Archive for December, 2009

Happy New Year!!

Making resolutions for 2010. 

Eating the last of the Christmas ham until I puke. 

Wishing you and yours a Happy New Year! 

May all our dreams come true…


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Dear Santa,

Sorry, I haven’t written in ages.  So much has happened since my last correspondence – I didn’t get that part in the Christmas play but my bottom tooth finally came in!  Thanks for the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, by the way.  That was awesome.

Santa, 2009 has been rough.  We’ve had corporate bailouts and escalating wars.  Religious weirdos praying for the president’s death and private health care companies being favored over the public.  Empty-headed boobs like Levi Johnston and What’s-his-face Gosselin made headlines while spoiled superstars continued to debauch and philander, self-destruct and die.

Then there’s life down here with us commoners where we’ve lost our jobs and homes in this tanking ship of an economy.  We have identity crises and depression galore.  Everyone seems lost.

And here I am getting jazzed with the rest of ‘em, watching Tiger Woods’ fall from grace.  Maybe feeding on the man’s carcass nourishes the sense of insecurity and anger we all feel.  Just yesterday, I was reading about the women who keep coming out of the woodwork to sleaze up the golfer’s rep.  “Ha ha,” I cackled, discovering Mr. Squeaky Clean’s predilection for porn stars and casino hostesses, and the raunchy things he asked them to do.  Then I saw an article about the 911 call made from the house the night his wife whacked him with a golf club.  In the call, an old woman had collapsed and a child was crying in the background.  A desperate husband, a panic-stricken wife, a mother sent to the hospital and a child watching as his world crumbles.  Not so funny anymore.

Kinda makes you feel icky.  Kinda makes you wanna chuck it all and go tend rabbits on a farm in Kansas.  Kinda makes you wonder, ‘where’s the love?’

So, Santa, rather than asking you to fix health care and make husbands nicer, I’ll just ask for compassion.  Maybe you could pack love into a giant cloud that moves across the land sprinkling raindrops of kindness.  It’ll get into our water source so we won’t even know you’ve duped us into being better people.  Thus, the environment, the economy, our relationships and souls will be fixed of our own accord.

‘Course, you may have to put people like Bernie Madoff, Rush Limbaugh and anyone who works for Fox News in a hot air balloon that crashes into some remote island in the Bermuda Triangle.  I wish these people no harm (I’m kindhearted, y’see).  But I don’t think they’ll be very comfortable in the United States of Compassion.

In fact, feel free to put all reality television and celebrity gossip rags into the balloon, too.  Pop culture may not be to blame for our nation’s psychological ills, but it sure isn’t holding up the best mirror.  How are we supposed to be decent folk when we’re constantly reminded what self-promoting, malicious shitbags we can be?  Maybe you could just have good shows like Mad Men run non-stop all year.  While you’re at it, feel free to have Don Draper step off the screen and sidle up to me on the sofa.

Speaking of my own Christmas list, it’s pretty short.  I want a fondue set and one of those chairs you can sit in and get a total body massage.  And I would love for this to be the year I finally get a book contract.

But really, I’ll stick with love and compassion.  I’ve learned a lot about both this year.  I’ve chosen to show kindness and tolerance to everyone I come in contact with – even the jerks – and think I’ve had a better year than most because of it.  And this year, I’ve loved another person more than I ever have in my life.

So, I get it.  There’s nothing more important than love.  With love, none of us would have to make Christmas wish lists.  None of us would have to wish for world peace.  We wouldn’t have to wish bad things on Sarah Palin because she would already be a kind, generous broad.

Santa, you’ve watched the story of love in my life evolve in new and interesting ways this year.  You know what I want, you’ve heard me asking for it.  And I know you’re making me work for it because it’s special.  Love is the Holy Grail.  You can’t just stumble upon it like a quarter on the sidewalk.

So all I want next year is more and more love.  Keep it coming.  Give me more work to do, I’m getting there.  Hopefully, we all are.

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A man on the street accidentally winked at me.  He must have had something in his eye, I know the wink wasn’t for me.  But it got me thinking. 

I miss flirting.  I miss the fine art of seduction.  I miss feeling the dizzying chemistry between me and a man linger long enough for the tension to swell.  I long for the days when men wanted to work a little harder to get a gal’s attention and women knew how to beguile.  Back when the journey to bed was almost as intoxicating as the arrival.  

A wink.  A light touch on your back as your paths cross.  A man watching your lips move when you speak.  I’d take up smoking just to have a guy light my cigarette.  Those are the most alluring gestures because there’s mystery and eroticism in them.  Romantic foreplay, if you will.  One of the sexiest moments I’ve had all year was catching the object of my desire staring at me from the other side of a room.  The whole world was buzzing around us, but it was just me and him locked in a stare.  

Having a dude ogle your cleavage and tell you how “wicked hot” you are within minutes of meeting you just doesn’t cut it anymore.  Nowadays, the mating game is all about Cuervo shots, witless come ons and grinding each other to shitty Justin Timberlake songs.  I’m glad we don’t live in the goofy, puritanical ‘50s anymore but I don’t want to live in porno America either.  

I think I’ll build a time machine and go back to the ‘20s.  I’ll smoke cigarettes out of holders and do the Charleston.  Instead of crotch-length mini skirts and thongs, I’ll wear shimmery dresses that hug my body with garters and stockings hidden beneath.  A man with bedroom eyes will watch me from across the room, he’ll send over a cocktail and wait for my cue to approach.  He’ll say something like, “do you believe in love at first sight” and I’ll reply, “I don’t know, but it sure saves a lot of time.”  Instead of grinding him to Timberlake, I’ll sashay across the floor and let him follow my hips with his eyes.  At the end of the night, we’ll share a kiss so full of promise we’ll be eager to see each other again.  

Now, that’s what I call bringing sexy back.

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All my life, I’ve focused on literary stardom, fantasizing about the day my unique voice will rise above the din of mundane existence to inspire humanity through the written word.  I’ve toiled in non-profit organizations, hoping the fruits of my labor will make significant change in the lives of the world’s most underserved populations.  But I think I’ve finally discovered my calling.  

I’m going to be a cocktail waitress. 

Obviously, this is the crème de la crème of occupations, considering all the fantastically desirable women who do it and the caliber of men enchanted by them. 

Tiger Woods’ main mistress?  Cocktail waitress.  Most of George Clooney’s girlfriends?  Cocktail waitresses.  Matt Damon’s wife?  Three words: Cock.  Tail.  Waitress. 

Just imagine – ungodly amounts of fame, truckloads of wealth, a hot Swedish wife who bore him a family of cute little Tiger cubs.  Tiger Woods has all of this and he risked it just to bone a cocktail waitress.  Those chicks must really be rad. 

Some of my best memories hark back to my own days in a bar.  In college, I served drinks at a club in Boston where all of us waitresses were constantly hit on by the performers and celebrities who frequented the joint.  Now we get together every so often to reminisce about the good times, like having our asses pinched by three dudes in one night.  Being informed by a comedian’s body guard our “company” is requested in the green room.  Getting asked by a B-list actor if he can do body shots off us ten seconds after he checks in with his wife.  Man, those were the days. 

Tiger’s waitress was from Los Angeles, but what guy would settle down with some wannabe reality TV star?  Those ladies have no sophistication or discretion.  Send a dirty text to one of them on a Saturday night and a man’s just begging to be in the Enquirer come Monday. 

Ask me, Vegas is the ticket.  Ever notice how often famous dudes get busted there?  Even one of Tiger’s alleged booty calls works in the city.  Vegas is where the hottest, wealthiest, most successful men in the universe go to completely debauch themselves.  In Vegas, you get to help A-list actors cheat on their A-list actress girlfriends, and multi-million dollar athletes ruin their game by snorting coke off strippers’ bellies.  Any gal hoping to achieve her professional and romantic goals should totally hightail it to Vegas.  What better way to see Cupid launch his arrow than having a guy like Clooney puke Limoncello shots onto your tray.  Score. 

So my dream now is to work at some swank casino in Vegas.  I’ll serve someone like LeBron James in the VIP lounge or our eyes will meet over the neon blare of a slot machine.  Not only will he fall head over heels in love and offer to pay off my student loans, but he’ll marry me and take me back to his mansion where I can focus on less significant goals like, I dunno, writing a book.  

My only fear is I no longer have it in me.  What if I can’t carry a tray of drinks anymore?  What if I can no longer add?  I heard a rumor that in order to land a job at Hooters, a gal’s breasts have to be big enough to hold a pencil in the crease between her boob and her ribcage.  And here I’ve been concentrating on writing with pencils.  What a dope. 

I’m sure I’ll figure it out once I get to Vegas and meet my man.  Of course, since LeBron is famous and rich, he’ll undoubtedly cheat on me.  No worries though.  I’ll just beat him with a golf club.

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