Oh I almost forgot, as it is often expressed around my family:

Merry Fucking Christmas

For some reason, obscure and unclear to me, I was still up at 4:00 a.m. or so. I was watching Death Race 2000, “In The Year 2000 Hit And Run Driving Is No Longer A Felony. It’s The National Sport!” I didn’t watch the end of it, since I realized it was after 4 a.m., but I had to force myself to turn off the television. Why don’t they show such wonderful films during prime time?

I finished wrapping presents, printing out personalized gifts tags, etc., while watching the always enjoyable Say Anything.When that was over, though, an infomercial began, and I started flipping channels. I ended up watching Smokey and the Bandit II (I didn’t link to it, because you really shouldn’t care. In lieu of an actual review of that cinematic tour de force, I’ll say this–I woke up today, thinking “Huh, I know I went to bed at 4-ish, turning off Death Race 2000, and around midnight I was watching Say Anything what did I watch in between? Hmmmmm.” The only reason I know now is that I looked it up on zap2it.com, and it all washed back on me, Dom DeLuise as a fucking fat slob, this time with a bad Italian accent, Burt Reynolds performing as Burt Reynolds, Sally Fields, who should have her Oscar and Emmy revoked for perpetrating this felonious performance (I just wanted to write perpetrating), and fucking Jackie Gleason, who must have really hated himself during the entire film. I don’t know which is worse, Gleason as his Sheriff character or his brother “Gaylord,” who prances and minces in a faggedity stereotype unmatched since fourth grade recess, or his other brother “Reginald,” who arrives to a spoof of Jeannette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy that would have probably been a fucking riot in 1942 (or completely hack). I guess I’m just hoping old Jackie was drunk during the whole movie and effectively blacked it out.)

Back to Death Race 2000, it’s a little sad that the year 2000 didn’t have pedestrian hitting as a blood sport. It probably would have made mine happier.

This really belongs in another entry, but it’s on my mind. Here’s the dilemma, what is the best way to support and help someone 3000 miles away? Knowing that M. has a fuckload of things to do and knowing he has to get settled and embark on his new life confidently and comfortably means I don’t want to pile any more pressure on him or distract him. So, if he needs space I would want to give him what he needs. That’s the rational, cool me talking. But, the less cool, more about me, side of me (as though I have a side that’s not all about me), well that side wants to talk with him all the time and remind him of me and remind him of Cambridge and otherwise work from the notion that he has a distraction that exists over here on the East Coast. But, then again, maybe that’s not a “distraction” at all, maybe it’s a good anchor, or some other positive word. And, maybe if I say that I want to give himspace, he’ll misinterpret it that I want space and then neither one of us will get what we want.

Sometimes I have a hard time determining what is my obsessive-compulsive behavior versus a correct and “normal” number of calls or emails.

OK, maybe all of this worrying is just that I wish now that the holidays have descended that we were together. And, once this seasonal torment is over, I will know the right thing to do or say.

I’m not sure if I would want to date a crazy woman like me. Although, it likely beats out a lot of other crazy women I have met.

My brother has wireless Internet access, and I’m burning some books on tape. Pretty high level procrastination.

The bonus is I can surf porn sites at the dining room table.

Pretty sad that I can update this bullshit with the family.

HappyChristmas Eve to anyone reading this ‘blog.

And, M. if you see this, maybe we should try to spend the next Yuletide together. What do you think?

I skipped work today, mostly because I can, but ostensibly to finish stuff up Christmas-wise. I have failed thus far. Instead, I have slept, read other people’s blogs, tracked packages, fixed printer settings, and now I am writing this bullshit.

Writing about procrastinating epitomizes something profound and lazy, I’m sure.

I don’t know if my last minute, desparate idea for my oldest brother, a shortwave radio, is a good one. But there are plenty in stock at SharperImage. He’s a tinkerer, and likes to keep up with the news, so it’s possibly not a bad idea.

That final present is not bought, but I can get it before I go to his house. Nothing is wrapped. And, yesterday, I forgot to put something in each of M.’s and my sister’s packages. Without overnight delivery, I would have no hope of ever getting even the most simple note mailed at all. Going to the post office is like a quaint relic, when you also put off various problems until Spring when the dentist/surgeon and the judge would pass through your area. UPS owes me for my procrastinating ways, as it profits only them.

I have done no baking for this holiday. I don’t feel guilty so much as disappointed. Among the reasons to bake is to reap the culinary reward. One thing I miss about my mom on the hollidays is her dedication to meal preparation. While she was alive the meal was the holiday, and it was easier to make sure that I added to the meal. Now, it seems so much less important, and so I do very little and slowly forget how good fresh baked bread is.

Yeah, interesting day that makes me feel a little more holly jolly Christmas this year.

Came back to my desk at work, and there was a card from my boss. Inside was a note that was really pretty cool about it being a tough year at work, but my coming through. I think best of all to me is she mentioned that I have given her a few laughs. Probably sad, but that’s a pretty high compliment in my little cosmos. Besides the note, which kind of incapsulated our personal/professional relationship, there was a crisp Benjamin baby. Nothing like a dead president to make the spirit bright. OK, so Benjamin Franklin wasn’t actually a president, but you know what I’m saying. Hmmm. Come to think of it, old Ben has come up a couple times this season — in dramatic foreshadowing to the crisp bill, my friend Liz gave me a Benjamin Franklin action figure.

All about the Benjamins, baby, all about the Benjamins.

In more season fucking cheer, I went to the second of two Christmas shows/parties that happen each year at the Studio and the Connection. There were closer friends at the Studio, which is my ‘hood afterall. And I watched the whole show and enjoyed most of it last night, so I almost didn’t go to the Connection. But, then I did. And, looking around the room, I remembered that fucked up as comedy is, and it is a fucking fucked up fuckety world, there are a lot of interesting people I like or just like talking with or listening to. (Of course, there are a fair amount of shitheads, but what can you do?) So even though I often feel like an awkward douchebag who can’t believe anyone would voluntarily socialize with her, I’m glad I went.

I am also glad I drank only a couple of light beers and left early, too.

With that demonstration of self-control and self-preservation, I got home and found a package hanging on my door. The final surprise of the day, a couple of T-shirts that could only have been purchased in Berkeley.

I’m going to back up a bit and say that up until today, T-shirts as gifts have been tainted for me. I don’t know whether it was the lame Valentine’s day T-shirt with a picture of roses, about as nice as this (but maybe not even): . Not to sound to ungrateful for any gift, but that T-shirt had the look and quality of a Store 24 last minute “shit I better do something but roses are so expensive” buy. Or maybe it was the T-shirt brought back from Africa, which he later mentioned in passing was the same or similar to one he brought back for that other woman who was just an experiment when we were on a break. Yeah, that’s nice and special.

But, these two T’s today are different, and they have removed the taint. They are hippie groovy sunshine California fun. Peace, love, flowers, beetles and most importantly a hint of someone knowing a little bit more about who I am. And a notecard mentioning my hippie idol of many, many, many years, Haight-Ashbury’s own Pearl, Janis:

And the backstory is M. waited to buy something once he arrived in Cali. And, he knows the artist who made the T-shirts, so he had the plan in place. These things make me think that perhaps the man was thinking about me, which is a good feeling to have.

Not a bad way to end a day.

I know it is pretty godawfully trite to discuss SPAM, but who ever said I wasn’t godawfully trite myself.

Last night I was sent SPAM with the subject line “You and I know you’re fat…” from Robyn W. Dodge” robyn_wdodgect @sohoo.com.cn.

Is that an effective direct marketing approach?

Am I meant to be so fucking insecure that a total stranger, a cyber-bot of some sort is going to point out the obvious truth that I have been avoiding, and, in the midst of my sobs of recognition, I will succumb and try their fat burning patch?

Not to mention, this little picture doesn’t actually inspire me.

What? You mean I wear your patch and then I have to shop for all my clothes at Walmart?

I’ll keep my voluptuous chubbiness and fabulous sense of style for now.

I’m feeling very Warren Zevon-ish today, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

My Christmas shopping isn’t done, and I have to ship out gifts to not just M. but my sister, who it turns out is martyring herself at her place of employment. I shouldn’t be so bitchy as to refer to her as a martyr, but there’s a long history behind it (both her work issues and my being a bitch). Basically, if everyone else in a workplace (especially the people above you) don’t give a shit about appropriate schedule coverage, do you really need to be the soul survivor who cares? I think not.

Meanwhile, I am so behind in my holiday preparations that I think I’ll be done by December 27. I even brought my laptop and iPod with me to work, so I can burn some CDs in my office. (No, I am not so cheap that I am giving downloaded mp3s as gifts. I have legally purchased books from audible.com that I will burning to CD. The big present this year is the hard copy of Lying Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them, and a companion home burnt CD. I don’t think Al Franken would think I have harmed his copyright or ability to make a living. Al’s discussion of his fight with Bill O’Reilly is worth buying the audio version of the book.)

I thought about giving Lying Liars to my Republican sister-in-law and my Republican-lite brother, but it seems un-holiday like. In the spirit of the season, I considered buying Treason by this psychotic fabricationist, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss a little gelt her way. And, as much as I wanted to steal it on principle, I’m not really a shoplifter at heart. Or maybe at heart I am, but in reality I couldn’t bring myself to actual felonious behavior.

What do you give the Republican couple with the perfect suburban home anyway?

Not much time to write this morning, since I’m off to brunch with a friend.

Hope she likes the cookbook for her dog. I haven’t decided if that is a good, amusing gift or a cruel, amusing gift. It would probably help if I got a long better with her dog.

There is this book about Vietnam and a few books like this one about stuff people have left at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

In my head, I always remember the books sort of collectively titled as “What They Left Behind.”

I’m going to start my own treasury of such items, but since I am not a war vet and don’t really know any war vets, it will be what men have left behind.

So far I have a baseball cap, assorted T-shirts, one of those hand exerciser things, a six-foot batik wall-hanging (which I should sell), a previously discussed 2003 calendar dishtowel. I unfortunately lost a hideous tie that I sometimes wore as a clown.

I also have now hanging on my bathroom door some sweatpants and a sweater, but since I expect to see the owner again, they will not be in the museum.

If you have any items you want to contribute, drop me a line…