If there’s any child who truly believed in Santa and all the wonderful things he did every year for Christmas, it was me. Everytime I heard my parents say, “you better be good or Santa’s going to leave you a lump of coal in your stocking”, I really took that to heart and did my best to be a good kid throughout the year. Everytime I caught myself complaining or whining about something trivial or begging to have the new Barbie Fold ‘n Fun House after my mother repeatedly said no, I thought of Santa.

Whenever December 1 came around, I couldn’t wait to bust out my special Christmas calendar. It was made of cloth and had little protruding gold buttons. There were 25 buttons, and for every day that passed, I’d get to hang a little Christmas figure/ornament. Christmas couldn’t come fast enough!

And now, I’m sure most of you remember the butterflies and the tummy turns the night before Christmas. We used to bake Santa’s cookies from scratch and spend that evening decorating, frosting, and sprinkling them. I’d only leave Santa the prettiest cookies and save the ugly/burnt ones for myself or my family. I always figured Santa deserved the best, seeing how he managed to fly through the night and deliver presents to every child around the world.

After being tucked in by my parents, it took, what seemed, an eternity to fall asleep. I’d lay awake with these visions of Santa and his reindeer. Had I been a naughty child, I would have tip toed down the stairs and waited until he arrived, but my parents made it very clear that Santa only came when children were asleep, and that’s when I would calmly doze off and dream of presents and good food.

There was nothing more exciting than the sound of my mom or dad coming into my room to say, “Merry Christmas. You should see what Santa did…” I was out of that bed in a snap. I used to practically slide down my stairs and run straight to my stocking and dump out the contents. They were mostly stuffed with little treats, snacks, sometimes an orange or apple (that was random), but the best part was going into the piano room (where we put up the Christmas tree) to see the massive number of presents exploding from underneath. Sometimes, there were so many presents, they didn’t all fit under the tree and would be stacked under our piano. I was spoiled rotten, yes, I admit it. When it came to Christmas, I don’t think my parents really held back.

Year after year, Christmas always came around and always brought just as much enjoyment and excitement as the previous year. The emotions, the childhood innocence were all there. It was at the age of 11 or 12, I believe, when I lost my faith in Santa, mainly because of my mother. We were shopping around somewhere, and I don’t remember what it was that I wanted, but I was begging for it. My mother told me to ask Santa and maybe he’ll get it for me.

Once Christmas came around, my mom and I were wrapping gifts down in the basement when I accidentally stumbled upon the gift I had been begging for earlier that year. I told my mom to take it back because Santa was going to get it for me, and that’s when she explained there was no Santa. There was actually no explanation. It was simply, “wrap your gift and write: To Erica/From Santa, and when you open it, you have to act surprised so Daddy doesn’t find out”.

And when Christmas day arrived, I was not as excited, and when opening gifts from “Santa”, I then realized my Santa was my parents. It all made sense. Why did Santa’s handwriting look exactly like my Mom and Dad’s? They used to tell me he was smart and could imitate handwriting. And why, in my stocking, was there a pack of pens I’d bought earlier but was told to save until Christmas.

Santa died that day! He didn’t fly through the night to give me presents! He didn’t squeeze his fat butt down my chimney and eat the cookies I’d spent so long making and decorating! He didnt’ keep a record of the naughty and the nice! It was my parents.

Though I’m grateful for being showered with gifts during my childhood Christmases, it was a sad realization that Santa was just someone to believe in to make Christmas a magical experience. This is not to say my parents didn’t continue with the plethora of presents. It just took me a while to remind myself that Santa was never real, but it was fun while it lasted.

Nowadays, as an adult (supposedly), Christmas comes too soon. It just kind of sneaks up on me, and I’m caught unprepared with no gifts for people. Well, I shop last minute. That’s my problem. The month of December just kind of zooms by, and before you know it, it’s January 1.

2010. I’m going to have a hard time adjusting to writing 1/1/10. For the past nine years, we’ve been so accustomed to writing dates where zero came first in the last 2 digits of the year: 1/1/01, 1/1/07. I’m definitely going to have a lot of typos for the first few weeks, I’m sure.

Anyways, it’s been a while since I’ve posted. Just want to wish everyone a safe December! Enjoy the Ugly Sweater parties, Christmas cocktail get-togethers, and Christmas itself. I’m sure I’ll make another post before Christmas…I hope.

I usually don’t post entries during the weekend (well, from the looks of it, I haven’t been posting much of anything recently), but since today is a special day, and I’m sitting at the laundromat waiting for clothes to wash, I figured I’d share the happy day with everyone.

Today marks one year since I said “yes, I’ll be your girlfriend”. Not only has this been my longest relationship of all time, it has also been the most trying, emotionally draining relationship I’ve had to endure, but it’s all been worth it. I can’t remember a time I’ve felt happier (minus my blissful days as a kid, getting pampered by daddy and mommy). I’ve learned to open up, confront (not 100% but I’m getting there), and state my mind when need be. My boyfriend has done nothing but treat me with the utmost respect, be freakishly patient with me, and remind me every single day that I’m his princess.

Every day has felt like a new day with him, and now looking back at when we first met, I’m thinking of how I still get the jitters when I get to see him. Now, on the downside, I’ve kind of let myself go a little in terms of my physical appearance. I really am starting to resemble a Beluga whale and could definitely use a gym. But the point is, he’s the only person (aside from good friends and family) that has made me feel 110% comfortable in my skin, and I really love him for that.

I’ve had people tell me, sure he’ll be nice to me now (anything to get his Green Card), but five years down the line, he could turn into an abusive husband, a cheater, and a bad man.  Sure, that could happen, and yes I’m probably the most naive person when it comes to love and relationships, but I’m willing to take those chances. I really can’t explain why I know he’s right for me, nor do I feel I have to, and despite his less than perfect ability to speak English (though, it has improved greatly since we first met), I have an understanding with him that I don’t think I can find with anybody else.

I’m not talking about the whole “he’s the ONE” nonsense. I don’t believe in that stuff. I’m just saying he’s right for me, not necessarily Mr. Right. For everything he’s done and everything he’s been for me, I’m very grateful. He’s the best boyfriend in the world (said in a teeny bopper “oh my gosh” kind of tone)!

4th of July on the Esplanade

I dress like a hobo. I wear outdated muumuus and skirts with elastic waists. I wear old worn down JCrew flipflops that no longer have any traction on the bottoms. I find this all very funny because next February, I will be attending NYC’s Fashion Week with a free VIP pass.

Now, the questions you may be asking are, “why are you, of all people, attending fashion week” and “how the hell did you, of all people, get a free pass into the show?” The simple answer is, “connections.” My boyfriend’s very good friend knows one of the designers for Emanuel Ungaro (never even heard of the line), and he sent her an e-mail letting her know I’d be interested in attending, and VOILA: 2 free passes bestowed upon me (well, I don’t have them yet).

I’m actually very excited. Sure, I’m no fashionista, but I’d be interested in seeing a live fashion show. Also, this may motivate me to lose some weight so I don’t look like a beluga whale next to the emaciated models and other fashionistas at the show.

This situation got me thinking about the whole “connections” bit. I’ve come to believe that a lot in life is all about who you know and what they can do for you. Let’s take my current job, for instance. The summer right after I graduated, I was working a customer service rep job at an insurance company. It was a 9-6 job, constantly on the phone with customers, helping them figure out which insurance policy is best for them. I think it trained me well in terms of dealing with the angries, the talk-too-muchies, the happies, and the various other personality types out there. It certainly wasn’t a job I wanted to stick with in the long run.

Luckily, my manager at that company took note of the fact that I was an aspiring writer/editor. She knew the insurance gig was my first job out of college and not my dream job. Thus, she referred me to the company where I now work because her husband works here. I sent in my resume/cover letter to the manager here and immediately got an in-person interview. I ended up starting the job a week later.

Now, the type of work I do (technical editing) is most likely something you could find in the ads list in a newspaper, but the point is, this particular position at my company was not posted. It was something I happened to find through my connections and am, to this day, still very grateful.

I guess what I’m trying to say is….I should continue to be more social and network as much as possible without looking like I’m only trying to befriend these people for the sole purpose of having that connection. It’s hard though. I’m no expert at making new friends.

I was approached by a homeless man last night who asked me to do a little role playing with him. I had been standing outside with my BF during his work break when I noticed a man walking up the street towards us, attempting to talk with other walking pedestrians who would sway to the other side and brisky walk past him. As he came towards us, he stopped and stared. Then a big smile took over his face as he shook his head a little and looked down at the ground mumbling, “Ah…young lovebirds…to be young and in love”. He then took a few steps closer and asked, “May I have permission to come closer?” Confused, my BF and I nodded our heads in approval and allowed the friendly stranger to enter our comfort bubble. He then asked if he could say something (it ended up being a story).

He said, “a love like yours…aint no one gonna take that away from you…aint no one gonna say NO.” Then he said, “hold up, hold up. I want you guys to do something for me. You (pointing to my BF) are me for a second, and you (pointing to me) are…well, you”. The man then said, “now, I love you, and you love me. Do you know what this means? It means I take your hand, get down on my knees and say, ‘Cynthia, I want you to be my wife’.” He actually took my hand and got down on his knees on the sidewalk and reinacted his proposal to his, now deceased, wife. He then said, “And you wanna know what her response was? ‘WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG TO ASK’ is what she said to me”. He continued, “you wanna know the greatest part of it all?” The BF and I gave the deer-in-headlights look, as if to say, please continue. He said, “I made her a United States citizen and aint no one gonna take that away from her because that was my gift to her. That was the gift of love.” He mentioned he was in the Vietnam War and had met this beautiful Chinese woman 20 years his senior, but despite the age difference, they fell in love and got married. He said when he came back to the states and introduced his wife to his parents, their response was “What the hell is that? (referring to her being Chinese)”. He was of African American descent, and from the way he told his story, it was pretty obvious his parents did not approve of his choice in bride.

He then continued about how everything was wonderful and great until they had children (7 to be exact).  He said, “children…those things can be such trouble”. He was saying how they were still very much in love, but everything was different because of the kids. Haha. Then the man kind of abruptly ended his story saying how, “my wife gave me 7 kids, and now, god rest her soul, I have buried her at the age of 85. She died of cancer.” There was no really no transition, so the BF and I were slightly taken aback. But to end his story, he looked at me and my BF and said again, “Aint no one gonna take away the love you two share…nobody.” We thanked him for his touching story, and he continued on his way down the street, mumbling incoherent nothings under his breath.

After he left, I couldn’t stop smiling. For someone who’s homeless and has nothing, his story-telling skills were incredibly passionate and heartfelt. Who knows if his story was even true, but either way, it made my night. Thank you, homeless man on Cambridge Street.

Please note: the quotations from this man are not verbatim, but they’re pretty close to everything he was saying.

A major pet peeve of mine is when people spit on the street or out their car windows. It really irks me. It’s like, come on, you have an esophagus, the ability to swallow. Just suck it up and swallow! I’m sorry if you’ve just smoked a pack of cigarettes and your saliva has a foul taste, but please, no need to spread that nasty wad of no-good nonsense onto the streets. It’s dirty enough as is.

With that said, I hang my head in shame as I admit I attempted to do the same last night, except, I was trying to spit my gum out the window while driving in my car. Actually, it’s WORSE! Not only was I trying to spit out the window, I was littering too. Well, for those of you who want to rebuke me for my attempted no-no, I proudly announce that it was a failure. Due to the fact that my window was not rolled down far enough, when I spat my gum, I spat with such force it bounced back against the window and hit me in the face and then fell down somewhere along the side of my driver’s seat. Owned. I guess I got my comeuppance. Note to self: always keep tissue or old receipts in car in case of need to spit out gum.

My calves are colossal. It doesn’t help that I have cankles either. It’s like…you’re looking at my foot, and as your eyes wander up my leg (not that there should be any reason why anyone would do this), you suddenly get to my elephant sized calf. You’re wondering, where’s her ankle? There was no transition from her hobbit foot to her calf. Intersting. Or not.

I’ve always had plus-sized calves even though I’m not a plus-sized girl. Knee high boots have never worked for me (minus one lucky suede pair I found two winters ago). The type of boots that are slouchy and spacious around the calves on most girls are like XS spandex on me: tight and cutting off circulation.

I was at DSW searching for booties last night, since obviously, anything that goes higher than my ankle will not fit. I did, however, find these pair of Chinese Laundry over-the-knee leather boots that looked huge. I mean, the shaft looked like it could fit my upper thigh, so as I sat down to try them on, I slowly began to pull the leather boot up my leg. The material was getting tighter and tighter as it went further up my leg, but surprisingly, it made it past my knee. But let me tell you, the material was so tight around my calf, my skin was basically one with the leather. The style of the boot was supposed to be loose slouchy, and yet, there I was in it, looking like a dominatrix. All I needed were handcuffs and a whip to complete the outfit. When I tried to “slide” it off (the way it should), I found myself in a difficult situation. It was stuck. You know how sometimes you force a ring onto your finger, knowing you’ll need soap and water to get it off? Well, that was like me with this leather boot, except I had no soap and water. There I was frantically trying to get it off, but my calf had swelled, and I began to sweat from nervousness, which only made it harder to get off because my skin became sticky. I ended up having to dig my fingers under the material and peel it off my leg, pushing it down my leg inch my inch, scratching my skin with my nails as I did it. Needless to say, I opted not to purchase the damn boots, for my sake and for the public’s sake.

My efforts were not futile though! I ended the night with 3 new pairs of shoes: 2 pairs of leather booties and a pair of nice simple black leather pointed heels. I’m set for the winter.

Is it odd that I get incredibly itchy when I start doing any sort of exercise (not that I’ve been to a gym in ages)? Whenever I’m speed walking (unintentionally) and my heart rate goes up a bit, I find that my legs and waist start to itch like crazy. I then scratch myself like an unbathed dirty homesless bum, resulting in raised eyebrows and crinkled foreheads from the people around me.

I was googling this mysterious itchy issue and found this randomly online:

“Itchy skin usually occurs during exercise performed after a long period of inactivity. The itching is not on the skin, it’s inside the actual limbs. There are millions of tiny capillaries and arteries inside our muscles which expand rapidly due to the demand for more blood that is brought on by exercise. When fit, these capillaries remain open allowing maximum blood passage, but when unfit and inactive they tend to collapse, allowing only minimal blood passage (which is sufficient for a sedentary person however). The rapid expansion of these vessels causes adjacent nerves to send impulses back to the brain which are interpreted as an itch. That’s why after a few sessions the sensation tends to go away. Just another indication of increasing fitness levels.”

Alright then. It looks like I have my answer. My capillaries are practically closed and in hibernation mode, and the moment I do anything to up the blood flow in my body, they’re like “whoa whoa now, what’s goin onnn?” So then, the poor little capillilaries must open themselves to enable sufficient blood flow, and for some reason, my brain think my body is itchy. How nice.

I wonder how much exercise (and how long) it’ll take for my capillaries to snap out of it and stay open, so I won’t get so itchy when working out. Well, I guess the better question is when I’ll actually start doing any sort of heart pumping activity. If I’m going to be scratching myself like a wild baboon at the gym, I would just prefer not going. Maybe I’ll just run in place in my room until I get over the itch…then I can head to the gym for some real exercise. BOO to itchiness.

The other night while eating at the cafe where my boyfriend works, this rather large black woman dressed in a “people of Walmart” type of outfit came stumbling in with her 3- or 4-year old son. She was beyond inebriated and could barely keep her eyes open. Oh, and let me add that she came in smoking her cigarette. My boyfriend politely mentioned there’s no smoking inside the cafe, and she gave him the snapping-turtle hand gesture and said “you don’t get to tell me what to do” and placed her cigarette on the counter, still lit. Her little boy wanted an ice cream, which she was unable to say herself. The boy was chanting “ice cream! ice cream!” While she got a pink lemonade from the fridge, her son had run into the back where my BF prepares the food and makes the ice cream, and this oh-so-wonderful mother was too sloshed to even notice. I had the misfortune of watching her pour out half of her pink lemonade into the trash and fill up the rest with a small flask of vodka. Great role model. Great mother. I shake my head in disgust at people like that.

Some people really need to apply to be able to have children. Those who aren’t suitable parents should be required to have hysterectomies and vasectomies. Too many unfit mothers are having too many babies who are then raised poorly and usually end up following in the footsteps of their parents. The viscious cycle continues…

Please read e-mail below to avoid being scammed! GRRRR…I’m so tired of scammers.

From: Mrs. Sylvia White
375 Jackson Road,
Wimbledon, LONDON,
SW19 5DQ
United Kingdom.

My Dear Beloved,

I am the above named person but now undergoing medical treatment in Barnes Hospital, Wellhouse Lane, Barnet, England, EN5 3DJ. I am married  to Sir Gerald   White who worked with British Judicial Commission in Chelsea England for over a   decade before he died on 5th of July in the year 2007. We were married for   fifteen years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for two  weeks. Before his death he made a vow to use his wealth for the down trodden and  the less privileged in the society. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or  get a child outside my matrimonial home.When my late husband was alive he   deposited the sum of £4 Million (Four Million Pounds sterling) with one   Finance/Bank in Europe. Presently, this money is still with the Bank. Recently,   my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next 4 months due to a rare form  of cancer of the pancreas. Though what disturbs me most is my stroke. Having   known my condition I decided to donate this fund to an individual or better still a God fearing person who will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct   herein.

I want an individual that will use this to fund and provide succor to poor and   destitute persons, orphanages, and widows and for propagating peace in the   universe. I understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision   because I don’t have a child who will inherit this money and my husband’s   relatives are not inclined to helping poor persons and I do not want my husband’s   hard earned money to be misused or spent in the manner in which my late husband   did not specify.
Hence, the reason for taking this bold decision. I am not afraid of death since I   know where I am going.I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Almighty.   I do not need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health,   and because of the presence of my husband’s relatives around me always. I do not   want them to know about this development. I will also be most glad if you can   tell me a little about yourself.Hoping to hear from you.

With God all things are possible As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you   the contact of the Finance/Security Company in Europe. I will also issue you a   letter of authority that will empower you as the original beneficiary of this   fund. I implore you to always pray for me. My happiness is that I lived a life   worthy of emulation. Whosoever that wants to serve the Almighty must serve him   with all his heart and mind and soul and also in truth. You can contact me with   your positive response.

Email: mrssylviawhite@gmail.com

Yours sincerely,
Mrs. Sylvia White

Okay, seriously. What kind of e-mail is this? But I guess the more appropriate question is, what kind of person actually responds to this?

I felt compelled to e-mail back saying, “The ‘Almighty” would be disappointed in your wrongdoings, and btw, God doesn’t have a bosom. It’s a HE”. But then, that would make me the the idiot for even responding and giving them the chance to take note of my e-mail address. I shake my head in disgust at these people.

During my apartment search via Craigslist, I couldn’t believe how many scams were posted. Me, being naive and ridiculous, actually responded to one of them. Totally forgot about the whole “too good to be true” theory and thought, “what the heck…we are in a recession.” WRONG! It was some woman asking that I send her my credit score, and she provided a link where I could get a free credit report. After going on the website (I had never done a credit report), I actually put down my card number, thinking that’s how they retrieved information regarding your credit. Only after I received my fake credit score did I start to question what I had just done. Per the advice of several friends, the conclusion was I had been scammed. Immediately, I called and cancelled my card and never responded back to the scammer who probably already retrieved card information from the fake link he/she sent me. I shake my head at myself. Stupid stupid Erica!

Anyways, phew. What a way to start an entry after not having written in months. So, first off, GREETINGS! Secondly and more importantly, I’ve moved into a new apartment! I’d been living in my old run-down-sad-excuse-for-a building for the past two years and eventually grew frustrated and tired of the poor management. I don’t think anybody had come to clean the general public area of the building in a year. For months, I couldn’t do laundry in the basement because of the layer of RAT FECES covering the floor. It was incredibly disgusting, not to mention unsanitary.

So, after a month of furiously searching apartments, I have finally settled down in a fantastic 3-story house (but still apartment style). I have three roommates who seem very chill and down to earth. This move was very refreshing and almost felt like the start of a new life, if you will. The only thing I have left to do is unpack and sort out the miscellaneous junk in my boxes.

Let’s see. There’s plenty to talk about, but I don’t want there to be too much random information to digest in this one long entry (blame the e-mail).

Right now, I’m currently without any make-up. No face powder, nothing. They’re all stored in some box that I was too lazy to sort through, so now, I’m sitting here with a face that reflects light as I’m walking down the hallways. Plus, my cheeks are extremely rosy, and by rosy, I don’t mean this in a good way. It’s a blotchy and uneven tone of rosiness that makes me look like my cheeks alone baked in the sun for hours without sunblock.

I currently am recovering from the worst hemorrhoid. TMI (too much info) for most people, I’m sure, but those who know me know that I’m always having some sort of hemorrhoidal issue. But the one I got a few days ago from moving was probably caused by the “heavy lifting” I did trying to move huge boxes and tons of trash out of my old apartment. It was excruciating to sit, to drive, to stand, to bend over, and to walk. So basically, it was painful to be alive and in existence. At work, all I could daydream about was a donut: not Dunkin Donuts, a donut cushion to sit on and ease the stress off my protruding lump of flesh. Thankfully, it’s a lot better today, and the pain isn’t constant. Though, I still walk with my butt jutting out a bit, like I got a new bootie. Hopefully by the end of this week, I’ll be fully recovered.

That’s all for today, friends. I love how the entry started off with a warning about scam e-mails and ended with something involving a toosh ailment.

Song of the Moment: “Kalp Kalbe Karşı” – Enbe-Ferhat Göçer  (a song my bf posted on my FB wall a while back)

This is what happens when I don’t make daily posts. I lose track of the interesting things I want to talk about, and by the time I make my next post, you’d expect it to be something big and grand, but no, I’m left with NOTHING to talk about. Let’s see what I can dig up from my foggy memory. This entry may jump around because I’m going to do a bit of freestyle writing…just kind of writing as my thoughts come out without organizing them, so bear with me.

Ok, you all know I like to share my dreams, especially when they’re borderline crazy. So, the other night, I dreamt I had a pet lobster named Ricardo who kept pinching the 10 inches of fat covering my triceps. In my dream, my friend, Helen, was telling me she had never seen a lobster before, and I go, “you know what’s funny. I can show you Ricardo.” And she asks who Ricardo is, and I inform her it’s my pet lobster. But in this dream, I suppose it was normal for people to have pet lobsters because she gave me no look of confusion. I brought Ricardo down on a leash, and he waddled his way towards Helen the way a puppy does when it sees a new stranger. Helen picked up Ricardo’s bony structured body and started petting him, but he started getting too fiesty, pinching our flab of skin under our triceps, and I guess I just snapped. We both got so upset that we dragged Ricardo up to the kitchen and threw him in boiling water and ate him for dinner. The end. EW. I don’t even like lobster! What is this dream telling me? I’m an animal abuser? I’m a sociopath? Well, get this…

So, two days later (yesterday morning), I was driving back from dropping off my boyfriend at work, and as I was driving down this alley, a cat lept right in front of my car, and I felt the *thump thump*. I looked in my rear view mirror, and I saw the cat’s lifeless body just lying on the street. UGH! How terrible! I certainly hope that cat wasn’t someone’s pet. If it was, how stupid of the owner to let a cat roam free in a city. Poor cat. I don’t even like cats, but feeling the thump of my tires rolling over its body was not a warm and tingly feeling for me…yick.

My brain is clearly still in hibernation from the weekend. I got to work this morning and opened my iTunes list and started clicking on songs to listen to, but I couldn’t understand why I was unable to adjust the volume and why my earphones kept blasting Korean music when those weren’t the songs I was selecting. About 30 seconds later, I realized I had been connected to my iPod the whole time. I-D-I-O-T. It was even more crazy of me because I started slamming my mouse around on my desk (and I don’t have a mouse pad).

I’m having a moody Monday. It’s probably best I stop writing now and return again tomorrow. GOOD DAY!