Saying Goodbye to 2005

I was trying to think of a way to sum up this year, but I couldn't come up with anything significant. I couldn't even think of anything significant that happened in 2005. Then I remembered that I graduated in 2005, and I wrote up this whole thing about how 2005 could mean the end of my non-grown up years, as I would now have to find a real job with benefits and all that jazz in 2006. I cut that, though.

I could have been cynical and written about the pressure of finding a job (trust me, it's there) but I changed my mind. A year ago, my friend Andy told me that I was very cynical. If you know Andy, you know that this means I'm VERY cynical. And just yesterday, my friend Aaron told me that I was very cynical. If you know Aaron, you knwo this means I'm VERY VERY VERY cynical. I accept that and all, but there's also a part of me that must not be cynical, because when I think about 2005, if I'm honest, I really don't think about graduation and stress and all that. I really think about my bithday.

First of all, I love my birthday. It's in the middle of July, and for some reason, I've always thought the date was really nice. I thought it was perfect to have my birthday on the 21st, because 21 is such a lucky number. When I was a kid, it used to always trouble me, though, that on the 21st, I would try to make it FEEL like my birthday, and I rarely got that feeling, that I was really taking advantage of it being my birthday.

This year, I was still deciding what to do about my birthday when I talked to my friend Stef. She told me to just decide and do what I wanted and that would be it. We planned my entire birthday on the fifth floor of Warren, waiting for an elevator. Seriously.

I gave up my fear of the evite and sent one. (The evite fear is legitimate, because it allows everyone on the invite list to view everyone else and then see how many people have responded yes or no, thus seeing if the person having the party is indeed having a party of simply a loser convention). I decided to have a Red Sox-themed party, so we'd watch the game at a local bar. I even included a cheesy joke on the evite and sent it out.

For the next few weeks, I tracked that thing like a freak. I had made a joke in the evite, saying, "Dress to impress in your Red Sox best," but as people responded, they also asked me which t-shirt they should get. (You know, I'm still not over this. The Sox store should really have given me some sort of cut on the profit they made that week. I'm positive there was a spike in at least Varitek and Nixon shirts. Okay, so there's the cynicism. Whatever.) Anyway, every time someone talked about the party, about going to buy a shirt, I was really, well, touched. It sounds cheesy and stupid, but it's true.

And on my birthday, when they brought out the cake, I did take a second and I turned all the way around, and there it was: 360 degrees of Red Sox shirts singing happy birthday. That's it. That's my favorite moment of 2005, and trust me, there's not any cynicism in there. In that moment, and really, throughout the party, I realized that I had that: it FELT like my birthday, it really did.

I really do hope that everyone gets to have a favorite moment of the year like mine.

Okay, well, maybe everyone except the morons.

So, like, 25 people. Thirty, tops.

Anyway, here's hoping next year's got some more good coming.

Some Holiday Cheer

Some notes I've gathered in the past few weeks while writing papers, working, and wrapping Christmas presents:

- Most recently, Johnny Damon went to the Yankees. I can't write anything about Johnny Damon since this was the subject that sparked the whole censorship controversy. All I'll say is that I'm disappointed that he went to the Yankees and I don't know how much I believe people who say that he won't be the same having to be all professional in New York with the hair and personality (though I can - and do - hope they're right). I think it comes down to change. It's hard to accept that all things change, and nothing - especially things that are great - can stay the same. Nothing's going to repeat the 2004 team, no matter how many superstars they get or even how many championships they win. October 2004 was the best month for the Red Sox, with the best team, and as all the guys from that team seem to move on, it's tough to cut ties. What can I say.

(Peace out, Michelle! Best of luck with the YES Network!)

- Have you noticed that when you go out to eat, to waitress/waiter sometimes says, after taking your order, "My name's Ashley, if you need anything." You know what gets me? Am I really going to get up at my table and shout across the place, "ASHLEY! SALT!" No. I don't really need the name. I don't know if it's to form a personal connection or what, but I don't get it and if I don't get it, I don't really care for it.

Also, what's with the trend of not writing the orders down? This makes me annoyed when they screw up what I asked for. I'm not offended by a pen or paper. I don't expect Ashley to be able to remember everyone's order. I don't want to remember her name. It's okay.

A few days ago, my friends and I were at a restaurant and the waitress came back to tell us, "I think there was a miscommunication. When I asked if you wanted dessert and you said you were all set, did that mean you wanted dessert or that you were set?" Huh. That doesn't sound like a miscommuniction to me, hon. That's a definite non-communication, your side.

- Quickly family story: last Sunday, I went to eat with my dad, sister, brother, grandmother, and Saul. I've written about issues with deciding where to go to eat several times, and this time, I was prepared. I had the restaurant picked out. We went. I was stressed the whole time about whether people would like the food. So the food comes and everyone seems happy. Finally, my dad asks my grandmother if she'd come back. "I don't know," was her response.

"Was the food good?" my dad asked her.
"Yes."
"So, what was the problem then?"
"I like a sald with my meal."
"Okay."
"They didn't have the dressings I like. And I like a salad with my meal. You know, a salad. While I wait for the food to come, that's something to do, eat my salad."

Apparently, TALKING WITH YOUR FAMILY doesn't count as "something to do" while waiting for food.

Enjoy eating at Spud's for the 23490814891 time.

- My brother got a huge blister on the bottom of his foot because he ran on the treadmill in socks. WTF, I come from a family of geniuses.

- Speaking of my brother's intellect, listen to this: on Sunday, my dad stopped at a few Hess stations to get his girlfriend one of those collector Hess trucks. (By the way, I've told this story to several people, and apparently, everyone knows about these trucks and every single person has someone in their family buying them. And people think they'll be worth something someday. Uhh, ebay freaks? EVERYONE will be trying to sell theirs in 2050, too. Better off collecting Beanie Babies again.) Anyway, he goes in and comes back empty-handed. They were sold out, he tells us.

A few hours later, we ride by another station, so my dad goes in. This time, after my dad got out of the car, my brother told me how upset he was that my dad was buying the truck. "This is so unfair!" he yelled. "Dad won't buy me a car, and he's getting his girlfriend a truck?! How is that FAIR?!"

"You should tell Dad how you feel," I said. I seriously was choking back tears.

My dad came back, and my brother said to him, "Dad! It's so unfair how you buy her a truck! Why can't she buy her own car! You won't buy me a car!" My brother went ballistic.

"You're joking, right?" my dad asked. "You're not being serious. He's not being serious. He's not that dumb."

"Oh no," I told my dad. "He thinks you're buying her a REAL truck."

"Michael," my father said, turning around to face him, "they're miniature. Collector cars. They're, like, 20 bucks."

"Oh."

This might be equivalent to my sister buying a size medium kid's jacket for herself. This is my brother's pantheon moment. Seriously, what was he thinking? He took a fair verbal beating for it: "Umm, who buys a real car from a gas station?" "How'd you think Dad was going to get it home? Tie it to the trunk?" "Do you really think dad just goes in and negotiates with the clerk who sells loterry tickets and cigarettes?"

Holy crap, I'm laughing at/pitying the kid just writing about it.

- I work with this guy who everybody else thinks should be in charge of the world. I tell him I'm Queen Elizabeth and he's Tony Blair. Basically, I'm ceremonial and serve no real purpose and everyone goes to Tony for any important matter. This goes on every single day. I've literally had someone say to me, "Oh, hey, can you help m... oh, wait, nevermind, Doug's here." YEAH. The last straw was last week when I walked into the office and found that our phone now has been changed to have his name appear when anyone calls out. If that ain't a message, I don't know what it is.

I have a message of my own for all of these people.

If you think I'm putting it in writing, you are out of your mind.

- Since when, by the way, is it okay to make a reservation for 6:30, be told that if you'r enot there at 6:30 SHARP your table will be given away, show up at 6:25 SHARP, and then have to wait 30 minutes to be seated AND be given the royal attitude when you ask when you'll be seated? I guess it's okay since... FOREVER, because when I tell people the story they're all like, "Oh, well, yeah, it's a busy place." BUSY PLACE?! BUSY PLACE?!? That's why I made the reservation in the first place.

I have a real issue with restaurants and their high horse reservation systems. Take P.F. Chang's, for example. A few weeks ago, my friend and I tried to make a reservation for a party, but they were booked. Fine. So we decided to go about 45 minutes early, put our name in, and then when people show up, they'll only have to wait about 10-15 minutes. Well, this wasn't okay. You have to have your entire party to be there. Not just to be seated. Not just to put your name on the list. But just to get a HYPOTHETICAL wait time. Nobody will tell you. I was like, "Okay, so hypothetically, if my entire party were here, how long would it be?"

"I cannot disclose that information."

DISCLOSE! WTF. These people like power.

The Cheesecake Factory is also obnoxious with their no-reservation policy. And then they make you wait after having waited. Your buzzer goes off, you're the proud winner of a spot at the back of the NEXT line. But you know who's more ridiculous that all the Cheesecake honchos? The lardfaces who insist on waiting 3492849184 hours for a table.

And last, I am boycotting the local restaurant next door because they are not friendly people and they make you clear your own tray and separate th forks knives spoons chopsticks AND AND AND scrape off the excess food into the garbage can. I should charge THEM to eat there.

- I'm bronzing this skirt I wore last week. It brought me much happiness and quite franly, I don't think it could do any better. Just how parents bronze their kids' first shoes or some crap like that, this skirt is being dipped in the finest bronze and mounted on a wall somewhere. Maybe I'll start a bronzing business. I'm gonna think about it.

- Stress is but a distant cousin who knows not to knock on my door. Yup, that was created the night after I finished my 22-page Faulkner OPUS.

- Someday, if I am ever a famous writer (admittedly doubtful after the previous note), I really do hope people read these postings and analyze them in English courses so that they try to figure out what I meant. Can you picture it? "Roomus 101" "The Early Work: The Roomus Files." God, I am so egotistical sometimes. The truth is though, I don't mean anything significant by any of them (you're thinking: duh. Or, I hope not.) But really, sometimes I sit in class and think, "I bet William Shakespeare would be like, look, I just wrote this story about this guy who is inane and this girl who's hot and look what can happen. It's a cautionary tale." Or I think about James Joyce finally admitting, "I wrote Ulysses when I was trashed."

That's all I got. Merry Christmas.

Merry F'in Christmas

Something disturbing happened to me last week. My wicked nice agenda book got stolen. I left it at a table with a pile of my notes in a coffee shop for literally two minutes, when I went to get some napkins. I came back, and it was gone - with my notes. I went over to the counter, to ask if the girl had seen anyone take anything. She said that someone had just given her a pile of notes, but that was it. This crime doesn't even make sense to me. What moron would grab an agenda book? Granted, as my mom said, it looks like a big wallet. Okay. But why would you also take my notes? Wouldn't you just take my book? Why would you risk handing off the notes to the person behind the counter? I have no idea, seriously. I'd like to just meet the person so I can ask these questions.

Also, I'd like to punch them in the face because they stole my agenda book, which was like this expensive binder thing I got for my birthday and it had some Gap coupons in it.

And you know, what am I going to do about it? The girl behind the counter was like, "Do you want me to call the police?" Yeah, go ahead. I'm sure Boston police are going to want to track down a leather agenda book with $15 in cash and $20 in Gap coupons and some random pictures. That sounds like a good way to spend their time.

The lesson from all of this isn't good, or suprising, really. The world is full of mean people. And morons.

Christmas spirit my ass.