I love movies. I mean, I love movies. I love going to the movies, I love renting movies, I love putting on a movie when I walk in the door . . . me and movies, we have this thing (I also have this thing with television, you know, that no-good corporate evil-doer and all, but that’s another entry ENTIRELY). So it only made sense that I fell in love with someone who is also a notorious movie fiend.

He’s also a great kisser and makes me coffee every morning, BUT THAT’S NOT WHY YOU’RE HERE.

Who knows why you’re here, really. Certainly not I, ’cause then this website would be full of boobies. Because that’s the only reason I would be here if I wasn’t writing all of this and OH HELLO TANGENT TRAIN. YES I WOULD LIKE TO GO ON A MERRY CHOO-CHOO RIDE! Chugga chugga chugga chugga . . .

In conclusion, we are movie fans. We spend a lot of time going to bed at 8:30 so we can stay awake to watch a full movie. We spend a lot of money on Coca-Colas the size of car batteries and movie tickets because, people, you can NOT see Avatar any other way. And yes, you have to splurge on the 3-D IMAX version. It’s the law. We’ll call it the James Cameron Magnum Carta: The Man Spent $300 Million To Make This Movie, I Think You Can Splurge $13 For A Ticket Compromise.

Saturday night, we went and saw a 9:30 showing of Sherlock Holmes. And PS, the only reason I’m telling you what time we saw it was to make the entire world aware that we stayed out until 12:30ish. Or was it 1:30ish? WE’RE SUCH PARTY ANIMALS. That’s nothing compared to Friday night when Jason came home around 8:00 and said “Let’s do something!” Imagine my surprise as he usually comes home around that time and says “I’m ready to lie down!” We ended up going to the bookstore so he could get a more in-depth Spanish book (oh my little nerd) and when we walked back in the house at 9:15, he said “Whew! That wore me OUT!”

Chugga chugga chugga chugga . . .

Where was I? RIGHT. Sherlock Holmes. Guys, I don’t know what to say except that I can’t believe I waited so long to see it. It is faaaantastic. One of my favorite films, easy. It’s just so . . . GOD. Robert Downey Jr. kicks some mother-lovin’ ass, does he not? And Jude Law is just . . . sigh. Delectable. Both of them are really and their chemistry is incredible. I was a little let-down by Rachel McAdams, but I really think it’s because her character just wasn’t as complex or as deep as I would’ve liked. It’s a kick-ass movie with great special effects, funny lines, a mystery and worth every penny. For all the naysayers . . . OFF WITH YOUR HEADS. And also, off with the head of the girl who played Mary, Watson’s fiancee. ‘Cause my God . . . let’s just call her Hoover, she sucked so bad.

I mean, people. This is why I want to be an actor. To make movies like Sherlock Holmes. Movies that get applause when the credits start rolling. Movies that just kick ASS. I can’t explain it. I went into that theater, slunk low in my seat, slurping on a Coke and I was done. That was it. I wasn’t Sam, I wasn’t in Atlanta, I wasn’t in 2010. I was in London watching The London Bridge construction and following after Holmes as he chased suspects down alleys. I was able to escape. That’s why I can’t fathom when people say “Oh, it was just so unrealistic.” Hey, you, go suck your monocle. I didn’t go to the movies to be reminded of Haitian earthquakes and terrorism and being in debt and a shitty economy. I went to the movies to get away from all of that.

I think that’s why I’m such a huge fan of the movies. Wait, scratch that. I KNOW that’s why I’m such a huge fan of the movies. I can remember being younger, around 9 or 10 and reading about The Great Depression. The bread lines, the foreclosures, the stock market plummeting and America’s spirit plummeting right along with it. I can still see the sepia photos, marveling at how everything looked like a fine layer of dust had been laid across the country. The somber expressions accompanying everyone’s face, the wide eyes of children as they left for school, their fathers still in bed because there was no Nine to Five anymore.

But the thing I remember most? There may not have been bread in the pantry or milk in the fridge, but they could scrape up a nickel to go see a movie. Just to get away from everything.

That right there? That’s why I’m going to be an actor.

PS. We rented The Hurt Locker and watched it last night. Do yourself a favor: SEE IT RIGHT NOW. It will . . . oh my God. It will blow your mind. And if you’re anything like me (ie. an emotional fool), you better get some Kleenex.

FUN FACT: Kathryn Bigelow, the director, will most likely be nominated for an Oscar. And that will only be the fourth time, in the HISTORY of the Academy, that a woman will be nominated for Best Director. I never realized what a male-dominated category that is (trust me, I’m not a feminist). And in related news: James Cameron, director of Avatar will also most likely be nominated for an Oscar. AND HEY. They used to be married! Where the hell is Rod Serling to accompany this TWILIGHT ZONE episode?

I haven’t been sleeping great lately. It takes me a while to fall asleep and then I usually wake up several times during the night. I lay in the dark, my eyes focusing on the ceiling and pick at my hair or crack my knuckles until I can succumb to sweet, sweet sleep again.

I don’t know if it’s the coffee I’ve been having around 6:30ish each night or the Coke I have at work during the day or all the heavy reading I do right before bed. Maybe it’s the house creaking or the crazy dreams about dolls I’ve been having or my audition anxiety.

Or maybe it’s Jason shaking me in the middle of the night with a look of terror on his face, freaking me the hell out before he flops back down on his pillow and immediately starts snoring.

It’s happened pretty frequently often JESUS CHRIST A LOT and quite a bit since we’ve been together, but it’s happened at least three times (THAT I CAN REMEMBER) in the past week. And of course when I tell him about it, he has no recollection what.so.ever. I’m always really curious (after I attempt to strangle him and fail) if he’s having some kind of nightmare, but he can never remember. He thinks it’s weird, but y’know CONTINUES TO WAKE ME UP AT THREE AM.

It usually goes a little somethin’ somethin’ like this: I am in the midst of a delicious dream involving both Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz and Cpl. Wilhelm Wicki in a hot tub. I’m just getting to the part where they are fighting over who gets to whisk me off to Paris first when Jason starts to shake me awake. My eyes take a minute to open since, you know, it’s dark out and the rest of the free world is sound asleep and I have to remember who I am, where I am, what year is it and WHY THE HELL ARE YOU SHAKING ME.

Jason’s big green eyes are usually wide with worry or fear (I can never tell those two apart, damn) and he’s patting my chest and legs with his hands. Over and over like he’s searching for some goddamn gold or something under the blankets. “Are you okay?” I whisper, my voice all scratchy with, YOU KNOW, SLEEP? He continues to pat me and then will stop and stare at the front door. Wait, I’m sorry. Not stare. STAAAAAAARE. Like he’s in a trance or something. And not a fun cartoon trance like with a line of drool hanging out one corner of his mouth and his pupils turning into dollar signs. We’re talkin’ horror movie trance. Like his head’s going to slowly creak alllll the way around before he projectile vomits over everything.

“Are you okay?!” I’ll ask again, shaking him back. He starts patting me again and then will immediately stop and whip his head to the left to stare, oh OOPS I MEANT STAAAAAAARE at the windows. At this point, I’m convinced that Michael Myers (JESUS CHRIST, THAT PICTURE IS HORRIFYING, but hey, Fun Fact: That mask is actually a rubber Captain Kirk mask with the wig teased out and spray-painted) is standing outside the house and is ready to kill me. “Did you hear something?” I’ll whisper, completely sitting up in bed now, ready to make my run for it, ’cause I don’t have to be faster than Michael Myers, I just have to be faster than Jason.

HA HA, I’m just kidding! I would never run and leave Jason behind! I would make Jason go outside as a decoy first. And then run!

“Jason, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” I ask one final time. Jason turns back to me with a HUH?! and then whispers “Are yooooou okay?” before he closes his eyes, passes back out in the bed and heavy-sleep-breathing commences. “What the fuuuuck?” I whisper into the dark before laying back down and trying to coax the image of Michael Myers (show some respect, people, you have to use his entire name) ripping into my flesh out of my head. And hey guess what? I CAN’T. Because we all know the more you try to push something out of your head, the more it gets sucked back in until you’ve got your own little home version of Halloween 27: The Samantha Slashing on repeat. Every noise heard becomes the crunch of his boots as he comes to find me or the sound of his knife dragging across the walls of the house as he peeks through the windows or that heavy porn breathing thing he does through the spray-painted Star Trek mask.

It takes me a long time to convince myself that I don’t have big enough boobs to be slasher-flick-chick material and I finally drift off to sleep. Only to be awakened at 5am (are you all aware that IS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT) by a certain well-rested, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed someone who must go to the gym for round 203598724509 of Beating The Carbs.

Which I shouldn’t hate on so much. ‘Cause God knows his biceps are gonna be the ones crushing that there trachea of Michael Myers. Not mine!

PS. In other news, I had a fan-freaking-tastic audition Friday afternoon and I really, really want this role. I actually only did the audition in one take (it was my “rehearsal”) because my agent (I’m sorry to sound like a self-righteous douche) loved it. He said it was just like he was having a conversation with Sammy! “Well,” he said, “sweet Sammy, not foul-mouthed Sammy”.

HUH. Like I’ve got some fucking potty mouth or something.

So anyway, fingers crossed, people! Or throw some holy water or sacrifice a goat or wake up your girlfriend in the middle of the night and terrorize her. Whatever it takes!

Confession The First:
I have no idea what quinoa is. I even bowed down to the trusty god of Wikipedia and nothing. I get that it’s a healthy alternative to . . . something. Rice? Is it like couscous? Is it some tofu shit? I don’t know what the hell it is. Or how to cook it. OR HOW TO PRONOUNCE IT. And the sad part? I really want to try it. WTFery at it’s finest.

Numbero Dos:
When it comes to politics, I’m one of those bleeding heart liberals, proudly supporting that hot piece of ass Democrat party. But when it comes to knowing all the logistics of the three branches and the house versus the senate and the White House staff? Well, I’m pretty much turning oxygen into carbon dioxide over here. With a little drool. Despite the fact that I took AP US Government in high school and surprisingly passed the exam with a 3 (on a scale of 1-5, people, WORK WITH ME HERE), I automatically think of Leo McGarry when someone mentions our Chief of Staff.

THIRDLY:
I just Wikipedia-d glaucoma and now I know why everybody looks at me like I’ve got Medusa hair and just sprouted six legs when someone has a coughing fit and I jokingly say “Ew! You’ve got the glaucoma!” I’ve been confusing glaucoma with emphysema. Jesus Christ, that’s embarrassing.

See what happens when people get a day off work? They celebrate Dr. King by getting drunk and annoying the shit out of me.

“Excuse me? Do you have Ivanabitch?”

No, we don’t.

“At all?”

Nope.

“Quick question for you, do you have a smaller Patron than the $40.00 one?”

Yes, a pint.

“How much is it?”

25.99.

“Is this $20.00 vodka any good?”

. . .

“This 360 vodka?”

Yeah, it’s okay. It’s pretty new, so I haven’t heard much.

“Is it really $20.00?”

Yup.

“Really?”

. . . yes.

“Are these two vodkas the same size?”

Yeah.

“This one’s $11.99?”

Yep.

“For real?”

YES.

“Do you have a mini Patron?”

Yeah.

“How much is it?”

4.99.

“So you don’t have Ivanabitch?”

Dude, that was like 20 questions ago. No. I need your ID.

“FOR REAL?!”

Yeah.

“Wow, really?!”

GODDAMNIT, YES.

“So when will you get Ivanabitch in?”

Um, never. We discontinued it.

“Forever?”

Yeah.

“Why?!”

It wasn’t selling very well.

“You ever had it?”

No.

“How much I owe you?”

21.39.

“Which way is out?”

That door.

“How late y’all open?”

10:00.

“10?”

. . . yes.

“So no Ivanabitch?”

. . . Yeah. Yeah, we’ve got it.

“FOR REAL?!”

No.

“Where is it?”

*blink blink* I was joking.

“I can go out this way?”

Yes. Yes you can.

Holy Mother of God. I feel amazing. I am a brand-new person and I no longer feel like The Crazy is pulsing through my bloodstream. I don’t have to Google “therapist for psycho girl” or “how long can I stay in bed before the sores eat my body alive”. I can watch a romantic comedy (ie. You’ve Got Mail) for the first time and not cry my eyes out until the very end. I can BREATHE. Are you all aware just how important this is? THIS BREATHING THING. I’m no doctor, but I would venture to say that it’s très importante to be able to take a deep breath without crying or throwing up.

SO HI THERE AND HELLO. I’m back. And feeling pretty damn good (considering I’ve been fully awake since about 6:00 this Monday morning JESUS).

Jason’s place is really starting to come together (come together riiiiight now . . . over me. PS: I love Aerosmith, but I hate their cover of that song). I bought a pack of wooden spoons (LYKE OMG I KNOW) and almost had a fit in the Wal*Mart aisle about how cute they were and look at all the mixing I can do and oh my GOD PAULA DEEN HAS A LINE OF KITCHEN SUPPLIES?! THEY’RE ALL IN THE SHAPE OF A ROOSTER?! GREAT SCOTT. I’ve gotten really into cooking lately, mainly so I can fatten Jason up and finally push him into that oven. He found a cookbook at trash/treasure a week ago and brought it home to me as a present. GUYS. Jason has bought me pearls, a toaster and a cookbook!

His name is now Ward Cleaver.

Anyway, while flipping through the book, I came across this recipe for roasted stuffed squash. I’ve only recently learned about the magic that is THE BAKED SQUASH, so I was really stoked to make it. It was a pretty simple recipe and was basically a white rice, tomatoes and black olives mix poured into squash and then baked. Or . . . roasted. YOU KNOW. Whatever happens when you stick shit in the oven.

I am Le Cordon Bleu trained, WERE YOU NOT AWARE?

. . . I don’t know why I started talking about the squash. Wasn’t I talking about shopping? Or getting the place filled with stuff? FOCUS.

So! Hi! I’m into cooking now was where I was going with that. And we’re into getting the house to feel homey. See, my aesthetics is LOTS OF STUFF EVERYWHERE! whereas Jason’s is more like Let’s Keep It Neat, No Clutter Please. We’re compromising. And when I say compromising, I mean, I’m throwing shit everywhere and then moving it when he says the house looks like a pigsty.

HA HA JUST KIDDING. He doesn’t let me put any shit anywhere.

I sent him a text yesterday about doing some decorating:

Me: Sooo . . . let’s just say, theoretically, that I bought some chili pepper lights. Could we hang them?
Jason: Oh yeah! Theoretically.
Me: Theoretically, of course!

So I totally bought some. And they are so pretty and gaudy and he hung them above the kitchen sink and they look glorious.

TRUE STORY: So, he stood on a stool in a pair of jeans with two big holes in the ass and no shirt to hang plastic chili pepper lights in the kitchen window. It was just a wee bit redneck and a whole lot of hilarious. He uses clothespins to drape the lights around:

Jason: Hand me a bullet, please.
Me: . . . a what?
Jason: A bullet!
Me: What the hell is a bullet?
Jason: A C-47!
Me: I HAVE A CLOTHESPIN.
Jason: That’s what I’m talking about! That’s what they’re called!
Me: Since when?!
Jason: On movie sets, we say hand me a bullet or hand me a C-47.
Me: . . . WHY.
Jason: That’s just their name!
Me: Why don’t you call them a clothespin? Everybody knows what a clothespin is.
Jason: ‘Cause we just don’t.

And then I realize he’s sticking the clothespins into a large crack above the window.

Me: Is that supposed to be there?
Jason: What?
Me: That CRACK you’re sticking the CLOTHESPINS in.
Jason: Where I’m putting the bullets?
Me: . . . yes. Are you supposed to stick stuff in there? Is that huge crack/hole supposed to be there?
Jason: Oh, absolutely not.

The house is looking good. It’s cute, it’s homey, bullets in the wall and all. He was in Greenville this past weekend and Ron & Signe (the couple he visits/helps with renovations) sent him three huge boxes of stuff. We’ve got 20 gorgeous sea-foamy green plates with 20 matching bowls, a ton of wine/martini/highball glasses, a mixing bowl, a butter dish and a food processor missing some blades.

. . .

Like I said. It’s coming together.

It’s like homesickness. A crippling wave of combined nausea and anxiety, I stay up all night grinding my teeth, my stomach in knots. I’m constantly on the verge of tears and all it takes is someone to ask me “Are you okay?” and the waterworks start. Frustration sets in as they ask me, “What’s wrong?” and I can only respond with “I don’t know.”

Because I don’t know. I never know. I have no idea what’s wrong with me.

I’ve struggled with it for a long, long time. I can remember in elementary school feeling the panic and the depression set in around 5:30 on Sunday afternoons, realizing that I had to go to school the next day. I was in the car with Mom, when I was about six or seven and telling her that I felt sick thinking about it. She told me, “I used to feel like that, too” and I remember feeling so sorry for her. Because it was such an awful feeling.

It crippled me one specific day when I was 13, again on a Sunday. “The Proud Family” was just starting up on The Disney Channel and the theme song made me feel so homesick, so lonely and so sick that I immediately burst into tears. I cried and I cried and I cried and Mom called me into the laundry room to pick up my clothes. She saw my tear-stained face and swollen eyes and asked me what was wrong. I told her, “Nothing. I don’t know,” while taking big, sobbing gasps of air. She became irritated, telling me “Fine, obviously something’s wrong, but you don’t want to talk about it.” I didn’t think to say that if I really KNEW what was wrong, I would gladly talk about it.

It’s the same feeling that used to pummel me into my bedroom carpet in high school, crying over missed homework assignments and over a boy I gave my heart to and then read the MySpace messages he sent to other girls. It’s the same feeling I felt one night in August when I should’ve been enjoying the beach, but was instead bringing out every piece of emotional luggage I owned with my friend Jagermeister and showing them to Jason. It’s the same feeling I’m feeling right now.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I cried in the dark, trying to be quiet and then I had terrible, terrible nightmares, my insecurities showing dramatically as each one included Jason leaving me. I grinded my teeth, woke up with a terrible headache and complete loss of interest in my audition that afternoon. All I could think was “Something is wrong with me, something is wrong with me, something is wrong with me” and it made me cry harder.

I don’t know where it’s stemming from. I really don’t. All I know is that it’s paralyzing me. I’m jealous, I’m crabby, I’m angry, I’m short-tempered and I DON’T KNOW WHY. I had a brief high moment today when I had an awesome audition, I mean knocked ‘em dead, and then didn’t have to go back to work. But now? Now I just want to lay in bed for the next week and a half and cry. I just want to cry.

I’ve dealt with this feeling so many times. I’ve dealt with heartbreak, worry, terror about change. I remember how I felt before, how I hugged a pillow and screamed, how I slept with my phone in my hand in case that guy wanted to text message me and beg for me back.

But I can’t remember how I got better.

Well. Yesterday was pretty heavy. Today was pretty light. ‘Cause that’s how the universe works.

Reasons To Be Happy:
- I made a “Donate to Haiti” jar at work around 12:00 and already had 11 dollars from customers by 4:00.
- I had a really good lunch and chocolate-covered pretzels. You can’t beat that.
- I watched an episode of “Family Ties” this morning before leaving for work. Just try and get a bit of Alex P. Keaton in your life everyday. Does wonders.
- I have rehearsal tonight!
- I also have an audition tomorrow!* Hooray!**

I won’t even go into the itty bitty defeats I had today. It’s all victories from here on out (until a really shitty customer pisses me off again)!

*SO EXCITING, FINALLY, I FEEL LIKE AN ACTOR.
**Hooray!? HOORAY!? What the FUCK was I thinking becoming an actor?! WHY DO I WANT TO AUDITION?! I am going to shit my pants, I know it, I know it, I KNOW IT. Why did I sign up for this?

I had a bad day today.

A bad day that included smoky, ass-smelling customers knocking on counters to get my attention and then throwing money at me. Customers that refuse to touch their receipt and toss it back to me when I hand it to them (HEY, HEADS UP. Your yellow eyes give it away that you’ve been in a liquor store). Customers that hold their debit cards in their mouths (their mouths . . . THEIR MOUTHS, PEOPLE) and then HAND THEM TO ME.

A bad day that included construction “workers” blocking up the driveway right before I left, getting in trouble for my consistent tardiness, eating a very late lunch and asshole drivers.

A bad day that included self-doubt and self-sabotage and self-loathing.

I get like that sometimes. I convince myself that I’ll never get where I’m going, what am I doing with dreams this big, I’m going to be stuck here forever. I make myself sick with thoughts of just floundering through life, swimming in a sea of uncertainty. My eyes burn from holding back tears because if I cry about it, I might as well tell the whole world: I’M NEVER GOING TO MAKE IT. I’m a terrible girlfriend, I’m not nearly as pretty as her, I’m not as smart as her, I’m not as talented as her. I’m an awful sister, I can’t even keep in touch with anyone, I have no idea how Jamie’s class is doing or what Tyler’s school schedule is like. I’m a horrible daughter who can’t pay her bills on time, who doesn’t hang out with her family enough, who is selfish and rude. I’m a loathsome person and I do not deserve anything I have.

And these thoughts circle in my head like hawks and make me dizzy with regret and self-pity. I am nauseous, I am on the verge of tears, my heart is breaking into a million pieces. I feel disconnected, like I’m watching everyone and hearing everything on a videotape. I have no idea what my little brother just said and I’m short with him when he realizes I wasn’t listening. “I’m just having a really shitty day,” I say. Like that’s supposed to make it okay. Like that’s supposed to make everything better.

But it doesn’t. I leave work and I drive, convinced that people are purposely ignoring me, convinced that everyone is talking about me behind my back, convinced that I am the only person in the world who feels this way.

And then I go to rehearsal. The first rehearsal of the first 2010 show.

I walk in as Samantha, the girl down on her luck today. Depressed, useless, fat, ugly, moronic, irresponsible, stressed. And then I’m handed a script and I hop on stage.

And I’m no longer that girl. I’m Rachel, bringing her boyfriend over to her parents’ for Christmas. I’m a QVC girl, having a drink in a bar, ignoring the advances of other salesmen. I’m waiting in line at a Chinese buffet, filling my plate high with food, moving slowly around the table, vexing all of those behind me.

Because acting is therapy. Don’t like who you are? Fine, here’s a script. Become her. Having a shitty day? Well hey! This character just won $3,000 on a lottery ticket! Feel like you don’t have any friends? That’s a crying shame, but this girl, she has LOTS of friends. So why don’t you jump in her shoes and talk to them for a while?

It’s the most cathartic thing I can think of doing. I am transported into a different place, a different time. I am in a bar or a park or a restaurant. I am married or widowed or a single mom. I am not me. And in moments of self-hatred, it’s the greatest wish that could possibly be granted. I can forget that I feel ignored and I can forget that I feel like an outsider and I can forget that I hate my job.

I can just play make-believe. And I can make-believe that everything is alright.

Customer: Hi sweetheart! I’m so sorry to interrupt, but do you have a restroom I could possibly use? Insert Bambi eyes here and a smile so bright and wide and fake that even Snow White would’ve said “Bitch please”.

Me: No ma’am, we don’t have a restroom.

Insert awkward silence right aboutttt . . . here.

Customer: What do you mean you don’t have a restroom? Like, at all? And lovely fairytale damsel-in-distress is GONE, insert the Wicked Witch of the West and the Evil Stepmother’s lesbian lovechild here.

Me: Um, no ma’am. Waiting for the inevitable question . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

Customer: Well, where do YOU go? BINGO! We have a 100% certifiable asshole, ladies and gents.

Me: Well, we have an EMPLOYEE restroom in the EMPLOYEE area, but we do not have a public restroom.

Customer: Ugh my God, I’M TRAVELING! Mumblemumblebitchbitchbitchgrumble . . .

Okay, I don’t know about the REST of the world, but if I ask someone something (particularly a cashier or a manager or a salesman or a police officer or a priest or crackhead OR ANYONE AT ALL) and they tell me “No” or “Sorry, we don’t” or “That’s not possible”, I DO NOT ARGUE WITH THEM. Especially if it’s something as trivial as a bathroom. Granted, I know people have bladder problems or they’re pregnant or had Taco Bell five seconds before coming in the door, but SERIOUSLY. WE DON’T HAVE A RESTROOM. It’s an employee restroom and I hate when people argue with me over it. No, we are not required by law to have a public bathroom so no, we don’t. Because do you know how many times other people (NOT EMPLOYEES) have used our EMPLOYEE restroom and we’ve later discovered that my God, they killed three deer, had explosive diarrhea and JESUS CHRIST HOW MUCH CORN DID THEY EAT in the span of about 12 seconds.

I’m not so much a Bathroom Nazi, just more of a person who wants to make sure that I’m not walked all over. I let people with babies and toddlers go because they generally say “Excuse me, do you have a restroom we could use?” and then point to a sagging diaper and OH HEY, they’re polite about it. If the woman had just said “Oh, geez. Okay, thanks!” after I told her no and then mentioned that she had been traveling, well then I might have let her bow down to the porcelain god.

But, since she was a raging bitch and then huffed and puffed up through the store aisles complaining to her husband (who then THREW his Discover card at me without so much as a “ring me up, whore”) before asking ANOTHER employee where our bathroom was, I had no sympathy for her. And I was kind of hoping she would just pee all over herself so I could get her a mop and say “Get to it, Cinderella. And stop eating so much damn asparagus.”

So Christmas has been coming in sporadic spurts since the actual date, mainly because people were out of town (I’m looking at YOU, mothaaa), we were low on funds (ie. Jason & I bought each other presents much later) or . . . well, why not spread the joy for another month?

I guess since our tree is legit falling apart now, it’s time to wrap Christmas up. The star fell off the top yesterday and ornaments are randomly falling off for no reason. It’s like the tree is undressing itself and frankly, I’m a little embarrassed. HOW INAPPROPRIATE. As if the Skyy Vodka disco ball ornaments didn’t make the tree feel like a martini-sodden lush already, she’s gotta go and take all her clothes off and sing some karaoke Bon Jovi style.

However, the tree had to remain in the window long enough for Jason to give me my gifts (and because one of his is still on the way, my God, Santa should really invest in a Honda) and since he gave me my last one yesterday, I guess it’s okay for Trees Gone Wild: Arbor Day Every Day to commence.

He gave me an adorable, perfect pair of pearl earrings earlier this week, picking them up off the counter while talking to his friend and saying “Look! Pearl earrings!” and then continuing his conversation. I was very surprised and immediately stuck them in my ears and kissed him. THAT WAS THAT. It’s a no-nonsense kind of relationship around here. Meaning we give each other gifts very matter-of-factly and then we document the opossum we have named Opie that comes to eat the cat food every night.

Tangent: But, he also brought home a toaster and dude, I’ve never been so happy to be given an appliance because I love me some cinnamon swirl toast. He had a huge grin on his face and said “I got us a toaster!” and then gave me the pearls the next day. Were you aware that we had all been transported to 1957? Hey! Me neither! NOW YOU KNOW.

So last night, he came home while I was preparing to make dumplins (I’m sorry, you can not say that word with the g attached, I dare you to try) and had a handful of books in his hands and on top was a green/gray envelope with SAM written on top in his handwriting. He came in the house, said hi and gave me a kiss and then tipped his books so forward so the envelope fell into my hands. “Merry Christmas!” he said and then walked off to the bathroom to do some damage.

I opened it and there was a cute little card with a folded up piece of paper inside. The piece of paper turned out to be an hour long massage coupon with a woman named Christy, someone Jason has seen many times before and someone he swears has healing powers. The sentiment of the gift was so sweet. Just . . . so sweet. I complain a lot about my back hurting and the tension and stress I hold in my body that makes me jumpy and skittish. I’m constantly asking him to rub my back or to massage my shoulders and he always does it. Always.

“You did not,” I whispered, feeling so lucky to have such a wonderful person care about me like this.

“You are going to love her, Sam. Seriously. She’s the best. She will make you feel completely relaxed and you’ll just drool all over yourself. You’ll feel so good. You’ll be a different person.”

I mean, seriously. How much better does it get? He knows exactly what I want, from pearl earrings to a toaster (a TOASTER, for God’s sake, THERE IS NO BREAD THAT IS SAFE) to a massage. “Christy is great,” he emphasized. “She’s a cute little lesbian girl, you’ll love her.”

People! From pearls to a toaster to a CUTE LITTLE LESBIAN GIRL. So long 1957. Did I pick a winner or what?

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