Why I hate Christmas, Or, Joy to the World

So, I've been called a scrooge a few times over the past couple weeks, for a variety of reasons. I don't like to decorate for Christmas. It's just a bunch of stuff you have to take out, put up, dust, and then put away again; I don't see the point. I don't like Christmas music. The same songs get repeated over and over and over (and over) and it makes me want to punch cute things, like puppies and babies. I don't like feeling like a heel because I can't buy people the expensive gifts I think they deserve. (And all the lovely people in my life deserve the most lavish and elaborate presents you can imagine!) I can't stand the abbreviation "Xmas", or worse "xmas".  (I mean, really, are the extra four letters so very hard to type?)  I don't like going to the mall; people are angry and make me angry and I don't like feeling that way.

But all of these reasons are superficial. And some of them aren't even accurate. I like the look of a decorated house, it's why I spend so much time at my parents' or friends' houses this time of year. And I secretly like Christmas music...well it's okay for a day or two right around Christmas, and some of those songs really ARE catchy.

But the real reason I hate Christmas, is that it tells people to be nice to each other.

I try to be nice to people all year. I like to buy presents for people all year. I carry joy in my heart all year. And I hate that society only makes a big deal out of it for approximately three weeks in December. We buy a tree and decorate it with lights and glass balls and buy things that we don't really need to put under it. We spend more time with our family and friends and have more fun, because it's "the holidays".
And I'm not saying that it isn't awesome to do that stuff with a vengence sometimes, it feels good.  But that quiet happy-ness you get when you do something nice for somebody who needs something nice to happen can be found everywhere, all the time.  I say, why not live like that all year 'round? Why not live more, laugh more and love more during the other eleven months of the year? We all certainly have something to be grateful for everyday. We certainly have somebody (or many somebodies) to love and be loved by. So why limit your joy?

I say, treat every day like Christmas. Spread Christmas cheer everyday of the year! It's not hard, it can be something as small as smiling at the guy making your coffee or holding the door for someone.  Be nice to someone everyday. Donate food to food banks everyday. Laugh with your family and friends as often as possible and don't do it because it's a particular time of year. Do it because you have love and you want to share it.

Joy to the World!

She got a new apartment, it's out on the escarpment; and in the glove compartment are my songs.

So, I have an apartment.  I'm sure I've mentioned this before.  I will, eventually, invite you all over for a housewarming party.  I'm hopeful that this will happen before the end of the year.  Probably.  Okay, so I'm not that hopeful.  I'd love for you all to come over now but I don't have blinds, or curtains, or a lot of furniture for people to sit on.  I don't have art on the walls or a well organized kitchen.  It's embarrassing. 

See, when I lived with Andrew I had a bunch of stuff.  I bought tons of crap for the house to make it organized, and pretty, and ours.  I thought that if I put enough stuff in it, he would stop seeing it as his, and start thinking of it as ours.  That he would see that I could make him a home.  That it would make him want to be with me.  It was never any of those things, and I (obviously) didn't accomplish any of those goals, and now I regret all the money I spent trying to make it a home when I was the only one committed to that endeavour.  But that's kind of besides the point.  The point is, I have an apartment.  It is all mine.  I can paint it any colour I want and buy any furniture I want cook whatever I want in it.  (Or I could cook whatever I wanted if I didn't have an Easy Bake Oven for a stove.  The thing is hobbit sized, I swear.)  And the bitch of it is, now that I have that freedom, I have no idea what I want to do with it.  The whole place is a blank canvas I'm afraid to fuck up.  Can't decide if I want to paint, where I want to hang my art, or where to store my big mixing bowls.  But I'll figure it out eventually.  And then I'll just do it.  Because I want to.  And because I can.

I was always very afraid to live on my own before.  In fact, when my parents used to leave me alone for the summer to go to the trailer, I'd go and stay with Andrew so the big bad boogey man wouldn't eat me in the night.  And now they've probably read that and shaken their heads in a disappointed fashion.  Or looked at each other and exclaimed, "I knew it!"  Or maybe they won't read my blog.  Yeah, that's probably what's going to happen.  I continue to be pretty scared sometimes.  Especially since watching Paranormal Activity and having a conversation with a friend about how that would work in an apartment building.  And because I have an over active imagination.  I should REALLY know better by now, but here we are. 

I know I've talked before about my #grownupgoldstar list.  I was able to check the apartment off before I knew it was on the list though.  I've never felt so confident in my own survival skillz before.  I'm sure I'll hit a snag at some point, but there is a very simple joy that hits me sometimes when I think about how I'm not relying on anybody else to live.  I pay all my bills and chip away at my credit card debt just like a real grown up.  And I make plans with people and carry them out.  I come and go as I please.  I've never felt this kind of freedom before and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Do you ever feel so paper thin? Like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?

I'd like to share a little story with you guys.  There's this bar I go to every week to sing karaoke because I'm an attention WHORE.  The bar is super sketchy, but it might also be the best bar ever.  For those who know the geography of Hamilton, it's at Barton and Sherman.  It's a great place to get raped.  I don't go there alone. OBVIOUSLY.

So my friend and I are there, sitting, drinking our beer, waiting for our turn to sing a song when I notice some drama unfolding behind my friend.  So I start narrating for him.  Here's what happened.

There are two guys and a girl who appear to be there together.  We called the woman Tits, because she had some, and when she walked, she lead with them.  Hammered.  The two guys we called Glasses, because he was wearing some; and the other, Shaggy because he needed a haircut.  Both SUPER hammered.  I'm just not that creative when I'm drunk, deal with it.

There is also Mr. Creeper.  Mr. Creeper is a regular.  There used to be a Mrs. Creeper but she hasn't been around lately, we're assuming she's in small pieces in the freezer.  When they came together, they'd try to pick up women, now that Mr. Creeper comes alone, he tries to pick up women.  Neither scenario had much success.

Oh, and by the way, I'm going through a manic phase right now guys.  Just a heads up.

The final two characters are Wibbly and Dibbly.  Wibbly is a nice, sorta handicapped looking woman.  When you can understand what she's saying, she's very pleasant.  I've never spoken to Dibbly.  I think they live in the apartments above the bar.  (Oh yeah, some of the regulars literally NEVER have to leave the bar, they just go upstairs.)

I think that's everyone.

So Tits tries to dance with Shaggy.  But Shaggy is very drunk and can't get up.  So Tits sits there all huffy.  So Glasses tries to dance with her but she's pouty and doesn't want to.  So he goes and dances with Wibbly.  At which point, Tits gets up and tries to fight Wibbly because Wibbly danced when Tits did not.  Wibbly tells her to screw off (I assume, I can never understand her) and so Tits decides to shove her.  So Wibbly knocks her arm away, which results in super-hammered Tits falling on the ground for the first time. 

So she decides that it's time to try dancing with Shaggy again.  He makes it to his feet but can't maintain verticality and has to sit back down.  So Tits dances with Mr. Creeper.  Eventually Glasses and Shaggy get fed up and leave together.  Like together, together.  Leaving Tits all on her lonesome.  So she tries to fight Wibbly again.  And is pushed down again.  Thankfully, Wibbly takes Dibbly upstairs for some alone time.  And I proceed to stop making eye contact with Tits.  I'm afraid, she'll start picking on me next.

But she doesn't.  She decides to hit on every single guy in the bar.  She manages to fall down about four times during this mission.  There are about 35-40 people in the bar, most of them male.  There was a whole group of black guys who did not enter the bar together but decided to bond over the repeated attempts at flirting.  It was really special.  Not a single guy in the bar took her up on it.  Even Mr. Creeper's response was, "You're nuts, Lady.  La, la, la, la, la."  Things are sad when Mr. Creeper is turning you down. 

My friend made the analogy that it's like she was that one Mii you have on your Wii that when they walk up to the general crowd of Miis, they all disperse and group up somewhere else.  I almost felt bad for her.  He also made the analogy of Pepe La Pew, from Looney Tunes.  Ah, ma cherie, let us go to ze casbah.  Smooch, smooch, smooch. We can make beautiful music togezzer. Smooch, smooch, smooch.  Drunk!Nikki found that very amusing.

So the whole point of me telling you this story was to make you feel better about yourself.  Because this shit ALWAYS makes me feel better about myself.  I often hear people telling me that they're unhappy with their job, their relationships, their general satisfaction with life.  That they thought they'd be somewhere else when they hit 25 or 30 or whatever.  I fall prey to this mentality at times myself.  But then I go to the bar and see something like that and I wake up happy that I am NOT Tits.  I may not be reaching my potential right at this moment, but at least I'm not Tits.

I maintain a certain level of functionality that she is clearly lacking.  My life may be boring and my company may be underpaying/utilizing my talents, but I'm still functioning.  I may have gone through a few months of therapy to get my head back on straight last year, but I'm okay now.  I may be living paycheque to paycheque but I'm okay with that.  And as petty as it sounds, I don't want people like Tits to try harder.  Like most people, I'm occupying a middle ground on the ladder of humanity.  I'm not brilliant or wealthy or especially pretty, but I'm not Tits.  And having people like her around makes the rest of us middlings look better.  Makes us feel better about ourselves and our station in life.  And maybe you think that sounds elitist.  Maybe it is?  I don't think it matters, because we all have a person, or a place, or something in our lives that makes us feel better about ourselves.  For me, it's a sketch bar with super hammered sluts.  So thank you, Tits.  I'll buy you a beer next time you show up.

I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty too. I was told I was beautiful, what does that mean to you?

My weight has always yo-yo'd. I don't think I've ever stayed the same weight for more than three months at a time. Not since I got smucked by that car when I was nine. I've been a chubby chick since I got out of the hospital. Being in a hip cast and eating like you're going through a nine year old growth spurt and then not being able to run around for a year after that will do that to a kid. I have been anorexic. I have dieted. I have EVEN tried exercising. I eventually just came to terms with the fact that I'm a chubby chick. As it turns out, I've even come to like my body. Hips, and ass and tits. Allllll of it. I love myself as I am.

And that's the trap. I REALLY hate it when people tell kids to love themselves as they are. Now, I'm NOT talking about who they are inside. I think everybody should just own their emotions and quirks and anything else they have inside them and I ALSO think that other people should just be accepting of other people's whatevers, like they are of their own. I'm a big supporter of love in all it's forms. What I'm talking about is appearance. Kids should not love their appearance if they are fat. I heard "love yourself as you are" a LOT as a kid. And maybe some of them meant my insides, but more meant my outsides. Because, (and I can own this now like it was nothing, but I was emotionally scarred from this as a kid) I was not an attractive pre/teen, they must've thought I needed the encouragement. I guess. But that's a DANGEROUS mentality. DANGEROUS.

Two years ago, after spending most of my childhood and adolesence and even some of my early adulthood as a fatty, I found out that I have high cholesterol. That I have probably had high cholesterol for years and that the damage I have done to my arteries and heart have potentially shortened my lifespan considerably. That if I didn't change things right away, I would probably stroke out before I was 35. And since I was 25 at the time, that was kind of a scary thought.

So I started a heart healthy diet and exercising (even though I hate whole grains like I hate the sun). And it worked. My cholesterol is slowly going down. But the problem is that I look in the mirror and think to myself, "hey, you're looking pretty okay today. You don't have to go to the gym today, go tomorrow." And then tomorrow comes and I still don't go to the gym, 'cause I'm still okay with my hips and my tits and my ass. Sure, they could be smaller. But I like being a little squishy around the middle. Because I love myself as I am. My point is, the damage that mentality caused haunts me still. I struggle to find something to fix in my appearance so I can fix what's wrong with the bits inside because I love myself as I am.

I guess all I'm trying to say is, make sure you're healthy. Eat healthy, be active. Loving yourself is no good if you're dead.

A pilgrim on my bended knees, I'd cross the desert if it please you.

So, I work retail some weekends to make extra cash for beer (which is nicely ironic, since I sell wine. I turn wine into beer. I'm like an alcoholic Jesus, y'all). I have worked for this company sort of on and off since high school. I love this job. It allowed me to pay off my student loans as soon as I was done school while still allowing me to study lots and stay in the honours program. It's easy, pays decent and feeds my need to be around people.

Normally I love being around strangers or new people. It's a chance to reinvent yourself every time. Yes, I lie to strangers. Wouldn't you like to tell somebody that you're a (fill in the awesome job you wanted when you were a kid) just once? Fireman? Zoologist? Monkey trainer? Anyway, yeah, I like to be around strangers. Awesome strangers who have those interesting senses of humour that only come out when you know you're never going to see the person you're talking to ever again. People are generally nicer to strangers who smile at them than they are to their own families. Except this morning. God, I wanted to Kill. Them. All.

Today I come into work all bouncy and perky like I am in the morning. I had a good night and a good sleep. Woke up well. Got my water, and cherry cheese danish. It's gonna be a good day.

I am ONE minute from opening the gate when some random old guy starts pushing it open and sticks his head inside and says, "you're open?"

And so I say, "I'll be opening in ONE minute." In my head I'm thinking that this guy's an ass for being so rude as to try to enter my OBVIOUSLY closed store.

And he says, "I'll wait out here then."

And I'm like, "Yes, you will." In my head I'm seething with rage.

And so, ONE minute later, I open the gate and he comes in and buys a $9 bottle of wine and is super rude to me. I wanted to kick him in the head out of the store. But I really wanted high sales today so I held my tongue.

But I'm still seething with rage. The Trews aren't even calming down. I'm about to try some Marianas Trench if that doesn't work I may have to punch something cute, like a baby or a kitten, just to release some of this anger.

Mommies, hide your babies.

P.S. OMG, a guy just walked past the store who looks EXACTLY like Patrick Duffy! I think Patrick Duffy just walked past my store guys. I mean, what else does he have to do? I'm gonna go meet Patrick Duffy now, y'all.

P.P.S. I just discovered VeVo and watched Adam Lambert's If I Had You three times in a row. You can let your infants out now.

I'm dying to tell you anything you want to hear, 'cause that's just who I am this week.

I read a lot of blogs. So when I decided to start my own, I had done my research. There was just one aspect I couldn't decide on, and that was whether to have an introductory post to start off or to just jump in and pretend like we've known each other for ten years. Being me, I just jumped in. And I don't regret that, I love skipping the awkward bits. However, I've come to my second post and I realized that there was a "getting to know me" post that was REQUIRED. That if I didn't post on this topic, you would never understand another word I typed. We would be forever seperated by a chasm of misunderstanding. This subject is so important, so vital to me that I can't ignore it. And that subject is: Gold Stars.

So, I have this list. It's a list of things that real grown ups do. Things that most normal, healthy adults have done by the time they're 25 or so. Things that I have never done, and that scare me to try. Things like: calling to make a dentist appointment, keeping their apartment clean enough that their allergies don't act up like a mofo everyday, owning property, driving to strange cities on their own, living by themselves, keeping houseplants alive for more than a month, paying their bills on time, going to parties on their own, eating nutritous meals that don't involve ice cream OR cookie dough, or taking classes on subjects that interest them (workshops, seminars, etc.) I call this my Grown Up Gold Star chart. There are two columns on it: Me and Everybody Else. Everybody else automatically has all the gold stars.  When I do something on the chart, I get a gold star. It's not a complicated system.

When I moved back into my parents' house after the breakup all the slots were empty. I had never had to, or even been able to do any of the things on the chart. Something as simple as calling to make an appointment gave me a panic attack. Hell, calling my own mother up just to chat made me hyperventilate. The thought of driving to Toronto dropped me to the ground. The fact that I wasn't a fully functioning person wasn't something that had ever bothered me before. And then the breakup happened. And I was told that the anxiety and social phobia had contributed to him wanting to leave. I was so broken up about the whole situation that it didn't register at first, but once I'd gotten a little perspective on the whole situation, I realized how stupid it was to be so afraid of something that ultimately can't hurt you. (Unless you're calling the dentist while driving to the strange city alone, that shit can kill you.) So I started setting goals for myself, something I've never been especially good at. (Not even back in grade three when they make you fill out questionnaires about what you want to be when you grow up. Most kids said, "astronaut" or "doctor". I was like, "I don't know, ninja?") My first goal was to move out of my parents' house. To me, that seemed like the perfect way to prove to myself that I was a grown up. I was going to find an apartment and move out! By my birthday! Yes! That gave me just about four months to do it. Now, I'd set easier goals with longer timelines in my life and not been able to accomplish them. I didn't actually have a lot of hope for myself and my ability to do this. Especially when I saw the rental prices out there. It is entirely cost prohibitive to live on your own these days.

But I found a place, only slightly out of my price range, that almost immediately felt like home to me. I fell in love with this small space as soon as I saw it, and so even though I went and looked at other apartments, I knew I'd wind up here. So, I came back and signed papers the week before my birthday. I didn't move in until the weekend after, but the space was mine before my birthday. Looking back on it, I'm about 99% sure that finding an apartment was the first goal I'd ever set for myself and achieved. Unprecedented. But I did it. If I can do that, I can do anything.

So I went to a party on my own and made new friends. And I drove to Toronto to attend a workshop on a topic that interested me (I got two stars for that night) and was only a little awkward (okay, I was super awkward, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? WHAT?). I let my OCD side out and clean my apartment once a week, and have been rewarded with a safe haven from my allergies. I do my laundry and go to the gym and pay my bills. My chart is filling up with stars. And everyday my panic gets less and less. It's still there, probably won't ever go away completely, but it gets less and less. And I breath more and more. And have more of myself to give to others, to try new things, to find new things to add to the chart that I can achieve and fill the slots up with stars.

I still haven't made a dentist appointment though.

So I actually wrote this post a few days ago. I miss the internet.

I had a dream last night. In the dream, I was in a car accident. I wake up in the hospital and the doctors tell me that while they were taking scans of my brain they found a tumour. I freak out and the doctors assure me that it's operable but I'll have to go through a couple weeks of chemo before they operate to remove it. I spend the rest of the dream sick and wasting away because I won't eat, even when I'm hungry, and trying not to let people know I'm sick. I desperately want the people I love to sit by my bedside and hold my hand and tell me that they love me but I don't tell anybody I'm sick. At the end of the dream, I wake up from surgery and all the friends I've hidden my illness from are mad at me for hiding it. Happy I'm alive, but still crankipants that I put myself through that alone.

Now, you might be asking yourself, "Self, why is she talking about this awkward dream she had on a blog? A brand new blog especially?" Well, I'll tell you. The reason I'm bringing this up here and now is because it makes no sense at all, but it probably also says a lot about me. I don't know, I'm not a doctor. Almost everything about that dream goes against what I would actually do. I mean, I'd take it calmly at first and then a week into chemo when my hair starts falling out, THAT'S when I'd freak. I mean, I love my hair. I JUST got it the way I want it. And not tell anyone? Please. I'd post that shit on Facebook and Twitter (#canceromg!) and be sad when nobody commented on it. The only part of that dream that DOES make sense to me (other than the not eating thing, I've pulled that one before) is that if I hid something that big and important that everybody'd be pissed. I'd be pissed if I found out someone I loved was that sick and didn't mention it to me. And THAT'S why I'm blogging about it.

I know people often complain with something bad happens and they have to deal with the fallout. That's human nature and most of us are humans. But if it's hidden, doesn't that make you more upset than having to go to a hospital (which always freak me out, I don't know about you) and hold a sick person's hand? I mostly go through my life being insanely honest about everything and assuming that everyone else does the same thing. Clearly, I'm a crazy person because every few weeks I find out something new that was hidden and now isn't and it makes me an awkward llama. When I was a child I somehow got it in my head that I needed to know everything about everything. That quest for knowledge is what has driven me so far in my life. I mean, I'm a dillitante and have no specialty, which (I like to think) is a specialty all on it's own, but that's why they call me Nikipedia. (No, really, people call me that. I swear. I'm ridiculously pround of the moniker.) If I could just leave well enough alone I'd never learn the horrible things that happen when I'm not around, hear about the petty things people say. But then I'd feel helpless later. Impotent. I'd rather deal with the bad up front and have done with it. I'll take the ugly truth over the pretty lie any day. Even if that means sleepless nights and endless blogging.

All that being said, I'm not actually talking about anything specific here. The dream just got me thinking about the nature of trust and people's natural ability to put on a public face. And it also made me think about how naive I am, and about how I operate on full disclosure all the time (and how I should probably not eat dinner so late at night as it always causes strange dreams). Maybe I should hide a part of myself? Keep a bit back just for me that people can't pick apart and judge? Because people do. That's also human nature. And I won't judge them for it, glass houses and all. But for all my prolestizing about it, I don't want to. I just don't want to hide my feelings. If I'm happy to be included in something, I'm going to tell you. If I'm happy you're in my life I'm going to find a way to show you. If I'm angry because you were mean to me or any of mine, well you're going to hear that too. I'd rather live on full burn and feel the painful lows that can come from ostrasization or judging just so I can feel the amazing highs that come about after. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I won't willingly take off my shirt.

Of course, I also dreamed about zombies last night so who knows.