My friend's 30th birthday ended up being all about me. And I don't exactly remember if that's my fault swear it's not my fault. It didn't start out that way. It was a lovely surprise party, perfectly executed and held at an elegant, historic hotel in my hometown. (And I swear to God there is not a picture of me hammered anywhere on that site) But as the evening wore on, and several bottles of wine were mysteriously emptied, it became about me. I was sitting at a table with old friends from high school, gossiping talking about those glory days, and waxing drunk-o-sophical about how some people refuse to let it go and live in the now...when suddenly we're discussing how fabulous I am. I shit you not.
A woman I was, well, not exactly friends with, but was not rejected by in high school, told me when she walked in that she told her husband I was "the most brilliant girl in school". Am I at the right party? What just happened? And then she told me I've turned into a "beautiful woman" with something something something (the memory is a little vino tinto-colored there, if you know what I mean). Whatever. Point is, people think highly of me. I think they even respect me a little. Tee hee! How little they know! I am a moron, people. Complete and utter. I can barely string 2 words together to express basic human need -- 'I'm hungry', 'I'm thirsty', 'I'm poopie' -- let alone remember the things you are giving me accolades for. I was quoted in a newspaper at the age of 11? Really? You'd think I'd remember that shit. I won an Emmy? AHA! Gotcha there! I didn't win an Emmy, and I know that shit because the sting is just 3 years fresh. But thanks for ripping the scab off that one. Appreciate it.
Here's the thing. I was smart. I was creative. I was a total nerd. But brilliant? Well, brilliance would be taking what you have and running with it. Brilliance is overcoming your fears and insecurities to accomplish your dream. Brilliance is actually knowing what the hell your dream is, or at least doing everything humanly possible to figure it out. Brilliant, I am not. I've never been able to overcome my insecurities and fears to reach whatever possibility was out there for me. So I guess as we gossiped and griped about those people at the next table who need to grow up, we were talking about me, too.
See? Told ya. It is all about me.
Dear Mr. Claus,
You suck. You are the center of every child's Christmas world. They adore you, dream of you, look to you for approval; then one day you up and vanish like a drunken father off to "the store" to get Pop Tarts. For a while the child waits at the window, nose pressed to the glass, waiting for those Pop Tarts. But they never come. And neither does Santa. Not anymore. For a while you're missed. But then we all come to grips with that fact that you're nothing but a deadbeat that owes a hell of a lot of back child support.
Come to think of it, you never were that great, even when I believed in you. Fortunately my parents stepped up to the plate when you forgot my Optimus Prime. And that Barbie corvette. Wait, did I even have a Barbie corvette? I chopped all the hair off my Barbies, so I'm thinking I wasn't the best Barbie mom. Maybe I just saw one on T.V. Do they even make Barbie corvettes anymore? Do they even make Barbies? Never mind. That's not the point. The point is, you always missed something. You were never perfect, despite all those sugarplum promises.
And so it is Christmas once again. I stopped looking for those Pop Tarts years ago. I've moved on. (Toaster Strudels are soooooo much better anyway)...and there you are, you shit. Strolling through the chimney door like you never left, cheeks so rosy and beard so snowy white, a box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts in hand. Squeee! You remembered my favorite!! I see you in the eyes of my daughter. Just the way I remember you. Piles of presents under the tree that seem to go on for miles. Bing Crosby on the stereo. And that damn stupid burning log on T.V. You're in the way her eyes light up at the sight of all that wrapping paper she can eat. The squeal of laughter when she pulls ornaments off the tree, and her silly gibberish as she dances around the room with them.
I have just one question. Where the hell have you been for the past 20 years, you asshole?? I'm sorry, but if it took you that long to go to the goddamn store it must have been an uber-awesome Wegman's or something, and I expect a hell of a lot more than a box of crappy breakfast pastries. There better be a tennis bracelet in that bag. And maybe another box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts. I've been a very good girl.
Love, Me
