Christmas Shopping

This topic really has no positives for me like the others. I just don’t like Christmas shopping at all. To me it exemplifies the extreme consumerist vibe of the holiday season and I get exhausted just thinking about it. This year, I went shopping on Black Friday with my sister, mother, and my sister’s best friend and her mother. First off, I’ll be honest in saying that I had a little too much Turkey Day cheer the night before and was seriously hung over. Secondly, I’d learned to hate Black Friday from my high school days working at JoAnn Fabrics and Crafts. I’d never in my life been so confused by middle-aged women who would rouse themselves from slumber at 4 am to get 50 yards of Christmas fabric on sale, then throw in ribbon, wreaths, and sewing accoutrements. The aisles were a horrendous mess at the end of the day and Black Friday to me meant starting my sales associate shift when it was dark and then not leaving again until it was pitch black.

This year I was wholly expecting the day to be a bit different than Black Fridays of the past when our economy was, as the ever eloquent President Bush explained, drunk. Now that we were in an “economic hangover” I expected less people, less buying, less insanity. But leave it to the strength of the American shopper to look a recession in the face and ignore it completely.

When we arrived at the mall they so kindly had provided traffic cops for directing cars in and out of the parking lot, and we had to do the fancy “stalk and park” maneuver to finally get a space. I was faced with the winter shopping predicament of leaving my coat in the car or taking it with me. I like to take my coat with me so then I don’t feel as though I’m making myself welcome and sticking around the mall all afternoon. But then again the most uncomfortable type of hotness seems to over take me when I’m bundled up shopping in a crowded mall or store and I almost feel as though my skin is crawling. I opted for a no coat and entered the mall with so much dread. It was as though I was spiraling into the seventh circle of hell. It seemed everyone in the city had packed themselves into this Sears store and was trying to look at/try on/purchase the same item. I began to itch. The rest of the day went as follows 1) enter a store, 2) try to look at items 3) run into people who can’t seem to walk properly or who like to just chill out in the middle of the aisles 4) pick through the deals which have been thrown into what looks like a rubbish pile 5) see the changing room line is 20 people long 6) continue to sweat and itch and wish I could escape the fiery flames of Christmas shopping hell. We finally left the mall and went to Target which wasn’t much better, especially since this store had shopping carts. I got a glimpse of craziness at its finest when a poor employee starting setting out shelves of movies priced from $1.99 to $5.99. I’ll admit this is a great price for recent films, but the minute I saw my sister’s friend lunge through the crowd for a copy of The Goonies tagged at $3.99 I had to extract myself from the situation. I couldn’t stand to see her mauled for a DVD.

Christmas Songs

This one has seemed to hit me especially hard this season. I used to like most Christmas songs, but lately a large portion of them seem to rub me the wrong way. I will say that most church Christmas songs are OK by me. I like that they are generally simple and some hauntingly beautiful. And truthfully I defy anyone to not be moved by a candlelit rendition of Silent Night.

I also greatly enjoy cheesier fare like Feliz Navidad, Here Comes Santa Claus, Jingle Bells, Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer (only the first 10 times), Run Run Rudolph, and The 12 Days of Christmas if, and only if sung by the Muppets. Mariah Carey also hit the jackpot in my book with All I Want for Christmas Is You, as do most people who attempt Carol of the Bells. I’ve also been known to rock out to some Mannheim Steamroller jams. Lastly, I find that any sort of cartoon character compilations (minus a select trio who will soon be mentioned) to be somewhat entertaining. My sister and I once bought a cassette tape at Big Lots entitled Ren and Stimpy’s Crock O’ Christmas. Let me assure you, that is singing animation at its finest. I’ve also been told by a dear friend, who possesses a love for much the same off-kilter humor as me, that the Cabbage Patch Kids Christmas is also worth a try in your Christmas repertoire.

Now onto the stinkers. I’m not such a fan of pop stars who try to put out an album of their take on Christmas classics. You might find a gem here and there (ie Mariah…or Mimi or whatever the hell she calls herself now), but generally I think they should just be burnt in a big pile like those morally questionable books from Wasilla’s Library. Overly sappy songs, like Amy Grant’s My Grown-Up Christmas List (sorry Mom!) and the deplorable Christmas Shoes don’t really sit well with me. Again, I’m not saying that these aren’t nice sentiments, I just think they try too damn hard. I’m fully aware that there are very poor people in the world, but I’d rather give them my money than pay to hear someone so earnestly croon about their plight. I also recently read something rather funny about the song Baby It’s Cold Outside. I really have no qualms about the song, it’s cute. But on an MSN message board a poster was vehemently against the song saying “That line “What’s in this Drink” is horrible. I don’t usually associate date rape with Christmas.” I don’t really think the poor guy in the song slipped a roofie in his lady-friend’s drink…but the line kinda makes me wonder when I hear it now. And lastly, I’m just going to say this one time. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore shouldn’t sing…ever. If you think I’m a big asshole for saying this I’m certainly sorry you feel that way. But every time the song “Please Christmas Don’t be Late” come on I can’t bear it, especially the line “me…I want a huuuuuula hoop!” Just earth shattering, and I mean that in a bad way.

Christmas Movies/Television Specials

Christmas movies are tricky for me because there are so many to love. First off, probably one of my favorite is a crudely taped amalgamation of Christmas specials from the late 80’s. My mother, in all her greatness, somehow recorded A Charlie Brown Christmas, Garfield’s Christmas, A Muppet Christmas Special, A Clay-mation Christmas starring the California Raisins, and the pinnacle: Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s Christmas at Home, all on one VHS cassette. My sister and I still roll on the floor with laughter (mostly at the old retro commercials) and shed a tear when Linus recites the real meaning of Christmas to Charlie Brown. I’m also an avid fan of the quintessential How the Grinch Stole Christmas (animated version) and A Muppet Christmas Carol (if you haven’t seen it, RUN to the rental store and get it…you won’t be disappointed). There’s also nothing like new classics: Home Alone, Miracle on 34th Street, Love Actually, Elf, and Fred Claus (mostly because in my heart Vince Vaughn can do no wrong). I also have been known to watch the oldies like It’s a Wonderful Life and non-Christmas films that have become twisted holiday traditions: Misery starring Kathy Bates (if you really want to know you can ask). But my favorite of all favorites, one that I could literally watch through all 30 hours on the TBS marathon is…A Christmas Story. Never have I loved a Christmas movie as much as this nasty little heart-warming number. There are far too many quotes to blurt out and leg lamps to light for this one blog post. However, I will advise that if you are in the Cleveland area, and who wouldn’t want to be, please do yourself a favor and visit the Christmas Story House. It is magical.

Now on to what I hate. I’ll make it quick. If you are going to make a new holiday film…fine. Be my guest. Just do it in a classy fashion like the ones I mentioned above. If I stumble onto one more horrible Lifetime/Hallmark/ABC Family Christmas movie I’m going to vomit up my Fruity Pebbles. Honestly, I find movies whose plot involves a lonely divorcee falling in love with a department store Santa Claus a little insulting. To top it off they name these movies things like “Santa Baby” and “All I want for Christmas is Love.” It’s not that I think heartwarming tales of miracles and goodwill is such a bad thing, I just think that some of these films are so trite that an old granny would laugh outloud at them. But I said I’d make this quick so…moving on.

Christmas Commercials

As I said before, the first Christmas commercials used to be the lighting of the proverbial holiday season torch for me. Just like an Olympic flame bearer, I’d trudged through the misery of the previous year to finally light that happy fire of cheer and goodwill. I used to love the Christmas commercials of my bygone childhood, especially the one where the little snowman boy melts after he eats Campbell’s chicken noodle soup (In retrospect I think I was just glad that creepily mobile snowman turned out to be a cute little boy, because initially I didn’t understand why that insipid woman would let a massive melting snowball into her kitchen…my mom certainly didn’t like us tracking snow into her kitchen). I also enjoyed the Fruity Pebbles one where Barney says “Tis the season to be sharing, Fred” and everyone then feasted on what was (and still is) one of my favorite sugar-laden breakfast cereals. Another classic is the minimalist, yet fantastic Hershey’s Kisses playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” While yet another that sticks out in my memory is the Glade Christmas Candle commercial. Don’t be confused. I’m talking about the late 90’s one where a beautiful melody is being played by a string quartet and various candles (Christmas Pine, Cinnamon Stick, Vanilla Cream) flicker in gauzy sentimental Christmas scenes.

But now, by God, I’d like to see the whole Glade candle empire go down in flames (no pun intended). The newest commercials are so grating that I have to shut them off or, by the grace of DVR, fast-forward through them. It begins with some stupid housewives giggling about how the house smells so amazing it must be a designer column of wax, then go on to christen the candles Gladé (pronounced Glad-ay…I know…go ahead and gag). If I have to hear it one more time I will jab out my eardrums with those previously mentioned sharpened candy canes. I also despise with a fiery passion, as apparently most people do, those Christmas commercials for the jewelers Kay and Jared. First of all, I know wonderful people named Kay and Jared, and I truly am sorry that they have jewelry stores as shitty as these named after them. If every kiss does begin with Kay, meaning that I require my boyfriend to get me some God-awful princess-cut monstrosity just so he can get some action, then I really would hope that for his sake he’d dump me. As would I fully understand if he erased my number from his phone and threw all my belongings to the curb if he ever saw me squeal with all my girlfriends “He went to Jared!!” Please, those commercials are in a word: shitastic. In general, I also hate all commercials that have some sort of scenario starring a demanding child/wife/husband/best pal that makes the announcer say “This Christmas…get them what they really want.” Honestly, if there was someone like that in my life they’d be getting a big “f you” from me. But I’d write it in a nice holiday card.

Scrooge?

I’m sure you all think you’ve figured out this next post. It’s T minus 3 days until Christmas and because my previous posts have reeked of an acerbic, smart-assed tone, it seems only right that I’m going to say how much I abhor Christmas and all its various manifestations. Well you are right…and wrong. I really don’t hate Christmas at all, on the contrary actually. I absolutely used to adore Christmas as a child. From the first Christmas commercials I saw to the requisite airing of “Miracle on 34th Street” on Thanksgiving Day, I was certifiably obsessed. Then as the holiday season moved on I became more and more intoxicated until on Christmas Day I was full-blown drunk-off-my-ass with holiday happiness. Then, unfortunately, on the 26th I would be hit with the worst Christmas binge hangover ever. My little heart would literally deflate like a shitty helium balloon and I would stare forlornly at the Christmas tree as if to say “Live it up O Tannenbaum…your ass is grass tomorrow.” Even at a young age, Christmas was a time in which I didn’t have to search for something to look forward to or be genuinely happy about. I was truly, madly giddy just because it was December (and the fact that I was about to be inundated by an avalanche of presents).

But now I realize that alarmingly I’ve become somewhat of a Scrooge, and that the dark feelings began to pour in after I turned 16. I still love Christmas but certain aspects of it make me want to slam my head into a brick wall then poke my eyes out with sharpened candy canes. Thus, I will attempt to convey through the next few days what I’ve come to both adore and abhor about Christmas before closing, as all proper holiday stories should, with a happy ending.

My Body Hates Me

Today, this post is not about what I hate, but instead what hates me. And that would be...my body. As referenced before I am not the most graceful or coordinated, and I consider it a good day when I can walk down the sidewalk without seriously injuring my person. That being said it isn't really always my body's fault when bad things happen to it.

Probably one of my worst decisions regarding my bodily health is that of playing rugby. For those who don't know, rugby is probably one of the most (of not THE most) physically damaging sports available for an athlete. It's full contact tackling without any protective gear.
Why would I choose to play such a sport? If you're asking this you join the chorus of friends and family who either recoiled or looked absoluted flabbergasted by this decision. Perhaps it was because I was a foolish undergraduate or because I wanted to participated in a sport that was anti-establishment. I don't know. I do know that I enjoyed every minute of getting my ass kicked, but my poor body didn't. My family didn't enjoy it either, especially my mother. Imagine giving birth and raising a daughter whom you love more than anything...then driving all over the state of Ohio to see her slammed into a field. I think during one very violent game I may have heard my aunt cry out over the melee "Oh dear Jesus have mercy on number 4!" To be fair I'm not exactly what you would call "frail", but I think they still see me as a four-year-old playing tea party.

An edited list of my rugby injuries:
1) I was kicked in the mouth during a wayward tackle and I bit through the side of my tongue while wearing a mouthguard. Oooh delightful.
2) I had my chest (read: upper lady parts) cleated by a particularly robust opponent.
3) During a rainy, very very muddy game (my favorite!) I face-planted into a massive mud puddle.
4) My elbow was hyperextended at the end of the fall season my junior year and resulted in the most amazing bruise I've ever seen (my arm looked like a blue tye dyed shirt). I also had to go to physical therapy to restore a full range of motion to my arm.
5) Various concussions which have finally rendered me incapable of playing contact sports again (to my utter, utter dismay...but probably for the best). In retrospect it was fun being referred to as "concussed" by my teammates.

Anyhow, the physical abuse continued that summer after my junior year, annoyingly right before I was supposed to visit France. I'll be clear, nothing short of a full body cast would have kept me from going on that trip, but really how entertaining would it have been to take pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower completely covered in plaster. But continuing on.
I was working at a plant nursery and stupidly (most of my actions start out with "stupidly") I thought I could pick up a tree. No...I didn't try yank a planted Oak out of the ground...but I did try to pick up a rather large sapling. According to the chiropractor this (suprise of all surprises) strained my back msucles , which in turn would not hold my hip in place properly resulting in one of my legs ending up a half an inch shorter than the other. I think I went to the chiropractor 6 times in an attempt to keep my hip in place before jetting to a place where cheese is a daily dietary staple (ah..heaven). But as soon as I boarded the plane my bastard hip decided it wanted a vacation too and left it's proper place in my body. Needless to say that trip was memorable for more than seeing where Quasimodo lived.

In another sick twist of fate, I again injured myself before going on another Euro-trip two summers ago: this time to the Land of Many Beers. A week before I was to depart for Deutschland (where I prayed that barley and hops flowed from waterfalls) I was partaking in some tasteful dancing at a nice little gay establishment. I somehow found myself on stage (gasp!) fully enjoying the dance beats with some of my favorite gents when I fell. Off the platform. Onto only one foot. After dragging a severely drunken friend home I thought maybe my foot just "stung" a little. But oh no. After 3 weeks of walking on cobblestone streets in Bier Country I was reduced to a hobbling mess.

"Oh Jesus of Nazareth enough with the bodily harm" you may say. Ohhh no. One of more story from the anthology. Recently (as described before), I have been, to put it mildly, bored. So I have been helping my aunt move. She is in her mid-60s and needed a lot of assistance moving a lifetime's worth of shit. Not only did this exercise help me to see the beauty in living without lots of earthly possessions, it also left me with the same problem as my Parisian "mal de dos" a few paragraphs back. Why didn't I learn that if lifting a tree would screw up my back, possibly hulking an entire box of Elvis Pressley records would be a bad idea? Who knows. But my back currently hurts. A lot. Bless my aunt, or as I like to call her "my dealer", she has been giving me some of her muscle relaxers to help out. But I suppose none of that is really going to help considering that the other morning while home alone I ran out of the bathroom completely nude and dripping wet to get a towel (I'm really sorry if that's too much of a visual but it's important to the story). I (surprise surprise) slipped on the ceramic tile in the kitchen and landed on my ass. If this weren't bad enough, because I was so wet I slid across part of the kitchen on my back picking up dirt, crumbs, and dog food along the way. Yeah. It's truly pathetic but true.

I hope this post doesn't leave anyone thinking that maybe I should be fitted for a straight jacket anytime soon. I'm working on my decision-making skills and hoping that one day my body won't retaliate on me and become severely allergic to alcohol. Although I probably deserve it.

Molding Young Minds

I want to begin this post by saying this topic is not something that I adore or abhor, it is just simply something that I find extremely amusing in my life at the moment. That being, because I am unemployed in my field right now, I am a substitute teacher. Forget the fact that I neither have a degree in teaching or want to become a teacher (thought I highly respect them), apparently if you have a bachelor's degree you are qualified to mold young minds for a day or two. Personally I know plenty of people who've managed to get bachelor's degrees that I wouldn't ask to watch my purse while I went to the bathroom let alone watch children while their teacher is sick...but no matter.

It was a relatively easy process, and fingerprinting and 70 bucks later I got a substitute teaching certificate in the mail (forgive me if I don't frame it). My first gig happened to be
at the elementary school I attended. The fact that I would voluntarily subject myself to going back shows you just how desperate I am for 1) Cash and 2) Something to break up my days of What Not to Wear television marathons and gmail chatting.

I was called in to be a physical education teacher. I guess in retrospect the fact that it's called "physical education" should be a comfort to me...especially because the words "gym" and "class" still haunt me to this day. I wasn't the most coordinated or athletically gifted child (or adult as some of you would argue), so gym was never my favorite activity. But here I was...substitute teaching for it. The phys ed teacher I was subbing for was actually there when I arrived because she had some meeting to go to later on. So she showed me around the school, which had been rebuilt since I'd been a student. It was a whole new type of mind-fuck to see all my elementary school teachers and hear them say with giddy delight "You're back!!" Awesome. "I didn't know you went into education." I didn't. "You like being home huh?" I don't.

The first wave of kids came in the building and let me say I was not prepared for how little they were or how disgusting they were either. I don't know about you...but when I was in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade I pretty much thought I was the grown-up-kid-shit. But these kids were the closest thing to infants I'd seen in awhile, and I realized how delusional I'd been in the early 90's. I was given directions on what to do with each class, and lucky for me I got to have every single grade that day. The best piece of advice my former gym teacher left me with was "Don't put your coat near theirs. They all have lice."

I began my day with some pretty amiable kids and it only got better as I made my way towards lunch. Meaning I started the day with 3rd graders and moved up to 6th graders who were all well-behaved. The worst things that happened before lunch were that I had to teach them how to do the electric slide (haha..I know..laugh it up but they were making their way through a dancing unit ok??) and that a girl got nailed in the head with a dodge ball (OMG such an epic moment...I had to use every professional bone in my body not to bust out laughing and say "Shit girl you just got schooled!!") Oh...I also laid into a kid for yelling "Give me the ball back faggot!" You can imagine how well he and I got along after that. I'm sure I'll forever be known as "That bitch gym sub."

Then after lunch the dark clouds gathered and all hell broke loose. Before the end of the day I would have kindergarden though 2nd grade. You may wonder why this would be so bad...aren't they cute? say funny things? listen to you with rapt attention? No. They are little devil spawn. Dirty devil spawn. I'm so serious, some of them looked like they just came from a particularly rowdy Nascar race. It really didn't help either that when their teachers dropped them off they said things like "I want to hear a good report from Miss White!" , whispered to me "Good luck. You'll need it" then darted off to 40 minutes of peace in the teacher's lounge. Bitches.

I can't describe to you in words how they tattled on each other, screamed insults, and whined and cried. Every other second a little tear-streaked face was telling me that someone had hit/pushed/tripped/strangled/yelled at/breathed on them. I've never seen so many injuries either...many of which I was told would render them incapable of ever playing in gym class again (along with some funny kids who were bent out of shape over chapped lips). One little kindergardener even ran up to me with her hand over her mouth and muttered something. Stupidly I said "Take your hand off your mouth and say that again." She then said "I puked in my mouth." Yes. True story. Then after I sent her to the bathroom she came back and told me she had thrown up again and it was yellow. Thanks kid. They also seemed to think that the water supply in NW Ohio was perilously in danger of running out because they asked for water fountain breaks like it was a precious commodity. Many also seemed to think that they actually had to suck the water out of the tap because I can't count how many times I said "Please don't put your mouths on the water fountain."

I also had the pleasure of being recess and lunch monitor during my free periods. Just some observations:
-Kids don't use tissues. Instead they use scarves, coat sleeves, gloves, or simply just let their snot run out of their noses (I know that's revolting...but I saw at least a dozen kids in that situation so just bear with me).
-Someone needs to come up with a better outerwear deal for kids. First of all...they can't zip coats. It's just a fact. And all children's gloves should be mittens because they just can't put fingers into normal gloves...and neither can I.
-Being a teacher (at least for me) is all about "Do as I say, not as I do." I repremanded so many of the older kids for swearing, which is honestly so ironic to me, especially because my first inclination was to say "Hey shitheads! Watch your damn mouths in here! This is a fucking elementary school!" I also had to prevent two little boys from a chocolate milk chugging race, which I felt awfully bad about since chugging a beverage is often the highlight of my Friday nights.
-Whilst checking on preschoolers who were dawdling in the boy's restrooms I had possibly the cutest/awkward experience with two 3 year olds. They were both at urinals and one turned to the other and said "Hey..mine's bigger than yours!! Look Miss White! Mine's bigger!" To which I said "It's not how big it is, it's how you use it".......Ok..I'm totally just kidding. I definetly did not say that. But it was again a time I had to use all my professionalism to not laugh and say "Hurry up boys and wash your hands when you're done."

Anyhow, that's been my experience so far as a sub. I'm sure I'll have more tales as my tenure continues...especially when I sub at my dad's high school this Friday. Lunch with Mr. White in the cafeteria? Sweet.

International Cheese Display

"The French say 'fromage,' the Spanish say 'queso,' I just say YES!"

This is my first post in what is apparently a pop culture phenomenon amongst young people. Personally I'm not really one for fads (I don't want to do MySpace and it took a lot of persuading for me to join Facebook), but out of sheer desperation I must have some sort of outlet for what's going on in my head. To make a long story as succinct as possible: I recently finished graduate school, I'm unemployed, living with my parents, and frantically trying to find a job in a shitty economy. So... I've decided that I will start a blog about things I adore and things I abhor. And possibly I'll throw in something that strikes me as particularly humorous. My first post will explain why I've named my blog International Cheese Display. Primarily it is because I love cheese more than an individual rightly should, but also it is the first in my archive of things I adore.

This Thanksgiving my cousin came to visit in the evening after he had gone to a very fancy Thanksgiving Day Buffet at the Marriott. Chic. He brought along the menu so we plebians could peruse the offerings of such a lavish spread. While he explained some of the finer delicacies and said he was far to interested in the "real food" to bother with the fresh fruit trays I spotted something that made my heart skip a beat.

"Wait...does this really say International Cheese Display?" I asked, waiting with baited breath.

He then confirmed that yes indeed there had been an entire table of cheeses from around the world. I truly don't know when I started to love cheese so much or exactly why, all I know is that friends who stupidly decide to stand in front of a cheese platter at parties have nearly been stabbed to death by those multicolored, plastic party skewers that are made to resemble swords. In all honesty, a cheese tray does not need to be international in nature for me to love it. I'm perfectly happy with those grocery store platters that carry the classic four: cheddar, colby-jack, pepper jack, and swiss. For that matter I'm also satisfied by a can of low brow spray cheese, as long as I'm given some means of eating it (cracker, cardboard, finger).

All I can say is that a party host/hostess gets my thumbs up if they supply cheese at their party, and a double thumbs up if there is more than one kind. I truly hope that one day I will get to feast my eyes upon a landscape of international cheeses...and that I will be able to stop myself from knocking over that display while in a cheese-induced intoxication.