tuaca.  I’ll sit in front of my fake fireplace, it’s really just a picture of fire, some plastic logs and a light, and watch Tivo’d Oprah shows.  I’ll drive the Gorgeous Man crazy with my constant “I’m bored.  Bored.  The Rabid Beast’s being mean to me.  He keeps stealing my nail polish/sock/knocking over my spiked coffee!”  Then I’ll paint my nails.  Take a shower, gussy myself up and you can come over then.  We’ll drink warm drinks, laugh merrily and maybe go streaking in the snow.  Depends on how much booze we have.

You better be worth it, Guitar Hero Jerk.

This Christmas, I made a huge faux pas.  Like bad.  Like so bad that the Universe bestowed upon me horrible karma for my faux pas.  Universe, I was just trying to save some money!  Times are hard, money’s tight, Universe, and I was just trying to make a good Christmas by catching good deals.  Doing my part for the economy, shopping for a better America!

Eh.  The Universe didn’t believe me.  I don’t shop with a conscience, I shop with saving money in mind.  This time of the year, my shop-portunistic (Thanks T.J. Maxx for that term!) skills really come to glory.  I never pay full price.  So when I found out that I could buy a fully-loaded, 60G Xbox 360 with Guitar Hero World Tour AND Guitar Hero Legends of Rock AND the wireless guitar controller AND Kung Fu Panda AND Lego Indiana Jones for just over $350, I jumped for it.  Then I found out that Walmarts cash back incentive (via Ebates) is 4%.  And then I found out that if I spend $50 at Walmart using my paypal account, I’d get a free $20.  AND THEN I found out I could get free site to store shipping.  Click click click, purchase made.  Even though I have been lectured so many times about the evils of Walmart.  Even though I knew my step Ma would give me anti-Sam Walton paraphernalia. 

The Gorgeous Man told me he only really wanted one thing for Christmas: Guitar Hero.  He’d played with his brother and loved it.  Now, we own the Wii.  And you can get Guitar Hero for the Wii.  But, the Gorgeous Man made the mistake of purchasing a shoot-‘em-up-bang-bang game for the Wii and hated it.  Call of Duty, I think.  Thought it was terrible, a waste of forty bucks.  And it was, for him.  He’s a gamer.  He’s got the hand/eye coordination of…of, I don’t know an equal comparison because I lack hand/eye coordination completely, and therefore cannot fathom what hand/eye coordination would be like.  But you haven’t seen pump-action shot gun skills like his.  Every night he fights the anti-terrorists on some game and laughs at the hill-billy yokels drawing penis pictures of the wall and crazy Australians repeating “Fucktard” over and over.  I’ve heard rumors that before he met me he could spend whole days drinking coffee and Coke playing video games. 

He likes his shoot-‘em-up-bang-bang games.  You can’t play those on the Wii.  So I thought I’d go all out and get him the complete Xbox 360 she-bang and he could get/play some shoot-‘em-up games.  Even got the Grand Theft Auto IV for him.  Do I expect to ever hold a conversation with him again?  No.  Do I ever think I’ll be able to watch Oprah on the 52-inch flat screen t.v.?  No.  But I have daydreams of him hugging me and thanking me and busying himself setting it up, muttering about HDMI cables and how Wi-Fi’s not gonna be fast enough.  He’ll be in the Zone.  And that’s a great Christmas gift.

My Christmas gift arrived at my nearest Walmart yesterday, and despite the after math of Seattle’s “blizzard,” I rented a car to drive the 16 miles to Walmart.  I wasn’t too concerned because the freeways had been sanded pretty good and Walmart was immediately off the freeway and Seattlites are afraid of snow so the road were decently clear.  Normally, the ride to-fro with retrieval of an object, taking into consideration that Walmart requires IQs to be less than 50, trip time = 1.5 hours, if that.  I rented a car for 2.5 hours, so I wouldn’t be rushed and I could drive Granny-with-a-walker-and cataracts slow.  2.5 hours later, I’m in traffic, haven’t even reached Walmart.  I had spent the last hour and a half in a line of cars, and covered  the distance of maybe one mile.  The whole time I can see cars ahead of me skidding out, sliding around.  The whine of fruitlessly spinning wheels a constant, frustrated honks from SUVs housing men under the assumption that they are immortal.  A jerk behind me in a lifted Toyota Highlander decides to jump cars in the line by whipping into the adjacent parking lot, speeding around the building and trying to enter traffic a few hundred feet ahead.  Only problem was  the traffic moved and now he was trying to get in line in front of me.  No way jackass.  Return to your spot behind my dinky Honda hybrid and know your role, Fucktard. 

The whole drive I was terrified.  Did you know that a Honda hybrid weighs, like, as much as air?  And it slides.  A lot.  I sat up pin straight in my seat the entire time, wide-eyed, white-knuckling the steering wheel with my hands at nine and three, just in case I crashed and the air bag exploded, my arms wouldn’t be in the way.  Every muscle in my body was clenched and burned as I toed the gas pedal, trying to push it down as slowly as possible.  Just a hint of acceleration, like a breath of movement, and then toe-ing the brake – ‘cause that’s when you slide, when you hit the brake – trying to stop as slow as possible, hoping that the winds opposing force would stop the car for me.  Just as I decided that I was going to give up the snow covered road fight, head home and cancel Christmas, I saw the glowing blue of Walmart’s mega store.  I was so close!  And luck would have it, a sanding truck was heading the same way, safening up my journey!  Oh joy!

I maneuvered the parking lot (Walmart’s evils extend to refusing to plow and/or sand and/or deice their lot) made my way in and battled the hoards of non-English speaking people (seriously, WTF?  Does “Walmart” mean “Super Awesomeness, Get here Now and walk really slowly around the store!” in Spanish?).  I secured my awesome Christmas gift and made a return journey through the store to the front check out.  Xbox 360 box with all the necessary acoutremonts weighs 20#.  I’m in line, holding this damn thing up.  The guy in front of me, wearing head to toe Dallas Cowboys gear keeps offering to hold my box for me.  No.  After asking three times, he instead tries to take the box from my arms, insisting on holding it because “That’s what we do in Texas.”  You’re from Texas?  Really?  I thought you were just one of the Cowboy’s Cheerleaders.  In an effort to dissuade him I let him know that I am a pretty devoted New York Giants fan – rival team, turn away!.  Dun-dun-dun.  Bad idea.  Then I had to stand there as he hit on me.  “I didn’t know they made Giant’s fans as pretty as you.”  “What bar do you watch them at, I should come by.”  Yea yea.  An eternity later, I’m hustling out the door with my gift, moments away from being in the car and 30 minutes after that, I should be home.  But I set off the Walmart alarm.  Nice.  An overweight, very slow, 20-something year old asks about my receipt.  I had over my XBox bounty, whip out the receipt and give it to the guy.  As he is depositing what better be the best gift in history into my arms, he full-on grabs my boobs.  I eye roll – what’s the point in laying into the dude, it’s probably the first boob he’s touched that’s not related to him or his own – he says “Sorry about touching ya.”  OH MY GOD, YEA RIGHT YOU FREAK. 

Four hours after I left my house, I return with gifts in hand.  I can never shop at Walmart again.  The Universe made that the most harrowing, disgusting, uncomfortable Christmas experience ever.  I have fully realized the evils of Walmart.

Sweet.  Ass.  Boots.

BLIZZARD!

I’m one to complain.  I try not to, but I just can’t wrap my head around the possibility that disasters are not actually the universe trying to get back at me for being a pain in ass in elevators.  I take everything so personally, as if I, myself, am affected by every little thing that happens to those around.  It’s pretty selfish and it’s definitely a “The world revolves around me” mentality.  

My little brother knocked his girlfriend up.  Actually, she got pregnant on purpose, but I’m only 99% positive of this.  I take into consideration the fact that he had previously lived with two girls prior to this one for more than a year each and managed to keep them bun-in-the-oven free, but is only dating this one for two months and she’s with child.  The story is she was three days late with her lady time and I guess it warranted three pregnancy tests, which (surprise, surprise) were positive.  I understand their are some gals that have menstruations like clock work.  I’m inclined to believe she’s not one of them if she can’t remember to take a pill every day.  To be equal: the little bro should have been wrapping his Johnny up.  But if you girlfriend says she’s “protected,” most men aren’t gonna double up on preventative measures.  And to be another level of fair and equal: mistakes happen.  Yea yea, I’m rolling my eyes so hard I can see grey matter. 

Here’s where I get egocentric: I’m devastated.  Devastated!  So much so that I had to go to a therapist and get medicated.  I know!  Extreme.  But, thank goodness for Zoloft because my anxiety is, um, nil, and I can laugh it off when my little brother tells me that this pregnant girl is not the girl he fell in love with ‘cause her personality’s changed.  Or when he tells me that she is not a nice person and she will screw him over with child support.  Or when he tells me that she walked out on him and stole $90 worth of his weed, which was his whole stash – to which I did reply “she’s pregnant and I hope she’s not smoking that.” 

In my latest phone convo with the little bro, he disclosed that he was going to propose to her in March.  Ugh.  Crushed.  I’m crushed.  I really am.  I have so many reservations about this whole ordeal and it just keeps evolving.  I’m trying to keep a fair picture of the woman that will birth my first niece or nephew and, OH EM GEE, my potential sister-in-law, who happens to be a person I’ve never met, but that is incredibly difficult.  So difficult that I had to pull out tween-aged acronyms to express my self accurately.  I’m a judgmental person in the first place, and if I don’t have to like you, then I mostly spend my time trying to find a reason not to like you.  I’m also highly protective of the younger male sibling.  He was my partner in crime, and I happen to think he walks on water.  He can do no wrong in my book, which is biased, I know, and I’d be petrified if I was dating, or - OH EM GEE - gonna marry! someone who had me as an older sister ‘cause I’m brutal.  And I’m just looking for reasons to hate this girl and I’m coming up with a bounty of whatfors.  Especially when it's discovered she's more pregnant than she previously led everyone to believe.

Alas.  What’s done is done and I gotta suck it up.  I’m stuck though because I feel like the little bro came to me and was like: “So hey.  I’m gonna, like, throw my life away in like, a few months.  Just so you know.”  My automatic response: “NOOO!  Don’t do it!  You’re still young and you’ve got your whole life and you’re doing the electrician apprentice thingy and you’re gonna make good money some day and you’re smart, when you think first, which hasn’t been happening lately but that ok!  I still love you and you DO NOT have to throw your life away.  Step away from the edge.”  But he didn’t.  Instead he said: “Yea.  I’m gonna go ahead and toss this life in the john.  But before I do that I’m gonna punch myself in the face a couple of time, maybe throw in a few good kidney punches, knock out a tooth or two and put my balls in a vice grip indefinitely.” 

Man, harsh.  But I think that.  And it doesn’t even take into consideration the fact that I secretly (although, not so secret now!) thought I’d be married before my siblings, even though I always said otherwise.  Suckylame. 

I’ll say one thing, I ain’t gonna buy them the $279 breast pump they threw down on the baby registry.  That kids getting an Eli Manning jersey and $25 savings bond.  ‘Cause I’m gonna be the mean, crotchety aunt.

I love me some Christmas.  It’s true, I do.  I’m not a total crank all the time.

So, Christmas has always had this crazy, unrealistic miracle ideal to me.  When I was younger, my biological father used to spoil my siblings and I crazy.  Presents everywhere!  They’d be piled halfway up the tree and covered the floor.  It was fabulous.  And my siblings and I would sneak in to the living room and shake presents and make guesses, like all kids.  He was incredibly extravagant and I was young and that was foundation of all my Christmas thinking.  Christmas is a pull-out-all-stops, no holds barred generosity extravaganza!  Lots of presents!  Sparkly paper!  Bows and ribbons and hours spend wrapping presents so no one wants to open them ‘cause they look so great!  I need a REAL tree that touches the ceiling and is as wide as it is tall and with fifteen strings of lights and every limb covered in baubles and bows and tinsel and garland.  I wanna walk into my home and think I’m in a piney forest.  And a Christmas tree train!  Table tops and every available space decorated with Christmas paraphernalia and windows rimmed with blinking lights!  And things that play Christmas music and figurine scenes of Winter Wonderlands!  Over the top craziness is demanded! 

But no.  My tree is artificial and teeny, but I picked it out with my little sister last year so it has sentimental value.  It’s decorated with ornaments we picked out together, but no piney scent greets me when I get home.  No Christmas tree train ‘cause the Rabid Beast would declare it his nemesis and destroy it in minutes.  No figurine scenes of Winter Wonderland because the Gorgeous Man would think it’s odd and I can’t cover everything in Christmas glory ‘cause I don’t have patience enough to chase the Rabid Beast around trying to rescue Mary from the Nativity scene or a Santa plaque.  We don’t have a single thing that plays Christmas music.  I think I’m too old for Christmas craziness. 

BUT!  I can still shake presents and make wild guesses.  I got a huge package from my Ma and I shoke and guessed every single present, I one of them is an Etch-a-Sketch and I think there are cooking tools in another.  Except I can’t shake and guess.  The Gorgeous Man has already purchased and wrapped my gifts and they are ALREADY UNDER THE TREE!  And I didn’t even see them this morning when I got up.  He told me this – because I’m Christmas crazy – and my first question was “Can I shake and guess?”  I got a resounding NO.  In caps.  I can’t even touch them.  Look:

[11:27] Gorgeous Man: did oyu look under the tree this morning

[11:27] Lady Fleur: no why?

[11:27] Gorgeous Man: might be some new gifts under it

[11:27] Lady Fleur: REALLY?!

[11:28] Gorgeous Man: maybe

[11:30] Lady Fleur: so can I shake them and guess?

[11:30] Gorgeous Man: NO

[11:30] Gorgeous Man: NO TOUCHING

[11:31] Lady Fleur: then you're gonna have to hid them and bring them out on Christmas morning

[11:31] Lady Fleur: 'cause I will touch them

[11:31] Gorgeous Man: NO

[11:31] Lady Fleur: ALOT

[11:31] Gorgeous Man: I WANT YOU TO STARE AT EM

[11:31] Lady Fleur: NOOOOOO!

[11:31] Lady Fleur: that's torture

[11:31] Gorgeous Man: thats the point

[11:31] Gorgeous Man: look how early I am

[11:31] Gorgeous Man: with them

[11:32] Gorgeous Man: you impressed?

[11:32] Lady Fleur: that's crazy early

[11:32] Lady Fleur: two whole weeks early

[11:32] Gorgeous Man: wrapped!

[11:35] Lady Fleur: you're amazing

Real excerpt from our convo.  The Gorgeous Man is trying to torture me!  It’s Christmas torture!  Can you believe this?  That’s just in humane.  I’ll have to wake up early Christmas morning and sneak out of bed.  I’ll let the Rabid Beast shake and guess his gift too, just to be fair.

How did the phrase ‘sicker than a dog’ come to be?  Will someone with more free time look that up for me, ‘cause I am sicker than a dog.

I think that’s actually false.  I’m gonna say I’m sicker than a pigeon because I hate pigeons.  I hate all birds, flying poopers, but pigeons, yuck.  The worst.  And I can imagine their little dirty bodies to be full of worms and they probably have fleas (can birds get fleas? look that up too) and they eat disgusting stuff, they truly are vermin.  And that sound they make?  The “coo”?  No that sounds like pigeon pneumonia to me.  Like their little flying pooper bodies are dying and their gross little bird lungs are filling with liquid and they are drowning.  That coo is the “drowning in my own disgusting puss lungs” sound.  So right now I’m sicker than a pigeon.  Without the worms, fleas, bird pneumonia or eating crap.  Unless you consider chips and dip crap.  In that case I’m guilty.

Seriously, I haven’t been this sick in years.  YEARS I tell you!  But damn am I sick.  It’s from flying this holiday season, and having no food in the house upon my return.  I’m saying it now: next time I fly to Connecticut to visit the Gorgeous Man’s family, I’m staying.  I’m packing my carry-on (I will not pay to check my bag, dipshit airlines) with all my favorite shoes, my dog and my Chi flat iron.  I’ll carry my pillow and wear my Nordic coat and I’m just gonna stay.  I’ll give the Gorgeous Man’s parent a hug and a kiss and say “Get used to my face, I’m moving into the guest bedroom.  I make a decent enchilada but I fart.  Where’s the horseradish cheese?”  The Gorgeous Man will just have to visit me there because I’m not making the return trip.

I took two whole days off of work to recover.  I’ve never done that, two full sick days.  Let me clarify, I taken two “sick” days off in a row, but I wasn’t really sick.  I just really wanted to watch Oprah and then the next day was an even better guest so I needed to watch that one too.  This is the first time I’ve been legitimately sick.  But I’ve been trying to work.  After taking Wednesday off, I hauled my disgusting, stuffed up butt into work yesterday, but I had no voice.  I was deemed useless, running a fever and contagious by my fellow co-workers.  So they sent my sorry butt home.  This morning I managed to get to work again.  But the office keeps questioning my sanity with “Why are you here?” and “You should leave.” and “You look terrible, go home and don’t get me sick.”  Thanks guys.  Feeling the love.

I think I will.  I think I’ll put in an honest effort till 1pm and leave for the day.  My Rabid Beast dog was such a lover-nice-pooch yesterday that sitting on the couch while the Gorgeous Man tucks me in and fluffs my pillow and the Rabid Beast lays on my legs acting like my own personal heater and snoring just sounds heavenly.  Besides, the NY Football Giants play the Eagles on Sunday and I need to be in tip-top shape for the game.  Or else I might accidently shoot myself in the leg.

ZING!  Got you Plaxico Burress.

Not too sick for jokes at the expense of overpaid NFL wide receivers.