the slack daily

Happy Holidaisy!

Happy Assface Day!

Last night at the gym, me and a late-50-something client:

Client:  Merry-- I mean Happy-- I mean...oh, dammit.

Me: Don't worry, I'm a Merry Christmas who can totally pass as a Happy Hanukkah.

Client: Isn't it funny that you can insult someone by just trying to wish them well?

Me:   I try to look at the intention. If you say 'Happy Assface Day' to me in a kind tone, I'll take it.

Client: Well Happy Assface Day then!  I think I'm going to adopt that from now on.

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My earliest memories of Christmas are my parents arguing while they assembled the fake Christmas tree.   For some reason their harsh tone didn't worry my wee toddler brain, but reminded me that there were a whole host of fabulous, forbidden adult words to learn from an overworked and overtired parent. 

Every year, along with bubble lights and gold-flecked elves with crazy eyes that seemed to follow you around the room, SlackMom would haul out the brand-new JCPenney catalog for Older SlackBrother J. and I to peruse.  We were supposed to put our initials next to anything that caught our eye. 

Of course we wouldn't get all of these things, but it was just to give Santa - the same Santa who preferred a salami sandwich and a beer to cookies and milk - an idea of what we wanted.  I happily complied, scribbling my shaky NB across Barbie Dream Homes and Mickey Mouse Phones until one day I stumbled across the Valhalla of Holiday goodness: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. 

SlackMom had a Neiman Marcus credit card. She didn't use it mind you, except for small purchases, things that you could buy for the same price anywhere else, except that it was Neiman Marcus.  She would explain to me as we walked through the heavy glass doors into the perfumed interior, that it was a way to feel like a million bucks without spending it.  Like a 1970s Holly Golightly marching into Tiffany's to get her Cracker Jack ring engraved. 

But at six years old, once I saw that list of polo ponies and life-sized Barbie cars, I knew I had found my One True Catalog.  After that year, mom started hiding the catalog.  After I tore the house apart to find it, she requested it not be sent altogether.

I've had a few of those get-everything-you-want Christmases.  When work was steady and the paychecks were constant, I went a little bit overboard every year.  The house was decorated and dozens of cookies were baked and parties were thrown and lavish gifts were exchanged.  I don't live like that anymore, and minus my big white fake Christmas tree, I don't miss it all that much.   Having been on both sides of the money equation, I can say for certain that money makes things easier.  But it doesn't really make things better.  Or happier.

But to be honest, I really wish I didn't have to work next week.  And from reading out there in blogland, there's a whole bunch of you that feel the same way.  I no longer want polo ponies or jewelry or life-sized Barbie cars (although you might say I already own the last one.) What I want for Christmas is to sleep late, eat breakfast with my husband, and have a few uninterrupted hours where we don't have to do anything but eat cookies and read books and watch TV.   If the house could somehow become magically clean in the process, I'd be in heaven.

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Call Guinness:

I had to jet over to Target today to pick up a gift card for our cleaning woman at work.  Yes, Target.  Five days before Christmas.  Time elapsed from the moment I stepped out the door to walk to my car and then moment I crossed the threshold to my apartment?  Forty-five minutes.  I rule.

Unnecessary Giftness.

It's t-minus nine days 'til Christmas (eight if you're reading this on Monday!) and if you're anything like the rest of the Universe, you haven't even started your shopping yet.  The problem is rarely time or money (that's what credit cards and personal days or for!) but what on earth to get your loved one?    Sure, you can  fall back on boring old standards.  I mean, anyone can purchase a Wii or a Lexus or an iPhone.  But aren't those things you'd rather buy for yourself? 

From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Day, we're force-fed a steady diet of carols and bell-ringers and white chocolate peppermint mochas and lines to see Santa and A Christmas Story.  Your cheeks hurt from smiling and your stomach is killing you from eating Peppridge Farm "Pirouette" cookies scavenged from the office gift basket for lunch.  You're sick of Christmas Cheer than ends at the cash register and is torpedo'd in the mall parking lot.  The pants are tighter, the blood sugar is higher, and the stress is through the roof.

In the spirit of that kind of Christmas, I present these presents for you:

For the Man Who Has Everything

Cologne is a common go-to gift, and it seems like everyone's got a scent these days.  You can go designer, erring on the side of Jean Paul Gaultier, D&G, and Armani.  But anyone can walk into Macy's and pick up a overpriced, homo-erotic gift set.  You can go celebrity, but I still can't figure out why anyone would want to smell like Michael Jordan (who I imagine is one part perspiration, two parts Cuba Gooding Jr.)

But the truly bold, truly unique gift?  You gotta be willing to get sexy and BRING IT!

The man who has everything can now smell like a pitbull.  (Which if any of the pitbulls I've had are any indication, is a combination of two parts farts and three parts love.)

For the Woman Who Has Everything

If American Sitcoms have taught us anything, it's that there's an entire nation of men who don't listen to their wives.  In fact, men do not possess the ability to communicate at all, instead preferring a secret language of baseball statistics, mumbling, and making farting noises with their armpits.  Christmas (and Valentine's Day) is usually "make-up" time, when you've got the chance to buy back her love with diamond earrings or fuzzy bathrobes or a vacuum cleaner.  But a gift that shows that you truly love her?

The TooDaLoo two-person toilet.  According to a recent column in the SFGate:

The TwoDaLoo is perhaps the first (and perhaps the last) toilet designed for two people to use at the same time. The company's research found a basis beyond the potential water savings of one flush for two: toilet as relationship therapy. It says 36 percent of us already go to the bathroom in front of our spouse.

"When you're most relaxed, that's the best time for you to communicate with your partner, discuss your concerns and learn from them to grow as a couple," says Romeo Mendoza, president of WiseRep.com.

Light some candles, grab your ESPN magazine and invite your wife to a romantic getaway for two!  You can save your marriage and go green (hopefully without actually going green) at the same time!

 

For the Kids Who Have Everything

There are two things that are true of almost every kid:

1. They don't know how good they've got it, what with that not having to worry about bills and stuff;
2. They think work is fun.

Combine the two and you've got  'Your First Sweatshop.'

Instruction Manual!

Cute l'il Hello Kitty Sewing Machine!

According to this site, kids can learn to sew as early as six years old, but I bet your kids are smarter and more talented than most, so you can start 'em even earlier!  Plus little hands and young eyes are probably better for all delicate beading and  handiwork anyway.  If they give you any lip, just have everyone playact like Hello Kitty - who doesn't have a mouth.

As for me and Mr. Boy, we're not exchanging gifts this year.  The only thing I want for Christmas is to sleep late, spend a day with my husband on the couch eating cookies, and maybe a shoebox full of hundred dollar bills left on my doorstep.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

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Don't forget! Will and I will be at Bar Lubitsch at 8pm this Monday, December 17th if any LA blogfolk want to come hang out, and see what a cheap date I become after working for fourteen hours straight! If you don't see us in the front room, make sure to check out the back (there's a room behind the bathrooms.)

Maximum Xmas.

Mr. Boy's post yesterday about receiving tinned ham and peaches for Christmas reminded me of a holiday story of my very own, told back in 2001 on the slack.  Enjoy.

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Some families have heirlooms passed down from generation to generation: a goblet, a watch, a piece of ancestral history imbued with honor and tradition.

Me? I'm a Bargiel. The one thing handed down from generation to generation is an assholish quality that ideally takes the form of humor. In the nature versus nurture debate, one can argue that nature can be overcome with copious amounts of therapy. I happen to enjoy my assholish qualities, however, so I have simply honed them over time. Living with another Bargiel (in this case, Older SlackBrother J.) has made us into a WonderTwins Power Team that is unstoppable when activated.

Which brings us to the cab ride to the airport. SlackBrother J. and I are in a jovial mood: presents have been purchased and shipped, our script has been delivered and sent to the network, and the only thing we have to look forward to is two weeks of taunting our family.

This year we've decided to go on the offensive. This year, it's about Maximum Christmas Pain.

My family, like most, is notoriously hard to shop for.

SlackDad doesn't want anything.

SlackMom wants something, but she doesn't know what it is.

Younger SlackBrother j. wants everything.

SlackBrother J. and I started early this year. Dad, the man who wants nothing, got a completely useless gift: a Chicago Bears football helmet signed by the great (and his favorite) Dick Butkus. Mom got a beautiful tote bag from Coach. Younger slackbrother j. got a DVD player.

Not too shabby.

The gifts hadn't been wrapped yet, so we gave them the obligatory warning:

DO NOT OPEN THESE BOXES

I called SlackDad once, as he'd forget there were even boxes anyway.

I phoned  younger slackbrother j. and SlackMom twice.

We know, we know, we won't open the boxes.

Everyone had been warned.

They opened the boxes.

Younger slackbrother j. wanted to know if the box that read "DVD player" was his.

SlackDad, as predicted, wasn't even aware that boxes had been sent.

Older SlackBrother J. and I discussed sending the presents back and getting underwear, the exact same thing that every parent threatens to do if you peek.

But that would take time. And effort. And who wants to shop for underwear for your family?

We decided to hide the gifts. On Christmas morning, while those who celebrate will gather around the tree, with the scent of pine needles and freshly baked cookies wafting through the air. (Except for our house, where the Yuletide scent is more gassy.  Apparently the Ghost of Christmas Past died in Older SlackBrother J.'s colon. Gifts of air freshener are gratefully accepted.) Dad will still get his helmet, Mom will still get her bag, but younger slackbrother j. will only get a wrapped can of chocolate covered potato chips. Once all of the gifts have been opened, Older SlackBrother J. and I will wait a bit. Just long enough for j. to wonder

is that it?

Then, at the very last moment, when hope is about to be lost, the DVD player will appear like a proverbial Red Rider BB Gun.

And there will be much rejoicing.

After they yell at us.

Because in our house, that's what Christmas is all about.

Christmas, 1996?  Same hat I'm wearing here .

...

Scrooge.

I blame Hitler.

My husband, as some of you may know, is fascinated by WWII history.  Minus sports and the Jesus, most of his TV-watching time is spent with the history channel and the Hitler (like High Hitler. Just say it out loud.  But y'know, softly.*)   

Netflix brought us the TV biopic  Hitler: the Rise of Evil starring Robert Carlyle.  About five minutes in, Hitler finds a small dog on a battlefield during WWI and takes it in, only to beat it nearly to death a few moments later.  Yes, I know about story contrivances.  I also know that, um, it's a movie.  I also know this is a man murdered over six million people.  I just wasn't up for gratuitous puppy kicking on my Sunday night.

This morning I crawled out of bed at 4:45am, showered, and grabbed my computer to check my email and respond to an evite for a friend's birthday, the second "Wear an Ugly Christmas Sweater" party we've been invited to.  My husband muses on the backstory here, but my question is this: do these people know how much ugly Christmas sweaters cost?  As SlackMom is fond of saying "bad taste costs no less" and suggestions of "just go to Goodwill" lead me to believe that none of these invitees have ever purchased a used sweater.  Knitwear just soaks up environmental smells, so if your used sweater reeks of mothballs and death, well, you're probably lucky.  I just can't see spending forty bucks on something that's

a) hideous
b) I'll wear once
c) ludicrous as we're not even buying each other Christmas gifts since money is tight

Hell, the last item of clothing I bought myself was my wedding dress, and it was only three Ugly Christmas Sweaters expensive.  And I'll wear it again, sans irony.

Of course, I'm supposed to be picketing right now, but I'm taking a mental health day.  On the way home from work, I was flipped off by a woman with a dreamcatcher hanging from her rearview mirror.  Somehow, that seems about right.

*nb: While I may joke about this, I do understand the Truly Evil Nature of the Hitler.  SlackMom's family was pretty much wiped out by the little man with the little mustache.  While most kids grow up with stories about their relatives and the Depression, or having to walk uphill both ways to school in the snow, my stories were about the Nazis coming to get you in the middle of the night.  Which is why I'm a light sleeper and I know where my valuables are at all times.  A good amount of those relatives murdered were also smartasses, so it is a testament to them that I carry on the tradition.

Strike-n-Nonsense...

Since the strike began, I've found myself with a new sense of purpose.  That purpose is: get sleep whenever I can.  Mondays find me working 5:30am-noon at the gym, running home to take out Daisy, then hopping in my SuperCar and heading over the hill to picket at NBC until 4pm.  I get home 'round 5, take the WonderDog back out, answer email, write a wee bit, then collapse on the couch until Mr. Boy gets home.  We scrounge up dinner, then I collapse back into bed to start another variation the very next day.

I am attempted to shoehorn into this schedule: daily blogging, vlogging, exercise, proper nutrition (unlike the three cookies and mug 'o caffeine I just had for breakfast), outlining/researching the new screenplay, freelance job, enjoying the fruits of marital bliss, and oh yeah, I just had an idea for a wee Internet Show I could produce all by my lonesome.

I am tired, people.

...

Yesterday, our fearless leader Patric Verrone came out to our picket line.

Being writers, and thus nerds, we jumped around like puppies at his arrival.  Much to the embarrassment of Wan (pictured above) and Tomas, I insisted we perform our multiple cheers.  Because I am Queen Nerd.

We also had a visit from a boy named Robert and his mom.  Robert brought Lottery Tickets and Scratchers to hand out to everyone on the picket line.

Finally, my belt buckle means I MEAN BIZNESS:

(As always, more strike photos can be found on my Flickr.)

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THE LOS ANGELES BLOGGER MEETUP: Monday, December 17th 8:00pm-???

I have not heard back from the Red Pearl Kitchen (which, BTW, has 25% off for Guild Members, but I swear I had no idea!).  I may actually have to call them on the phone.  Please reserve this date in what I know if your already-packed social calendar, and email me if you haven't already if you'd like to go.

Speaking of holidays: Will is doing a month of holiday posts over at his blog.  BetheBoy Holidays make merry with Holiday Porn and Shoplifting Santas.

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Also, today is the First Anniversary of the Slackmistress & BetheBoy Detective Agency!  In case you're wondering what would possess a somewhat sane girl to agree to marry a boy within six weeks of meeting him, start here. (Read from the bottom up.)