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…”