I’ve voiced my desires to die young in turn with my probability of living as long as Kate Hepburn. Because, well, only the good die young and I’m generally only considered “good” when I’m asleep and my guard is down. Or around animals and small children (minus my need to instigate and play practical jokes). Yet when I see a fine specimen of an older woman, like Susan Sarandon, who just oozes with sex appeal and intensity, I discover that maybe those are the golden years for a reason. This season has been full of screenings and Q&A’s for nominated films and I ran into Ms. Susan (literally, ran past) at the Director’s Guild after a screening of “The Lovely Bones” en route to the loo. The woman is stunning. She was also the highlight in a rather dreary film. My morbid sense of humour is ubiquitous in any conversation, but most of this year’s film nominees center around the theme of death. And to face our own mortality is to live fully, isn’t it?
My writing has been sparse because of said busyness, a lack of inspiration, and a moodiness matched by a recent decision to go on the pill. I’ve always been an advocate of female empowerment, particularly with birth control, but this Ortho-lo formula has electrified every neuron in my body. Plug your Christmas tree into any given orifice (whichever orifice first comes to your mind indicates what a sick freak you must really be) and these neurons could provide a green alternative for holiday lighting. It should be in the birth control ads, side effects to include: nausea, blood clots, migraines, seizures, dizzy spells, fainting, and an alternate source of green energy. There must be better benefits. Oh, wait, there is one awesome side effect… no kiddies. Each day my iPhone alarm (yes, Apple has won back my heart), sounds to the opening of “Childhood Dreams” and a message flashes- “No Kiddies Today,” to remind me to swallow the little pill from hell. I’m a crazy lady without the typical outlet of songwriting, until this week, which has brought new melodies and thoughts that will weave their way into songs when the time is right. Until then, let’s just bring on the Bailey’s and cafe au lait as I adorn myself in a silver sequined top and portray this holiday’s disco ball. What’s Christmas without the glitter and tinsel, anyway?
My holiday gatherings have dwindled to a smaller crowd of immediate family, my grandfather and his wife, my great aunt, and random friends without a place to go. It’s a sad group, missing the ebullient presence of my other mentally unstable relatives who will be in absentia this year. Luckily, my own mental insanity may fill the void. If I fall short, there’s an app on the iPhone that will ensure holiday merries. This app, “Mixology” offers a spinning wheel that combines any liquors you may have in the cabinet into tasty, lethal concoctions. Just ask my brother, who downed the sweetly deceiving turquoise Caribbean Iced Tea (think, “Long Island Iced” plus Blue Curacao, Vanilla Vodka, and Malibu) last Thanksgiving. He may still be drunk.
Yet, when I think of what I anticipate most this season, it comes to the two things that bring out the good in me: animals and children. As my childhood cat peacefully passed away last month, after five months of my parents threatening euthanasia, my dad decided that all he wants for Christmas is a kitten. His kitten dream transpired into the acquisition of two adult cats that will be picked up from the Humane Society tomorrow. My mother, once the proud owner of three cats, couldn’t wait until the allergy-tormentors passed away and left her with a home free of cat dander and fur. All it took was my dad to get schmaltzy about these “little babies” and my mom is beyond glee at the thought of two more cats. Nonetheless, having two inevitably freaked out felines in the house will bring a little extra thrill to our Christmas.
My second treat, pertaining to the children clause, will be spending time with my rambunctious eight-year-old cousin, Logan. He cried his first tears of joy (almost) upon first listening to my new EP, “Sweet Clarity,” (really, if you’re reading this blog and don’t have a copy- what the hell is wrong with you?) and has not stopped playing the scratched up, skipping cd since. He’s memorized every lyric and has his own choreography, which I promise to post footage of soon. So to save the sanity of his poor mother and everyone else in earshot, I got the little dude an mp3 player loaded with my music and other chick music that will either make him score with ladies in high school or turn him into an even more sappy little guy. Lucky for him, I’m out of my Streisand/Midler/Carpenters music obsession, which for years had convinced everyone that my kid brother had no choice but to turn up gay. I’m excited to bestow this gift upon my number one fan, yet equally hoping I don’t hear the words, “But why didn’t you get me an iPod?” Now that I’m tethered to my iPhone, I can no longer use my hatred of Apple as an excuse. I expect to just tell him it’s all made in China anyway, so what’s the difference?
This blog, as most, doesn’t have a point. There aren’t even any stabs at my formers this go-round. Now, how’s that for holiday cheer? I just missed rambling in my little piece of cyber real estate. And after a day of packing my discount gifts for everyone else, I’m left to ponder my gift to me. It’s not the trip to Peru/Ecuador I was hoping for. It’s two root canals to commence next Monday. Woohoo! I, swear, it wasn’t the surprise I expected to give myself. I’m also going to see “It’s Complicated,” which I worked on last March and was dressed like a mismatching teenager in pigtails after the producer thought I looked, “too sexy.” I think it may be a theme with Steve Martin flicks because I was also plucked from “The Pink Panther” when my tits distracted from Beyonce’s caboose. But I digress.
Happy holidays to each and every one of you. Follow my holiday tips if your Christmas Eve is falling a bit short: human disco ball and Mixology App. I wish you well.
Above: This year’s Christmas bush, assembled by my patient boyfriend while I tripped on Ambien. I swear, that bush was talking to me.