As Valentine’s Day draws closer, I am reminded of the elevated expectations members of my gender have.  I can see in their eyes hope for a memorable experience: dozens of perfumed roses, a sappy card documenting undying love, dinner reservations at the candlelit and overpriced Chez Chez Poo Poo, a reason to wear a dress and gussy one’s self up, poetic confessions of love and adoration, something sparkly and expensive slid across the table in a velvet box, being hand fed rich chocolates from a heart shaped box and repetitive “I love you”s whispered into her ear while hand holding.  Every time I think of a girl wishfully envisioning her perfectly romantic evening, I think of the let down.  The day after Valentine’s Day is always full of ladies’ recounts of evenings that failed to meet their expectations.  A movie and a pizza or just flowers or nothing at all.  Dashed dreams. 

It’s sad that so many women are such hopeless romantics, swept away in t.v. drama love stories and holding on to a dream man that fulfills their lovey-dovey visions.  I don’t understand this idyllic fixation, it’s as if women have yet to open their eyes and look at the world of men around them.  It’s hard to hope for roses and love poems and love struck gazes and genuine interest in you when you realize guys are like domestic pets, they want to sleep, eat, poo and get naughty. 

And for men it has to be the same (albeit more vain and shallow) way.  Instead of t.v. drama love stories, they are ambushed by silicone women of Barbie doll like proportions.  Completely unnatural, and yet you would not know that by the way men act.  The expectation of a woman that is part porn star, part Betty Crocker and missing vocal cords is widely accepted.  But if they’d step outside, they’d see that most women are short and chubby and speak and think and generally don’t like sports.  Expectations are so high.

I propose a general lowering of the expectations.  If women expect to watch a basketball game for Valentine’s Day, they will be so happy if they receive flowers and doubly happy if he grants no-basketball consideration.  If men expect a flat-chested pygmy whose specialty is roasted mealworms, they will be happy with normal girl and doubly so if she can make macaroni and cheese. 

If ladies want a fantastic Valentine’s Day, they should put together one themselves.  An all ladies night of cocktails and a fancy dinner with the gal pals is more realistic than relying on your man to supply and fulfill your amorous dreams.  That’s probably what I’ll be planning.

I was reading a frugal living blog (I like to think that I make a healthy attempt to be frugal) and the topic was water conservation and bathroom remodels to accommodate this.  One tip was to hang a clock in your bathroom.  Ok, I have a clock in the bathroom, although I never thought of it as a necessity.  In fact, the time on it is horribly wrong so it serves little purpose but to freak me out when I forget that it’s drastically off.  So, just what is the reason for putting a clock in the bathroom?  To limit your shower to 5 minutes. 

Uh   wahappon?  Oh, nononono no.  Is that even feasible?  I’d like to see an instructional video on just how to squeeze in all the necessary female cleansing and pre-work primping that goes on in just 5 minutes.  I can’t even get all the shampoo out of my hair in 5 minutes, let alone my need to let conditioner steep for 3 minutes.  Can you shave two legs in 5 minutes?  As in without horribly gouging them?  I prefer not to look like a self-mutilation case when I wear a skirt to work.  Should I even consider shaving my arm pits?  Am I supposed to go granola and just let the hair grow out?  Because seriously, the man’s not going want to get close to me on the couch if I’ve got grizzly bear like stubble on my legs (no hunney, I’m not wearing tights, that’s natural).  I like a nice body brushing too, and that takes a couple of minutes, or what about exfoliation?  What if someone spoils me with cocoa scented scrub and I feel the need to scrub my whole body to baby-skin like smoothness?  I can’t do that outside of a shower.  Is five minutes even enough to fill a bathtub with an adequate amount of water to take a bath?  Or will I be stuck with 2” of water that goes cold in 3 minutes, akin to the baths my grandmother used to make me take so I wouldn’t drown.  The man doesn’t even take 5 minute showers, and he’s a man. 

That’s just insanity. 

SuperBowl is almost here.  I wanted to have a SB party, but I can’t.  The boyfriend made an executive decision and put the big ka-bosh on my SuperBowl fiesta plans.  I wish I could have friends over for SuperBowl, but unfortunately I know some Eli-haters.  Actually, I know people that do not have Giant’s worship in their blood, and we can’t have anyone who is not a true believer in the homestead during New York Football Giants SuperBowl.  No Eli hating in the House the Giant’s Built.  Religious sayings could be thrown out.  In Eli I Trust.  Lord Jesus Eli Manning.  Eli Almighty.  And other type things.  Eli-hate would affect our mojo and the Giant’s might lose.  Then I’d be in boiling hot “I should break up with you for inviting them” water with the boyfriend.  And that ain’t good.  We can’t have little Jimi the Savage living without both his parents.  It’s just not fair to the pup.  Also, we need complete concentration for when we are either a) praying, b) being arm chair coach, c) calling the plays that should be called, d) crying, e) throwing things, f) yelling (insert applicable failure)’s name in vain, g) pounding the couch/thighs/pillows in frustration, h) high-five, i) clap loudly j) celebrating a great sack/pass/completion(insert applicable).  And, my boyfriend’s not very cheerful or friendly when he’s curled into a small ball wrapped around a pillow, burrowing his face because he’s stressed out.  When I’m white-knuckling and rocking back and forth softly chanting Eli’s name, I wish not to be disturbed.  The SuperBowl is definitely not conversation time.  Intense. 

And another thing: I have to wear my Big Blue Wrecking Crew shirt for the game and I haven’t washed it since the 16th of December and I’ve worn it every single weekend since – with the exception of the Patriots game, I wore my other Giant’s shirt.  And we all know the outcome of that.  It smells bad and I don’t want to ruin my impeccable image m friends hold of me.  It’s all the adrenaline and stress, makes ya sweat.  BUT!  Every time I wear it, the Giants win.  See a pattern?

Next Sunday I put my boyfriend’s happiness in the throwing arm of Eli Manning.

The sacrifices we make for NY Football Giants.

We’ve (my significant other and I) have committed to getting a dog.  I sent off my deposit for our soon-to-be-puppy and we’ll get him on Thursday of this coming week.  He’s a red/fawn and white pied French Bulldog, born October 31st, 2007.  We’ve name him Jimi; I’m adding ‘the Savage’ at the end for street cred.  I’m very excited.  He’s such a cutie!  This is Jimi the Savage.

I’m spending the long weekend puppy-proofing our home.  There will be a trip to PetSmart to gather necessary item and I’ll be deep cleaning the homestead in anticipation.  I forgot how much effort a puppy is.  My mind has been full of preparations: gates, dog bowls, harness, shampoo, neuter, vets, poop bags and poop picking up devices.  I’ve scouted out NY Giants dog collars and know where to buy a NY Giants jersey for him.  I’ve been doing breed specific research so I know what to expect of a 12-week old pup, when he should be shipped to us, what’s appropriate behaviors, etc.  the ladies at my work copied an article about pet insurance, so I spent the past hour looking at coverages and rates.  I think we need to get him insured ASAP because they do not cover pre-existing issues and bulldogs are prone to short lives and ailments.  Some of them even cover vaccinations and neutering, which is highly applicable to us.  If $40 a month will cut down on a possible $5000 vet bill in a few years, so be it. 

I’m so excited to have a little dog companion again. 

Damn you iPod!

The damn iPod that I’ve been carrying around and appreciating for the past, I don’t know how long, was formatted on a Mac.  Assholes!  I hook it up to my WINDOWS and it has to reformat and REMOVE all my music I already have on here.  motherfuckers.  I don’t feel ready to remove and replace all the great music!  I just rediscover Murder City Devils and wanted to do some at-work jamming to them, which prompted me to hook the damn thing up to my PC in the first place.  But noooo.  It’s must be formatted.  That’s like replacing the things brain.  It will never be the same music companion after it’s been formatted.  I only have, like 2 cds anymore and one of them is Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album.  That ain’t no good.

Damn you she-bum!

AND some homeless she-bum, crack-whore hassled me for some money.  When I said, no, she asked if I had some spare food.  As in the food I had in my hand that I just purchased for my own consumption.  I said no.  She got lippy.  Said she could see I had food, I didn’t need the food and I was too selfish to give it to her.  I had to tell her that a homeless she-bum crack-whore panhandling for money should re-consider being lippy.  Rude and condescending comments issued from the toothless mouth of her does not incite sympathy from working professionals and I was not giving her my lunch.  That I bought with money that I had to work for. 

I have no patience for ornery she-bums or dumb-Mac formatted devices.

If I could be a pair of shoes, these would be them. 

These are Nine West's Mauven3 and they are the perfect shoe.  A 4.5 inch heel coupled with a high strap to keep you strapped in.  It's a gorgeously seductive deep red patent leather and the platform round toe is tapered with a hint of a point. 

A little flashy, dangerously high, slightly impractical, but sturdy, go-to heels with an not-so-subtle undertone of "admire how damn goodlooking I am."

And I got them for $18 dollars, down from $99.  Last pair, my size, I call it drop dead gorgeous fate.

I’ve got that great lack-of-grace thing going on today.  The type of klutziness that appears when there’s an audience to gawk at you and wonder what kind of drugs your mother took while you were in utero.  I think it’s because I have “Ridin’ Dirty” stuck in my head, thanks to Rob and Big, of the Rob and Big show.  ‘Ridin’ Dirty’ isn’t exactly Fleur theme music.  I think it throwing me off.  And I’m not a naturally graceful person as it is.  So now I’m trippin over pant hems, pieces of lint on the carpet, my scarf tried to strangle me and as I let out a banshee yell while violently ripping off my head, uncovering my eyes, I see that the investment banker boys from next door have paused in the hallway to watch the half-retarded girl try to work her way out of a fluorescent pink scarf. 

Try to catch me ridin’ dirty.

The Christmas spirit has left me, not that I had too much to begin with.  I’ve become jaded with Christmas already and am ready to tear down my mini 3-ft tree.  Wrap up the lights; wind-up the beads, take Petie, my Christmas bird, off the top of the tree.  Fold up the stockings, re-package the ornaments.  Put everything into a box labeled “X-MAS” that I’m sure I’ll lose between now and next year. 

I haven’t gone to any holiday parties, or taken part in any holiday festivities.  The closest I’ve gotten was hurrying through crowds as I bought a candy thermometer yesterday.  I was going to make toffee and peppermint bark, maybe whip up some Christmas cookies.  But I didn’t and don’t have the staples necessary.  Throw it in the box, I’m not gonna even think about using it until next November when I get the annual Christmas hair up my ass to be festive.

Why are Christmas expectations so high and unattainable?  Where are the merry Christmas people that go the Nutcracker, and watch the tree-lighting ceremony and stroll through holiday crowds drinking apple cider and throw fancy holiday parties and host gift wrapping get-togethers?  I think they don’t exist and if they did, they’d just succeed in pissing me off with their never ending perkiness the rest of the year through so that by the time Christmas was around the corner, just the thought of them would make me want to barf.  I’m feeling Grinchy. 

I never even drank hot buttered rum this year.  LAME

This morning I was complimented twice on the 7.5 minute walk to work.  A rare occurrence, I got a ‘Good morning beautiful’ from a duo and a ‘Sup pretty lady, how you doing?’ from a random dude.  It really made me think about beauty.  I’m not dashingly gorgeous, instead I’m rather average.  I’d believe men would be more inclined to find me ‘cute’ rather than ‘stunning.’  I have a unique face, and of the few men that manage to get past the boobs and see my actual face, I think I strike a select minority (and an even smaller amount once I open my mouth and talk).  Cloaked in a wool black coat, hot pink pashima scarf and light pink beanie, what made those guys notice me?  What did they find in the small area of my exposed face that made me pretty?  Was it something perceived?  Did the black pointed shoes peeking from beneath black jeans hint at naughtiness?  Or were they overcome by my rosy red cheeks?  Or maybe it was just eye contact.

Beauty is so visual, what do the blind find beautiful?  A sound?  The scent of a loved one?  The feel of a rose petal?  Would they consider a taste beautiful, like a toffee candy or a chunk of bread?  I’ve always wanted to be beautiful for my brain; would a blind person find me attractive? Without vision getting in their way, would they find intellects beautiful?  Would stimulating thoughts and viewpoints enthrall someone who’s blind or do they, like those who are not vision impaired, find vapid things beautiful like maybe a lilting voice or maybe warm smooth hands.  Would my voice throw them off, my particular smell?  Do they have particular qualities they want in a partner?  My boyfriend like brunettes, would a blind man prefer a woman who sings well?  What kind of a body would a blind man enjoy?  A skinny supermodel’s body, with jutting bones and hard angles, or would he prefer something softer, full breasts, a round belly?  What about a blind woman?  Would she like six-pack abs or maybe want something softer?  Would she enjoy running her fingers through her lover’s chest hair, or does she prefer smooth skin?

Dumbest thing I heard in a while:

While discussing with one of the women I work with, what movie I’m gonna see with my significant other on our ‘date night,’ her daughter (my age) walks in and gives her two cents:

“Go see August Rush.  It’s the best movie, really good.  Go see it.”

Mentally, my rebuke is this: Oh no.  I date a man.  Like, a real one.  With a penis.  Who watches football and has an opinion.  He wears pants and thinks and talks.  You’re not dating a guy, you’re dating a girl.  I don’t date vagina-having sissy boys.  

Instead I said:  No.  He’d shoot me in the head, then leave my life-less body in the theater while he goes out to restore his masculinity.  With beer and boobs.

I don’t think what I said was any better than what I thought.  Hopefully my boyfriend thanks me for not even entertaining the thought of seeing some horribly romantized chick flick.  I'd rather see a reality-based movie, like Walk Hard.

It’s time to be jolly.  I’m ready for some good ‘ol jolliness.  It’ time for holiday parties and big grins and atrocious cold-weather clothing and fireplaces.  I want to spontaneously come upon mistletoe.  I want to have Irish coffee lunches and go to parties with peppermint candy cane swizzle sticks in my drink.  I want to wear my fancy red dress to a fancy shindig.  I want to order a spiked eggnog, hold the eggnog, then turn to those I’m hobnobbing with and laugh at our own wittiness (oh so witty!) while Dean Martin croons “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”  I want the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to follow me everywhere. 

No, I want to host a fancy party.  I want to bake cookies and think up signature drinks and whip up themed hors d'oeuvres and cover the surfaces with garland and twinkle lights.  I want to play bartender to my guests. 

But I think I need friends to be jolly.

Every (week) day, I feel like I know the homeless bums of Seattle better than I know my own biological family.  I see the same bums at the same corners at the same times every single work day.  I’ve named them (in my head), we have mini in-passing conversations, I notice when something’s different, (I tell myself) I care.  One of them has the voice of gravel, and although his skin is black, I’m pretty sure he’s Cuban – I imagine him to be a homeless cross between Louis Armstrong and David ‘Big Papi” Ortiz.  He always bounces a tall Starbucks cold cup against his crossed legs and sits outside some old-woman upscale hippy-style store.  His stocking caps change, but he always wears a tan trench coat that’s meant for slightly cool summer nights.  I think he might freeze sometimes.  I call him Big Louie in my head.  Another one is really tall and stands just around the corner from Big Louie, leaning against an electrical transformer.  He uses a cardboard box to pan-handle, calls me ‘darling,’ flashes me the peace sign and walks with a limp and the assistance of a cane.  I like to imagine he’d be a pimp with the heart of gold if he lived somewhere else, like LA ‘cause he wears a leather jacket and an uber-trendy news boy hat.  The last one I see always breaks my heart; he’s a small, older blind man with physical deformities.  He wears an old beat up jacket the colors of the old Charlotte Hornets and turns side to side constantly asking for change in the lispy voice of someone who’s never been formally educated, tripping over words and sentences; no one ever stands long enough to hear his plea.  I call him Maestro ‘cause he seems like a guy who needs a cool nick-name. 

I go months without talking to my Ma, brother or sister, but I never go more than 2 days without seeing my bums, and on weekdays, I don’t go more than 9 hours.  I wonder if that’s sad that I feel I have a better rapport with these people than my family members. 

I have a dependence on fake sugar.  This morning I had to put real sugar in my homemade Dunkin D.  There wasn’t a single stevia packet left in the house, no crumbs of splenda at the bottom of the box, no rogue Nutrasweets hanging out.  Now my coffee is unpalatable.  I can’t even drink it, which means I’m going to go through caffeine withdrawals any moment.  I even put a watered down coffee-flavored water in my cup and added some of the fake junk once I got to work but it’s too late.  The Dunkin D is tainted and it’s just not going to be the same. 

Thinking back to this morning when I made my coffee, I realize I have a bottle of sugar-free hazelnut coffee syrup in the cabinet that I could have used.  Damn I’m so mad.

I’m done.  Got all my Christmas shopping and out of the way.  90% of my presents are wrapped too.  I’m pretty proud of myself.  Every year I do the “next year I’ll start early and be organized” mental speech and it doesn’t work.  This year, thanks to the wonders of online shopping, I’ve accomplished this feat.  Somehow, it makes the hustle and bustle of Christmas time shopping much more fun.  I don’t have the stress of finding gifts.  I don’t need inspiration so when I voyage into an overcrowded, loud and overheated store, I can just enjoy meandering without pressure.  I’m not walking into department stores with the expectation of finding THE PERFECT GIFT! it’s got to be here! there are so many promises of this being the place to find gifts for everyone! then wandering around with a crazed look in my eye, and shifty hands waiting to spring out and rip the right gift from some other Christmas-shopping-crazed person.  Nah.  I just wander around with the look of smug self-satisfaction of having beaten the minions.

I’m only at a loss for the stocking stuffers.  I was looking at my significant other’s hung stocking, it eagerly anticipating a full-to-capacity Christmas morning and worrying that I may let that fancy navy velvet stocking down.  Its Christmas morning glory lessened, if not demolished all together, by my stocking stuffer idea ineptness.  When did stockings get so huge?  Our stockings look gigantic!  When I was growing up, my sibling and my stockings were full of mostly candy, with the occasional pencil or chapstick thrown into the sugar fest, eventually lost and forgotten in favor of solid milk chocolate Santas, cinnamon flavored candy canes and peanut butter filled bells.  The Life Savers StoryBook was a stocking stuffer staple; no matter what, there was always a Life Savers StoryBook (cherry flavor was always the last roll left in my book, it tasted like cough drops to me).  Now that I’m older and am filling a stocking for a grown man, who’s not too fond of candy, I’m at a loss.  Watch?  Highly doubtful he would use one.  Gift certificates?  My pockets will run dry by the time I fill that bottomless velvet chasm as gift cards aren’t known for their mass.  It’s not like he wears jewelry, he’s not a Magic The Gathering card collector (I hope), not big on miniature stuffed animals, cds are now outdated. 

I’m gonna have to stand up to the stocking and its expectations.  My significant other is not going to leave me ‘cause I can’t jam pack a stocking with interesting and unique trinkets.  My worth is not determined by a hung foot-covering.  I shun convention.  I may not fill it at all.

Oh my god.  What if I put a baby mouse in it?  That would be hilarious!  He’d freak out. 

On Thanksgiving, I usually pull out some old Christmas compilation I put together and rock out with my cooking.  This year, I’m gonna buy some cds instead.  So I was perusing Amazon.com to see what they had up my alley in the Christmas department; I figure I’ll sample the songs, then go buy the cds tonight.  I was thinking Harry Connick Jr., the New Orleans sultry voiced stud muffin.  I love a some good blues, and jazz and big band is appealing.  While I was sampling some of his cds, I viewed some ‘Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought’ selections.  WHAT?  Christmas with the Rat Pack?  Martinis and Mistletoe?  I have become very excited for holiday music now that I have a little Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and Frank Sinatra to round out my Harry Connick Jr.  I could even do a little Diana Krall, although she’s fresh on the market (to me).  Ultra Lounge?!!?  I like lounge music!  I’ve got visions of turning on the (fake) fireplace, lighting some cinnamon candles, putting on some strappy shoes, grabbing a cocktail and swaying my hips as I prepare Thanksgiving.  OMG, Nat King Cole!  I love Nat.  Just how many Christmas cds do I think I should get?  This is my line up.

I’m total complete wreck.  I half way want to cry ‘cause I feel like a horrible person for not seeing my little sister in so long but I don’t really cry, unless I’ve been drinking, so I just have a mild nauseous feeling.  And I'm nervous, edging, jumpy.  It’s not that I don’t want to see her, that’s not it at all.  I just don’t do well in these situations.  Reconnecting.  Small talk.  Family situations.  I try to keep my family visits to 4 days or shorter, usually occurring once every 2 to 3 years and that’s will members that I have an established history with.  That’s because I go a little cuckoo if I’m around them for longer, a whole different grumpy person comes out after four days.  But she’s coming here and I should feel a little better, more relaxed having her in my home but that’s just not the case.  It’s worse when family comes to see me; I feel the judging eyes of family members as they drink in my environment, making mental notes on how I’m failing at adulthood and memorizing the evidence substantiating that I am just throwing my life away.  Funny how the anticipated landing of my estranged sister, whom I have no history with since I was damn near 13, can bring up my family anxiety.  I want to hyper ventilate and self-medicate.  Instead I compulsively clean, prep and gather items I think I’ll need.  Tablecloth, candles, wines, dish drainer.  Am I trying to seduce her?  No, but solidifying myself in the good graces with my family has always seemed like a play of seduction.  Can I win you with some fine wine, a delicious meal and a romantic ambiance, ‘cause goodness knows my intellect and charm do nothing for you.  Again, I apply the techniques I use on my other family members to her, although I logically know she’s not going to care if the bathtub rug is fluffed and the granite does not set forth a mirror like sheen.

My day seems to be lasting forever.  I’ve been dreaming of steaming up my bathroom by drawing a scalding hot bath, then lowering myself into it where I will read a horrible novel and sip Yellow Tail merlot until I’ve reached a lobster red color.  I don’t even like baths, but I feel I definitely need something to distract me.  Stiff drink, a joint, Vicodin, a movie, dancing midgets, whatever.  Anything to make the Monday end so I can get the expected awkwardness of seeing my little sister out of the way.  Something to get me through tonight so I can wake up tomorrow morning laughing at my ability to drive myself crazy with exaggerations.  I have no expectations, or at least that is what I tell myself.  If I didn’t have expectations, would I be a train wreck?  I’m disappointed that I would jump to conclusions about someone that I hardly know, but I don’t know that I’m one for open-mindedness on the home front.   

It's like worst case scenarios keeping sprinting through my brain.  What if she thinks I'm judgmental, have an anger problem, swear too much, stink, am half-retarded and a bad cook?  Will she look unfavorably upon me as I beat a cab with my cane umbrella?  Will she think my collection of high heels signifies I'm shallow and vain?  Will she wonder just whose sick joke it was to bestow me as her older sister?  I’m so good at psyching myself out.

I was watching the Today show this morning in which they had a segment pertaining to 5 different stages in a person’s life and financial advice for those stages.  The stages consisted of a young couple about to have a baby, a single young professional, divorce, the re-marrying and co-mingling of families couple and I don’t remember the last one. 

I guess I live in fairy tale land.  I think the first and second stages should be reversed and the third and fourth stages shouldn’t happen.  Who has a kid THEN decides to get professionally serious?  As a single young professional with no brewing-babies or marriage, I’m advised to buy a house and invest in my retirement.  Mentally thinking about how much I would need to purchase a house made me realize, I’ll be renting well into my 80’s.  Seattle is one of the only markets where house values are still increasing (or so I read) which means I’ll be struggling up-hill the entire time I’m trying to save – my potential house constantly increasing in cost or my potential house shrinking in size.  Knowing that I don’t want to live too far away and knowing how much houses cost in the areas I’d like to live (I’m saying conservatively $300,000), and factoring the widely accepted down payment of 20%, I’ll today’s projected down payment is $60,000.  This is if I don’t start comparing my potential home to my current home, which is a $600,000 condo in the middle of downtown that I could never afford (unless I get the lotto, but I’ve never bought a ticket, so I’m not gonna pray for that jackpot).  This beaut here is a 780 square feet, 2 bed, 1 bather weighing in at $314,000 and I'd still have to commute over an hour (via bus, I don't have a car, not want one).  It's a about 200 square feet less than my current home and butt-ass far away.  Moving on: $60,000 is a little less than double my yearly salary.  If I give myself 5 years, I’ll need to save $12,000 a year or one after-tax paycheck a month.  And that’s if I can find $300,000 homes for sale in the Seattle area in the year 2012.

After I accomplish that goal, I’m onto getting a divorce.  On the bright side, Suze Orman’s advice was to stick it out 10 years ‘cause then you get half of your ex-husband/wife’s social security.  Wonderful advice, especially for a person my age who highly doubts social security will be around when I’m eligible.  Without the potential half of my ‘odd’s-are-soon-to-be’ ex-husband’s social security there’s really no reason to get married.  Except the party.  But since at my age, the advice is to get a house and invest in retirement, all my money will be tied up inflated interest rate mortgages, IRAs and 401(k).  If I manage to get married, get divorced, get remarried to some dude with kids (hopefully grown and out of the house, I’m not raising someone else’s rugrats) then I get to look forward to dying.

I CAN’T WAIT TO GROW UP!

I love Hot Butter Rum.  It’s so delicious, so wintery, so hot and buttery and so rum-y.  Somehow the thought of hot buttery rum goodness popped into my head and I can’t get it to escape.  I’ve been plagued with memories of nights at the cabin, playing Yahtzee and drinking hot buttered rum.  It the ultimate hole yourself up, settle next to the fire, enjoy your company type of drink.  I’ve got a hankering, and it’s not gonna go away till I have a warm mug of hot buttered rum.

I won’t be able to get my significant other to swig hot buttered rum-ness with me, even with the lure of a fake gas fireplace.  I’d even spring for a faux bear-skinned rug to go with the faux fireplace (that is really just some lights).  Anyway, I’m gonna have to wait till my little sister arrive next week.  Freshly 21 and not a drinker, I hope she likes warm, sweet drinks ‘cause I need a hot buttered rum sipping partner.  I guess my significant other should develop some sort of plans that night ‘cause I feel some Christmas carols might be required to complete that scenario.

I wonder hot buttered rum, a faux fireplace and Christmas carols are the way to set the scene for a little bonding time with the sister?  I’m sure it’s ideal.  I'm thinking about using the recipe below.  Ever the woman though, I'm a little wary of all the butter and sugar.  I've got a feeling I'd be strung out for days recovering from the fat and sugar overdose.  It's probably worth it though.  I mean, we'd be bonding!

The Mix

2c brown sugar

2 stick butter, at room temp

2c vanilla ice cream – melted

1t cinnamon

1t nutmeg

Whip all ingredients up in your food processor, blender or mixing bowl-a-ma-jig.  Freeze until ready to use, it won’t freeze solid and it’ll be ready for Hot Buttered Rum anytime, the drink below.

The Drink

1 oz dark rum

½ c boiling water

1 T hot butter rum

Sprinkle of cinnamon

Sprinkle of nutmeg

Oh sweet St. Nick of Winterland.  That is a grande nonfat peppermint latte.  My very first of the season!  Nothing says Christmas time is COMING like a warm, frothy Starbucks peppermint drink, be that mocha, white mocha (I'm not a fan) or latte - drink of choice.  I wish someone was around to take a picture of pure bliss: me sipping this drink.  It's like liquid Christmas morning when the presents are stacked up higher than the tree.  I'm so happy.

Last night, while trying to fall asleep, I made the affirmation that today would be a positive mental thinking day.  I think that my thoughts are not entirely positive, in fact, majority of them are pretty darn negative.  Little mental death daggers at people.  I get up this morning, do a little yoga, add a little svasana with positive thoughts.  Today is a big-ish day for me.  I’m visiting another firm’s office to review documents and pleadings.  Another small but important step in my journey as a construction litigation paralegal.  I’m pretty excited.  I tried to dress myself appropriately – button down shirt, understated make-up, pressed slacks with a slighter higher waist than I prefer, not-too-high-or-flashy-shoes (although they are my boots, which have been deemed ‘stripper boots’ by my significant other, they’re covered by conservative slacks, no one will know).  I’m set.  Except, I’m a munchkin and my slacks are scraping the floor.  As I go to leave, I get the brilliant idea to hike my pants up to my natural waist – a good 5” higher than I wear them, so that they will not be soiled on my 10-minute jaunt to work.  I’m a smarty. 

I suit up for my walk to work.  Watching me suit up, you’d think I’m going on an expedition.  Ipod head phones in ears, then wool coat, buttoned, Ipod placed in right upper pocket.  Gym bag over shoulder and positioned in the middle of my back, followed by purse with a weight equivalent to three dead babies.  Cane umbrella draped on left arm.  Ear muffs over ear buds, turn on Ipod, return to pocket.  Dunkin Donuts coffee in right hand and I’m out the door, no need for scarf today.  Wait, hair is stuck in my coat; unload DD coffee and umbrella, adjust hair, fluff hair, umbrella then coffee.  Out the door. 

I step into the towering inferno that is my condo hallway.  Holy Dante!  Why is it a good 20 degrees hotter here than in the condo?  Into the elevator, down 18 floors, through the lobby, into the great downtown Seattle outdoors and thus begins the realization that I have made a horrible mistake.  Every step I take on my .3 mile walk drives my starched slacks right up my ass.  Wedgie.  It’s uncomfortable, it’s getting worse.  I power walk my way towards my office building with a no-nonsense stride that I hope is hiding my increasing discomfort in an effort to reach work as fast as Fluer-ly possible.  But, as the city blocks wiz by, I’m starting to sweat and now I’m stuck behind some douche-bag that just has to read while walking.  He’s slowing me down.  I do the pedestrian equivalent of cutting him off so he runs into the chairs outside of Café Senso.  Haha!  Jerk, who walks that slow?  I round the corner and am on my favorite stretch of city street – in between Nordstroms and Barneys.  The Nordstrom Airheads are just arriving for the day and I always slow down to check out the fashions.  It’s like my own daily fashion show, what they lack in common sense and IQ, they make up for in style.  Except they all wear all black and that is just retarded.  I like a jolt of color, but then again I have been known to like attention and nothing gets attention like a button-down red satin shiny shirt.  Today I can’t slow down, which slightly enrages me; I keep the pace despite the sweat coagulating on my upper lip, my neck and starting to mat my hair down.  I round another corner and weed my way through the stupid hippy bike messengers hanging out in front the Monorail Espresso.  Silently I curse them, vowing to one day take one of them down with my cane umbrella – my bike messenger dislike is another story. 

I’m finally in front of my building, waiting to cross the street.  Thoughts fly to the boiler-like heat I will encounter upon crossing the City Centre’s threshold.  Passing my DD cup to the left hand, I go to unbutton my coat, but stop.  I cannot be seen with my pants up around my natural waist.  They look like, Mom jeans!  I leave my coat buttoned and hope my office is colder than a witch’s tit, as usual.  In the building, I make for a mad sprint up the escalator only to be held up by a couple of chatty Cathys’ that can’t move to one side of the escalator.  Don’t you know office escalator etiquette!  I hate you both, I hope you trip, or something embarrassingly similar.  At the floors 13-20 elevator bay, I arrive in time to hop into a boarding elevator, but decline when I see it will be a) nose to neck full, and b) it’s occupants are mostly 20-something receptionists that no doubt bathed in cheap perfume.  Sensing my pores have enlarged to saucer size in an effort to cool my overheating body, I know they will be working overtime sucking in tainted air.  I don’t want to die the death of perfume asphyxiation, especially since I throw out insults at the threat of disgraceful death.  Instead I patiently wait for a new elevator to arrive, only to be cut off by some short bitter-beer faced man.  I want to stab him in the leg with my pointed-toe boot, but instead I wish that his wife cheats on him and his children hate him.  4 of the people riding the elevator with me need to get off at floors sequentially arriving before mine.  Dipsticks!  As the doors close, the nitwit at the back shuffles around to hit her floor, disrupting everyone and spilling my coffee on my hand – are you confused?  Did you not read the elevator memo?  Do that shit before you move to very back of the elevator or don’t do it at all!  Of course, this woman has never ridden in an elevator ‘cause she systematically blocks departing people as they try to escape.  Finally she land next to the buttons.  Playing with her security card, she’s waving it in front of the security card processer thing – now I know works for Callison and is probably a hack architect.  Beep, beep beep.  Stop it you TWIT!  You friggen look like a down syndrome Naomi Watts and I hate her ‘cause she was in Mulholland Drive (I think, I can’t be sure because my rage has taken over) and that movie was the worst David Lynch movie, it sucked! 

See the negativity?  I’m writing this day off ‘cause I mentally dug myself into a negative hole that no amount of positive thinking can redeem.  Tomorrow is a new day.  And, it’s Date Night.