Do you know what I see every year during the last few days leading up to Christmas? I see men who are in a panic; trying to find the “perfect” gift for their girlfriends or wives at the very last minute. While finding the one gift that will make their loved love jump for joy would be fabulous, I think most men would be happy to find something that doesn’t piss her off and leads to months of no sex and sleeping on the couch.

You have my sympathy guys. Women are hard to shop for. We won’t come out and tell you what we want, and we won’t tell you why we are mad on Christmas day. I can see how bewildering and frustrating it can be when your significant other gives you the silent treatment for no apparent reason. Is it the gift she just opened? Is it because I am not wearing the reindeer sweater her grandmother gave me last year? Is it the because I skipped the cocktail party held by her uptight college roommate who openly hates you, three months ago? There is just no way of knowing, and unfortunately women aren’t breaking this little habit any time soon. So, as a gesture of good will, I’m going to slip you a few tips that will keep your twice yearly blow jobs from becoming a distant memory. So, listen up kids and take some notes. Your sex life depends on it.

1. Do not buy us clothes. Ever.

This is not territory you want to navigate on your own. While many men have attempted to go this route alone, almost none are known to have made it out alive. Learn from your fallen brethren. Stay out of the women’s clothing department – no matter what store you are in. The list of things that can go wrong are endless; and believe me, things will go wrong! For example, if you buy something one size too big, then your girlfriend will assume that you think she’s fat. If you buy something too small, she’s going to think the same thing. That will lead to a pleasant Christmas dinner, won’t it? For men who have sat through a holiday meal watching your wife give you dirty looks while she nibbles on a plate full of celery, you might want to think about you put under the tree that year. Any twinkling light bulbs going off in your head right now?

Along with size, there is also the style issue. Unless you are a straight version of Tim Gunn there is no way you are going to pick something that she will actually wear. If it’s too sexy, she will think you are calling her a slut. If it’s not sexy at all, she will think that you find her as sexy as an Amish grandmother. I’m not going to even bother talking about lingerie. Every man in the world knows how terrible of an idea that is, and if they don’t, well then they deserve the attitude that is most definitely going to come “free of charge” with that gift.

2. Jewelry? It better be a diamond in the shape of an engagement ring.

If you are at the point in your relationship where it is time to tie the knot, be careful not to tie your own noose this upcoming holiday. Admittedly, this tip really only applies to a select portion of the male population, but any guy who plans to get married EVER can benefit from this insider information. If you are not ready to drop to one knee this Christmas Eve, you better let your girlfriend know beforehand. An engagement ring is the female equivalent of a Red Rider, carbine action, two-hundred shot model air rifle. Except we are 100 times more disappointed on Christmas morning when all we get are pjs and a pair of cubic zirconia earrings. I’m warning you now: You WILL pay dearly for this mistake. Remember those things called blow jobs? Well, you better hold on to your memories because they are officially gone.

You may, for various reasons, want to get engaged at a later date; I’m not judging. But you must slip this fact into as many conversations as you can once Thanksgiving rolls around. Remember, women are subtle. You can give her the wrong impression with the slightest statement. Something as tiny as agreeing with her when she says how romantic the latest Hallmark commercial is, can wreak havoc that only Stephen King could imagine. Tell your significant other that getting engaged at Christmas is unoriginal and that you feel she deserves something more. Play up that angle as best you can, and you may avoid a Christmas Day disaster of biblical proportions. It’s Jesus’ day, let him (and you) enjoy it in relative peace instead of hearing his name in a variety of sentences that in no way whatsoever include the words “happy” or “birthday” in them.

3. Jumper cables are not sexy.

I get you guys on this one, I really do. You care about your wife or girlfriend and you want her to be safe when you are not around to save the day. I really think it’s a shame that more women don’t make the connection between tires and true love. Men tend to be the more practical half of a couple and this role comes in handy a lot. However, at Christmas your woman wants romance, not rugged performance snow boots. Skip the AAA membership and get her a gift certificate for a couples massage. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about on this one.

4. Household items are not for the holidays.

If you have ever seen the movie “Father of the Bride” you understand the importance of keeping blenders and toasters as far away from your Christmas tree as possible. For those who don’t know, allow me to fill you in. Women want gifts that do not cause visions of housework to dance in her head. Sure, she has mentioned that a new vacuum would be a great thing, but now is not the time. Would you like it if she got you a ladder and gloves for cleaning out the gutters, instead of the Xbox 360 game Call of Duty: Black Ops? I didn’t think so. Keep this tidbit in mind while you are scanning the shelves at your local mall this Christmas Eve.

5. Listen for clues.

While there are women who write a detailed list of Christmas desires and post them all over the house and car, these women are usually gold diggers. The rest of my gender relies on YOU to pick up the hints that we feel are very clear and straightforward. This is the perfect time to put the detective skills you learned by watching Law and Order re-runs to good use. Look for magazines around the house that are open to a specific page. Read that page carefully. You may hit the jackpot, and find that your love has circled the item she wants already. This has been known to happen; it’s not just a myth.

Television time can also bring you all sorts of insight into the mind of your girlfriend. Notice her reactions to certain commercials. If there is a new cell phone or shoe store being advertised and she gets excited, you can safely assume that these are things she would like to see under the tree. (Not the entire shoe store, even though that would be a female’s dream come true. A gift certificate will work just fine.)

If you are pressed for time and really need to get a present quickly, you can always enlist the help of her friends. Women tell their best friends what’s on this year’s Christmas wish list for this exact reason! Not only will you pick out the perfect gift, but you will also get points for talking to and being nice to her friends. That’s a “buy one get one” deal for sure. That may lead to counter-top sex and a full day of football with the guys. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Literally.

6. Come on Kris Kringle – get creative!

In a poll of 100 women, 99 agreed that a homemade gift from their significant other is the best present that they could ever receive. The solo nay vote came in absentia from a woman who was not in attendance. She was stuck at home dealing with a Christmas cookie emergency brought on because her husband forgot to bring home shortening like he said he would. I can only imagine how rough his Christmas was that year. Yikes! The sheer horror of it gives me the chills. I’ll put good money down on the fact his wife will bring up this teeny mistake at Easter, the Fourth of July, and Labor Day weekend for at least a few years.

To women, it doesn’t matter what you make, it’s that you made it in the first place. A homemade card is more precious than any kind of expensive present you could ever come up with. (Engagement rings and trips to Tahiti not included, of course.) Yes, your girlfriend might not have a need for a bird house constructed from popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners, but she will keep it forever, believe me. Put a photo album together with pictures of the two of you that she loves. Add some hand-written captions and you will never have to suffer through another Lifetime movie again. That bonus alone should get you up and searching for construction paper right now. If you need any more encouragement, picture the shower sex or road head you will get simply because you pulled out the hot glue gun. Need I say more?

For the women who may be reading this, please try to give your man a break this year. Most guys really do try to make you happy; they are just really, really bad at decoding women-speak. Try to see your gifts through his eyes. You may realize that the man of your dreams is right in front of you … he’s just hidden behind the bow he put on your new washing machine.

As cliché as the saying might be, it really is the thought that counts. Men hate malls like cats hate water. (Men also hate cats, but that’s a different column all together.) Your boyfriend is trying to make you happy and isn’t that what love is all about? The trying part of it? Appreciate the person who is holding his breathe while you open your gifts. Take a second to look at his eyes when you smile and thank him for the presents.The puppy-dog-in-love look will have you wearing the bright orange sweater that is three sizes too big and itchy as a bad case of chickenpox simply because the man you love bought it for you.

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Merry Christmas to every single one of my readers. Thank you for your continued support in my wacky writing endeavors. Without you, I would simply be talking to myself – only I would be doing it online. I hope Santa is good to you. More importantly, I hope the true meaning of Christmas fills your house and your hearts. We only have so much time on the amazing planet, so we need to soak in as much beauty and happiness as we can. What a better time to start than at the happiest time of the year, right?

I will be back in 2011! Until then … be well.

XOXO,

Hadley Slater

Mirror Image

I received an interesting phone call a while back. It was from a college friend of mine, Chloe, who I hadn’t talked to in a while. We spent a few minutes catching up, and then she brought up the real reason behind her call. Chloe wanted to borrow some of my camping gear. She also asked if I could explain how to use it. This seemed like a very random request. I’ve known this girl for almost ten years, and in that time she had never been camping. In fact, to my knowledge, she’s never worn a pair of sneakers. Chloe is from Manhattan; she was 17 before she saw a forest in person.

Chloe had been seeing a new guy, Steve, for about a month. Steve loved activities like camping, hiking, base-jumping – all past-times that my friend had no knowledge of, and even less interest in. They matched up in almost every other category though; both worked in finance, loved Tom Petty, and hated garlic; you know … the important things. To Chloe, a little lie or two about her outdoor experience was justified. She wanted to get closer to Steve by taking part in his favorite activities. Chloe also reasoned that since she’d never been camping, or even outside for more than a few hours, she didn't know if she liked camping or not. This was the perfect opportunity for her to find out.

As it turned out, Chloe did NOT enjoy camping, in fact, she actually despised it. After our phone call, I met up with Chloe, camping gear in hand. I gave her a quick demonstration of each item and big hug for luck. I was only 50% sure that she would return, and 80% sure that she was going to put high heels into her backpack. There were way too many things that could go wrong, and, shockingly, most of them did. Their weekend away began badly and continued to get worse with each passing hour. It was like a live version of a B-rated romantic comedy minus the happy ending.

Less than an hour into their trip, the couple got completely lost on the drive to the campsite. They arrived so late that they had to set up their equipment in the dark. Chloe forgot to load half of the food they had purchased for the trip into the car. So that evening’s dinner consisted of dry Kashi cereal, cheetos, and red wine. Chloe had made a valiant attempt at putting up the tent while Steve started a fire, but she wasn’t quite successful. It looked fine, but an hour after they fell asleep the tent collapsed on them, causing Chloe to scream at a pitch that only a few animals can here. Steve tried to fix the tent in complete darkness, and he wound up breaking one of the support poles. For the rest of the night, rain water would pool on top of the tent until the canvas could no longer support the extra weight and then, like a trap door being opened, the rain water would pour into the tent soaking their feet and anything else that was located close by.

The next morning an unhappy Chloe could barely maintain her composure. She tried her best to smile and have fun while silently regretting that she lied in the first place. Steve could clearly tell that this wasn’t her dream weekend, and their conversations were becoming shorter and more uncomfortable by the minute. Steve had planned an all-day hike for their second day in the woods. In less than two hours Chloe had blisters on both feet; bug bites on her arms and legs courtesy of some unusually aggressive, and possibly pre-historic, mosquitoes; and she was ready to trade her parents to a tribe of cannibals for a hot shower.

Later that night it began to rain again, and Chloe finally came unglued. She threw a temper tantrum, cursing Steve, the trip, and Mother Nature herself. Seriously. Chloe went all “two-year old tantrum” on his ass. Steve was furious that she had lied about her lack of camping experience, and refused to speak for the rest of the night. The fighting couple left the next morning at 6 a.m. As a final “fuck you” from nature, Chloe slipped on a hill that was only minutes from the car. She landed hard in what she thought was mud. It only took her a few seconds to realize that she was lying in a pile of dog droppings. All she could scream was, “Shit!”

While Chloe filled me in on her camping trip from hell, it made me wonder why so many people put themselves in that position. We have all done it, and most of the time ended up regretting it. There are many reasons why feigning interest in things we don’t like is a bad idea. First off, YOU’RE LYING! It may not be as bad as hiding the fact that you are married, but it’s still not going to go over well. Sure, you can try to justify your deception, but a lie is a lie. You are seriously screwing your relationship karma, and as they say, karma is a bitch.

Second, what if you find that you hate the very thing you claim to enjoy? Saying you love renaissance fairs is one thing, but going to one every single weekend is going to wear thin after a while. You will have no choice but to suck it up, put on medieval keg-wench costume you had to spend $300 on, and spend your precious time off watching grown men dance around in capes and have fake sword fights. This is how drinking problems get started.

I’m guilty of this action too; I faked my enthusiasm for something that I didn’t really like just to impress a guy. This man was a techno super-fan and I told him I like that kind of music. Wow! That was a bad move; like “deciding to get a face tattoo while being on a five day drinking bender in Bangladesh” kind of bad. But, this guy was hot and funny; it seemed like a good trade-off at the time. I bluffed my way through our first conversation, and I attempted to learn as much as I could on the subject before I saw him again. I went to my local music store and grabbed a handful of CDs by the artists that “Techno Boy” had been praising. About five minutes into my research I realized I had just wasted $75 on the worst music ever created. Seriously, that shit is terrible. I believe techno started out as the theme music for hell. It’s not music; it is 30 car alarms going off all at once. I wouldn’t be surprised if techno music was found to cause seizures in long-time listeners.

It didn’t take long for me to decide that Techno Boy was not worth making my ears bleed. Yes, he was a good guy and I always enjoyed my time with him. I couldn’t come clean and tell him that I had faked my love for repetitive bass lines and glow sticks, so I blamed my school schedule when I suddenly stopped answering his calls. Our relationship ended well; we remained friends. Yet, I wonder how far we could have gone if I was simply honest about my musical preferences.

It may seem harmless to us when we agree that old radio restoration is an exhilarating pastime, but our tune changes when we are the ones being deceived. I think having common interests can be great for a relationship; it’s nice to be able to share our passions with the person we love. If your significant other secretly hates going to museums with you, he or she is going to try to persuade you to do something else. You can become resentful when you find out that your love really doesn’t dig going to tag sales. It sucks to become the victim of false advertising; there is no refund for lost time.

In a strange twist of fate, Chloe’s lies led her to meet a man who honestly enjoyed all the same things she did. She had purchased some camping gear of her own for the trip. She couldn’t return the equipment fast enough. While waiting in line, she talked to the man behind her. He was exchanging a fishing pole that he received as a birthday present. The two started talking to each other, laughing about their various run-ins with Mother Nature. Within minutes they exchanged phone numbers and they have been dating ever since. None of their dates have included mud, trees, or Kashi cereal.

As for me, I traded in the techno CDs for music I really liked, and vowed never to put myself in that position again. In the end, relationships do not need identical pastimes to succeed, but without honestly and communication they will always fail. If you want to find a person who fits you, you need to know what kind of person you are first. And that is no lie.

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Home for the Holidays

Ahhh, the holiday season is upon us once again. Time to visit the people who drive us insane: our families. I do not care who you are, if you have a pulse then you have a crazy family member or two. Perhaps you have an uncle who is a bigot, or a cousin who always has to one-up you. It’s part of life. All we can do is suck it up and do shots of tequila when no one is looking.

I’ll be the first to admit that I get a bit nervous when I bring home a new boyfriend for the first time. I have family members who simply love to tell embarrassing stories about me to anyone who will listen. I’m all for honesty in a relationship, but I don’t think my new beau needs to know that I once locked myself outside and had to go to my neighbor’s house wearing only a towel and huge slippers shaped like bear paws with my face painted up like circus clown. It was not my proudest moment, and I have no problem keeping that little nugget of info to myself.

Along with a love for nostalgia, my family also enjoys breaking into song at the oddest times. There is just no way to prepare someone for that kind of experience. My relatives are the Polish version of the Von Trapp family and they have a vast and diverse collection of songs memorized. Can you imagine your new love having to sit and watch your father sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time”? It’s an experience that takes years of therapy to get over.

The holidays can be quite the test for new relationships. Lots of careful decisions need to be made. Do you bring the person you’ve been seeing for three months home with you, or do you each go see your families solo? If you do ask your boyfriend or girlfriend to come over for thanksgiving dinner, are they going to freak out and think you are getting too serious too fast? If you don’t ask them, are they going to be hurt and sulk until New Year’s Day? What if her parents are still crazy about her last boyfriend and they spend a good part of dinner talking about how this guy volunteered with homeless children, was the youngest person ever to be promoted to a senior position at his job, and once helped save a dolphin that was trapped in a tuna net? If that’s not a good time then, well, I just don’t know what is.

A few years back I went with my then-boyfriend to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving. I was living in Boston at the time and I had to work the next day, so it was easier than trying to travel home and back in less than 24 hours. His parents lived just twenty minutes outside the city, and the idea of not having to spend a good portion of my day off sitting on the Massachusetts Turnpike was appealing. The man I was dating played the mandolin in a bluegrass band and we had met at a bar that was near my place of employment. Music Man and I had been seeing each other for about three months when the holidays rolled around. I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the thought of meeting his parents, but I wasn’t turned off by it either. We got along well and were dating each other exclusively. Meeting his family seemed like the logical next step for our relationship. It ended up being one of the worst decisions I have ever made.

Even though I am an outgoing person, I have always been extremely nervous about meeting any of my boyfriends’ parents for the first time. I worry that I’m going to say the wrong thing or wear an outfit that is too dressy or too casual for the situation. I know that the day is most likely going to go by without any serious social blunders on my part, but I still get a bit anxious.

Dinner was scheduled for three o’clock and my boyfriend and I arrived a bit early so that he could introduce me to everyone before we sat down to eat. Music Man’s family consisted of his mom and step-father, Ruth and Tom, his grandmother Alice, his brother and sister-in-law Steve and Claudia, and his unmarried aunt Trish. There was also an older man there who they called Cousin Bert, but I never met him because he was asleep in the den the entire day.

The first hour or so was pleasant. Everyone seemed friendly and I could tell they were trying to make me feel welcome. We all made small talk; discussing topics like sports, recent vacation destinations, and the local news. I was starting to realize that my anxiety about this family gathering was silly and unfounded. Then his aunt spoke up. With only a few sentences the entire day made a screeching U-turn and sped off to Crazy Town.

Music Man’s Aunt Trish was a professor at a local college. She taught women’s studies and had recently published a book that discussed various ways that the average woman could improve her sexual encounters. I told her that I was considering becoming a full-time writer and we talked about the pros and cons of the profession. Suddenly the conversation shifted and Aunt Trish began asking me questions about my sex life. Her first question was how sexually compatible I thought her nephew and I were. I don’t think my jaw has ever dropped so fast in my entire life. I stammered some generic answer and tried to switch to a more appropriate subject. Trish was having none of that though. She unmercifully continued her version of the Spanish Inquisition with gusto. I was asked about my favorite position in bed, if I ever considered having a threesome, and what kind of sex toys I had in my nightstand. The idea of crawling into the oven with the turkey was becoming more appealing by the second.

I was blown away by how casually Music Man’s family talked about this rather personal subject. Not wanting to be left out, my boyfriend’s mom cut in and shared her opinions. Ruth, a 56 year old mother of two, loudly stated that she loved her sex swing and kindly offered to send me the website so that her son and I could get our own. All I could think was, “Are you shitting me? Is this really happening right now?” I had never wanted to be home with my family as much as I did right then. I’d gladly take hours of singing Neil Diamond songs over listening to these people discuss their favorite Penthouse Forum letters. Fuck it, I’d stand up on the dinner table and perform an Irish step dance while belting out “Sweet Caroline” if it meant that I would never have to hear anyone my parents’ describe the various ways that handcuffs can be used in the bedroom.

Finally, Music Man’s step-dad came into the living room and announced that dinner was ready. I have never gone from one room to another as fast as I did at that moment. I wouldn’t have moved faster if I was being chased by a Somali pirate hopped up on crystal meth.

I slumped in my seat and silently prayed for death. Steve, Music Man’s brother, stood up to say grace. He started the blessing in a rather normal manner. After what I had just sat though, I didn’t think the day could get any weirder. I was wrong. After thanking the Lord for the great food and wonderful company, Steve asked everyone to bow their heads’ and pray for the souls of communists everywhere. He proclaimed that the only way to avoid the apocalypse would be for the world’s communists to let Jesus into their hearts and come back to the flock.

Apparently Steve’s wife, Claudia, became a born-again Christian shortly after the couple got married, and told Steve that if he did not convert as well that she would leave him. So Steve joined her church and devoted his life to bringing Jesus to the masses. My boyfriend had failed to mention that this thanksgiving dinner was also going to be a religious revival. I sat there stunned, praying feverishly for some sort of deity to come down and save my ass from this insanity. I guess Jesus wasn’t making house calls that day.

After we prayed for the “Pinkos” as Steve called them, we dug into dinner. My boyfriend had raved about his step-dad’s cooking abilities and I was looking forward to the break in conversation as everyone ate. The plates were passed around and I took a little bit of each dish except for the turkey. I am a vegetarian and I haven’t eaten meat in over a decade. I’ve never had a problem with other people eating meat, but I don’t particularly like when other people make rude comments about my dietary choices. Grandma Alice, who had been pretty quiet up until now, noticed that I did not have any turkey on my plate. My boyfriend quickly explained that I was a vegetarian and assured her that I was completely content eating everything else that was being served.

This explanation did not satisfy that woman. Grandma Alice, a 4’ 9” Irish immigrant, loudly exclaimed that only an idiot would refuse to eat meat. She went on to say that animals were created specifically for human use and told me I should be grateful to have been born a carnivore. My blood pressure was skyrocketing and it took every ounce of restraint I could muster not to jump over and beat this lady with a turkey drumstick. I kicked my boyfriend under the table and gave him a look that said, “I will rip your throat out if you do not do something about this right now.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a return look that told me I was on my own for this one.

Ruth, his mom, spoke up and asked me what I did for a living. I was a bartender before I became a writer, and at that point in time I was working at a popular Irish bar in Boston’s Faneuil Hall district. Ruth listened politely as I talked about my profession. I was hoping she felt how uncomfortable I was and that this was her attempt to save me from further scrutiny. Nope. Wrong again. Out of nowhere, Ruth launched into a long tirade about her ex-husband. She used a plethora of profanities to explain how Music Man’s father was a heavy drinker and quite the philanderer. She passionately described the “whores” that he went with behind her back, and proclaimed that the only thing he did could do well was drink Budweiser and belch out the first verse of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” I glanced at Tom and watched his face go from winter-pale to tomato red in a matter of seconds. He was clearly on the verge of tears, and I was on the verge of drinking directly out of the wine bottle in front of me at the table.

As we ate, I silently pondered the best way to exit Satan’s fun house the minute the last dish was off the table. As a thank you to Music Man’s parents for inviting me to their home, I had made a dessert for all to enjoy. I brought an apple crisp dish and I was proud of the way it had come out. Everyone took a portion and sat back to enjoy the after-dinner coffee and tasty sweets. All was going well until I noticed that Aunt Trish’s face was becoming blotchy at an alarming rate. She kept scratching her neck and arms until the entire table knew something was wrong. Music Man leaned over and told me that his aunt had some weird food allergies. A feeling of dread washed over me when he asked what types of spices I had used in the desert.

I listed the ingredients praying that there was no way someone could be allergic to a dish that was so simple. No such luck. Aunt Trish had a severe allergy to cinnamon. Once Music Man heard the word cinnamon, he jumped out of his chair and told his brother to get the car. I looked back to Trish and her face and hands had swollen to biblical proportions. My mind was spinning. If I had put crack cocaine and shards of glass into this stupid apple crisp it wouldn’t have had such dire results. COME ON! Why would a person who was allergic to cinnamon eat apple crisp. I swear she did it to fuck with me.

I sat paralyzed in my chair, thinking “I killed his fucking aunt” over and over to myself. She wasn’t having heart burn or hiccups from my desert; she was having a goddamn heart attack. I prayed that the entire day was a twisted version of Punked and that Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out of the pantry. I actually leaned down and started to bang my head on the table. I’m a pretty laid back chick, but this was too much. The family rushed around in a frenzy trying to get out the door and to the hospital. No one said a word to me; instead they glared at me with looks of disgust on their faces.

In a matter of minutes the entire clan was out the door with the dying aunt. Even my boyfriend had left the house. I grabbed the vodka that had been sitting on the sideboard and chugged directly from bottle. I needed to leave immediately, but I hadn’t driven there and all my friends had left Boston for the long weekend. There was absolutely no way I was going to sit in that house of horror until Music Man returned. I would climb mountains wearing nothing but stilettos, a hula skirt, and a bee keeper helmet if I had to; I was getting the hell out of there one way or another.

I pulled out my cell phone and called information for the number of the local cab company. Because it was a holiday there were very few drivers working, and the dispatcher informed me it would be at least 45 minutes before anyone could pick me up. I told him that I needed to leave and that I would be willing to ride in a rickshaw if I had to. I begged him to send someone over as fast as possible.

I collected my purse and coat and walked down to the corner of the street. It had been a terribly cold day and while I waited outside the temperature hovered at a balmy 14 degrees. After what seemed like an eternity, the cab finally appeared. I melted into the back street, gave the driver my address, and put my hood over my face. Thirty minutes later I was back home and out fifty-five dollars. This cab company charged double on holidays. Lovely. I was not surprised one bit. In fact, I have never been surprised by anything since that fateful Thanksgiving.

Needless to say, that was the last time I spoke to Music Man. He emailed me a few days later to tell me that his aunt did not die. He also said that we should probably go our separate ways. I couldn’t have agreed more. I would chew glass before I would spend time with anyone in that family ever again, including him.

A few weeks later I went home for Christmas. I had never been so happy to see my family wearing matching Frosty the Snowman sweaters and doing their acapella version of the Beach Boys’ “Kokimo.” My tale of the torturous day became THE topic of the house. No one believed that something like that could actually happen. My friends found the entire ordeal hilarious and even today it is brought up pretty consistently. I don’t remember fantasizing about being a cautionary tale as a child. I wanted to be a vet.

This year, as you make your way through the upcoming holidays, take the time to appreciate your family and your significant other’s family as well. You may not like that your Uncle Joe still gives you a noogie each and every time you see him, but believe me, things could always be worse. Dive in and enjoy the craziness of your loved ones and embrace the new families that you meet along the way. They may have a few odd habits or strange personality quirks, but that is what makes them special. They might be freaks, but at least they’re your freaks.

Just don’t forget to ask about food allergies.

Rules, rules, and more rules ...

I think we can safely say that modern-day manners have reached an all-time low. Once apon a time a date was an engagement where two people tried to show their best qualities to one another. Meeting new people is as unpredictable as throwing dice in a craps game. Maybe your companion for the evening loves collected bird houses or is only happy when speaking in rhyme. At least you could rely on the fact that your date was not going to punch the waiter, talk on her cell phone the entire night, or drag you along while he cuts to the front of a 50 person deep line. I never thought I would want a criminal background check before agreeing to go out with someone new, but now I'm not so sure. It could be a handy little thing to have.

While these few rules may not sweep over the country at the speed of "The Jersey Shore", they may help steer our society back to a place where manners and good grace were required, not options.

Dating Etiquette and Rules to Follow:

http://www.topdatingtips.com/dating-etiquette.htm

Don't Worry - You'll Find Someone ... The Holiday Edition

Five, four, three, two, one …. Hooray!!!! The holidays are over!! Screw counting down the last minute; I’ve been counting down since Thanksgiving. There is nothing, NOTHING, in this world that makes you more aware of being single than the last month and a half of our calendar year. No, I take that back, weddings may be the worst at pointing out the fact that you are a party of one. At least those things only last one day and there is usually an open bar to help take your mind off things. As much as I would like to go on a thirty day bender during the “loveliest time of the year”, I don’t think my employer would find it as cathartic as I would. In fact, knowing him as long as I have, I could easily guarantee that the only thing he would be putting in my stocking would be a pink slip. I guess I’d rather be bitter during the holidays than unemployed in January.

Before I begin my tirade, let me assure you all that I do indeed enjoy the Christmas season. I am by no means a Grinch who is just using my relationship status as another reason to hate the holidays. Tree decorating, baking gingerbread houses, snow angels, caroling; there is nothing too cheesy or sappy for me to take part in. I play Christmas music starting right after Thanksgiving and only stop on New Year’s Day because my friends have threatened me with physical violence if I don’t. I decorate my house, I decorate my workplace, I even put those stupid antlers on my cats. I can’t get enough of this shit. Basically, just think of me as an extremely tall elf.

As much as I do love Christmas, I have to admit the season is a little sweeter when you have someone you love by your side. It’s nice to have someone to curl up with on the couch and watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” together. It’s nice to take a walk on the night of the first snowfall holding hands and marveling at the neighbors’ Christmas lights. Snowball fights, sledding, kissing under the mistletoe; this stuff all takes two people. Well, maybe sledding doesn’t, but what sane adult really goes sledding alone? That’s just weird.

Although I am perfectly fine with being single at this point in my life, I will be the first to admit that I do get a wistful sense of longing as soon as December rolls around. I’m only human after all. There is a limit on the amount of Hallmark commercials a person can watch before you start to seriously consider letting your grandmother set you up with her hairdresser’s daughter’s son. You know … the one who studied Geology in college and now collects old radios. She has said he’s quite the dish after all.

Speaking of family … I think they might be the number one reason why I dread the jingle of sleigh bells every year. Don’t get me wrong, my family is great. They are kind, funny, warm people who love me unconditionally and support whatever I choose to do with my life. They have welcomed in all of my past boyfriends graciously and worked hard to cheer me up when the same jerks walked out of my life. Hell, they have put up with me getting tattoos, dying my hair blue, and following the Grateful Dead around for a summer. They are good (and very patient) people.

Perhaps they are a bit too supportive though. This year I chose to count how many times I was told, “don’t worry – You’ll meet someone”. Would you care to guess what the final tally was? The grand total was 327 times. Now let’s not focus on why I decided to really record the amount of times I heard this sentence. That is not the point here. The point is that every five minutes another family member was bringing up the fact that the most significant relationship I have with a man these days is with the guy who delivers my pizzas. Sometimes it was a conversation between just me and my relative. Other times it was the topic of discussion over the family meal. Awesome. Let’s get everyone’s opinions on the subject – please. I’m just dying to know your thoughts on this oh-so-not-sensitive matter. Shall we discuss my latest Pap smear while we are at it? Let’s get everything on the table.

This year I tried something new. I decided to take a shot of vodka every time I heard that dreadful sentence. I kept a “water” bottle next to me anytime I knew I was going to come into contact with my family. In retrospect I’m not sure if it was the greatest idea. I was black-out drunk at 1:30 in the afternoon on Christmas day.

My family is pretty progressive. They vote mostly democratic, they are not prudes; they can deal with the idea of an independent woman living her life as she wants. But I know deep down inside they are keeping track of my age and how many years I have left before I am technically a spinster. For the record, in their minds that number is pretty low. Like, I’m going to go past my expiration date this upcoming March, kind of low. Glad to see there is no pressure on me or anything. I can’t blame them. They come from a different time period. When they were my age if a girl wasn’t married by twenty-five she was pretty well fucked.

My family doesn’t keep their opinions strictly to the dinner table; these opinions also bleed into the kinds of gifts I have been receiving over the past few years. I hate to cook. I think I’ve made this pretty much clear in all of my columns. You would never believe this fact by the amount of cook books I’ve received lately. Good Housekeeping, Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, that guy who says “Bam!” a lot. The whole gang is hanging out in my kitchen cabinet. Quite frankly, that is where they are going to stay for the foreseeable future too.

My family’s attempt at making me more domesticated doesn’t just stop there. I’ve been given every kitchen gadget imaginable. Some of the stuff is so foreign that I don’t know if it is modern art or a functioning tool. I’ve received a sewing machine, a vacuum, and a blender. Jesus Christ! What’s next? Kitten heels, a string of pearls, and a mop? A few years back my grandmother gave me an amazing set of china. The same exact set she gave my sister for her wedding. The tag said, “just in case …”, as in “just in case you never get married you old bitch”. Thanks gram. Next year I’m going to get her Depends adult protection. You know … just in case.

As awful as being single during Christmas may seem, there are a few brightly shining benefits to it. First and foremost, I do not have to go through the whole “Oh my GOD! What do I get him!!!” dilemma. I’ve seen this rather innocent question send the most grounded people over the edge. Unless you have been with someone for a good amount of time, the Christmas present problem can be quite the nightmare. We’ve been together three months. Do I get him a CD or an X-Box 360? If I buy him clothes will he think I’m trying to change him? Should I ask his friends? Should I ask his mother? Is he going to freak out because I talked to his mother? Of course these questions are always flying through the person’s mind while at the local mall a week before Christmas, on a weekend, with major blow-out sales going on. What a lovely, calm place to make decisions.

This problem doesn’t affect only women. I watched one of my close male friend’s hair slowly fall out as he tried to figure the perfect gift for his girlfriend of four months. Every time I talked to him it was a different idea. He covered everything from a weekend away to gift cards to board games to leather gloves. He secretly called her best friends to enlist their help. He talked to every woman he crossed paths with for an entire month. I think he even called into a local radio talk show that offers love advice. In the end, he picked out a fabulous gift. My friend bought his girlfriend a beautiful silver necklace and a gift certificate to her favorite day spa for a day of luxury and pampering. What did she get him? A twenty dollar iTunes gift card. You know, the ones you can buy at the local gas station. Last I knew they were taking a “small break” for a little bit.

Even if you can manage to navigate the gift giving maze from hell you still have someone else’s family to deal with. All families are weird in their own way. It’s a fact of life. Someone is an alcoholic or a shoplifter or needs to wear a helmet when they go in public. It’s easy for us to deal with our families because we’ve lived with it our entire lives. The small idiosyncrasies that each family member exhibits have become something we don’t even notice anymore. Other people’s families on the other hand … now there is a real eye-opener. Two minutes in the door of your new significant other’s parents’ house and you have already witnessed his parents fighting, grandpa sticking his fingers in the egg nog, and his fourteen year old cousin asking you if you “smoke the chronic”. Holy Christ! Where is the vodka? Did the fourteen year old take it? It’s all you can do to restrain yourself from ransacking the medicine cabinet in search of the Valium that his mom had a “small problem” with just last year.

At the end of the day, no matter whether you have someone beside you or not, the holidays are bound to make us a little batty. It’s a universal fact. Birds will always migrate with the seasons, Dick Clark will always do his New Year’s Eve Special, and there will always be a last minute present that we forgot to pick up until quarter of six on Christmas Eve. But if we can see past the chaos, the craziness, and the annoying family members; we can see the true meaning of Christmas. It is a time to honor and celebrate the relationships we do have in our lives, not worry about the ones that are missing. It’s a time to watch the current year come to a close and take comfort in all the blessings and lessons that it brought with it. It’s a time to get excited about the new year that is dawning and to revel in the hope and excitement that beginnings seem to always bring with them. It’s the time to return all those hideous sweaters that your aunts and uncles bought for you and get something you will really use.

I hope this holiday season has brought each and every one of you joy, love, and peace. May the New Year bless you with prosperity and good fortune. And if all that fails, may you always have enough vodka left over from the night before to make Bloody Marys the next morning!