amateur night

Does anyone have any hot NYE plans? I don’t — surprise, surprise. Anyone who knows me knows that I view NYE as amateur night — the night that everyone goes out — including those who don’t party and have the alcohol tolerance of a toddler. And, by the way, those drunk toddlers always insist upon driving. Usually after they’ve ingested wine, rum, more wine, champagne, and vodka (in that order) and then vomited on the floor of the chosen party venue.

The only time that I actively make plans is when a) there’s a hot formal party to attend, or b) I’m dating someone. Since neither is happening right now, I’ve decided that I’m going to dedicate tomorrow to getting my house in order before 2008 arrives. I find that when my house is a mess, it’s reflective of my state of mind. I’ve determined that my state of mind must be muddied, given the look of my home. Not cute. Not even remotely.

I did manage to have a great time today. I had an impromptu brunch with a friend who found herself childless — her mother-in-law took the kid off her hands for a few days. We did a bit of shopping, and later I had high tea at the Drake Hotel with a few friends. I love those finger sandwiches! One would think that tomato cucumber sandwiches and egg salad would be boring, but they were SO tasty. There were others — roast beef and ham w/asparagus — but given that I don’t eat red meat, I had to stick to the veggie options. The banana bread was amazing. I didn’t have a scone, but I heard that they weren’t as dry as scones can be.

BTW, I didn’t forget to blog about the column. I’m a little late, but saving it for the next post.

Merry Freakin’ Christmas!

I hope everyone had a merry Christmas. Mine was spent being a vagabond — roaming from house to house, visiting friends. All in all, a pretty good time, although this year I didn’t get a chance to see a movie or eat Thai food, which is my typical Christmas fare. Oh well.

I think it would be nice if, as adults, we were promised at least 5 Christmases reminiscent of childhood. Wouldn’t it be nice to sit in a stranger’s lap in a mall, submit a wish list, and then come downstairs on Christmas morning to find a bunch of presents under the tree, with the belief that the mythical stranger had left them for us because we’d been good all year? And regardless of whether we’d truly been good, we would find everything we’d been asking for under the tree.

In my case, Santa would have to bring the tree AND the presents. Or maybe he could just stack them in the foyer. I’m not picky. As long as he doesn’t leave a bill . . .

Those Spears girls . . .

They sure are classy gals, aren’t they? It’s no secret to the world that Britney is nothing short of a train wreck and her life is one big ruination. And now her little sister is following in her white-trash footprints. Little Jamielynn Spears says that she wants to raise her baby in Louisiana, in a “normal family” environment. Seriously? Is she insane? Well, now that she’s knocked up, maybe she can get that double-wide that she’s been eyeing.

Forgot to mention

The new episode of “The Gina Spot” dropped on Friday. It’s about post-date communication. Does “take care” simply mean take care? Or does it mean “I never want to see you again”? Check it out.

The Christmas party

Our party was out of control . . . in a good way. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of dancing, and afterwards, there were many shots passed around. Nothing says Merry Christmas like a big shot of Patron.

So . . . my Secret Santa turned out not to be a senior partner as I suspected, but a peer. One who I like very much, and one who’s normally very conscientious. She gave me a nice final gift (iTunes gift card and a bottle of champagne for one), but I’m assuming she couldn’t be bothered with the intermittent trickery. Oh well.

One of my colleagues was dying to bring a date, so she brought a guy who she dated briefly, but with whom things didn’t work out. When he met me, he said “you look SO familiar,” and I started trying to think of where I could have met him before. Then he said “just kidding, I read RedEye, and I read your column.”

Later on, he cornered me and asked me why I was single. I never really have a good answer for that question, so I was thinking of a snappy little retort. But it didn’t matter, because he kept talking. He spewed a bunch of compliments, and told me that if I wanted to get laid, I could do it in 10 minutes flat (charming guy, right?). I replied that if I wanted to get laid by a creep (hint, hint), I’m sure I could.

Then, his date, my colleague, walked up and said — in front of him — “haven’t you figured it out yet? He’s trying to find a way to communicate that he wants to go out with you.”

Okay . . . THAT was weird. I switched topics abruptly and excused myself from the conversation. WTF? I would be MORTIFIED if my date (especially one that I’ve slept with in the past month) started hitting on a coworker at my holiday party.

Jeez!!!

Secret Santa Sucks

In my office, we do the whole Secret Santa thing. Here’s how it works — we each fill out a sheet with three items under $20 that we would like to receive for Christmas. The office support guy, the ringleader, walks around and lets us pull a name, grab-bag style. hich traditionally means that a week before our big Christmas party, we select names, and we’re supposed to give little surprise gifts throughout the week.

The woman in the office across the hall from mine has been getting totally hooked up. Her S.S. has decorated her office and left her mounds of chocolate each day. Others have been getting little samples of coffee and treats. I’ve given my guy a Starbuck’s gift card and bath salts with a scented candle (I know he loves to take baths). Tomorrow I plan to surprise him with a few little packets of gourmet hot chocolate, and a small bag of chocolate/caramel popcorn.

I know you’re dying to know what my Secret Santa has given me. A big fat nothin’!! Not even one candy cane. Not even a lump of coal. Our party’s tomorrow, and I’m not optimistic that I will find a cute little treat in my office upon my arrival in the morning. In fact I’m pretty sure that my desk will be as empty as it was when I left this evening.

And I’ll bet the person who selected my name is a senior partner who can’t be bothered to participate in Secret Santa. Well, I have a suggestion for that person . . . if you can’t keep up your end of the bargain, opt out!

We’re exchanging the major gift at the party tomorrow night, and I’ll bet my Santa doesn’t even show up.

Yes, Leslie, I AM crazy

I was writing a note to Leslie, who asked an innocent question — “how are you?” That question started me thinking. How AM I? The answer is that I’m SO not into Christmas, and SO tired of being inundated with things that I should be doing. And then I started on a rant that I thought was more fitting if shared with the readership of this blog (all two of you).

For example, I should have made a Christmas list. In fact, I should have done that a month ago. Oh well. I also should have sent Christmas cards. Maybe next week. I should find a way to be less annoyed by the holiday croonings of certain recording artists who arguably shouldn’t be singing outside of their shower stalls, much less bastardizing holiday favorites. And I should get on board with finding joy in Toys R Us, and even being able to walk through there without wanting to drop-kick the first whiny toddler in my path. But, because I don’t think I can handle stifling that urge, I should stay the hell away from toy stores.

Because I’m ensconced in Scroogery, which comes with a healthy dose of assholishness, I need to find a way to make this easy for myself. So, here we go.

1. I’m keeping gifts to a minimum. This includes my parents. They’ve long since stopped giving me gifts, and they hate whatever I give them. They only want pictures of me and my godchildren anyway, so I’ll spend the $20 and make them a photo album. Problem solved.

2. Of the girlfriends that I plan to exchange gifts with, some of them have children. If you are one of those girlfriends, please know that I will not be exchanging gifts with your children. My relationship is with you. I am not trying to slight your children. Your kids are already spoiled, and have no need for any of the clothing or toys that I would buy them (which I wouldn’t be able to do without having a nervous breakdown in the Target toy department or even worse, Toys R Us [gasp!]).

2a. If you are one of the mothers of my godchildren, ignore #2. You’re getting the shaft, big time. The kids get everything.

3. I will drink profusely at Christmas parties. I’m just letting you know. And God only knows what will come out of my mouth.

4. And speaking of my mouth, I will not yield to mistletoe. If you have to dangle mistletoe in the faces of [drunk] women, you probably have low chances of getting kissed in sobriety. Beat it!

5. I will not eat nasty food. If I come to your house, I will not humor Auntie Edith by choking down a piece of her infamous gas-inducing cabbage souffle, or fruitcake. Especially fruitcake. Do yourself a favor and follow suit. Let me give you a rule of thumb . . . if that old biddy hasn’t cooked anything delicious in 75 years, it ain’t happenin’ this year.

That’s it for now. I’m sure I’ll think of more. This is actually kind of fun. Thanks, Leslie!

The Close-Talker

I love personal space. I don’t want to be in anyone’s circle of comfort. I especially hate when people stand too close to me when I’m eating. I have no idea of what kind of particles can fly from your mouth, or off of you and onto my food. Yuck.

I work with a woman who is a major close talker. I swear it’s like a Seinfeld episode. She has NO CONCEPT of personal space. Talking to her is like a bad dance. She moves in on me, I inch away. She moves closer. I inch further. It’s a dance that I often lose, simply because there’s usually limited space behind me.

Typically I place myself on the other side of a barrier from her so that she can’t possibly get within one foot of me, i.e. a table, her desk, etc.

This week I’ve been battling a bad case of stomach flu, and I don’t know about anyone else, but when I’m sick, I don’t want anyone to come too close. I don’t want to smell what you’re eating, I don’t want to feel the heat of your breath. As disgusting as that is when I’m healthy, it’s horrifically so when I’m nauseated and potentially have a fever.

Close Talker was organizing our charity gift collection, and I was having trouble with wrapping paper. I was standing in the kitchen, and she was holding a bowl of oatmeal. She was smacking her stinky concoction, and comes and stood right on top of me as I was trying to keep my bite of banana from being regurgitated. She was just talking and smacking and talking some more. In the meantime, I could barely stand it. I had moved as far away from her as possible and she had me cornered into the side of the table. I was soon very sorry that I didn’t just run out and get my own freakin’ wrapping paper!

I wanted to say, “Back off, bitch! We’re not in a fucking third world country! There is plenty of space for me, you, and everyone. So exercise your American privilege, and stay the hell out of my atmosphere!”

Instead I said: “You should probably stay away from me. I’m very sick.” She finally backed off, reluctantly.

I wonder how many illnesses she catches every year from being close enough to literally suck the germs from the mouths of strangers.

Yesterday, one of my colleagues complained of “spider bites” on her arms. Those turned out to be chickenpox. I wonder if Miss Close-Talker managed to become infected. Then again, I’m sure she’s had them already as a result of invading someone else’s space.