The Christmas Eye Twitch

My eye has been twitching for the last week. I haven’t been thinking much about the reasoning behind why my eyelid suddenly breaks out in the Macarena, because all I need to know is IT’S ANNOYING AF.

Earlier today, I was trying to get to Target to buy a few necessities that couldn’t wait until after Christmas.

As I was trying to merge onto the freeway, some hot fart in a huge truck made it nearly impossible for me to get over before the next exit. He was just rolling in the far right lane, WHERE PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO MERGE, at a pace that made it impossible to get in front or behind.

As I was yelling obscenities over my blaring Christmas music and shaking my fists in extreme disapproval, my eyelid started in on “Hey, Macarena!”

Later, as I tried to park at Target, but had to wait while a sloth-like, IDGAF woman unloaded her entire cart IN THE PARKING SPOT I WAS TRYING TO PARK IN, my eyelid again felt like it was Latin dance time.

Then, as I was snaking my way through every man in Reno doing last minute shopping, and all that could be heard was a child’s shrill screaming, my eyelid really started to break it down.

So, I must deduce that my eyelid is twitching BECAUSE IT’S CHRISTMAS!

Please, don’t get me wrong-I love Christmas. Like, so much so, it-has-to-be-perfect-so-don’t-even-try-to-say-you’re-not-making-your-famous-breakfast-casserole-this-year-mom-because-I’ll-die.

So, these are some of the reasons why my eye is twitching and most likely won’t stop until after Christmas, when I can finally relax in my euphoric food drunk stupor.

Worrying:

What if I run out of Tums/tampons/lipgloss/water on Christmas Eve, but I can’t go to the store, because it’s CHRISTMAS EVE?

Who’s going to get sick (and when) over the holidays? Please just let us get through Christmas without fevers, snot, or vomit.

What if I can’t find the 10 pound Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup? What else will I get my dad?

Did I take enough ornament-on-my-tree and holding-a-Peppermint-Mocha-with-mittens photos so everyone knows I’m the most Christmas af?

Will I find my Amazon packages before the thieves who are obviously casing our tiny hole in the wall Midtown apartment?

Did I remember to buy expertly thought-out gifts for everyone that I will then elaborately wrap using $53 worth of ribbon, cellophane, glitter tissue paper, quality wrapping paper, and a real bird in a gold cage?

What if I forget to wash my new plaid thermal pajama pants and I don’t have them to wear Christmas morning with my Ugg boots? I’ll just fucking die.

Did that reindeer beanie I tried on at Old Navy have lice? Why didn’t I think of that before I thought to try it on? Wait. What if all store-bought hats have lice in them? I’ll become Amish and make my own everything.

What if I forget to buy wine? Is that even a thing?

Wondering:

Will drinking my third glass of egg nog give me diarrhea or do I risk it?

Will a gross of Clorox Wipes, hand sanitizer, and Lysol spray be enough for the holidays this year?

Will leaving your Christmas tree on while you’re at the grocery store cause it to spontaneously combust?

How much can I overdo it with the peanut butter fudge, Muddy Buddies, and Bailey’s before I’m comatose?

Why does overeating right before bed make me have dreams involving a centaur Jeff Goldblum eating a chili cheese hot dog? (Because you’re a sick freak.)

How many years will I have to workout to reverse the damage done this Christmas season alone?

Is there a special hell for adults who don’t cover their mouths when they hack up their lungs in public? Please say there is.

Why do I always go way over my Christmas budget? *puts two Bath & Body Works hand soaps in the bag for every one that’s meant to be a “gift”*

Maybe this ought to be titled, “Anxiety-Riddled and Barely Sane”?

So, tell me, what makes your eye twitch at Christmas?

This is my I’m-surprised-it’s-almost-Christmas-and-in-such-an-Instagram-worthy-way. Really, I just look like a giant puckered butthole. Also, I used filters on filters on filters on this bad boy.

A Christmas (Ghost) Story

Normally, Christmas isn’t a time for swapping ghost stories (unless you’re a stingy, cantankerous Scrooge who needs a visit from Christmas past), but this time of year always makes me think of my old Elko apartment.

If you know me personally, you likely know that I’m the highest form of wimp possible. If something has a slight bit of danger (I find leaving my cellphone charger plugged in without my cellphone one of the biggest dangers of the modern world) associated with it, I’ll opt out in a nanosecond.

Back when my parents first started leaving me home alone (I believe I was eleven), I would lock myself in the bathroom with our dog if I heard the heat kick on.

At the ripe old age of 34, I cannot sleep if my bedroom door isn’t locked at night. And, when the boyfriend comes in, I ask if he locked the door. Every.night. I ask this every night. He’s almost certainly is planning my murder.

So, obviously, I’m the best person to live in a house that’s haunted.

Can you see where this is going? Yeah, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

The apartment an ex boyfriend, we shall call him Carl, and I shared was on the “tree streets” in the heart of Elko. They’re called the “tree streets”, because they’re named after trees-oak, maple, etc. Our street was called Court. I’m no expert on trees, but I’m fairly certain that’s not a type of tree. Either way, I’m still 99% sure we lived in the coveted “tree streets” area.

It was a delightful part of town-full of gorgeous old homes, mature trees (obviously there were trees), and a serenely idyllic feel.

We had been on the apartment hunt for quite some time, as we were way past wearing out our welcome at his mother’s house (not to mention, we had graduated college, which was one of the conditions of living rent-free).

After a particularly exasperating day of turning up nothing that would suit us, home-wise, we happened upon a quaint white stone and green-trimmed row of apartment buildings. The way they were built, each duo were separated by a door that led into a shared storage and laundry room.

They were old. Like, built-in-the-20s-or-30s-old. But, they well cared for. They were also expertly updated to maintain the vintage charm and uniqueness they possessed.

This was after I’d added some of my own charm to the home.

When I peeked into the kitchen, through a window, and saw the awesome vintage metal cabinets, I had to live there. Later, I’d find the apartment held all sorts of vintage charm, like skeleton key locks and tiny, useless closets.

(It’s kind of ridiculous that I love vintage charm, but I’m terrified of vintage, lingering houseguests.)

When my ex found out he knew the landlord personally, we were a shoe-in and were new apartment dwellers by the end of the day.

The day we started moving in was a dark and gray November day. The living room walls were made up entirely of wood paneling, and the only reason I didn’t detest them intensely was because they were made of real wood and not the fake trailer home paneling one thinks of when they hear those feared words.

Wood paneling. The fucking horror.

Because the living room looked like it was straight out of an episode of Poirot, and the dark, low-lying clouds made for a very dark atmosphere, it was necessary to have lights on during the day.

This is where the story actually gets somewhat interesting (sorry for that incredibly long-winded preamble).

After many a box and armful of clothes, still on hangers (I’m a boss at packing for a move) were moved in, the ex and I decided to go take care of the power and cable.

I distinctly remember saying something like, “Let’s actually turn all of the lights off when we’re not in a room. We are paying the power bill now.” (We were total assholes.)

So, I know we turned all of the lights off. I know we did.

Yet, upon returning, the lights were mysteriously all on.

Because my paranoia was no secret, when I said, “Uh. Didn’t we turn all of the lights off before we left?”, the boyfriend responded by saying we’d discussed doing that, but we didn’t actually get around to turning them all off.

He was dead wrong.

But, even I knew that if he admitted to the fact we did turn the lights off, my ass would have had my cheap World Market Chinese paper lanterns hung back up at his mom’s house quicker than you can say, “Oh, hell no!”

This event, on the very day we moved in, set the tone for the rest of my time there. I think someone wasn’t thrilled with us moving in.

I was never comfortable in this apartment. The vibe was all wrong.

What made things even worse was Carl worked from 6:30 at night until 2:30 in the morning. Five nights a week I was alone.

After we had moved everything in and made it our own, I took pictures of our decor to share on Facebook. Every single picture had myriad orbs. I know orbs are vastly contested, but coupled with the feeling I had there, I know those sonsabitches were orbs.

One of the things that made me feel the most uncomfortable was doing the dishes. The living spaces were not open plan at all. In fact, the doorway from the front room into the living room had a door (as in one that you can close, not just a doorway-I thought I needed to clarify). At the sink, my back was to the rest of the house. I hated the fact that I had no view of the other rooms as I was doing the dishes. I constantly felt the need to glance behind me.

Other than an overall eerie feeling, not a whole lot happened to me.

I never saw anything, but I felt something. It was unmistakable.

The only other major occurrence that happened to me was on an evening before a holiday, so I was gladly staying up until Carl came home. I was watching TV (it was some TLC special on medical oddities and quite fascinating. I have no idea how I even remember this). Out of nowhere, I heard a terrific crash. It was horribly loud and made me jump right out of my skin. It sounded like it came from the laundry room.

Our laundry room was accessible by a door from the living room that led into the entryway and stairs for the upstairs apartment, so naturally I had every kind of lock installed on the door, because laundry monsters are very real.

Logically, I knew that with the door guarded like Fort Knox with its 18 different locks, whatever was in the laundry room was likely not getting in, yet I was frozen in fear.

I called Carl, and since you can get anywhere in Elko in five minutes, it was no time before he was bravely, albeit annoyingly searching the premises.

I forgot to mention that the landlord had a workshop that he used quite frequently that was accessible through the laundry room. There was no back entrance, so the only way in was the main door for the upstairs apartment. However, that door was always locked as our neighbor preferred to use his back entrance.

Carl searched all over the workshop and laundry room. Not a thing was broken, toppled over, or misplaced. When our neighbor, who was out of town during this strange occurrence, got home, we asked him if anything was amiss in his apartment.

Nothing.

I think the very notion that nothing appeared to make the terrible crash freaks me out even more. It’s also entirely possible that something did make the noise, but Carl hid it from me, because he knew how I’d react.

The creepiest thing to ever happen I didn’t find out about until I was long moved out of that apartment and back in Reno.

The winter we lived on Court street was a very cold and snowy one.

The pogonip was in full force. Our view from the apartment was pretty satisfying.

My wreath made it look not haunted at all.

I took the train to Reno to celebrate Christmas with my family. My mom, so I didn’t have to ride the train back with all of my gifts and in order to see the apartment, drove me home.

We had a fabulous girl night full of chick flicks, the best Blind Onion pizza on earth, and so much laughing. My mom insisted on sleeping in the living room on her deluxe, raised air mattress. That was one of the only nights I truly rested easy, knowing my mom was in the next room.

Well, at least one of us rested easy.

Early, in the dead of morning, my mom was awakened by the sensation of someone sitting on the end of her bed, as the motion when that happens on an air mattress is unmistakable. She figured it was Carl coming home and not realizing he was sitting on her air mattress and not the couch.

She got up to investigate and saw that Carl was in bed, snoring and farting away. He’d been home for some time, as it was hours past the time he normally arrived home.

It was then that my mom was dead certain someone or something visited her that early morning.

This post is in dedication to my astute mother who had the foresight to know her fragile daughter would not have had the mental fortitude to handle the news of a mystery guest (resident) sitting on beds in the creepiest part of the early morning. She also knew, if she shared her experience, she’d again have a daughter as a permanent area rug on her bedroom floor for the rest of her nights.

I made it six months in the apartment on Court Street. The reason I moved out is a scary story, indeed, but not one involving ghosts. I’ll have to save that story for another time.

Even as I write this now, I have the chills. I keep rolling over in bed, making sure I’m the only one in the room.

Feeling in the Christmas spirit now? Maybe after some spirits, of the liquid variety (not the paranormal) it’ll feel a little more like Christmas!

One of the last photos taken in the apartment. All of the orb pictures are gone from Facebook and have been banished to an external hard drive. Sorry to disappoint.

Have Yourself A Manic Little Christmas

Anyone else feeling the holiday hassle yet?

No?

Just me?

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Christmas. I mean, you could argue that I love the holidays even more than Clark Griswold.

But.

I stood in line at the post office yesterday for 30 minutes, while the one person working was in no real hurry and that really chapped my ass and put me in the opposite of a holiday mood.

It didn’t even matter that Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You was playing, because all I want for Christmas is another person manning the counter.

I’m also hating that my usually quiet Target has been invaded by, what has to be, Closet People, because where else have they been all year?

Amazon Prime, people. You won’t ever have to leave your house again.

Another thing, the boyfriend and I are going to a fancy shmancy Christmas party at the Governor’s Mansion. Said boyfriend has expressly told me leggings are not a clothing option.

So, I have to wear, like, a real formal dress.

I have one from years ago, but I’ve been putting off trying it on, because I don’t even want to know how much fatter I’ve gotten.

Speaking of being fat, do you know how fucking hard it is to eat well when cookies are practically raining from the fucking sky and you can get egg nog-everything?

Not only are the crowds annoying and the over-abundance of treats gut-expanding, the pressures to have the absolute best holiday yet is EXHAUSTING.

Not only do I overbook myself with social engagements, I seem to always feel the need to add just one more fun craft project/event to the long list of holiday must-dos.

When will I ever learn that the best experiences happen when I have zero expectations and almost next to no plan?

Never. Never is when I’ll learn.

So, what are you stressing about this holiday season? How do you combat the manic-like need to do all the Christmas things?

Oh, the stress.

Christmas Puke

Dudes, it’s Christmastime! I thought I would announce that in case some of you were still not aware.

freaking love Christmas! 

I decorate errything with Christmas-Christmas hand towels, Christmas candles, Christmas kitchen utensils and tools, Christmas blankets and pillows, Christmas soap, and even Christmas underwear.

Yup.

I am Christmas AF.

Don’t mistake my penchant for Christmas-ing everything to mean that any Christmas decor will do.

I have standards.

Most of my decor is either vintage-inspired cool or new, funky, and simple. The only cheese factor involves my ornaments. I have been collecting ornaments since before I was born, thanks to my parents. No matter how cheesy they are, they are forever included on my Christmas tree. Some may have a permanent place on the back of the tree, but, dammit, they are never being donated. 

Because everyone simply loves checking out random people’s Christmas decor, I thought I’d share some of my favorite spaces in my home. 

Before I forget, “Christmas Puke” is what my boyfriend calls any and all Christmas decor. He can’t even when I’m constantly bringing home more ornaments or gift wrapping essentials after he’s expressed that he thinks we have just enough Christmas crap. Ha! Like that’s even possible! 

Men. 

Simple, way too many ornaments, full of memories-just the way I like it.

I got this little dude when I was five.

My aunt bought me this angel. It says, “‘Tis a gift to teach” and it’s one of my favorites!

The first year I was at my current school, my principal was my Secret Santa and this was one of my gifts. I leave it out all year long!

This should say, “Queen for Always”. I love Mary Engelbreit!

I love how the lights shine through this one. It reminds me of good ol’ Londontown.

A work pal got me this one this year! It’s so cute!

And I also got this one from a work colleague! My peeps know me well!!

I’ve gotta have a little skull action with my Noel.

I think sugar skulls go with candy cane candles quite well!

I have the matching “nice” towel, but that wouldn’t be very accurate. Excuse my wrinkly towels. How embarrassing!

Christmas cheese knives that I’ve never used, but I put out every year, religiously, because duh.

I don’t ever use them. They just sit there looking vintage-y.

Even my Scentsy gets Christmasfied!

Gotta have a little cheer everywhere!

This is an essential must-have every year. I also have a Christmas hand soap at every sink, but I felt pictures of those was overkill.

Christmas af

I hope ya’ll are enjoying the best time of the year. I know I am. I love listening to Christmas music as I curl up in my Christmas blanket and eat an entire tin of shortbread cookies. It’s practically a tradition! 

Merry Happy Holidays Time! 

Shopper Lottie Post-Blame the Hipsters

I have been so lazy lately. I really need to work on a new blog post, but I have not only been lazy, but uninspired. HELP. 

What should I write about? I would love to know if I have missed anything on the topic of being a total fat ass. Help a fatty out!

While I try to find some writing inspiration, check out the post I wrote for Shopper Lottie last year on ugly sweaters, and why we need to blame hipsters for basically everything. Also, let me know in the comments if you have a great idea for a post!

Hello All! My newest Shopper Lottie post is up! Check it out and if you are so inclined, leave me some love over there (I hate asking for that crap, but I would absolutely love to show my potential readers over there how awesome you all are)!

The picture gives you a clue about what my post could be about. Hmmm I wonder how hipsters could be involved?? I guess you will just have to go see!

Blame the Hipsters

sweater
Too bad these are sold out on Etsy. This is just perfection.

Dana and Judy’s Homemade Hand Cream 

How many of you brave souls made gifts this year? Since Pinterest, everyone and their spastic brother feel the need to creatively gift these days. We have all seen those “Pinterest Fails”, and laughed our lying asses off at others’ ineptness-like you didn’t just make jingle bell-shaped cookies that looked more like ball sacks. Don’t lie. 

I grew up with a very creative mother. She’s the reason I believe store-bought Halloween costumes are for losers. Yes, she handmade me a Princess Jasmine, costume, that looked like the real thing, when I was eight. 

My mom and my aunt have made Christmas gifts for the “faraway family” for as long as I can remember. They’ve made custom quilts, roll warmer baskets, cake platters using repurposed decorative plates and candle holders, and they’ve been getting drunk for the sake of saving wine corks way before Pinterest told you it was what the cool people do.

Last year, they made homemade lotion, but so did I. We all three had seen, all over that damn Pinterest, how “easy” it was to make your own hand cream. Mine was all organic, cost more than The Body Shop, and had the consistency of Crisco. I didn’t even end up giving it to anyone. It was so greasy, the only place you dare put it was on your feet, underneath 10 pairs of socks. Huge fail. 

My mom and aunt’s lotion ended up being wonderful, but they didn’t divulge, at the time, how much of a process it was to get the wonderful, creamy consistency it had, along with how they concocted its wonderful subtle fragrance. They just humbly insisted, “it was nothing.”

The truth came out today.

While I was digging around for the Scottish shortbread recipe for the cookies we make every year, I came upon their hand cream recipe. I almost crapped my pants laughing.

Dana and Judy’s Hand Cream Recipe 

2 bottles of wine (OK to substitute tequila) 

1 bottle Shea butter

1 tub cocoa butter 

1/4 cup coconut oil 

1 bottle creamy baby oil 

Vitamin E oil drops-break open gel caps

Lavender essential oil ($20 worth to cover up cocoa butter smell)

Whip like mad, add too much red food coloring, cuss, put it in jars anyway 

Call your sister two days later and tell her it is toooooooooo red (I was not the sister who griped-I was pretty much done with hand cream production)

Scoop it all out of containers and add any white lotion you can find, some Vaseline, all the leftovers from previous batches, etc., until you have 6 gallons of lotion and not enough containers. Discover that lotion is only slightly less pink. 

Then, they provided the “real” recipe which has 6 ingredients and one step-whip it together. 

The jury is still out on whether you put the wine (or tequila) in the lotion, or if you drink it. 

Shopper Lottie-A Realistic Holiday Food Guide

There’s 3 days left before Christmas!! 
 
I hope you all are finished with your bank-breaking shopping, and you are merrily stuffing your gobs. 
I’ve compiled a food guide for your reading pleasure for Shopper Lottie. If you don’t want to read yet another healthy holidays guilt-packed article, then don’t. Read mine. 

Happy eating! 

A Realistic Holiday Food Guide

image courtesy of Pinterest

A Picture is Worth a Million Why Me’s

I knew I would look fat. I mean, I would be wearing a one piece, with nowhere to hide. I knew I would look like an obese candy cane. I was prepared. It was part of the humor in wearing pajamas that 3 year-olds normally wear. But, nothing prepared me for what everyone was seeing from behind. Nothing.

The front view wasn’t so bad 

  
    

And then we thought it would be cute to take a picture of our behinds, because that’s always  cute. Good lawd, nothing prepared me for this:

  
I can’t even. My ass is huge. Huge. Not even sexy Kim-Kardashian-huge. Pregnant-Kim-huge. I mean, how come no one has never told me I had that trailing behind me? It’s terrifying. I think I might have an extra ass below my main ass. Can you see it? Meanwhile, my friend looks like Marilyn Monroe reincarnated. 

I thought maybe it was just taken from a poor angle. Perhaps I wasn’t prepared. So, I tried again:

  
I didn’t get the sexy memo. In fact, I think I had an itch mid-picture. Notice how I’m not even turning my head around, in a sexy, “I know you’re looking” way, because I can’t. The girl on the left is a professional model, apparently. What a bitch. 

Can you suck your butt in like your stomach? If so, I need to learn how. 

I went home that night and drank an entire bottle of moscato, because sugar wine will help my cause. I might also have eaten the rest of the package of holiday Oreos (and by ‘the rest’ I mean almost the whole thing). Then, I realized that I didn’t buy footy pajamas to look sexy, but to be funny. I bought them to look ridiculous, then got upset when I was successful. That’s lame. So, I said, “fuck it”, and wore them again to the Ugly Sweater Wine Walk this past Saturday. I had a blast, Pregnant Kim Ass and all.