Grr-attitude

I love the holiday season. And I especially loved it when I was in New York because it’s magical – there’s simply no place like Manhattan at Christmas time. When I traveled to Italy a few years ago at this time of year, I expected the festiveness to exponentially outdo anything I’d seen in the United States, and I was surprised that it was quite the opposite. There was very little public display – no giant lit-up Christmas trees, no mall Santas, no seasonal half-off sales, no last-minute shoppers pepper spraying eachother for home electronics. It wasn’t my Americanized vision of Christmas, but I could respect the understated sentiment, the private matter of holy celebration. And the utter lack of commercialism involved was quite refreshing.

I find it hard to relate Christmas as we do it up here with the origins of the holiday. It’s a massive retail marketing ploy to get us to spend money. Not my family though – being the “goddam foreigners” (old family joke) that we are, we’ve never totally bought into the American expression of Christmas. That said, we’ve celebrated it for as long as I can remember. At first, I imagine that to the adults, it didn’t mean much – America was new to them then and its traditions were not yet their traditions. Perhaps the whole thing didn’t make sense to them – the notion of a jolly fat man and reindeer and the sleigh and the North Pole…How that relates to the baby Jesus is, well, perplexing.

But for me (the kid), they abided. We had a plastic drugstore Christmas tree for most of my childhood, and only in recent years have I gained exposure to a real live (well, dying) pine tree. The excitement of it all has never been lost on me – I love the lights (so much that I’ve been known to keep “happy lights” up all year round), the tinsel, stockings, warming drinks, and the spirit of sharing and caring.

We lived in a chimney-less apartment building and so I would tape my letters to Santa to the balcony sliding glass door. I don’t remember ever leaving cookies or milk out for him – or ever having cookies and milk in the house for that matter (what did we have, tea and dates?). My family did well in coming through on my Christmas list, but one year, “Santa” must have overslept, or I awoke earlier than expected, because under our plastic tree was nothing. Nada. Zilch. My sobs awoke my mom, and shortly thereafter (after being told that Santa hadn’t gotten to our home yet (traffic, I guess?), so I had to go back to bed until he swung by), presents miraculously appeared. There were some other glitches along the way too, like when Santa brought me a generic Cabbage Patch Doll and not one with the requisite butt signature. It was all good fun though, and still is – celebrations with my family are certainly never lackluster.

As I’ve gotten older and joined the adult population, my presents have waned. I wish I could still make a list and tape it to the balcony door and have someone care enough to make my dreams come true. That’s the unique magic of childhood, I guess. On the bright side, it’s my chance to give back for all my family’s efforts on my behalf over the years. And so, I kind of like playing Santa’s elf.

On that note (lest this story sound too sentimental), let me share a bit of my day with you.

I spent last night baking cookies and making stockings for some of my teammates. This morning I elfishly handed out the little presents and pleasantly surprised a few people I know and like. And then there was this reaction: “These cookies look weird. Their color’s really weird. They look gray” and “This stocking is perfect – I’ve been looking for stocking for my dog.” Later, I arm-twisted acknowledgment for a gift I sent clear across the country: “Did you get the gift I sent?” “You should say thank you.” And to top it off (to ensure I have nightmares tonight), I decided to go to the mall after work. I can barely deal with the mall on the best of days – I swear people in LA generally walk around similarly slow and confused as Times Square tourists – and think I may have actually growled at a man who cut me off as I’d finally started to pick up slight a stride. My jovial spirit was broken a bit today, but it will be back tomorrow. And if tomorrow, anyone gets on my nerves, then I’m out of the game until it’s time to sing happy birthday to Jesus.

Bonafide Adult

When left to my own devices, here are the things I (apparently) like to do:

• Exercise
• Eat
• Blare pop music
• Dance
• Sing
• Stay up all night long

It’s only been two days since my boyfriend went out of town, and I’ve already reverted back to the real me. The me I am when I’m left alone with no one to judge me or stop me from doing ridiculous and/or gluttonous things. And I must say, I’m having fun!

Today I decided that eating three chocolate covered Joe-Joe’s made me feel like a hideous monster, so on the drive home I pep-talked myself into exercising tonight (to burn off the three Joe-Joe’s). Immediately upon entering my apartment, I proceeded to put on my workout clothes (I find that if I put the clothes on, I’m way more likely to follow through), spent the better part of an hour searching (in vain) for my carrying pouch that I put my iPod in (yup, I kick it old school style like that), then finally took off racing down the sidewalk for my first Los Angeles jog. Since I couldn’t find my pouch, I left my music at home, so to pass the time, I sang songs to myself in my head (that’s normal, right?). After jogging for about half a mile, a harsh reality set in. That I am out of shape. And possibly old. (But let’s go with out of shape, because I could conceivably change that.)

I set a goal that I would jog for a mile, which is 2000 steps on my pedometer (yes, I know wearing a pedometer makes me seem middle-aged, but what was I to do to gauge the distance?). I made it to about 1600 before I quit, got hungry, and proceeded to walk (officially my “cool down” phase) into the nearest Thai restaurant. I was seated in a very romantic nook by the window where I set forth to do what I always do when I eat out in real restaurants by myself – I ordered two entrees. Thirty minutes and a fat tummy later, I walked home with doggie bag in hand and proceeded to feel guilty about ingesting exponentially greater calories than I’d managed to burn on my measly jog. The only remedy to this dilemma, naturally, was a dance party. To achieve this, I turned to iTunes (where I hold the title of “The Only Person in America to Pay for her Music”) and I purchased some new songs that energized me. As I blasted my new tunes – which were extra gratifying because had my boyfriend been around, there’s no way he’d have been keen on a Phoenix and Foster the People concert at 11pm – my exuberance overtook me because I ended up dancing around maniacally for a hour and had to stop only because I made myself dizzy.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want. (And these are the things I choose to do?)

America’s Next Top Confused Immigrant

I think I’ve done myself a disservice by not watching shows like America’s Next Top Model. From my understanding, Tyra has some good tips for how to maximize photo potential, which I realize from looking at recent photographs of myself, that I haven’t a clue about. I tend to appear neckless and chubby-armed in photos. I do strange things with my hands. And I don’t know at what angle I’m supposed to stand to look svelte, or how I’m supposed to position my legs. I feel like if I close my eyes, I can exactly envision the standard one or two poses every Hollywood starlet does, and you’d think that I’d at least be able to emulate what they do, but something seems to take over me in the presence of a flash bulb.

My friend used to describe my photo look as “Confused Immigrant.” It’s not that off the mark, sad to say. Sometimes, just as the shutter snaps, my eyes take on an other worldliness that is indescribably and (I hope) not accurate to what I usually look like as an animated human being. My boyfriend has on more than one occasion asked if I have a lazy eye. It’s that bad.

I had to renew my driver’s license the other day and they took a new photo of me for it. Before that, my license photo was ten years old. I very definitely looked like a confused immigrant in that one. When the DMV lady snapped my photo this time, she said “This one is much better,” so that gave me some hope. My new license is supposed to arrive in the mail in a couple of weeks. Fingers crossed!