Somebody complained, and now we've put up a menorah alongside our christmas tree at work. The thing is, it's this crappy, plastic menorah with electric bulbs instead of candles. Nobody knows what we're supposed to do with the electric bulbs- we know we're supposed to light them (i.e., screw them in) on certain days during a certain eight day period, but that's the extent of our knowledge. We're not really a culturally diverse group. I suggested putting the menorah on top of the christmas tree instead of the star, but nobody seemed to think that was a good idea.

The whole thing really bugs me, and not because I believe that one religious holiday is more important than the other (I don't). I just don't really see the christmas tree as being religious or blatantly Christian- notice I didn't even capitalize the "c" in christmas. There is nothing Christ-like about the christmas tree. Jesus was born in a sandy area where they didn't even have evergreen trees such as the ones we tend to decorate these days. If the christmas tree was truly religious, it would be an olive tree, maybe. And it wouldn't be so garishly decorated. WWJD? Not throw a whole bunch of crap on a tree when there were so many needy lepers to help, that's for damn sure. Can you really see Jesus picking out ornaments from the sale rack at Target? Not bloody likely.

Anyways, the christmas tree is not a religious icon, and now we've gone and found a menorah and injected religion into the whole damn thing. And it's not even a real menorah. The whole thing just reeks of trying to appease somebody, and I'm not happy. There was no mention of God or Jesus or any of that stuff before we put the menorah up. It was just a generic holiday tree and a couple of crappy wreaths. No big deal. But now we have the menorah, and I know it's not going to end there. Somebody's going to see the menorah and then wonder why we're not acknowledging Ramadan whenever Ramadan happens to be. Somebody else is going to point out that we missed a major Buddhist holiday back in July, Guy Fawkes Day in whenever the hell that is.

In my own home, I do not recognize any holidays. My living room will look the same in July as it does now. This is mostly because I am lazy, because, truth be told, I think I would like a christmas tree. Something to look at during commercial breaks, a place to anchor the many gifts I hope to collect from unsuspecting givers this year. But who really has time to be stringing cranberries and popcorn? Are there people out there whose lives actually afford them this leisure? I don't know about you but I have a job, responsibilities, social obligations, Netflix and a pretty full DVR. Clearly, I am much too busy to hassle with holiday decorations. Or laundry, I also haven't done a load of laundry in over three weeks.

On Friday, I had three glasses of wine and then decided I needed a haircut. Now, for most people, that would be a passing thought. They'd think, "I should get a haircut, maybe I'll go to the salon on Tuesday after work." End of story.

Oh, not me. No, I decided I needed a haircut RIGHT AWAY. And since I was in no shape to drive, and since it was after ten o'clock and most of the salons would be closed anyways, I thought, "Fuck it, I'll just cut my own hair." I found our industrial kitchen scissors and a comb and went upstairs to the bathroom. I soaked my hair in the sink, combed it out, and then split it into two pigtails on either side of my head. Enter scissors. At first, I had a hard time looking into the mirror and commandeering the scissors into my hair at the same time (poor depth perception), but then I got the hang of it. Snip. Snip. Snip, snip. Done.

I knew there was a good chance that I would regret this once I sobered up, so I put my hair back into a ponytail and decided to try not to look in the mirror for the rest of the evening. Saturday morning, fear set in, and after I took a shower, I did not look in the mirror and instead just clipped my hair back. We went out to Ocean's house for a night of games, and I kept waiting for someone to say something about my lopsided 'do. No dice.

This morning, I decided it was time to assess the damage. I took my shower, grabbed my comb and the scissors (just in case) and looked at myself straight on the mirror. I used another mirror to check every conceivable angle, tissue box handy just in case I needed to cry.

My hair... it's awesome. Best hair cut ever!

How many people do you know that possess the skill- no, the TALENT- to cut their hair with a BAC above .08 and have it turn out GOOD? Probably not that many. Until now.

Because of my reckless style in cutting, I ended up with my hair falling into a "V" in the back of my head, like an arrow pointing to my best ASSet. And, you know, it works.

I'm never paying someone to cut my hair again. In your face, Hair Cuttery.

Thanksgiving was a travesty. My mother got out her guitar and microphone and rocked out her own version of the Lord's prayer, sacrilegious style. She also sang a song that she had spent all week writing, but the only thing I can remember about it is how she rhymed "So glad you're here!" with "We've got lots of beer!"

My mother hauls out the guitar and microphone for every major holiday. She likes to put on shows for her guests and pretend that the shows don't make everybody wildly uncomfortable and kind of antsy pantsy. She used to try and drag my sister and me into her various holiday shows, and, let me tell you, those times didn't end well. Especially when she tried to put make-up on me and make me memorize lines and dance moves. No, Mom, we are NOT the Partridge family, and, yes, these moments WILL haunt me forever.

Nobody made mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner, which I am still upset about. Thanksgiving is not about turkey or stuffing or cranberries- it's about mashed potatoes and gravy. Instead, we had these disgusting candied yams. Also, my parents did not put out appetizers because they were afraid that everyone would ruin their appetite. How can you throw a party without cubes of cheese and veggies and dip? Everyone was disappointed in the lack of appetizers, I could tell. I had to sneak off to the corner with slices of bread and butter just to keep from passing out before the meal was served.

I thought we would drive through four counties on Thanksgiving as we did our tour of duty. I was wrong. Six counties! Three of them with a lawn mower in our backseat from Chris' uncle. I guess I should be grateful for a free lawn mower, but the smell of oil and gas and grit was a bit disconcerting as we wound our way up the dark country roads. I was sure we were a ten o'clock news explosion waiting to happen. Luckily, we made it home in one piece. Chris contemplated going to camp out at the mall so he could snag various deals when the stores opened dark and early, but then decided he would rather watch reruns of "Taxi" instead.

The Turkey Testicle Festival was last night. Sadly, I was not in attendance, but boy oh boy will I try to make it there next year. I think they're served battered and then deep-fried. I think they come with some kind of mayonnaise dipping sauce.

Today, we're doing the tour of duty, including a drive through four counties. Four! I told Chris that next year, we're only going to one family's house, and he said, "We'll see." We'll see? This is ri-goddamn-diculous. We're going to be in the car six hours today. I hate the holidays for just that reason. Actually, there are many reasons I hate the holidays, but the driving is a major part.

We got our first snow last night. I am so afraid of the snow, more so than I am afraid of big dogs, bugs, bears, or foreigners. My fear has become even more severe now that I live further out. What if I spin out on a back road and land in a ditch and nobody finds me for DAYS? What if I am eaten by a deer? What if my property value goes down?

Nonetheless, I have to admit that it's pretty out there right now. Makes me feel warm inside. Ah, snow, that double-edged sword. Sometimes you give me Stockholm Syndrome.

Good night last night, even if Feist's sprained ankle sucked the life out of her show. I don't know if it was the ankle's fault that the show was snooze-inducing, but I still love her music, so I'll just go ahead and blame the ankle. Maybe some musicians are just better when you're at home and in bed rather than out and about and ready for fun.

And we did have fun last night. Hookah bar, sushi, Feist, and bar-hopping. The hookah part, that was weird. I didn't know anything about hookahs before last night, and I was pleasantly surprised to find out you could order those things in flavors. How delightful to smoke a pineapple.

We went to Holiday, which, six years ago, Carole and I proclaimed to be "our" place. Funny thing is, this is only the second time we've ever been there. Nonetheless, we had a nice time reminiscing about the first time, about the cute German guy named Dieter and his ordinary friend who bought us drinks and sweet-talked their way into our "Remember When" vault. Remember when we met Dieter? I will always remember Dieter.

We also went to the Green Mill, and I played my own "Remember When," thinking of that guy that I met so many years ago right after turning 21. We met at a bar, me and this guy, and a week later, we went to the Green Mill together. He was older, 28 or 29, and I was super taken with him. We had a brief but torrid love affair, and now I cannot remember his name, only what he looked like in the dimness of that candlelit Green Mill booth.

Like a fucking trophy. Oh, the naivety.

Despite the fun, I missed Chris last night, watching all of those assholes in the bars trying to hit on the other assholes. And then I came home this morning to the biggest mess. Liquor bottles and glasses everywhere, popcorn and trash all over the kitchen, slices of cheese askew on the counter, somebody's greasy hand prints all over my furniture. He had a little party last night. My my, while the cat's away....

I guess I can't get too mad about it. I mean, I can, but what's the point? I need to work on being happy and laid back and a little more like how I used to be or at least how I used to plan on being. Lately I don't feel how I want to feel, and that's bothersome. I blamed Feist's sprained ankle on the life being sucked out of her show- my ankle feels fine, though, so what's the problem?

I do think I have arthritis in my right hand. I guess it could be that.

Carole and I are going to see Feist on Saturday. I'm so freaking excited I could just pee. I really can't wait to hear her sing "Mushaboom" live. I feel like I live "Mushaboom." Helping the kids out of their coats- but wait, the babies haven't been born.

I've got a man to stick it out. Collecting the moments one by one. Oh, forget it.

I'm all about Chris lately. I should be saying that I'm all about Chris all the time, but it's so easy to take the one you love for granted. Shame, really. But yesterday. Today, at work, I was telling everyone about yesterday. About how I pulled my car into the garage only to find Chris poking his head out of the garage door, a big goofy grin on his face. "Hurry up!" he cried. "Dinner's ready!" And I walk into the house, and it's warm and cozy and smelling like goodness. Chris opens the oven door to show me the enchiladas he's making for dinner. The sour cream and guacamole is already set out on the table. And on the skillet, there are quesadillas for an appetizer.

Enchiladas! How many husbands make homemade enchiladas for dinner? Two, maybe. Three?

The best part of the story is that Chris wanted nachos for later, for when we were watching TV. He made a point of telling me. Then, while watching whatever it was we ended up watching, he fell asleep. I nudged him gently at one point, to show him something on the TV, and he was startled out of his sleep. Muttering groggily, he said, "Nachos. Don't you want nachos?"

Adorable, dreaming of nachos in his sleep.

I thought I'd find a "My Moon, My Man" mix to end this post, but instead I have a strange mix of 1-2-3-4. Go Feist!!

Feist- 1-2-3-4 Vanshe Mix

Chris wanted me to buy him a bath towel. Not just any bath towel- he wanted a big, fluffy bath SHEET. A bath sheet is a bath towel on crack, for those of you not in the know. It's bigger than a beach towel and only slightly smaller than a queen sized comforter.

So I go to the store and buy him a bath sheet. Of course, being who I am, I buy him the cheapest bath sheet that I can find. It was $15 and blue. I bring it home, thinking Chris will be pleased. Instead, he's upset. The bath sheet isn't soft enough. It's too thin. Chris says, "This bath sheet isn't even as soft as the toilet paper I like." Chris likes the expensive toilet paper, the kind that's thick and silky and infused with lotion. I don't buy the expensive toilet paper. I buy what's on sale, and Chris is lucky if I come home with two-ply. These things don't matter to me as much as they do to Chris. As long as it gets the job done, I'm happy. I'm satisfied with Safeway toilet paper, and I've never bat an eye at my plain old regular, standard-sized and standard-thread bath towels.

But Chris is different. He likes NICE things. If he did the weekly shopping, we wouldn't have enough money left over to pay the electric bill. I can see it now: Chanel hand soap, gold-flecked toothpaste, imported shampoo, brand name mustard, toilet paper fit for a finicky king. Chris gets all riled up about how the bath sheet I picked out isn't luxurious enough, and so he goes to the store on his day off- when he should be drinking and playing video games- and picks himself out a brand new bath sheet, one that costs close to $50. I come home, and the bath sheet is on display on the kitchen table. Chris proudly unrolls it and holds it up for me to admire. And it's a beauty, this bath sheet. The nicest, biggest, softest towel we'll ever own.

And Chris is happy, really happy. But he's also kind of a douche about it. "You can't use my towel," he proclaims. "Because you were such a cheapskate about it, you must forgo your bath sheet privileges." He drools a little, crazy with imagining all of the post-shower pleasure this towel will provide. Crazy with imagining his frugal wife dripping and shivering in her tinier, thinner towels while he lounges around the bedroom in a towel that costs twice as much as the median prices of the pants he actually wears OUTSIDE the house. And me?

Well, I'm a little jealous.

I can't stop listening to "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect." I guess I'm not a purist; I think the Patti Smith cover is better than The Decemberists' original. I'm not sure what it is about the song that I like, because I don't think I understand the lyrics. At all. You'd think, from the song title, that it would be about George Costanza. "Why couldn't you make me an architect? You know I always wanted to pretend that I was an architect." Alas, I think the song is actually about Nazis. Go figure.

I think my song should be called, "Here I Dreamt I Was Independently Wealthy." Money can't solve all of my problems right now, but I think it could solve a pretty big chunk.

I've taken to spying on my neighbors. Nobody in my little half-built subdivision bothers to cover up their windows. Believe me, that's the first thing I did, except for that one cumbersome window above the stairs which I've lovingly labeled The Boob Window. I call it The Boob Window because if I forget to keep my bedroom door closed while I walk around naked, then I'm offering up the 'hood a pretty decent view of one, if not both, of my boobs. It can't be helped. The other house we really liked had a Butt Window. I'm sure there's a Penis Window in one of the other homes.

Anyways, I've been keeping an eye on the neighbors directly behind us. I notice when they come home, what they watch on television, how often they have people over, what kind of meals they prepare for dinner. It's become a habit for me to glance across the yard at them whenever I'm near a window. I've always been fascinated with the inside lives of strangers. Briefly, I considered buying binoculars so I could get a REALLY good view, but I'm nosy, not psychotic. Yet.

I just hope they don't catch me peering out at them one evening.

I like to know what people do at home. If I'm the only one who comes home after a long day of work and immediately uncorks a bottle of wine and sheds first shoes, then socks, then pants. If I'm the only one who wanders around aimlessly before bed, unsure if I should sit down here, sit over there, clean something up, turn on this. If I'm the only one who dances to commercials and talks to myself in front of the mirror. If everybody casually picks their nose while washing dishes. I need to know these things. How can we know if we're NORMAL if we don't know what other people do?

My sister and her boyfriend are on their way over here for a night of poker and food. I picked up a bunch of stuff for tacos today, and now the task of dicing tomatoes, shredding lettuce, putting cheese and sour cream and salsa into appropriately sized bowls is weighing me down. Then there's cooking the meat. Shudder. I was going to make Spanish rice, but now I'm thinking, who really needs a side dish with tacos? Maybe if they're still hungry after tacos, I can heat up a can of carrots for them.

I'm looking forward to hanging out. It's been a long time since I've seen my sister. I wonder if she's gained any weight.

Oh, also, before I go, who else is obsessed with Stacy Peterson? If you don't know who she is, Google her. Isn't it odd that her name is so close to Lacy Peterson? And that Stacy's daughter IS, in fact, named Lacy Peterson? What an interesting character, this Stacy Peterson. Twenty-three and married to a guy in his early fifties, been with him since she was seventeen. Seventeen! What was she thinking? When that creepy old man started hitting on her, she should have realized he was old and gross. It would have saved her life.

My jaw is tight, as if I were punched in the middle of the night while sleeping. I can't imagine who would punch me, though- certainly not Chris with his "empty promises." I'm relatively certain that I have TMJ. Also, my blood does not seem to be circulating as well as it should be. My hands are constantly becoming numb, and I keep dropping pencils, forks, sugar packets. Also, my vision keeps blurring. In short, I am certain I will die soon. Too many parts of me aren't operating correctly.

We fell behind today, clockwise. Truly, this is the saddest time of the year. I don't understand why we can't always stay an hour ahead. I would gladly trade an hour of sunlight in the morning for an hour of sunlight after work. I would gladly pay on Tuesday for a hamburger today.

I need a vacation. I haven't been anywhere of note since March, and I'm ready for a holiday of sorts. I'll go anywhere, I just want to get away. I was talking to a guy who just got back from living in Alaska for a year. He'd also traveled to Vancouver while he was out there, and it rekindled that feeling of love that I have for Vancouver, despite having never actually been there. I don't know, Vancouver seems so hip and smart.

This guy who was in Alaska, he's pretty dreamy. I can say that objectively. And he was talking about how there really aren't any women in Alaska, but that he got "lucky" while he was up there and found a girlfriend. I wanted to say, "It wasn't luck. You're HOT. Of course you had a girlfriend!" But, I don't know, he may have taken that the wrong way. I am a married woman, you see. But facts are facts. And if there are a limited amount of members of the opposite sex, the hottest person of the majority sex wins. Oh, to be a single woman in Alaska. You could look like shit, be dumb as a box of mud, but guess what? You're getting laid by the most desirable man you can possibly find. Pick of the litter.

There should be dating services for women that simply shuttle them up to Alaska for a week or two. Why hasn't anybody thought of that? Maybe I'll throw together a business plan after dinner.