Archives for posts with tag: holidays

Did you know getting engaged is the leading cause of marriage in the U.S.? Know the facts. Get educated. The Fiancé Fever is sweeping the country, and my Facebook feed, more quickly than a Kardashian files for divorce. No one is safe. Love is literally everywhere.

February is full of white girls suffering from Acute Boyfriend Syndrome: the desperate act of trying to swoop up a man in time for V-day. As a precursor to the Fiancé Fever, symptoms of ABS range from a low-grade depression often resulting from meticulously amassing a secret wedding board on Pinterest, to a moderate or severe depression as a direct result of binging on romantic comedies, often featuring Ryan Gosling.

Tragically, this disorder affects more than 100 billion women each year: All the single ladies. ALL OF THEM.

I, on the other hand, have taken the proper precautions in the perpetual battle against Acute Boyfriend Syndrome, even if it means bringing my mum as my date to another of my peers’ weddings. I haven’t had a great track record with dating. My last breakup was pretty messy…

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[Yeah, I’m not proud of it either. My prom dress was so not quiche. “Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohooool!”]

I’d like to take a mulligan on the last few years of my dating life. Like Mariah Carey in Glitter, let’s just forget this ever happened. It doesn’t help that all of my girlfriends are bringing men home for the holidays… I brought home a cat, which is still a step up from the last guy I brought home: same amount of hair and quality of conversation, but prettier eyes.

The hype over Valentine’s Day is great… if you’re in a stable, committed relationship that’s never been featured on Teen Mom. I understand the desire to commit an entire holiday to love, but shouldn’t we be celebrating the love in our life every day? I’d be happier with a holiday dedicated to grabbing beers with your best friends: Beerentine’s Day. Then again, I celebrate that fictional holiday all year.

Admittedly, I’m nowhere near the authority on dating & relationships. The most steamy, committed relationship in my life to date has been with pizza… also the entire cast of SNL. But, if I could build my perfect mate, it would go something like this:

  • the face of Ryan Gosling
  • the body of Ryan Gosling
  • (I could end the list here, but…)
  • the hair & suits of Don Draper
  • the voice of Bon Iver
  • the church of Irish Catholic (for my mum, of course)
  • the personality of Michael Scott, regional Manager of Dunder Mifflin
  • the liver of Brett Michaels
  • (JK on that last one)

I like ‘em tall, dork & handsome. I just want to find a guy that will love me as much as Kanye West loves Kanye West. Why settle?

Unlike those tragically affected by ABS, or all of my peers in actual stable relationships outside the realm of reality TV, I’ll be enjoying a pretty satisfying Gal-entine’s Day on my own. Being single on Valentine’s Day means you can do WHATEVER YOU WANT. Also, you don’t have to disappoint anyone (beside your mum who wants you to get hitched & settle down before you’re 40 and have no more “viable eggs”, whatever that means). In any case, fear not, my Gal-entine’s Day will be filled with plenty of pizza, brews, and Bobby Moynihan impressions.

In the meantime, fellow single minglers, we’ll just have to grin & bear all of the schmoozy, gushy social media posts this holiday. A Valentine’s Day post is a lot like Enrique Iglesias’ mole: if you just ignore it long enough, it will go away.

Oh, and if you’re one of the 5 straight men (excluding my immediate family) that read this blog, and you’d like to take me out to celebrate Anti-Valentine’s Day, you can find me at the hardware store, Take Me Home Depot.

XOXO (sarcastically),

M.

Christmas is my jam and spending it anywhere but home is unconscionable… literally, I don’t want to be disinherited. My family is ripe with TRADITIOOON, TRADITION! (Yes, that is a Fiddler on the Roof reference; we’re a Broadway family, too… when we’re not yelling at sports on TV). We love tradition so much, my grandma gave me the same jewelry box two years in a row; I’m sure she was mocking the lack of an engagement ring I’d have to grace it with. Thanks a heap, G-baby.

When it comes to holiday décor, my mum and I have a habit of really making the Yuletide gay. Our home looks like Liberachi directed a Holidazzle episode of Toddlers & Tiaras: Sparkle, baby! Not surprisingly, this pageantry saturates her attitude around Christmas time. She preps for parties by unrolling her 1990’s curlers, giving her pageant hair a shake, a fresh shellacking of hairspray, and donning the sparkliest Christmas pin she can get her hands on. She acts like Legolas. Like, we get it: We know you’re pretty. That Christmas Diva has contagious holiday cheer. Thank God this woman raised us. Work it, Smoochie!

I was a faithful Santa-believer until the ripe old age of 4th grade, which I realize in this day and age of kindergarteners with more active Twitter and bank accounts than my own is biblically old in comparison. I uncovered the fallacy of St. Nick when I happened upon a doll I had been lusting after in my mum’s closet, buried beneath shoulder-padded turtlenecks, nestled among a bunch of ‘Biker Mice from Mars’ toys my brothers couldn’t shut up about. I was more shocked than I was heartbroken. I mean, I don’t think I was ever fully convinced that an aging Saint without a razor, who was convinced red was his color, could have instinctively known that an American Girl doll was my key to the popular crowd at school. I was even more shocked upon discovering it was ‘Molly’… arguably the nerdiest of the American Girl dolls. “Santa” was sabotaging my quest to be invited to Friday sleepovers.

Despite the Fat Man’s vendetta to foil my journey to the popular crowd, I did not immediately let my gaggle of little brothers in on my Santa-Gate discovery. I wanted to keep an educated upper hand on the general knowledge game, especially since they were quickly escalating in the height department. I needed something to hold over their curly heads. Letting them in on this secret would have been a bigger mistake than that time I wore jingle bell socks to play Heads Up 7UP at my 3rd grade holiday party. Here’s an insider tip: EVERYONE will know it was you who put their thumb down when your socks have bells on them. Thanks for dressing me like a sassy Laura Ingalls Wilder, mum.

No, telling my baby brothers of varying heights and educational pursuits that Santa Claus was faker than Kim Kardashian’s marriages would have been sinister. And, frankly, as a Catholic, I live in a perpetual fear of Purgatory. Surely, blowing the cover on their December Hero would have gotten me a first-class ticket to Purgatory: the New Jersey of Heaven.

That year, their Christmas carried on as a pageant of shiny toys delivered by their December Hero, and I successfully avoided a lump of coal and a trip to confession. In the future my American Girl doll would grant me VIP access to a Friday sleepover, but it wouldn’t be the power grip on popularity that cheerleading was. Eventually, my baby brothers of varying heights and educational pursuits discovered the fallacy of the Santa Claus. But that didn’t stop us from carrying on the tradition of waking up in the wee hours of the morning to peruse our presents.

We still hang onto tradition, even though we don’t get as cutthroat-competitive as we used to about finding where my dad hid his pickle on the Christmas tree… and now that I’m saying that out loud, it’s probably best we don’t fight about who finds his pickle. [His pickle is an ornament, people.]

Holidays at home are the very best. Missing Christmas with my family would be worse than that time Mandy Moore tried acting. This year is poised to bubble over with hilarity. After all, my mum refers to ‘head shots’ as ‘money shots’, so apologies in advance for our Christmas card photo.

Until next year,

M.

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