Its the Holidays! Where's my Prozac?

Seasons a changin' again. Leaves of gold are fluttering gingerly across the pavement. Christmas jingles subtly making their annual debut in malls and elevators. The smell of Pumpkin Spice lattes snaking its way to your nostrils and of course-Olan Mills style family portraits that validate your play-boy bunniness and parenting mishaps:



There's something about this time of year that leaves me teetering precociously between this warm cozy feeling of safety and unbridled happiness(that undoubtedly was etched into my mind through good childhood memories of holidays spent with family) and bitter, BITTER depression. I could probably be diagnosed clinically bi-polar during the month of December (which could possibly explain my roller coaster relationship with chocolate and all members of his extended family, brownies included). Maybe it's the fact that we're reminded of all of our shortcomings of the past year, hence making unrealistic "resolutions" that always flounder and then we're just sad, still-five-pounds-overweight masochists. But damn it, we swear we're gonna read more, drink less, and finally take those salsa classes come the 31st every year, like clockwork.

Or maybe its answering to family. After all, Christmas is the DUI checkpoint of holidays. Except your family is the disapproving officer who smells the Jager on your breath and sees your poor decisions that span the length of a year. They're the ones gauging your accomplishments via a conventional timeline. Have you married? Started your career? I mean, who likes being held accountable for the healthy progression of their lives? And on the metaphoric Breathalyzer, I just blew a .999.

I know what it is. Apparently, I do have an internal clock.

Although it's not your run of the mill asking-my-first-date-if-he's-ready-for-marriage-and-kids- internal clock. It's quite the opposite. Take that picture I posted at the top. Is that what my future looks like?(minus the polos and questionable husband) Is adult life just one giant schedule? Are we doomed just to become creatures of habit? Every year, jumping through the same hoops, throwing the same dinner parties and making the same small talk to that neighbor who's lawn decorations are just 'soo cute!' I think that's what simultaneously makes me adore and loathe the holidays. It reminds me that every year, there's a steady, reliable source of love that's there for me. And my fear is that the same thing that brings me this sense of quiet, dignified joy now, will bore me later. I hope someday, a holiday season of ill conceived sweaters, baked goods and botched gift ideas makes me as happy as it does now. After all, keeping things in perpective, Christmas isn't about me-it's about ruthlessly siphoning off the generosity of extended family. Oh, and also, celebrating the birth of Jesus.

EHarmony, Facebook, Myspace, & Roomates.com are interchangeable words.

So I've always fared on the side of caution when it comes to meeting people via the internet. I pretty much assume every guy that's contacted me has some fundamental flaw. Like a Unibrow or a penchant for kidnapping women into windowless vans. And reasonably so I thought, I mean, why wouldn't these guys just meet women at the club? Or at church? Or in the bathroom stall where it said to be there "for a good time at midnight". To be fair, we're never true representations of ourselves on the internet. No matter what social media we're using. Listen, I'm a culprit myself. Amongst my friends, I'm a notorious "de-tagger". During the brief time I was single and actually interested in male interaction, versus wallowing in my own misery and steaming artichokes on a Friday night, I looked into creating a profile for Eharmony (because I wanted to meet someone special today). I was off the market for a combined four years, I turn around and all of a sudden, prowling the internet for dates while pant-less at your desk was no longer creepy, but collectively, the most viable way to meet a new partner. Hi Martha, welcome to 2006.

Maybe its my idealistic heart, or secret hopes of being able to tell my kids the adorable story of how I met their father at the dog park, when his dog bit me in the butt. It just sounds so much better than 'he cyber poked me and sent me 'icebreaker' questions as procedure before investing further time in getting to know me". So inorganic. Then as I went through my romantic Rolodex I realized that I had become somewhat of a FREAKIN' POSTER-CHILD for it. My 3 last boyfriend stats goes as follows:

Current-Facebook
Previous-Roomates.com
Previous before that-Myspace(R.I.P (Myspace that is, not him))

So then I had to re-evaluate what my issue was with dating-specific websites, when clearly I've not only dabbled, but done a nose dive, head first into the non-specific dating internet abyss. I guess it's because I always thought of myself as this unassuming, innocent bystander on the road of social networking. But in reality, everything on my profile was calculated. My photos went through a strenuous screening process before posted. Criteria included but not limited to: sexy but not slutty, fun but not an alcoholic. All the quotes and likes I had should reflect how cultured, worldly and life affirming I am. So perfect, I should just tie a pretty pink bow and send it to grandma. In actuality, I love Jersey Shore, I'm on a Hot Cheetos & Redbull diet and today is laundry day so I'm wearing boy shorts. And that's how its is, all day err day. So I guess I found my issue with online dating within my own hypocrisy; Everything we put out there about ourselves went under one giant red "Edit" button before anyone got their shameless,voyeuristic eyes on it!

Maybe someday, should I find myself single with a lost appetite for artichokes, I'll jump on the bandwagon. For now, I appreciate the gift of being able to judge a man the ol' fashioned way: through my own personal prejudices, filters and biases, based on his actual dysfunctions and not some manufactured porcelain version of himself. Cause, you know...that seems fair.

SMILE; it'll make you feel less horrible when you leave the grocery store

This post will be short and sweet-myself;manifested in a blog entry. But, the other day, as I was checking out at the grocery store, I noticed the bag boy looking at me. In my non expert, VERY assumptive opinion, I think he was mentally challenged by his demeanor and his gestures. Gestures-being the way he put my eggs at the bottom of the bag, underneath much heavier things such as a quart of milk. Or the gourmet bacon that hypnotizes me with her sweet spell every time! There's always a chance that he was just inexperienced in the bagging arts. So I don't know the official classification for it, but I am definitely not using those phrases insultingly, I mean them literally. I think at the very least maybe he might have had a social disorder? In any case, he smiled and naturally, I smiled back. But, in that very nervous, awkward manner. Sort of the smile version of the laugh you'd give when drunk Uncle Mike starts saying inappropriate things around your girlfriends. Then I immediately looked down, waiting to swipe my card as to avoid any further eye contact. In my peripheral, I could see he was still looking at me, waiting for me to catch his glances again. Every beep of the register slow-mo'ed...beep...beep..awkward...creepy...I did everything in my power to avoid this. Grabbing my bags, head hung and tail between my legs, and walked past him without even the slightest acknowledgment.

As soon as I got through the sliding glass doors, this feeling of guilt and sadness consumed me. There he was, this innocent guy, who's probably shunned and avoided by most society, women in particular, looking for a millisecond's worth of validation with something as simple as a smile. And I didn't give it to him. Yup, that's me, Captain Asshole right here *Raises hand*. All of a sudden in my mind, this guy's entire self worth fell precociously on my shoulders. And I destroyed it. Of course, I'm just flattering myself, cause' that's kinda what I do. But I couldn't get it out of my head. Not smiling means one thing to the recipient. Smiling is open for interpretation. And I'd rather give that misinterpretation than the alternative. So lesson learned, I'm smiling every time now. And why not? Time to exploit the braces I had in High school! You never know what it could do for someones day. And if you could change someones day, you might change their week, and their life and who knows, maybe next time you won't end up with 3 cracked eggs.

R.I.P. Blockbuster, welcome button-pushers

Netflix seems to be this microcosm for the current direction our generation is headed-a business that has completely boiled home entertainment down to a push of the button, eliminating the Friday night video store stroll. I'll be honest, I miss the video store. There is something nostalgic about walking in, pj's-clad and perusing the covers of 80's horror films, the cheesy ones of course-with a busty cartoon like heroine being clutched by some variation of a swamp creature. You grab 5 or 6 videos, dates ranging from new release to an old favorite you loved as a kid. Or a classic like "City Slickers 2: The legend of Curly's Gold". Then you play the "narrow it down" game with your partner..."what mood are you in? I feel like laughing, let's get a comedy." And you end up with 'American History X' somehow.

Of course, the fat kid in me rejoices silently when you proceed to checkout, considering there was always a very strategically placed stand of movie theater favorites. Sour patch kids, red vines, and even un-popped popcorn equipped with a round cardboard drum (which makes all the difference in the world of snacking). Well played, video-store-candy-marketing-personnel. Well played. I’ll even venture to say, I miss the panic of getting the video back in time. Late fees are so underrated these days.

Point being, it was a social thing that required you to get your lazy butt off the couch and put some damn pants on! And do something about that hair while you're at it. It required enough desire and interest to actually "go". Convenience makes discerning between what we’re passionate about and what is just easily accessible, difficult. Would I still watch Baseball if I couldn’t get it streamed to me via 8 different media outlets? Or if Andre Ethier's uniform didn't fit like a glove? But I guess that's neither here nor there. Today, everything we ever want or need is at our fingertips, and as a result our attention spans, our patience level and our appreciation for things are dwindling. I feel it every day, every time something on my blackberry is downloading at non-lightning speed. Oh, and screw you BBM, for perpetuating people's impatience so much, they can even see whether you've read their message or not. It’s a shame. Sometimes I wish I was around for my parents’ generation when things were much more simplified and it was easier to be content. But I get bored just thinking about it.