Jiminy Christmas

Wonder of wonders, I finished the much anticipated holiday letter before New Year’s. Considering I had the previous excuse of having to write it after flying home from school, right before Santa did, made this year all the more pathetic- because really, what else do I have to do? But when you’re celebrating more than your average number of holidays you suddenly have the ability to latch on to the traditions of any one of them as an excuse. Candle lighting is very time-consuming.

Then there are the distractions I create for myself. While having a very pleasant lunch with my sister, wherein we dissected the strange forces of the universe that cause her to have a harem of men that follow her, we started to wonder what it would be like if she married one of them. She having been the tomboy of our little duo, and me the ‘girly girl’, hypothetical wedding preparations were left up to me. Of course, being the very reasonable wedding planner that I am (or, at any rate, have the potential to be) I let her pick the colors. So the bridesmaids are in jewel tone purple and she is designing her dress on a napkin while I tell her about flower arrangements and try to define organza. Considering that the only thing my sister and I enjoyed doing within each others presence, from age 2 (when she was born) to last summer, was wrestling we had made leaps and bounds. Please spare me the jello references.

True, we have both grown up in a lot of ways- we could hardly help it. And there was some excellent grilled cheese at this lunch that could encourage love between a jewish momma and an anorexic. But happily discussing wedding plans for two hours was rather remarkable for us. As much as I hate to say it, my mother may have been right about the whole “not hating your sibling when you’re older” thing. But only after prolonged absences spanning months in which we are separated by 3000 miles or more. Whatever- her wedding is going to be gorgeous.

The rest of the family is not in quite such happy, grilled cheese graces. There was a Sherlock Holmes debacle and a whole lot of leftover brisket (which I have no problem with) and the realization that the new movie coincidentally has many things in common with the mysteries of Christmas- part of the holiday I am more than slightly less versed in than present and candy procedures. So when hearing the perfect man, living sacrifice, empty tomb, and virgin birth being discussed I, of course, was quick to mention that there probably weren’t any virgins in Sherlock Holmes, and I am sure I would have remembered a birth. Apparently this commentary was not quite Kosher. But very funny for all that.

Mom was so disappointed to have guessed wrong about the contents of a very large box she received, hoping that it was a new set of dishes, that she then proceeded to break the dishes we do have. Good thing there are sales in January.

With the knowledge that even with all of this it was rather a tame holiday I have a new drink to experiment with and a massive caramel apple to make a dent in. Happy Everything!!

Better Than Yours

January092009-01-14_7My twenty first birthday could not have been more ridiculous or fabulous than it was. This was most likely due to the great number of friends and random people on the street whom I shamelessly informed that I LOVE my birthday, in the days leading up to December. You know that all encompassing thrill and obsession that the average five year old vibrates with when their birthday is coming up? You know, the “oh my god, I’m only 4 and 364/365ths for another four hours! Ahhhh!” Well, whether luck or insanity, this spirit has been preserved in my annual celebrations- except for the counting part. Math is not my thing. Parties are.

It’s amazing what people will do for you when they know that you’re pretty much guaranteed to flip out over it. The celebration of my entering the ranks of the drinking, in Boston, was celebrated over a period of about two weeks wherein I drank every single day, virtually gave up sleeping, and the only food I remember eating was hastily acquired in the interest of drinking more. Taking place at the end of the semester this means I completed all of my finals while drunk. Except the one that I missed entirely because of the boy in my bed- woops.

Since the actual day of my birth fell on a Monday I planned for it to be pretty low key with the whole having to go to class the next day thing and all. Went to the BU Pub for a couple ceremonial drinks, since I could, but the friends I went with somehow turned it into a Boston bar tour through the 10 degree weather. One of them lost her phone which was later found in her bra. I almost ate the origami flower in one hand instead of the chicken finger in the other. And I’m fairly certain I did the splits more than once, in more than one bar (it’s apparently my go-to drunken party trick).

Then there was the actual party- on the weekend, when normal people go out. I’d already been drunk for five days at this point, but now I was dressing up for it. In a wonderful stroke of genius my roommate had organized a James Bond Pub Crawl, thus allowing for all the girls to dress like sexy Bond girls and guilting the guys into wearing tuxes (and I may have told them they didn’t have to get me a present if they dressed up). The night was perfection. A friend who had flown out from California for the occasion was lost between bars 2 and 3 when she wandered into a fire station. I gave my shoes to another friend. Being a massive lightweight I’d had enough to drink that I probably should have been dead a few times over, but the alcohol gods kept me going all night without even an inkling of a hangover. 

The walk home was slightly more difficult in having to keep one girl from going home with strangers, realizing we were barefoot at 2 a.m. on Comm. Ave., and getting a short-lived piggy back ride from Christian, a nice boy walking his bike home while holding his broken light saber. That night ended in the amazingness that is challah grilled cheese sandwiches, but the shitshow continued.

Went to the back bar of Our House (around the corner from the foosball tables) where I got to pick drinks out of ‘the book’- I can recommend Sex in a Hot Tub only because it’s the one thing I remember drinking. Edited my entire final movie project with a beer in my hand and my professor thought it was somewhat incredible. Inevitably, since I was treating my body like the rum punch bowl at the assembly hall (read some early 19th c. literature, you’ll get this reference and be very sophisticated- like me), I got a pretty nasty case of the flu. Thus I added a healthy dose of Nyquil to the mix, and a few more naps. This did not stop me from attending $1 draft Thursday night at An Tua Nua upon request. I was not so sure I wouldn’t collapse, but had a couple assurances that someone would catch me, so I danced and drank with energy that came from god knows where. I also vaguely recall agreeing to be somebody’s little spoon.

The ramifications of those couple of weeks followed me for a bit after that. Got a call from one gentleman asking me out who came up on my phone as Creepy Boy. I told him I was moving to California, he asked if I was blowing him off, I said yes. I also garnered a reputation for being a lot cooler than I really am. I suppose I felt the need to live up to that when I flew to London three weeks later.

Basically the festivities of my 21st birthday are so marvelous as to be virtually unmatchable. But I am turning 22 soon…