I made it all week on my remaining $10, and then payday came and hello mortgage, but still, we got Christmas bonuses this year and you guys donated $10 apiece to celebrate my 10 years of blogging (oh, did you know it was my anniversary of blogging? I never mention it), so I finally had cashola to Christmas shop.
Say, there was a sentence, sentence-maker. Also, thanks, y'all!
I really don't have many people to shop for. My cousin Katie and I have been exchanging good deeds each year in lieu of another shitty candle. She can totally afford to buy me things, and I totally can't, so she's being nice plus also she's that type of hippie who prefers doing good deeds to a gift. I can't get behind people who think that way.
So I did one deed for her and may do another to round it out. It'll be like I got her a shitty candle and also a shitty Christmas ornament. Hey, book club gifts.
That leaves my Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart, my mother and stepfather, and my stepgrandmother, who always wants something perishable or usable, as she has had enough shitty candles for a lifetime. Lifetime, Shitty Candles for Women.
I hate being a woman. I mean, I don't, because I don't ever want to get drafted or be expected to spit or reign in my emotions. But I hate being a woman in this society. Every woman friend I have, all two of them, are outside the norm. One might even say we're a tad cold, in comparison to the hugging, saw-this-and-thought-of-you, gift-bagging, inspirational-card-giving regular women in the world who, you know, nurture.
Nurturing sucks.
Am I weird? Don't answer that. Also, please don't think about my un-nurturing grandmother who I'm turning into.
"If you're turning into her, why don't you just stop yourself?" Ned asked me in a conversation not long before our terrific breakup-and-a-cab-ride finale.
Yeah, that's easy.
I have been poised over the keyboard for a minute, here, stopping myself from further comment.
Moving on.
What I like about myself is I still haven't even made my first point, which is that I could finally afford to Christmas shop, so last night I started.
Last night I finished.
When my Aunt Mary was here visiting this fall, I took her shopping, as that is her joint, and she wanted to go in this kitchen store you'll be stunned to hear I've never even noticed. Oh my god that store was da bomb! All of a sudden I felt I needed teensy teapots and La Crouton or whatever they are products and knives, oh knives and also avocado pitters. Okay, I actually really could use one of those. I eat a lot of avocado.
Why so chubby?
So what I did was, I memorized the things she picked up and admired, and then I forgot them, and then I went back in there yesterday and remembered some of them and Dear Aunt Mary, don't read this post.
I saw some things for mom in there, and I really admired these blue-green coffee mugs, and I wanted to buy one for her and one for me, which is something my Aunt Kathy always does when she buys gifts, but I did not because $21 apiece for a goddamn mug.
Aunt Kathy had kids of her own. We've never exchanged Christmas gifts. But sometimes she sees things and thinks of me. Then thinks of her.
Mom had specific things she wanted for Christmas, and while I was searching, I met this nice woman from Europe who's just moved here and is cold. Cold cold cold. I could tell she was lonely, as she was the one who started talking, and after we were done it occurred to me I really should've slipped her my digits.
I didn't because I feared she might be nurturing. Then I'd be stuck with one of those women who send you little things all the time and tag you on Facebook with cutesy sayings and then I'd spend all my time wondering how to get out of this European debacle like I was America in 1776. Hand me my fife.
The point is, I got my shopping done in an hour, everyone bought for, and then I came home and took 7 hours to wrap everything, because cats are assholes and also because I have no skills. None. I can't wrap a simple box without it looking like I had it wrapped by the Nubs for Hands Society.
Then I put everything in boxes and today I will assault the guy in the mailroom who already hates me because when you guys send me gifts it comes to work. "Another reader gift," he'll say, floomping a package down. It's always, like, Edsel food or an anvil or something. It's never a gift of air.
The point is, I'm a dude. I mean, I'm a dude in every way with the shopping and not nurturing and explosive temper and dick. The only way I'm not a dude is I can't fix anything.
This is for everyone who says, "Iris is faking it. She's not blind." She's faking it really well, then.
Look at S Dan, just plotting his next dick move back there.
So, another part of me being broke this month is that I was out of conditioner. I use this specific kind for curls, and it's expensive, so I washed my hair Sunday and then decided I could just deal with it till Thursday when I could get conditioner.
Yesterday when I was done shopping, I remembered the conditioner, so I went to Ulta, which as you can imagine wasn't crowded at all 10 days before Christmas. I was in the forever line, like stamps without the nice picture of Kwanzaa, behind this man with a cute paper shopping list. Like, what is this, 1972? He was crossing things off it, and I saw him glance back at me, and because you know how I am, I was all, I must be lookin' HOT.
Then I got home and saw my no-conditioner hair. Holy god. He must have been hoping the authorities were on their way. My hair is an octopus.
Also, that nose. You guys. That nose. GODDAMMIT.
Okay, I gotta go. My hair is wet, because you'll be stunned to hear I decided I'd better do something with it.
Nurturingly,
Jooooon
