Caterwauling

First, the good.

Just in time for Christmas:

Custom Bon Jovi Apple Products

Who would have thought? Is this why I’ve been holding off on adding a MacBook to my life for so long, because I knew this was coming? 😉

Then the bad.

I skipped a car payment last month. (As my car is paid off and I wanted to eat my one meal a day that I could afford in Vegas. I’m so selfish.)

Looks like that means making two this Christmas.

So much for that MacBook.

*kick*

Then the GREAT news.

I ordered a pair of jeans from Old Navy, and two shirts. The shirts were in two different sizes — one to wear now, one to grow (drop?) into.

Tried ’em on last night when I rolled home at 2 in the morning. (Late, glorious night out. Even though work threatened to crap on my parade because deadlines are apparently a SUGGESTION and not a guideline.)

And guess what?

They’re all TOO FUCKING BIG.

Yes!

I rather like the jeans. But even without having ’em on all day with my ass stretching ’em out, they fall off.

I know, Old Navy runs big. But if my only holiday present this year is to find out I’m a size smaller than I thought I was, I’ll soitenly take it!

So, if you saw my F-book status yesterday, you’d know that “Goddess is up to something.”

Let’s just say that I had a talk with someone. Who gave me the invitation I didn’t know I was waiting for. To start clean. Run for the hills. Wave goodbye. Try something else. Somewhere else.

And as I sit here, quietly between a rock and a hard place — knowing I have to sit down and truly make a list of pros and cons — there’s another part of me that’s saying, oh, why the hell not?

Now, nothing comes without strings attached.

I mean, since my mother decided to break my code of silence and ask me how my day was (the nerve!), I said I was thinking about starting my life over again. And she said if that’s what I want, then we “need to sit down and talk about it.”

And, on cue, something snapped inside my little head. “What’s there to talk about?” I said. “It’s my life, yes?”

But it’s not. Not anymore.

It’s weird. I mean, I have so very few ties in this world. No kids, no husband, no custody arrangements, and otherwise no mandates to not leave the state. I’m single, as young as I’ll ever be again, and surprisingly rooted for saying I abhor things like expectations and commitments.

I’ve always thought that there’s got to be something more. It’s all I’ve got, so I cling to that expectation.

But man, to think that I can’t pick up and go move somewhere else without having to drag my mommy with me, I mean, gah. Hi honey, I’m moving in — there’s room for mom, yes?

I guess that’s what families do — they talk about the impact of a major life decision on everyone. I can see where I would have been a real asshole if I’d been a man, because in my head (but not out loud), I’m thinking, hey I’m the breadwinner. Whatever I want, wins.

But it’s so not that easy.

And that’s the challenging part. I don’t get to factor out life’s little annoyances when I want to make a big life decision, even if that decision is to make no change at all.

And truly, running away from life’s annoyances is always a factor for me. What’s the point of packing up the things that piss you off and transporting them to where you’re trying to get a fresh start? Why pay shipping for something you can (and will) get when you arrive at your destination?

Of course, I’ve got a lot to think about. I don’t love D.C. and am not sure I could spend my life, meet a significant other, raise a family and retire here. But I could. I mean, let me meet a man from here and I’ll decide the rest. 😉

I have to decide whether I’m happy or just happy enough to stay put. My loyalties are few, but they’re airtight. Unlike the windows on this shitty fucking apartment, where the heater blows cold air and the sink’s always backed up.

So, does that mean I need to move locally, or is it just another check on the “why I need to get the fuck out of Dodge” list?

Of course there’s something prompting this existential mess. Believe me, I’ve been feeling far too stuck to come up with the energy to scheme on my own. Someone asked me to give a moment’s thought to starting a new life. And while, at first, I was like, “Whatever — I’ve got my own thing going on,” sleeping on it has yielded a, “You owe it to yourself to explore all your options.”

I admit, I am not excited to wake up in the mornings. I’ve got a good job with good people, so I am happy about that. I don’t care much for some of the organizational hokey-pokey that goes on. I don’t spend a lot of time using my skill set, though, most days. Being a volunteer fireman for blazes I didn’t start tends to take up a lot of hours. Makes you wonder sometimes when you are going to have time to do what you’re paid for, without adding a ton of extra hours.

I used to put in all those extra hours. I don’t anymore. I mean, I do to some extent, but I’m more apt to say, “I’m done for the day” now as opposed to “I will stay here all night until this is finished.” And I struggle with whether that’s a sign of falling out of love, or whether I’m simply growing a pair and demanding “me” time. Or, both?

I guess the bigger question is whether D.C. holds everything I’m looking for, or whether it’s just been a stepping stone to get me where I’m headed next.

Off-topic, but not, yes I know that means leaving people behind, if I hightail it elsewhere. (And again, there are no official offers anywhere; just a “Hey, why don’t you think a little bit about this for a while.”)

There are always people you hate to lose. There are some I hope would be with me, in one form or another, for the rest of my life. Proximity doesn’t necessarily ensure it, but it sure does facilitate it.

And there are some, I dunno. Damn. I had a pillar of salt moment the other night, looking over my shoulder at something I KNOW better than to revisit. And I thought, oh my God, I cannot be around when he decides he wants to spend the rest of his life with someone else. I can’t have that little, itty, bitty, twee hope in the back of my head that this is all a joke and one day it will work out the way I wanted it to. Even though I’ve put him far, far behind me, I’m not so dumb as to think I would be OK with attending his wedding and only being part of the crowd at that momentous occasion.

It’s funny how once sentence, with a question mark at the end, has the ability to change someone’s life.

And all of this shows where my priorities are (or aren’t) and perhaps where they should be, if I could just think straight. And it reminds me that maybe what I wanted, either wasn’t ready for me at the time or maybe it just isn’t all I thought it would be. Plain and simple.

Oh but wait, we’re looking forward here, right? Right. What I meant was that fine, I leave town. So all bets are off, all doors are closed and life will continue on the course it has to take. And even if I don’t leave town and that’s still what happens, I guess I’ll have to live with the fact that it was never meant to be. At least leaving means I can fool myself once in a while by thinking that it could have all been different, had I only stayed. …

But alas, a good night’s sleep also gave time to remember that the only destiny I’m in control of is my own. Yes, others’ decisions do affect me. But that’s on them. I’ve got a million possibilities of my own, none of which are worth forsaking over some idea I might have gotten into my head a long time ago that never managed to manifest into a destiny.

So, right now the pros and cons are pretty much even. My gut says to stay put and entertain the idea for a year. My heart — ah, yes, that thing that I forget still beats — says fuck it and leave it all behind and see what adventures await. Leave ol’ what’s-his-name and everyone else where they choose to be, and go reinvent yourself into Goddess 3.0 where only one person knows your name and even that person doesn’t know the half of what makes you, you.

The last time I got up and left town, I didn’t have a safety net. I had to make it work. It was hard, I was depressed and scared, but I did it. I made magic happen. This time, though, not only do I not have a safety net, but I also have a ball-and-chain. But my church (which, yes, I would definitely miss) keeps telling me to trust God. To stop scheming and worrying and let Him do the miracle-working. The devil may be in the details, but God’s still the decision-maker.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give it up to God, do some praying and meditating on it, and see how I feel in a few days.

But if a very large wad of cash arrives to pay for my travel expenses, you do know I’m going to take that as a sign, right? 😉

I never realized that “The Biggest Loser” airs on the nights I drag my pudgy pork roast ass to Weight Watchers meetings. I finally discovered it a couple of weeks ago, and now the season’s almost over! Rats.

Tonight America gets to decide whether Heba or her husband Ed gets to proceed to the finals. I voted for Ed. I figure, he is way too willing to let her go to the finals, and she feels way too entitled to it.

A colleague went to high school with Heba. My friend is a man of few words, and even fewer curse words. But even he said, “Yeah, she was a bitch back then, too.”

Speaking of big losses, my pudgy pork roast ass shed 3 pounds in the past week. Which, wow. After gaining a pound last week and not even weighing in the week before, I will gladly accept as “omgwtfbbq awesome.”

Everything’s changing in Weight Watchers land. They’re kicking the Core and the Flex plans to the curb and presenting the Momentum plan as the best of both worlds. We got all new materials tonight and we’ll spend the next few weeks going over the changes to the program. Which seem awesome. More common-sense. Less guessing.

You know what I did this week? I ate all 35 of my bonus weekly points, on top of the daily allowance. I NEVER do that. I always stay exactly at my daily allowance. If I have special plans on the weekends, I may blow my extra 35 in one sitting, if applicable. Usually I have plenty left over at the end of the week — like rollover minutes you can’t use.

And sure, I’ve done OK. Lost a pound here and there. But this week I ate a piece of candy here and a slice of meat there. Nothing exotic — I know my portions and my points. And of all the weeks to have a significant loss, this was it. Who knew that you can’t eat healthy crap all the time? Apparently it’s the little “cheats” that work the magic!

Of course, I still have a bunch more pounds to part with. What’s cool, though, is that I’ve gone down not one but two jean sizes so far. It took from June to November get down one, and I’m closing in on the next one just a mere month later. The pants shall be arriving at work any day now — can’t wait to put them on and know that they’ll zip!

But the real achievement well, is something else I lost. The best way I can explain it was that I was talking to someone during my first or second meeting, and she told me her “next” goal.

Weight Watchers is big on goals — it’s achieving a series of several small ones that gets you to the big one. And my meeting-mate had said it was her dream to not have to buy clothes with an X or a Plus on the tag.

And by golly, it’s been years but I’m reaching her goal. I bought my first “regular” pair of jeans in I cannot tell you how long. Meaning, I can walk into practically any store (minus those damn juniors’ shops at the mall that don’t carry anything over a size double-zero) and find something that isn’t a purse, shoe or piece of jewelry. w00t!

Don’t get me wrong — I’m still mad at Old Navy for not only moving its plus sizes out of the stores and onto the Web “exclusively” two years ago, but also that it and its sister store The Gap seem to refuse to stock anything over a 14 on their sales floors. The Gap is worse about it but unless it’s pants or shirts in letter sizes, they don’t seem to want to attract the pudgalicious among us. Hence, neither is coming off my shit list anytime soon. Thanks for making me pay shipping all these years! *kick*

Actually since today is a day of victory, I do have another milestone to share. After years and years of avoiding anything other than ankle boots, or buying taller boots and just not being able to zip them all the way up over my chunky little calves, I’ve been trying on longer boots lately and finding that I can get them to zip. All the way up!

I haven’t bought any yet, save for my Old Navy ugg-type slippers (oh so comfy). I don’t need to buy them to prove anything to myself. But to not be excluded from a fashion I’ve always loved but have never been able to be a part of? Magnificent.

It’s the little things.

And one of these months, one of the little things will actually be me.

Till then, the journey’s both annoying and rewarding. And I often wonder why the hell I’m even bothering. But after revolving my whole life around how I did or didn’t look — whether trying to conceal it (i.e., struggling with not looking like a parade float) or trying to act like it didn’t bother me or that I wasn’t worried about having a heart attack on the spot — it’s interesting to find other things in my head that have nothing to do with the size of my ass. Or, even things in my head that aren’t critical of the size of my ass.

I think there’s a general misconception about pudgy people, that we’re lazy or unwashed or unmotivated or oblivious. No, no, no and NO. It just takes a lot more work to appear effortless, that’s all. And no one else’s opinion matters half as much as our own, so as long as we know we’re none of those things, we’re OK.

And it’s sad how people’s opinions of us go up once our sizes go down. But meh, I love me way more than anybody else does, and while more people may come around as I apparently become less offensive to stand next to (except when it was to make someone else feel better about themselves), I’ll never forget the ones who loved the “before” and who will be cheering me on all the way to the finish line. There aren’t many, but they make for a hell of a cheering section inside my head.

Thank you for rooting for me or, at least, for continuing to read all about it. 🙂 I’ve spent my life throwing myself into my work and never taking care of the thing that will outlast every last one of these jobs (if they don’t kill me first, of course!).

I have a funny feeling that I’ll get down to my goal weight, only to get knocked up and bloated within a couple of years of achieving my goals. But hopefully there’ll be a wedding (or elopement — I loathe Speidi but I could totally go the Costa Rica route myself) and other dreams will surface that I either never knew I had or I never thought I’d get them so why bother dreaming about them.

It’s time to dream again. The smaller I get, the bigger I’ll allow the dreams to be.

It’s good to be me. 🙂

My key to getting through the holidays is just to keep busy. Not that my social calendar is too full, but Goldilocks’ iCal is just right. Anything to keep my brain engaged, lest it wander too far away and decide not to come back!

Anyway, what everyone probably doesn’t know is that I was supposed to be on the road late last week, to see a long-lost friend. But I was told to be in town to launch a new product this past Thursday. I got all my work done; but guess what? Yup, nada. Was in town for absolutely nothing.

I wasn’t even unhappy. Well, a part of me was, since the phone calls just weren’t doing it for me when I was counting on an in-person visit. But I’m wondering if maybe “good things come to those who wait” is the wrong cliche to use here, when I probably SHOULD be saying, “if it takes this much effort for things to fall in place, something ain’t right.”

But giving up this little dream would probably mean re-focusing on an old one that I gave up. And I can’t have that. Not right now. It would take a lot for me to open that Pandora’s box of pain. I’m not claiming I wouldn’t; it would just take an outright miracle to get me to look over my shoulder. Or, at least, to be seen doing it. 😉

Anyway, I’m trying to orchestrate another scheme here, but if this one falls on its face, I think it’s time to give up on this particular miracle. Although, ’tis the season for them, so hopefully Santa will give someone who hasn’t had a reason to believe, well, a reason to believe. In something. Anything.

Speaking of making miracles and the absurdity of it all, I am kind of bumming because I unexpectedly got a delightful invitation for Friday night, and I want to take it. But then there’s always that moment of, yeah, right! When have you ever been out at a reasonable time on a Friday?

What’s weird is that things have been, in my opinion, slow on the job front. I only put in 45 or so hours last week. The bulk of them were not full of panic and frenzy. (Don’t get me wrong — a whole bunch were.)

And in this time of record-high layoffs (to which my industry is sadly FAR from immune), I’ve felt downright guilty, like maybe I just don’t have enough to do.

A friend wisely pointed out to me that there are very few industries — and very few people within those — who define “normal” as rapid-fire, go-go-go, gotta-achieve-97-things-right-this-minute over the course of 70-plus hours each week. So, basically, I could kick my guilt to the curb over my “dry spell” when I worked what the rest of the world views as a “standard” week.

That, my friends, was life-changing. Especially in this craptacular economy, I know my job is safe because no other sane person would do it. 🙂 But still, there’s a part of me that feels automatically compelled to look around and say, “What more can I take on?”

But while I was away in Vegas, for a mostly working trip but, all in all, it still amounted to nearly two weeks out of the office, I regained a long-lost perspective. I always wondered why we had to put in 40, 60 or 80 hours a week.

What I’ve once again come to accept as “normal,” I found myself questioning. Who cares how much time you put in, just as long as you do great work? I mean, don’t we tell our guys it isn’t the length of the wand, but the magic they work with it? 😉

Let’s face it, we like it long and hard. In all aspects of the phrase. And even if we don’t love it, we work with it. We feel good once we’re done with it. Right?!?!

So anyway, here’s to hoping that I can get out at a reasonable hour on Friday. It’s one of those situations that’s dependent on others to get me what I need, when I need it. And I just have to be grateful that I get anything and don’t have to pull any rabbits out of my ass. (Been there, done that; those Trix ain’t for kids!)

I guess what I’m afraid of is becoming like the people I’ve spent my career despising. The ones who made four times as much money while giving four times less, effort-wise. I think I view this reprieve — and, I assure you, that’s all it is, a break between crap-a-lanches — more as something to correct and less as something to enjoy for however briefly it lasts.

And hopefully, the next time I get a few moments to recollect my myriad shards of sanity (whenever THAT may be), I hope I realize to stop, enjoy it and use the extra thinking time either to grow in other ways or to *gasp* give my poor widdle brain a damn break already!

D.C. denizens are familiar with the four-year-old Hands-Free D.C. law in which you can never, ever have a cell phone IN YOUR HAND whilst driving unless you’re dialing. Fine. So, we all have our Bluetooth or other ear-adorning devices, yes?

So I was rolling over to Alexandria, Va., today, with the iPhone that is permanently glued to my hip. And I usually don’t wear my earbuds (you know, the things that COME WITH THE PHONE), but since I was trying to meet up with some friends and the game plan was getting modified, I opted to keep the earbuds on just in case.

And, yes, I had music on, WHICH IS APPARENTLY A FELONY IN VIRGINIA.

I have to tell the story because I resisted being pulled over. Twice. And lived to tell about it!

I took the GW Parkway straight into Old Town. The whole time I was on it, there were three cops boxing me in. One in front, one to the left, and one behind. I was NOT happy.

I was going about 55 in a 40. But I figured the asshole to my left was still half a car length ahead of me, so as long as I didn’t outpace him, he couldn’t pull me over. I even memorized his car number — I wasn’t going down for speeding when I wasn’t going the fastest!

I noticed the cop behind me went to pass me (go for it). He got beside me and then suddenly dropped behind me. Hmm. Bizarre. I slowed down by about 5 mph and figured he’d get annoyed enough to pass me for real.

He didn’t.

So we get into Old Town, and there was a light turning red. I went through the yellow and I know it had to be red for the cop.

He went through it.

I stopped for the next light, and the fucker turns his lights on.

I pulled over behind where another cop was parked. He pulled behind me and sat there. I waited and waited and I figured maybe he was pulling over to go hang with his other cop friend (the one I’d been beside). And since I wasn’t worried about breaking any laws because my halo’s been on straight for a while, I pulled away.

Yes, I PULLED THE FUCK AWAY.

And he FOLLOWED ME.

At dinner, my friends were stunned that I hadn’t been incarcerated at this point. Who pulls away when they’re getting pulled over? But I figured, he was taking his sweet time getting out of the car — maybe I wasn’t the one he was trying to pull over?

So he pulls me over AGAIN a block later. 😉

OK, fine, now I’m just pissed off.

I kept easing my car off the street, onto a side street. I hate when these swinging-dick cops pull people over and jam up traffic for a half-hour. He starts saying something on his little intercom but my windows were up and I couldn’t hear him. So I boldly (stupidly) threw up my hands in the rearview mirror and said, “What? Why?”

I should have just been shot on sight for that. But seriously, LOOK AT ME. I clearly am confused about this so make some eye contact. Is that so much to ask?

So I went one step further and took out the earbuds, undid my seat belt and started to get out of the car.

Yeah, I’m an idiot.

He boomed at me to get back in, which I did. At which point he moseyed out and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I said not really, which was why I was quite confused whether he meant for me to pull over or whether he had gotten an emergency call and was flashing the lights for some other reason.

He said, “You’re driving with earbuds.”

I was shocked. “Yes?”

“That’s against the law in the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Does your radio work, ma’am?”

“What?”

“‘Does. Your. Radio. Work. MA’AM?”

I looked at it. “Um, yes?”

“Then why aren’t you using it?”

“Because I turned it off when you pulled me over?”

“And your seatbelt’s not fastened?”

“I took it off when I went to get out of the car?”

I wasn’t nervous, but I kept making statements like they were questions. Normally I just shut up and accept my damn ticket, but after being stressed the fuck out from being boxed in by three cop cars for 10 goddamned miles, I assumed we were playing reindeer games so I was just being myself.

“License and registration.”

Now that, I could handle.

“Ma’am, it is illegal to have things dangling from your rearview mirror.”

I looked at the Yankee Candle scented doo-dad CAR AIR FRESHENER hanging from the window. “Seriously?” I said as he wandered away.

I was pissed off enough to yank it down and rip it into a dozen pieces. I also turned on my damn radio since he was so interested in whether it worked.

He came back when he was ready. “Ma’am, when was the last time you had a ticket?”

I thought back. “I dunno. Maybe a year?”

He almost snickered. “Oh, you think a year?”

I said, “I really don’t know the time frame. It was at (blah blah) intersection. I was speeding.”

He said, “It was six months ago, ma’am.”

Enough with the “ma’am” shit. GAH.

“OK,” I said.

“You don’t want another ticket, do you?”

“Um, no?”

“Ma’am, it is illegal to listen to your iPod while driving in the Commonwealth of Virginia. I can give you a big ticket right now for that.”

I was confused. “But this is an iPhone.” I showed it to him. “The earbuds are so I can answer the phone and talk hands-free.”

He glanced at it. “Ma’am, two earbuds are illegal. You can only have one earbud for receiving calls.”

I knew I was angering him but hey, I wasn’t exactly having the time of MY life, either. “But this is what comes with the phone. They have two. Are you saying that I can drive with the earbuds if I only have ONE in my ear?”

If he could have slugged me, I don’t doubt he would have thought about it.

“Ma’am, are you aware that people can download music onto those iPhones and listen to it?”

“I’m familiar.”

“Were you listening to music when I pulled you over?”

“Yes.”

“So you were using it as an iPod.”

“I was using it as an iPod as I waited for a phone call. So you’re saying that I can just wear one earbud, then, if I’m not listening to music?”

He just grunted.

I wasn’t done.

“So, if I get pulled over again and I’m only wearing one earbud so I can get calls, would I be believed that I really only HAD one earbud in? I mean, I will do that from now on but I don’t want to get pulled over again if someone thinks I’m breaking the law. I don’t want to break the law, Officer.”

“It’s Virginia law, ma’am, to only be able to wear one earpiece for receiving calls. Yes, you can wear one earbud,” he conceded.

“Great! Do you happen to know what Maryland’s law is about that? Because I wear both earbuds there when I use the phone and I’ve never run into any trouble. I don’t want to be breaking the law there, either.”

I think he was about to hand me a ticket, but because he did not KNOW the answer to my dutiful-citizen question, he said, “I suggest you go onto the Internet and find that out, ma’am. I can only speak about Virginia law.”

He gave me my license back, looked at my radio approvingly, and saw that my Yankee Candle thingie had been removed and thanked me for that, and I was on my way.

I guess I should read up on state law before I travel. I mean, wow, am I the only iPhone owner to be considered a menace because I was using the device AS APPLE INTENDED?

Now, I know I was a pain in the ass. I also know I was resisting a police officer … twice … by continuing to pull away from him. Meanwhile there were people being murdered over in Del-Ray, but the iPhone Earbud Felon was stopped dead in her tracks. The streets of Old Town Alexandria are safe again!

I’ve been enjoying reading in the blogiverse about everyone’s holiday traditions, new and old, and I was wondering if it weren’t high time to establish some of my own.

Well, maybe next year.

I’ve spent the last few years extricating myself from anything that could be considered traditional in the expectational sense. Holidays growing up were always about big meals, family — OK, family TENSION AND DRAMA — one or two special presents instead of a bunch of crap because money was tight, and elaborate trees when my grandmother was alive.

After she was gone, it was still big meals but just for three people. (Those of us with Italian in our heritage just don’t know how to scale down recipes. You will have leftovers for months, so I only cook maybe twice a year for that very reason.) We had tiny trees in cramped living quarters. The tension and drama faded with the disappearance of the extended relatives.

At some point, I wanted my tradition to be “no traditions.” To blow into town if and when I felt like it. To go to P.F. Chang’s instead of having ham or turkey. To either see friends or hole up in my apartment with nothing but the Christmas tree and the cat to keep me company.

And now that I’m in the land of no obligations, commitments or maybe even ideas, I’m not necessarily a hypocrite enough to be envious of those who have traditions. But I do admit that I’d like to know what I’m doing next year because I’d know who I’m doing it with, even if I don’t know the exact when/where/what elements.

I love watching my friends develop their traditions. I used to always buy a blue spruce tree, usually from a little corner lot in Fox Chapel in Pittsburgh. It had to be about six feet. I didn’t have a car so it always meant bugging someone who did to help.

My lights always had to be blue and white — two strands of each. Actually the white were special because they were made of some crystal, prismatic-type plastic.

I have bought an ornament nearly every year, even though I have enough to decorate every tree at Pentagon City Mall. It always has to be crystal. I have tons of snowflakes and icicles and pendants to fill up the tree, so my annual purchases must complement the theme.

Yeah, I haven’t bought an ornament in a good three years. Because I haven’t bothered with a tree.

So the holidays just kind of come and go around here. This used to be my favorite time of year. When I first was on my own, I knew I didn’t have shit, but I always had a home and therefore I made it look like one. My apartment was where everyone liked to go to open gifts and have food before going out drinking. Now, I don’t let anyone in my ZIP code because my house just isn’t a home.

I’m lucky this year to be able to be a part of other people’s traditions. And in that, is tradition enough. Food, friends and a place you’re welcome to be. I mean, what more do you really need?

I guess what I’m hoping is to shed the inadvertent traditions of loneliness, frustration, apathy, death of the decorating gene, the empty fridge and full liquor cabinet, avoidance, guilt and absolute relief when Jan. 1 rolls around and people stop asking me what I’m doing for the holidays.

I think if the weather were better, then I’d be better. I never understood why folks flocked to Florida for the winter. As I de-pudgify (a process that’s slightly stalled right now as my body gets used to eating in non-Vegas-sized proportions), I realize something: I’M FREAKING COLD all the time.

I used to get mad at all these fragile flowers of women who were always shivering when it’s 90 degrees out. Dude, now that I’m minus a layer of blubber, I totally get it. *brrr* Kind of makes you NOT want to go out and do wintery events when you’re going to freeze your shrinking ASS off.

Well, since pudgy girls are more impulsive, I think what I need to do is leave the guilt over everything I can’t be (and frankly don’t CARE to be) at home and get my ass out and at least go look for an ornament for my collection. I don’t have room for a tree (in a 1,000-square-foot apartment. Ponder that for a minute) but maybe next year.

Actually, I’m so sick of my “maybe next year” mindset. Maybe I’ll be dating someone next year. Or maybe I’ll be dating someone who doesn’t live four hours away next year. Maybe I’ll have more money next year. Maybe I’ll have more space next year. Maybe I’ll look better in cute holiday attire next year. Maybe, maybe, maybe. *pfft*

Next year I WILL be dating someone special — SEVERAL of them! Who are local! (Most of ’em, anyway.) Next year my bank account will runneth over. Next year I’ll have plenty of space for a blue spruce tree of my very own. Next year I’ll host dinner for anyone who’s in town. And next year I will squeeze my ass into someone else’s skinny jeans, since I’m already in mine and I’ll be damned if that’s what I’m wearing at the end of 2009.

I hate to do another, “Next year things will be better,” but it sure beats how I went into this year, thinking, “Oh yay, more of the same. Can’t wait.”

So, while I am looking forward to spending this Christmas with the urban tribe as a part of their new tradition, and with my delightful patchwork of friends-turned-family at various other events in the interim, I am getting excited over the fact that Christmas 2009 will be the first of many that I can’t wait to experience on my own terms and, hopefully, on my own turf as well.

Hey now, I’m aging fast enough, thanks

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I was out with some of my boys at Mix in Las Vegas recently, high atop THE Hotel for a tastily overpriced meal.

All the boys had ordered dessert but I was happy with my skim cappuccino. But apparently before our order was taken, we were talking about some injustice or another, and one of the boys had said to me jokingly, “Well, happy birthday to you!” And we’d laughed and I’d said “No kidding.”

Well, our kidding turned into our server giving the boys their desserts, and then presenting me with this beautiful plate with a candle, candied nuts and “Happy Birthday” written in chocolate.

AND I got serenaded — the boys sang along because they honestly thought it must be my birthday. The server charmed me with his “Happy birthday, dear Mix guest. …”

But wait, there’s more! I was also treated to a free glass of their best champagne, a Muscat imported straight from France. OMG, yum. Yeah, I won’t be drinking any cheap-ass Asti Spumante or anything like that again — once you’ve had the real stuff, seriously I think it’s better to just do without any until you can have it again.

So once all the fuss died down, my oldest friend in the pack asked what the hell just happened. The newer friends in the group asked how they knew it was my birthday. I thought about it and said, you know, my REAL birthday is in exactly six months … technically the celebration was an accurate one if you’re into half-birthdays.

Which, I’m sorry to say, sent me into a very mild panic attack and I snarfed in that Muscat like someone was gonna snatch it out of my sweaty little palm. (My palms don’t sweat. Just an expression.)

I’ve babbled ad nauseam on this blog that “34 is my year! 34 is my year!” and OMG, it hit me that “34 is halfway over! You’re almost 35!” and I’m lucky my $100 entree only consisted of two lettuce leaves and three scallops or else I would have thrown up in my lap.

Anyway, I’m not quite ready to see that landmark birthday and I wish I had more than six months to prepare for it. I suddenly have this weird pressure to achieve everything I’ve ever wanted to do before I turn 35. Maybe I should just declare that “my year,” too, but I’ve wasted far too many years to keep putting off living, truly living.

In any case, my half-birthday party in Vegas is going down in company lore as “that time when Goddess managed to score a free dessert at a five-star restaurant.” At least it’s a Vegas-based antic that I don’t mind being talked about for!