I could do 12 days of Christmas in 12 hours.

Note: this post was originally started about a week ago.

Today was just all kinds of awesome.

 

The last couple of weeks have been insanely stressful.  Like heart-palpitations-every-time-I-do-something-as-strenuous-as-walking-to-my-car stressful.  I tried cutting caffeine entirely, and no improvement.  The only thing that helped was this week.  It’s the last week of classes, and I had a week built into my syllabus just in case we had a weather cancellation that would require making up a lab.  That means all I have this week are lectures, office hours, and catching up with grading.  And today, I actually have…<drumroll>…A DAY OFF.

 

Not only do I have a day with no classes, I got my lecture notes fully prepped for Thursday on Tuesday morning, so I can truly take the day off.  SO I DID.  Sure, I have lab reports and quizzes to grade, and a big game-show-style review to prepare for Friday’s last lecture, and a quiz to write, but dammit, I am doing NONE of that today.

 

Today, I shop.

Correction: Today, I drive an hour to find places in which to shop.  I did most of my Christmas shopping online last night, but there are some things that simply must be done in-person.  It began with an eye appointment.  I have not had one of those in nearly 6 years.  I have been wearing the same 2-for-$99 glasses for SIX YEARS.  While I can tell my prescription hasn’t changed much at all in that time, my sense of style certainly has, and my optical coverage DEFINITELY has.  Of course, that is also enough time for me to have forgotten how agonizing this process can be – nothing emphasizes the asymmetry of your face quite like applying stage makeup or shopping for glasses.  And I tried on absolutely every pair in LensCrafters and could not find a damn thing I liked.  SO discouraging.  Luckily, this mall also has a JCPenney optical and Sears optical, where the glasses are cheaper and…well…less stylish.  But seeing as how the current trends in eyewear are all tiny, rectangular things that look absolutely ridiculous on my incredibly large head, I’m okay with being out of fashion.  At Sears, my final stop, I found not one but TWO pairs of frames I actually liked, both of which were on clearance which means I didn’t even spend enough to use up the allowance on my optical plan.  WIN.

On my way out of the mall, $7 boots.  WIN.

Still getting over a sinus infection, so hit the appropriate part of town to get Asian groceries and a bowl of pho.  WIN.  On my way there, passed a World Market.  Found an absolutely perfect and very reasonably priced little wine bar that will most likely be lovely in my apartment.  Also picked up a couple of clearance wines and some spices I needed for Christmas present projects.  DOUBLE WIN.

Stopped at health food store to get essential ingredient for homemade cocktail bitters, which are going to be made into Christmas presents for Dad.  WIN.

Stopped at fancy cigar shop to get some good tobacco for a culinary experiment.  Very helpful salesdude had no idea why I wanted to make tobacco-flavored cocktails, but allowed me to sniff my way through the pipe tobacco jars until I was satisfied.  WIN.  (Also, got to this part of town 10 minutes after the meters became free.  WIN.)

Made my way home, and stopped for remaining project ingredients.  This involved a stop at the party store for a bottle of rye and a cigar.  As I pondered the stock and made my choice, another (perhaps chemically enhanced) customer at the register said something along the lines of, “firing up a cigar tonight, huh?  nice…” to which I replied, “not exactly.”  He responded with a nod of understanding, a chuckle, and an, “I gotcha…”

I can probably guess what he thought I was doing tonight, but I’m quite certain his thought process WASN’T, “duuuuude…she is totally going to make bitters out of that.”

 

I finally arrived at home, and started putting up all of my Christmas decorations, including my Tiny Tree:

Awww…isn’t it cute?

 

In short…I found my Christmas spirit. 

You know what else I found?  The fine print in the Target commercials.  I have been DYING to track down the music they’re using this year, but since I generally watch TV as background noise with my laptop or a stack of papers in my lap, I have never noticed the button at the end that tells you that you can download the music FOR FREE from their website.  Seriously, go.  Get it.  Best Christmas album I’ve found in AGES.  It’s hard to find such a good blend of miraculously non-cheesy and delightfully over-cheesed-in-a-good-way holiday music.  I particularly love the Toy Jackpot commercial (WHY OH WHY ISN’T THERE MORE GOOD CHRISTMAS HIPHOP???), but as a single girl living alone, Tiny Tree Christmas is kind of my theme song.

What?  My dad once found his Christmas spirit via an impulse purchase of “A Polka Christmas.”  I shit you not.

 

And now, a week after I started writing this post, I have given my final exam and am now unofficially on Winter Break, and those online presents have started to roll in:

Look!  Tiny Santa has come and left Tiny Presents!

 

So at this point, my bitters are brewing, my present-making supplies are en route, the ice has finally all been chipped off of my car, and perhaps most importantly, all of my brick-and-mortar shopping is DONE.  I even had to go back to Grand Rapids to go to a MALL… on a SATURDAY…and managed to keep my spirits up.  There are cookies in the dining room, egg nog in the fridge, and the new bar is well-stocked.  So when are you coming over?

Disassemble? No disassemble!

Dear World Market,

 

As a single girl, I have put together a lot of flat-pack furniture in my day.  I am no longer fazed by the words “assembly required”…nay, I am thrilled by them because it means I can buy furniture that fits in my car, and enjoy the satisfaction of putting it together when I get home.

 

When I got my prized purchase home this evening, my first sign of trouble should have been the box.  The only easy way to open it is at the end.  The first rule of Flat Pack is…you don’t talk about Flat Pack.  But the SECOND rule of Flat Pack is that the box opens at the top, so that you lift that gorgeous big flap and find the directions at the top of the stack, nestled comfortably in among your flat parts and looking like they are quivering in anticipation of seeing daylight for the very first time inside your apartment.  They should NOT be found at the bottom of the box, after you have carefully extracted every other piece via the small end.

 

Little did I know, my ordeal was only beginning.

 

I don’t know what the official language of World Market is.  Perhaps in your language, “assembly required” actually means “apprenticeship in cabinetry required and ownership of power tools may be for the best.”  But this was the single-most difficult flat-pack I have EVER assembled.

 

While I do appreciate the fact that this assembly was done with a screwdriver instead of the ubiquitous hex keys that Ikea holds so dear, and that you actually include some extra hardware just in case, I do have a few bones to pick with you.  First of all, your pilot holes are not all in the correct places.  You have no idea how disorienting that is when you have counted your pieces and counted your hardware, but neglected to count your holes.  Second, why do you call it part A when it is the last one to be installed?  Third, why, DEAR GOD, WHY? do you force me to install my own hinges?  I will gladly pay the sweatshop-dwelling orphans an extra 5 bucks if it means my pilot holes will be properly located and I don’t have to install hinges.  Their tiny hands will probably do a better job of it than mine anyway.  At this point, I would have been happier had you just packed up a bunch of boards and assorted power tools and let me go to town.  DAMN YOU, YOU FAIR-TRADING SONS OF BITCHES!

 

Perhaps this is karmic retribution for opening a bottle of wine and watching Celebrity Rehab before assembling my bar.  But seriously, should it have taken THREE HOURS to build this???

 

 

Yeah, I didn’t think so either.

Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.

One of the great things about my Thanksgiving trip was the revelation that I could take a train from Grand Rapids to Chicago.  Any time I plan a trip, I always check the Amtrak just in case.  Just in case it’s cheaper, or easier, or just plain better than a TSA patdown or a full day in the car.  And it never is.  Like, NEVER.

 

But this time it was!  I could take a train directly from GR…no transfers!  The train station is right off of the highway, which is a straight shot from where I live!  The train takes 4 hours…less than an hour to get to the train station…this is not looking like a bad alternative to my 4 1/2 hour drive to my aunt’s house in the ‘burbs in unpredictable holiday weekend traffic!  And it’s under $100!

 

Beside the not-having-to-drive factor, and the comfy-seats-with-lots-of-legroom factor, and the not-having-to-be-there-2-hours-early factor, and the fear-of-heights factor, the best thing about taking the train is that I officially had two things:

1) an excuse to hang out downtown for an afternoon.

2) an Exit Strategy when leaving town.

 

Regarding #2…I dearly love my aunt and uncle.  But the Princess is VERY bad at hiding her disappointment.  She thinks she is very low-pressure, but as soon as the last day of your stay arrives, it’s all, “do you want to come to church with us?  We were thinking we’d go out to breakfast after.  Don’t you want to stay for dinner?” 

 

She has a hard time letting go.

 

Enter, “My train leaves at 5:00.”

This is substantially less negotiable than, “I want to hit the road in time to get home in time to do such-and-such” or “I want to beat the traffic.”

 

Regarding #1…I also dearly love the city of Chicago.  And hadn’t been there in almost 2 years.  I would move there in a heartbeat. 

And I LOVE eating there.  Hot dogs and pizza to haute cuisine, and absolutely everything in between.  I now have a good reason to…<drumroll>…HAVE LUNCH IN CHICAGO. 

Whatever.  If you lived where I live, you’d be excited at that prospect too.

Perhaps most importantly, Chicago is home to Rick Bayless, one of the only celebrity chefs at whose temple I actually worship.  I love the man, and I love his food. 

So I send an e-mail to the local cousins.  Say that I am taking the train into town.  Ask if it’s okay if I take a commuter train out to see them that night in their new lovely home that I haven’t seen yet.  One writes back to say that she will bring her toddler out so we can have a lunch date and take the train home together.

THIS IS WHY I LOVE MY COUSINS.  Truly effortless social planning.

 

While I’m waiting for their train to get in, I take a wander through the French Market…and WISH it were going to be open on Sunday so I could pick up some things to take home.  (I’m not going to haul charcuterie around the Midwest in my luggage when I am headed to homes with fridges already stuffed to capacity.)  Because I am deprived, I pick up a couple of pastries and some macarons.  The pastries are meh (but WAY better than what I can get at Meijer), but the macarons are actually rather good.  I am a happy camper.

On the way back to the main train concourse, a random dude on the street stops me to quietly let me know that there are…um…strings hanging between my legs.  I explain that those are just from my scarf.  He is suddenly very embarrassed, because he thought they were…I’m sorry, what, exactly?  Did he think that I had some sort of turbo tampon with several pieces of YARN coming out of it that was actually escaping from my pants of its own accord?

(Seriously, based on his level of embarrassment when I clarified the situation, I think he thought it was some sort of alien feminine hygiene product trying to crawl out of my crotch.  I shit you not.  But he still had the balls to let me know.  Thank you, crazy courteous stranger.)

While waiting for Cousins’ train, I decide this is the time to buy some Garrett’s popcorn.  (If you haven’t had it, then you DON’T KNOW.)  Unfortunately, they are having production issues.  Namely, it will be 15 minutes before they have caramel corn.  Which is a shame, because all I want is a small order of the mix.  This would be a mix of caramel and cheese popcorn.  Like I said…you DON’T KNOW.  It’s one of Oprah’s Favorite Things, and you would be too if you contained that much butter.  So I leave.  And come back.  Behind a woman who orders three giant bags of caramel corn.  You know what that means?  15 minutes before they have caramel corn.  BITCH.  Note to self: NEVER.  GET OUT OF LINE.  NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOUR SHOULDERS ACHE FROM YOUR LUGGAGE.

I get up to the head of the line.  I can SEE more kernels in the bin than I need for my tiny order, which is only half caramel anyway.  I ask the guy if I can please have what I want.  He says no.  I say fine, just give me cheese, with the saddest, most resigned sigh you can possibly imagine.  He thinks better of his response, saying he will give me as much caramel as he can, and somehow I wind up with a medium order, perfectly mixed.  Can we say, “Wahooty was right”???

After my cousin extracts herself from the bizarre automated doors at the platform, we make our way to lunch, braving the sleet to walk 20 minutes with a stroller filled to capacity.  Read: Cousin keeps her eye on the road and kid, I keep eyes akimbo for scattered mittens.  Luckily, Frontera Grill is toddler-friendly – they have crayons, and should you ever go there, take a kid because the kid’s order of guacamole is the perfect appetizer for two adults for only $2.50.

(Said toddler is impossibly adorable, btw.  Rather than eating the guac, she dipped chips and handed them to us.  At one point, I ducked my head under the table looking for dropped blueberries, and looked up to realize she was mimicking me perfectly from her booster seat.  She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was helping, goddammit.)

Despite our desperate pleading with the cabbie, we miss our train out to the ‘burbs by about 5 minutes.  So we pack ourselves into the next train, which doesn’t leave for half an hour (no small feat with said toddler, stroller, and all of my luggage and..um…how exactly did I amass this many snacks, anyway?).  Cousin gets a call from her husband (who is my actual, biological cousin) and suddenly decides she needs to run out and pick something up for me before our train leaves.

“<Husband> just had a GREAT idea for an anniversary present for you.” (I first met her on one of those long-ago days-after-Thanksgiving bar nights, a few years before she married into my family, when she was just the “awesome, awesome girl” my cousin swore he wasn’t serious about.  Sucker.)

The Awesome, Awesome Girl returns with a cold tallboy of Bud Light. 

“<Husband> and I like to drink a tallboy on the train home on Fridays.”

What can I say?  We are Classy Broads.

I arrive in the ‘burbs toting an empty tallboy of crappy beer. 

I am Home.