Today's Things

Some things I’m currently loving:

I didn’t have to scrape inch-thick ice off my car windows this morning. Although a little Christmas snow would nice, I’m loving not driving to work in a blizzard every day.

TWO FOUR-day weekends. IN A ROW. Thank you, Tim Penny. I’m loving working for a nonprofit and getting off four days for Christmas and New Year’s. Not working on Monday two weeks in a row, is there anything better?

Feeling empowered. For the last month, I’ve gotten up at 6:30 a.m. to work out on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Yes—this girl who hates mornings has committed and I’m sticking to it. For now.

Christmas. Of course I love the decorations and season and family and warmth and holiday joy. But really, Christmas is where it all started. The reason for everything else.

Some things that bother me:

These oil things. I hate them. I don’t have a real reason for hating them, but I do. They scare me.

Some things I’ve been thinking about lately:

People ask Brett and me all the time, “How’s married life?” When does this stop? We’ve been married a year and a half. Do people keep asking this your whole life? Are they really asking for the secret inside information for what married life is like? Because I moved in with him, changed my name, and got a tax break—totally earth shattering.

I destroy toothbrushes. Is it normal for the bristles to be completely matted after a month? I used to go through them really fast when I had braces, but I don’t anymore. Apparently I have dangerously shredding teeth.

Merry Christmas!

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

Last night I watched the final episode of Friends for the millionth time. And it still gets to me.

In 2004, I remember watching the 1-hour special series finale. I was sitting in a TV chair about 20 inches from the TV in my parents’ basement. I was soaking in every line, every emotion, convinced that the characters’ tears were real tears of the actors. I mean, it really was the end of an era! A ten-year era.

I grew up with Friends. In the early years, it was definitely above my level of comprehension, but I loved them. I watched reruns all week, then longed for that new episode. I loved Chandler’s jokes, Phoebe’s quirks, Joey’s stupidity, Monica’s craziness, and of course, the love saga of Ross and Rachel.

It made me want to work in fashion, be an actor, a masseuse, a chef, a paleontologist, and whatever the heck Chandler did (transponster!) And it made me want to be friends with them—sit around in Central Perk and drink coffee on a super comfy, orange velvet couch.

With the rest of America, I yearned for Ross and Rachel to be together—cheered when they finally kissed in the coffee shop, chided Ross for making that list comparing Rachel and Julie. I teared up a little when the prom video finally sealed it for Rachel. And then, the break up. The painful episode where Ross cheats when THEY WERE ON A BREAK. And the reunion at the beach house that ends quickly with an 18-page letter (front and back) Ross didn’t read. And then Emma. Once I found out Ross was the father, there was so much hope that they would be together. But they wouldn’t. Not until the finale.

I’m not an overly emotional person. But every. single. time. I watch that episode, I make it through finding out Monica and Chandler are getting twins, I make it through the scene where Chandler lets Joey keep Chick Jr. and Duck Jr., I’m fine even during the very last scene, when they all turn in their keys, but every, single time when Rachel says, “I got off the plane,” I lose it. Tears. SHE GOT OFF THE PLANE!

And why Friends? Why did a show about nothing run for 10 seasons? Because it’s what we all want. Their lives are exactly what I wish I had. Six friends, being friends, living their lives. Together.

That Time of Year

So many people have told me that working in retail ruins holidays—Christmas starts too early and the retail buzz cramps your own Christmas spirit. For me, it was just the opposite.

Disclaimer: I didn’t work in big retail box chain store. I worked at a small town, locally owned True Value Hardware. But retail is retail.

True Value made me feel very Christmasy. Of course, we didn’t set up the display trees in late August, and though there was a fair amount of strange holiday merchandise, it wasn’t rows and rows of trashy, glitter-infested plastic. I usually got to set up and decorate the trees, or at least help in the process—it sort of became part of my “other duties as assigned” tasks, as I was one of four females who worked in the store. But it made me feel fancy—decorating expensive trees with classy ornaments, making them look very HGTV in a way that my own tree will never look.

We sold real trees outside, so the scent of pine wafted in through the double doors when there was a brisk December wind. We sold fancy ornaments and boxes after boxes of white lights.

And when I’d work a Saturday, and fluffy snow whispering to the ground, blanketing my ghetto van and Levi’s powder blue El Camino in a velvet layer of white, I’d watch through the giant windows, soaking in the pine, and the decorations, and the small Minnesota town outside drinking cocoa and sitting in front of a cozy orange fire—and I’d think, now this, this is Christmas.

And maybe we started decorating before the Thanksgiving turkey had been carved, and maybe the season lasted a little too long for many people’s liking, but is it ever too early to celebrate Christmas? For me, it was never about stockings or candy canes or presents. It was that holiday spirit of joy, contentment, giving, and friendliness. Why does everyone only want to feel sentimental and generous for a few weeks in December? What’s wrong with practicing this happy holiday spirit year round?

Maybe because I only worked at True Value for three years, I wasn’t so jaded by the holiday retail loathing. Maybe because I was just a kid, I didn’t feel the pressure of buying the perfect gifts for everyone and still trying to feed my family. Or maybe there’s just a whole lot more to feeling the Christmas spirit than eggnog and carols.

Maybe Christmas is a state of mind.

A Time To Hate

There are things about my life that make me so immensely happy I can’t even describe them properly—despite the number of adjectives and adverbs I line up trying to make my explanations adequate.

And then there are the things I hate. I hate getting up in the morning before 11 a.m. Even if my job was unicorn caretaker or bouncy-house tester I would still hate waking up every morning. I hate cleaning house and washing dishes and scrubbing shower walls. I hate having to wait until payday to go grocery shopping because I have exactly $17.29 in my checking account.

I hate that the only things in our fridge are dry carrots, cheese, and 40 kinds of salad dressing. I hate that I have so many clothes and I can never get rid of enough to make a dent in my over-stuffed closet (and dresser and armoire and under-the-bed drawers)—yeah, it’s a lot of clothes.

I try not to spend much time dwelling on just how centipede-infested our apartment is, or what that sticky stuff is on the floor behind the toilet. But sometimes it helps. It’s a good purge to just out all the bad things and stare them in the face. Every one of these “problems” is so very first world (seriously, too many clothes? What kind of problem is that?) But acknowledging that I do hate things—and have the control to change many of them—is powerful.

Someday I will get up to swim at 6 a.m. (no really, I’ve been planning to start going for a few months now—someone join me and I might actually set an alarm…or buy a new swimsuit).

Someday I will do a better job of cleaning our house, even that elusive behind-the-toilet black hole where dreams go to die.

Someday I will keep our fridge and cupboards properly stocked (that is, when we actually HAVE cupboards, not just a broken bookcase—oh yeah, p.s. I hate my kitchen).

Someday I will get rid of a huge mountain of clothes and only keep what makes me feel awesome when I wear it.

Someday I will have more than $17 in the bank the day before I get paid.

And maybe I will accomplish some of these things today.

Fantasy

Brett and I have our own fantasy football league. I really can’t decide which is more lame—the fact that he wouldn’t let me be in his regular league with all his guy friends, or that we “compromised” by having our own league—as in we are the only people in the league. We each have two teams, and all four teams are stacked with all the best players in the NFL. And we’re ridiculously competitive about beating each other.

One of my teams (the Hello Kitties) started the season 5-0. They’re now on a 1-5 run. It’s even more lame because every three weeks I play my other team (the Silly Beans). The Hello Kitties only recent win is against the Silly Beans, who are currently beating the Hello Kitties to make both teams’ records 6-5. Matt Forte is dead to me.

I’ve watched Brett play fantasy football for several years now, but this is my first year having my own team. It’s fun, nerdy, and heart-wrenching all at the same time. Since all of our teams have the best of the best players, it all comes down to match-ups when deciding who should play. Picking who should play—Larry Fitzgerald or Wes Welker—is always a tough coaching decision. Then there was the week that three of my best players (including Darren McFadden, who I declined to trade to Brett the day before!) all got hurt. I was so annoyed reading all the dumb updates streaming across the bottom of ESPN. That was the week our internet was out, so we had to guess our scores based on stats. You know, the old fashioned way.

I really didn’t expect to jump on the fantasy football bandwagon. But I’m definitely not as obsessed as Brett—who keeps a spreadsheet of whom he played each week and what their scores were. He says it’s necessary since he’s in 4 leagues and has 5 teams. Whatever. It’s about the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen. He thinks it's dumb that I bench players the next week if they performed poorly the previous week—you know, as punishment. Fantasy football is seriously a weird hobby, and we all have our own methods.

But Matt Forte is still dead to me.