I think there is something either very wrong, very different or possibly very right about it. I feel like I get into unusual situations of trying to help, and sometimes failing.

Yesterday’s episode, I’m standing in line at Somerville’s building 19. Building 19 is a trashy store, of which they are proud, and Somerville’s is in a dead mall and is perhaps the trashiest. So, I’m in line, and a boy with batteries in his hand comes up and stands right at the corner of the counter between the register space and the customer space; clearly he knew the woman at the register. I’m mildly annoyed in an entitled yuppie, customers should come first kind of way, because I know the kid is going to want something right when she is done with the person in front of me. My internal dialogue decides to wait and watch, rather than be a haughty, attention-demanding wench. I am smugly self-satisfied and rewarded when the kid jumps in and she starts helping him with no concern for the line of customers.

Right about now, given the intro, you’re probably thinking “What the fuck did that bitch, Dee-Rob, do? Jesus, can’t she just relax for Christ’s sake? It’s the day after Christmas.”

So the woman at the register pulls from under the counter a battery-powered toy, the kid hands her the batteries and after struggling to open the batteries she starts dumping one then two into the hole. Only she’s dumping 9-volt batteries into the compartment, the rectangular ones with both contacts on top. So I stop her and start explaining that there’s no way a 9-volt gets dropped into a hole, since you usually have to plug the two contacts directly into something. (In my head, I’m thinking, “Doesn’t everyone know about the contacts on 9-volts? How else could you lick it and get shocked.”)

The woman doesn’t really speak English, and she’s clearly annoyed at my intervention. “No, it takes batteries. Here.” She points to the hole.

“Yeah, I know, but not that kind. That kind plugs in.” I try to gesture plugging and point to the contacts.

“No, batteries.”

“Yes. Round batteries. Not square.”

“No. Batteries. Here.”

By now, the boy is helping too, pointing, “Don’t the batteries go here?”

“Yeah, yes, they do.” I can now see the battery compartment, where it’s marked “Size C.” “Yes, see here, where it says ‘C,’ you need the batteries that say letter C, these say 9. It’s a different kind. You need round ones,” I circle my fingers.

He runs off to the battery rack.

The woman shrugs her shoulders, stares at me a little and then starts ringing up the calendars I was buying. She says nothing to the boy or me about the toy.

When I’m done, the boy is still at the battery rack, confusedly looking at them all. I can’t help but walk over to “help” some more. Together we look through all of the batteries (it’s a discount store, though, so there is no neat arrangement of all types and sizes.) There are no C batteries to be found.

I can’t tell whether it’s his English or his lack of comprehension of battery sizes, but he basically held up every kind and doublechecked if they would work. I tried to explain that only the correct size would work.

In the end, I had to walk away while he still stared at all of the other batteries and mumbled something about “I guess I’ll have to put it back.”

End scene

I wonder whether I helped him, because he didn’t end up with a toy and useless batteries (by the way she was opening the batteries with abandon, it didn’t seem like money would be changing hands). Or maybe I just got in the way, I don’t know.

Meanwhile, it makes me wonder if all over the country there are various people thinking they have broken items, simply because they can’t follow the complexities of battery sizing.

I am happy to be typing this from my laptop in bed not my office. I should never go into work again.

One good thing about M. not being here, is he might co-opt one of my gifts, a monogrammed fleece throw. Very soft and watching TV on the couch worthy. But, those are my initials, baby.

Here is my most impressive Christmas gift . It’s from my brother Danny. Since I helped him out earlier in the year, I told him that he should get me something good. Now I feel guilty.

A Kitchenaid mixer is kind of a holy grail. It’s perhaps the one kitchen appliance I haven’t been able to buy for myself. So sturdy, so impressive, so timeless, so professional. I am not worthy.

I have a small kitchen, and I live in a horrible nest of clutter. So, with the Kitchenaid mixer as inspiration, today and this weekend I am going to be ruthless in dispatching stuff I don’t use around here. The espresso machine, gone. The blender, hmm, put away (not gone yet). Clothes, appliances, plastic things you are supposed to put things in, the pot large enough to boil jars for canning, the polenta inexplicably in my cabinet, gone. All gone. GONE, I SAY.

Then, I will buy eggs and whip or fold or blend in mechanical wonderfulness.

One gift from yesterday puzzles me in that it represents a complete 180 from the cynicism I embrace–some soap and an MFA membership from one of my brothers (whose name is not used in case the NSA scans this page and associates him with me, since we were discussing cyber policing). Anyway, I love good soap, like French hard-milled bars scented with tea or non-cloying flora. I like the way it feels, the way it smells. I guess like food, it’s one of those simple, sensuous things that it’s just as easy to go for the one that makes you feel good over the one that just works. Or maybe I mean sex, not food. Plug in your own sensuous fun.

Anyway, I have digressed considerably from the point. The point is since soap is not a topic of conversation in the family, it was a startling gift from my brother, who is (1) a boy and (2) my brother. But, M. mentioned soap (and his soap-related business plan that spawned from a day I obsessively looked over all types of boutique soap) to my bro’s girlfriend and mentioned it to my bro and it became part of my gift. I don’t generally dwell in a world in which my boyfriend shares something innocuous about me and it comes back with positive results. That’s far to life-affirming and warm.

Surprisingly (or some other adverb meant to show some kind of contrast), it was the same brother who kept saying “I just don’t get it” in regard to any mention of the now infamous Naked Comedy Show. He also opined that Macs completely suck, especially the new Powerbooks, including the one I am currently typing into), ‘blogs are a stupid trend, like pet rocks, stand-up comedy is just fat, sweaty guys saying stupid things, there is no difference between stand-up and playing music (in re my assertion that stand-up/monologues were the most stripped down of performances) and something about writing that I wasn’t clear on but gave me the feeling that he thought writing and performance were generally pointless pursuits.

I guess that’s the Yin Yang thing right there. Give me a thoughtful gift, but remind me that you hold none of my values as valuable.

Speaking of the Naked Comedy Show, while talking about it with my uncle, I realized something about myself and why I did it. My uncle knew me way back when, when I was literally unable to speak with strangers. My shyness was so acute that among his recollections was my complete inability to even buy gum. He had to take it to the register for me. I remember not eating and not peeing and all sorts of common activities outside of my home, because I would need to speak with someone to accomplish them. (Of course, the plus side is I can to this day hold my bladder like nobody’s business).

I still have a pretty inappropriate filter that tells me I can’t or shouldn’t talk with people (including bringing things to cash registers). That inner feeling also tells me that no one wants me to talk with them or bother them, etc. It is honestly sometimes hard for me to understand that my approaching someone is not a “bother” and in fact might even be a positive occurrence. My core shy person finds that incredible to believe.

My uncle also reminded me of the absolute reserve that was part of every aspect of my upbringing. Public emotions, like crying, and displays of affection of any kind, like hugging, were just not part of the equation. (I was going to say “not allowed,” but it wasn’t a matter of permission. It was valueless in that it just never occurred. period.) My first recollection of my mother hugging me, I was in eighth grade getting on a bus for the field trip to Washington, DC. The occasion of my going away from home by myself was the occasion on which my mother could hug me. It was quick and awkward and startled me.

Basically, yesterday’s conversation with my uncle showed me how much of my adult life is an attempt to be the opposite of that person. I actively make myself do and say things that contradict the shy reserve inside. I introduce myself, shake hands, hug and take the initiative precisely when inside I struggle.

In the end as an adult, I want to speak freely. I want to give and get affection readily and comfortably. I want warmth and depth and light and all of the metaphors of freedom and love. I want to be able to tell someone how I feel without a bit of ironic distance or smug sarcasm or a cloying neurotic quest for external validation. And, I want to be open and receptive and kind without any of the same irony, sarcasm and neuroses, if someone tells me how he feels.

Perhaps performance brings me closer to some of that freedom. Perhaps performing naked brought me further from the fear inherent in my shyness.

On a much lighter and tangentially related note, I flashed on a vision of myself where I was walking in California sunshine, smiling easily and living as a relaxing, easy going version of myself making choices and essentially living one of my fantasies.

“California dreaming on such a winter’s day…”

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?