Can we just skip all this Thanksgiving crap and get to Christmas? Not because of the presents. I swear, I spoil the people I know, and they generally don’t spoil me back. It’s just the whole “fall” thing is so old at this point. And let’s face it- we don’t even have seasons in Los Angeles, so we’re all just biding our time between Halloween hangovers and Black Friday, hoping it gets chilly enough to consider wearing those oh-so-cute boots that all the real bloggers seem to wear in places like Virginia.
Of course, those girls also rush home to have their magical bow tie wearing husbands take beautiful photos of their insanely perfect AND unique outfits (that somehow still look good at the end of the day) whilst holding an elfin Gerber baby, born out of Pinterest boards and candlelit love-making. Said photos are then posted on blogs with titles NOBODY WOULD EVER THINK OF except children of Christians/Unicorns, to the sheer delight of 18,000 people that actually read their blog AND CARE before they retire for the evening to reupholster a Salvation Army couch or pull diamonds out of their ass, or something similar, all the while raking in the dough for doing absolutely nothing except having a perfectly adorable existence.
I’m obviously not jealous.
Anyhoo, the point is, get me a Christmas tree and some x-mas jams. Though I may never become Mini Martha, give birth to an Etsy poster child, or have 18,000 readers, I’m allowed to get all into this stuff too.
Really wish I hadn’t given up wine for the month of November, because I COMPLETELY FORGOT that this is the month Jonathan Gold’s 2011 99 Essential L.A. Restaurants comes out! Tradition would find me curled up in bed with a nice Pinot, plenty of cheese, and The List. I suppose I’ll settle for sparkling water and fake chicken nuggets. Similar, no?
Somebody once told me that lions sleep 70% of the day, and obviously I took it upon myself to translate that trait into my life. As a Leo, I’m fairly certain I’d be perfectly happy with 16+ hours of sleep, so long as the other hours were spent doing things that make my heart sing (read: not my current job).
Why is it, then, that I toss and turn all night, then wake up at the ass-crack of dawn every morning? And why is my brain full of anxiety, restlessness, and worry ALL THE TIME? Remember the Madeleine books you read as a little girl? I often feel like my brain has been permanently inhabited by Miss Clavel, who goes running through the night thinking “something is not right.”