Gift-getting really isn’t my thing. I like Christmas, I like presents, but they are not my favorite part of the holidays.
Be alarmed, a girl that totally admits to being into clothes-and-make-up-and-accessories is now admitting that she doesn’t really care about all that . . . crap.
I guess that it comes down to the fact that people spending money on me makes me feel more like a burden than a blessing. And the holidays are about blessings, giving them and remembering them.
Sitting on my couch watching old “Home Alone” movies, and the star on top of the Christmas tree blink on and off, sends me more into a mood of nostalgia than greedy present-grubbying-gift-peeking self-interest. This is the way I like it.
If you took an X-ray of my Christmas stocking I think the truth would be visible. Colorfully wrapped in red and silver would be some tweezers, a box of animal crackers, hairspray, probably an orange and maybe a five dollar gift card to Peet’s Coffee.
The gift-giving tradition I am used to means taking utmost pleasure in the quality of the time spent on each other and not the quantity (or cost) of gifts.
I might even be unhappy if a beautiful MacBook Air was wrapped up and placed under the tree. There is nothing like a computer to steal away the precious time spent with family and the simple joy that comes from not spending over our budget and appreciating each other, not each other’s credit card debt.
But that materialism and commercialism is an aspect of the holiday season. Even Thanksgiving is overshadowed by Black Friday, the annual shopping day where people can go and spend money they don’t have on things they don’t need or on presents that are still out of their budget.
There has got to be more to Christmas than the credit-card hangovers and the fatigue that comes in January.
My stocking, usually filled by my parents, consists of the treats that I love most, and the things I “borrow” on occasion from their room. Practical, maybe. Hilarious? Definitely.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I enjoy the gratitude that sweeps over me for that Target shirt or headband from Forever 21 I get from my sisters. This is what Christmas gifts should feel like.
In the spirit of the economy, I feel like this makes more than perfect sense.
Plus think of “Home Alone.” There are so many fun little things that you can try that are much more exciting than shopping. Like setting ropes on fire and building traps and dumping water on someone just for the heck of it.
Christmas should be fun, not hectic and not a burden.
And the nostalgia reminds me of the days of Christmas-past. I have no clue what I got for Christmas in those years. I don’t even remember what I received for Christmas last year and frankly, I don’t care.
Gosh, I’m different.
Think about your neighbor or your friend (so we don’t make this too personal) and how much money they spend on decorations, fancy food, expensive toys, holiday drinking and every other thing that the holidays are known for.
Believe me that “joy” lasts for approximately one day, maybe a week, and then the bill arrives.
But this isn’t really about money. It is about taking pleasure in the little things, in family, in friends, in fireplaces and hot chocolate.
So if you’re thinking about getting me a Christmas gift this year, don’t bother. Making me sugary, starchy cookies and watching “A White Christmas” with me is probably a better idea. I mean, obviously I am not good at receiving presents and I won’t spend a fortune on you.
But a fortune to one man is just bullcrap to another. The best gift you can give is truly the simplest: your love, your time, your energy, yourself.
Christmas is a time for sappy emotions and corny decorations. . .
And maybe some presents.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Simply, My Life
Let me tell you a story about decorations, menu-planning, slaving in the kitchen, carbs, too many potatoes, not enough potatoes, exhaustion, laughter and singing: Thanksgiving with the Ostermanns.
Life is family.
And it’s these simple things that mean the most, especially during the complicated holiday season, often overshadowed by merchandise and materialism.
So, Instead of a Christmas list, I made a what-I-love-about-my-life-list that goes something like this:
1. Jesus
2. Mummy and Dadders
3. My three sisters: Elise, Ariel and Kali
4. My three best friends: Kaley, Lauryn and Kate
5. Playing outside (mud pits, climbing trees and puddle-jumping)
6. My heater (just installed in my room, boo-yah)
7. Organic agave nectar
8. Frisbee
9. Singing at the top of my lungs
10. Dorky dancing
You have to hear the story to understand.
Once upon a time, two people married each other because they were ridiculously in love. When they felt they were ready for a new adventure, they had four daughters. Being good parents, they loved each other best and their daughters next best.
As a good father, my Dad taught all his daughters the essential skills of life: throwing a Frisbee and climbing trees. As a good mother, my Mom taught us how to make the best sweet potato casserole and how to eat healthy. As good sisters to each other, we were never without someone to hug, blame, borrow from, fight with, harmonize to or use for a dance partner.
Childhood was spent primarily outdoors, racing the neighborhood boys and singing in the rain. Winter was full of make-believe and dress-up and learning new dance moves from one of my mom’s Denise Richards exercise videos.
My teen days were spent actually learning how to sing, ruining expensive shoes by forgetting that muddy puddles were not created for jumping, and loving Jesus. College years began with learning how to wear make-up.
These years were shaped by my best girl friends and will end with them; I am going to live with one, I drove off the road when another one called me five minutes after her engagement and I still cry when I think about how Oklahoma is stealing another one away.
Life is full of change.
Now I give myself over to things like organic agave nectar. As a habitual treat-lover, sugar has always been something of a problem. After a life of high fiber cereal and an allotted hour a day where I “had” to play outside, I’ve lived a rather healthy life pattern. Now, as an adult, I stay in charge of making my own food and gym schedule. Shopping for low calorie and nutritious foods has become a hobby. My sisters and I are the first to swear by P90X and the last to admit that carob really is not as good as chocolate.
Life is full of adventure.
Although I am in the process of moving out, I enjoy the room my parents have willingly provided, and the heater they donated to me. Perhaps I have a poor constitution or perhaps a year in Los Angeles ruined me but I swear there is never such a thing as too many blankets. I have my methods for solving these problems, nothing like sneaking into my sister’s room at an unholy hour of the night and literally stealing the blankets off of her.
Life is funny.
The thing about this Thanksgiving is that I am older. I understand how many blessings are in my life. I understand exactly who I want to thank for them. Most importantly I do not want a single second to pass that I don’t treasure. Something about my family is simply amazing. And there is nothing like great food to remind us.
P.S. There will definitely be a dorky dance party to follow, complete with an air guitar contest and shooting a ridiculous home video in which we will all get drunk on sparkling cider.
I love life.
Life is family.
And it’s these simple things that mean the most, especially during the complicated holiday season, often overshadowed by merchandise and materialism.
So, Instead of a Christmas list, I made a what-I-love-about-my-life-list that goes something like this:
1. Jesus
2. Mummy and Dadders
3. My three sisters: Elise, Ariel and Kali
4. My three best friends: Kaley, Lauryn and Kate
5. Playing outside (mud pits, climbing trees and puddle-jumping)
6. My heater (just installed in my room, boo-yah)
7. Organic agave nectar
8. Frisbee
9. Singing at the top of my lungs
10. Dorky dancing
You have to hear the story to understand.
Once upon a time, two people married each other because they were ridiculously in love. When they felt they were ready for a new adventure, they had four daughters. Being good parents, they loved each other best and their daughters next best.
As a good father, my Dad taught all his daughters the essential skills of life: throwing a Frisbee and climbing trees. As a good mother, my Mom taught us how to make the best sweet potato casserole and how to eat healthy. As good sisters to each other, we were never without someone to hug, blame, borrow from, fight with, harmonize to or use for a dance partner.
Childhood was spent primarily outdoors, racing the neighborhood boys and singing in the rain. Winter was full of make-believe and dress-up and learning new dance moves from one of my mom’s Denise Richards exercise videos.
My teen days were spent actually learning how to sing, ruining expensive shoes by forgetting that muddy puddles were not created for jumping, and loving Jesus. College years began with learning how to wear make-up.
These years were shaped by my best girl friends and will end with them; I am going to live with one, I drove off the road when another one called me five minutes after her engagement and I still cry when I think about how Oklahoma is stealing another one away.
Life is full of change.
Now I give myself over to things like organic agave nectar. As a habitual treat-lover, sugar has always been something of a problem. After a life of high fiber cereal and an allotted hour a day where I “had” to play outside, I’ve lived a rather healthy life pattern. Now, as an adult, I stay in charge of making my own food and gym schedule. Shopping for low calorie and nutritious foods has become a hobby. My sisters and I are the first to swear by P90X and the last to admit that carob really is not as good as chocolate.
Life is full of adventure.
Although I am in the process of moving out, I enjoy the room my parents have willingly provided, and the heater they donated to me. Perhaps I have a poor constitution or perhaps a year in Los Angeles ruined me but I swear there is never such a thing as too many blankets. I have my methods for solving these problems, nothing like sneaking into my sister’s room at an unholy hour of the night and literally stealing the blankets off of her.
Life is funny.
The thing about this Thanksgiving is that I am older. I understand how many blessings are in my life. I understand exactly who I want to thank for them. Most importantly I do not want a single second to pass that I don’t treasure. Something about my family is simply amazing. And there is nothing like great food to remind us.
P.S. There will definitely be a dorky dance party to follow, complete with an air guitar contest and shooting a ridiculous home video in which we will all get drunk on sparkling cider.
I love life.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Death On His Own Terms
There is something charming, chilling and absolutely fascinating about a brilliant bloodstain analyst that moonlights as a serial killer.
Dexter Morgan kills by the guidelines of Harry, his adoptive father, who trained Dexter to convincingly interact with normal human beings while remaining a closeted psychopath. Dexter’s fascination with killing has largely escaped suspicion as Dexter keeps up superficially close relationships with his sister, Deb, and girlfriend, Rita. However, Dexter is also alarmingly aware of his duplicitous lifestyle and how he is unable to feel the emotions of love, friendliness or sorrow, although he has completely mastered the art of pretending.
Serial killers are a familiar figure in action movies by this time, usually as the villain. Yet empathizing with a serial killer is not something I expected. Neither did I expect to have conversations with my friends about feeling fascinated by the methodical process of killing or feeling like we could relate to Dexter’s search for emotion.
Dexter’s signature killing method is shown in nearly every episode. In just the first episode of the first season we see that he straps his victim naked to a table and slices open their cheek with a knife for the blood he will later store on a slide as a sort of victory treasure. As the captive blubbers and their eyes go white with terror, he delivers the death blow which can be anything from a cleaver to a buzzing drill. Nauseating as it may sound; it becomes fascinating as you feel more involved in Dexter’s emotions than in those of the dying yet monstrous victim. Plus, you are spared the actual sawing or gutting, although you are shown the wrapped limbs that he dumps into the Florida Keys.
Something about this is both desensitizing and arousing. A violent look at the transition we have as a culture into less human forms of empathy.
But, of course, this is only in season one. Now on season four, Dexter has become much more graphic and the villain of the season kills with much more methodical ferociousness.
“This season just hits closer to home,” said Bryan Graf, “The way in which one of the serial killers thinks about the death and just by being friendly manages to find out so much about their victim. Its just so graphic but you can’t stop watching.”
The thing about this Showtime production is that you cannot help but become fascinated. It becomes a brilliant battle of wits with death as the punishment for failure. Watching Dexter manipulate his emotions and those around him, slyly figure out how to kill the devils that the Miami Metro Police Department he works for tracks down and still remain a serial killer that no one is on the hunt for sounds unbelievable until you watch the show. Suddenly, in a grotesque way, Dexter becomes believable.
This sadistic superhero does not kill just for the fun of it but according to the “Code of Harry” he must only kill those who deserve to die.
The self- narrated setting of this beautifully shot show is proactive and eluding and the actor who plays Dexter, Michael C. Hall, seems the perfect platform for his ambiguous persona. Hall won the Golden Globe award in 2010 for best actor in a television drama series after two other nominations from previous seasons.
The show is something of a mix between the depth of Lost and the superhero-gone-good feeling of Twilight. Throw away your vampires and your werewolves to delve into the dark and good-looking person of Dexter, the forensic researcher that you know could outsmart you.
He is too smart, even watching you begin to understand that Dexter truly believes that he is an incurable psychopath striving to exist and evolve on his own terms.
And also live by Harry’s Code’s first rule: Don’t get caught.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Conversation Tips
When I lay spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom, the last thing that could possibly cross my mind was, “Man. I can’t wait to eat a hunky tri-tip sandwich.”
Honestly, it was more to the tune of, “Gosh I hate my life, I hate this semester, I hate my job, I hate throwing up, I hate, hate, hate…”
Luckily the viral disease, or whatever haunted my insides, only lasted one, two . . . er . . . eight days? Residual effects may or may not be eating at me still.
The funny part about eating is that it usually is the last thing you want to do when your stomach is churning.
Is it bad to say that my favorite part about this restaurant was that it did not make me throw up?
Jack’s Urban Eats. Best place for a sandwich, a salad, stable food and a patio.
To add a bit of context to my story, the last sandwich I had eaten was from a large chain market, 24 hours earlier. The friendly sandwich-making-lady gave me too much free will over the direction of my sandwich. In the end it was two slabs of overly soft bread incasing two cups of cream cheese and avocado, a piece of warm-ish turkey and three strips of fatty bacon. Try putting that into an unhappy stomach.
All roads led to the toilet.
I was much more careful at Jack’s. I realized that I might not be able to hold my food down, that I wanted nothing to do with how the sandwich was made and seeing as I had nothing to prove to my date, I wanted the messiest thing on that menu.
Say hello to BBQ Tri-Tip, complete with a fried onion ring and a lot of sticky sauce.
“I’ll take that and a lemonade, thanks.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. My friend has fries.”
“Oh ok. Your name?”
“Leia.”
“Leah?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“Ten bucks and some change, please.”
“Oh. Um. Can I write an IOU?”
When charming the cashier did not work out so well for me (I blame it on my sickness), I went and sat on the delightful patio of the Jack’s in Loehmann’s plaza, located on the corner of Fair Oaks Blvd. and Munroe Ave.
Once assembling my stack of napkins, waiting the seven minutes for my sandwich to arrive, with a smile, from the guy that made it and letting my back warm in the sun, my happiness began to return.
I cannot begin to explain the delight it felt to chomp down on such a messy and delicious pile of goodness. Suffice it to say, I highly recommend it.
It did take five napkins, two fry stealing attempts and a whole cup of lemonade, but I am pretty sure that those elements helped to cure part of my ailments for the rest of the school day. Although the very powerful pain medication might have something to do with that too.
Jack’s Urban Eats is a place friendly to all types of food lovers; those that choose the salad lifestyle, those ready for slabs of meat and even little, picky children that just want a side of mac-and-cheese.
If you like cleanliness and order, you can watch over every step in the creation of your meal. From the light oiling and heating of the bread, to the guy with the chunk of meat and the sharp knife, to the lady that kindly fills your cup from the soda fountain machine behind the counter.
On a side note, this may help the obesity problem in America if everyone has to walk back to the counter to get a refill on their soda.
But the best part of any restaurant experience is the company. I’m afraid that my habits from the weekend lent me more towards a “Gosh, when is this over,” feeling. Or maybe it was that my date was a little sick himself and not very skilled at basic conversation.
Then again, maybe next time I shouldn’t start the conversation with the spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom story.
Honestly, it was more to the tune of, “Gosh I hate my life, I hate this semester, I hate my job, I hate throwing up, I hate, hate, hate…”
Luckily the viral disease, or whatever haunted my insides, only lasted one, two . . . er . . . eight days? Residual effects may or may not be eating at me still.
The funny part about eating is that it usually is the last thing you want to do when your stomach is churning.
Is it bad to say that my favorite part about this restaurant was that it did not make me throw up?
Jack’s Urban Eats. Best place for a sandwich, a salad, stable food and a patio.
To add a bit of context to my story, the last sandwich I had eaten was from a large chain market, 24 hours earlier. The friendly sandwich-making-lady gave me too much free will over the direction of my sandwich. In the end it was two slabs of overly soft bread incasing two cups of cream cheese and avocado, a piece of warm-ish turkey and three strips of fatty bacon. Try putting that into an unhappy stomach.
All roads led to the toilet.
I was much more careful at Jack’s. I realized that I might not be able to hold my food down, that I wanted nothing to do with how the sandwich was made and seeing as I had nothing to prove to my date, I wanted the messiest thing on that menu.
Say hello to BBQ Tri-Tip, complete with a fried onion ring and a lot of sticky sauce.
“I’ll take that and a lemonade, thanks.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. My friend has fries.”
“Oh ok. Your name?”
“Leia.”
“Leah?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“Ten bucks and some change, please.”
“Oh. Um. Can I write an IOU?”
When charming the cashier did not work out so well for me (I blame it on my sickness), I went and sat on the delightful patio of the Jack’s in Loehmann’s plaza, located on the corner of Fair Oaks Blvd. and Munroe Ave.
Once assembling my stack of napkins, waiting the seven minutes for my sandwich to arrive, with a smile, from the guy that made it and letting my back warm in the sun, my happiness began to return.
I cannot begin to explain the delight it felt to chomp down on such a messy and delicious pile of goodness. Suffice it to say, I highly recommend it.
It did take five napkins, two fry stealing attempts and a whole cup of lemonade, but I am pretty sure that those elements helped to cure part of my ailments for the rest of the school day. Although the very powerful pain medication might have something to do with that too.
Jack’s Urban Eats is a place friendly to all types of food lovers; those that choose the salad lifestyle, those ready for slabs of meat and even little, picky children that just want a side of mac-and-cheese.
If you like cleanliness and order, you can watch over every step in the creation of your meal. From the light oiling and heating of the bread, to the guy with the chunk of meat and the sharp knife, to the lady that kindly fills your cup from the soda fountain machine behind the counter.
On a side note, this may help the obesity problem in America if everyone has to walk back to the counter to get a refill on their soda.
But the best part of any restaurant experience is the company. I’m afraid that my habits from the weekend lent me more towards a “Gosh, when is this over,” feeling. Or maybe it was that my date was a little sick himself and not very skilled at basic conversation.
Then again, maybe next time I shouldn’t start the conversation with the spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom story.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Just Dance
Halloween: the satisfaction jackpot of my childhood. Who could fail to find joy in the troves of free candy, the extended bed time and scaring your little sister without getting in trouble?
As teens turn into college students, Halloween is often shrouded by the fear of the DUI checkpoint, the worry that your costume is just not slutty enough or how the heck you will ever wake up for class the next morning.
I decided to skip the hangover and opt to face a better challenge: a sober party. Oh, and did I mention that this sober party mostly involved dancing?
Welcome to my Halloween night: the sober dance party.
Something I have never understood about alcohol is the tendency to use it as the relaxing happy medicine. Can you not have fun without alcohol? Can a group of over a hundred college students with a DJ and a bunch of sparkly lights dance like crazy people without the booze?
Are you allowed to dance like a crazy person if you do not have the “I’m just drunk” excuse?
How many times have you heard the classic evasion, “I can’t dance yet, I need a few more drinks before I can have fun.”
I am all about fun. And fun does not necessarily mean being wasted. Hard to relate to, but unbelievably I am not the only one to experience this phenomenon.
On Halloween night, over 150 college aged students, in full costume, gathered together in a rented warehouse with a million lights, a fog machine, a DJ and a dance floor.
Is it hard to believe they were all dancing?
Maybe it is a security and shyness issue for most people that hold them back from the freedom of sober dancing. Of course, you would have thought that timidity would have worn off after exposure to freshman prom.
Or perhaps the booze is another hipster trend, mostly to gain cool points and sadly one that only works as long as you avoid that looming nine-to-five job.
The thing about sober dance parties is that they tend to venture more towards goofy dancing rather than dirty dancing. Surprisingly, this did not take the fun away for anyone as far as I could tell.
And dancing is about having fun, right?
And Halloween is about having fun, right?
Sober dance parties on Halloween can be the most interesting show in the world if you appreciate that pitch-black warehouse, the sneakers squeaking on cement, the amplifiers and the shoddy dance floor that will never be forgotten by the lucid dancers.
Well, lucid might not be the best term to describe this colorful group of dancers. Some were excellent dancers and outclassed in the dance-offs. Others couldn’t stop laughing. Some were just plain nuts. Including back flips. And breaking down.
It literally was just plain- old innocent, childlike, honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth, genuine, remember-fondly-in-the-morning, fun. Not playing video games. Not watching television. I am talking about all those things you feel fine doing while drunk. Like, playing games, cuddling, yelling, singing obnoxiously loud, going on random adventures or even dancing like no one is watching.
Sober dancing is not awkward, folks. I hate to break it to you but it is just as sexy, just as fun and quite possibly more fulfilling.
It is a child-like and retro beauty and freedom from the restrictions of judgments and assumptions. As American poet, William Stafford said “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.”
Girls make music videos with a hairbrush as a microphone. Boys play air guitar to their favorite metal song. There is a sort of insanity in dancing but also a sort of innocence.
Like free candy.
It is just a thought, of course, but being that little dancing maverick might be fun.
Face your fears and just dance. Lady Gaga recommends it, too.
As teens turn into college students, Halloween is often shrouded by the fear of the DUI checkpoint, the worry that your costume is just not slutty enough or how the heck you will ever wake up for class the next morning.
I decided to skip the hangover and opt to face a better challenge: a sober party. Oh, and did I mention that this sober party mostly involved dancing?
Welcome to my Halloween night: the sober dance party.
Something I have never understood about alcohol is the tendency to use it as the relaxing happy medicine. Can you not have fun without alcohol? Can a group of over a hundred college students with a DJ and a bunch of sparkly lights dance like crazy people without the booze?
Are you allowed to dance like a crazy person if you do not have the “I’m just drunk” excuse?
How many times have you heard the classic evasion, “I can’t dance yet, I need a few more drinks before I can have fun.”
I am all about fun. And fun does not necessarily mean being wasted. Hard to relate to, but unbelievably I am not the only one to experience this phenomenon.
On Halloween night, over 150 college aged students, in full costume, gathered together in a rented warehouse with a million lights, a fog machine, a DJ and a dance floor.
Is it hard to believe they were all dancing?
Maybe it is a security and shyness issue for most people that hold them back from the freedom of sober dancing. Of course, you would have thought that timidity would have worn off after exposure to freshman prom.
Or perhaps the booze is another hipster trend, mostly to gain cool points and sadly one that only works as long as you avoid that looming nine-to-five job.
The thing about sober dance parties is that they tend to venture more towards goofy dancing rather than dirty dancing. Surprisingly, this did not take the fun away for anyone as far as I could tell.
And dancing is about having fun, right?
And Halloween is about having fun, right?
Sober dance parties on Halloween can be the most interesting show in the world if you appreciate that pitch-black warehouse, the sneakers squeaking on cement, the amplifiers and the shoddy dance floor that will never be forgotten by the lucid dancers.
Well, lucid might not be the best term to describe this colorful group of dancers. Some were excellent dancers and outclassed in the dance-offs. Others couldn’t stop laughing. Some were just plain nuts. Including back flips. And breaking down.
It literally was just plain- old innocent, childlike, honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth, genuine, remember-fondly-in-the-morning, fun. Not playing video games. Not watching television. I am talking about all those things you feel fine doing while drunk. Like, playing games, cuddling, yelling, singing obnoxiously loud, going on random adventures or even dancing like no one is watching.
Sober dancing is not awkward, folks. I hate to break it to you but it is just as sexy, just as fun and quite possibly more fulfilling.
It is a child-like and retro beauty and freedom from the restrictions of judgments and assumptions. As American poet, William Stafford said “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.”
Girls make music videos with a hairbrush as a microphone. Boys play air guitar to their favorite metal song. There is a sort of insanity in dancing but also a sort of innocence.
Like free candy.
It is just a thought, of course, but being that little dancing maverick might be fun.
Face your fears and just dance. Lady Gaga recommends it, too.
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