Christmas lies

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Softly glowing LIES.

Over the past month and a half, three separate people have told me that Christmas is on Friday this year. Two of them even talked to me at length about the benefits of a Friday Christmas, namely a weekend off instead of a miserable return to work, and plenty of luxuriating in gluttony and presents.

Naturally, I was excited. I don’t get vacation days, and I’ve had to go in to work on December 26th every year since 2011. And that really put a damper on Christmas itself, by essentially turning it into a Sunday, the most off-putting off all the weekend days.

You know this is going to end badly, right?

I spent a month in a glorious state of an assumed Friday Christmas. In my daydream, I would awaken and spoil my appetite for breakfast by munching on stocking candy, stay in my pajamas until 1pm, and spend most of the day playing with my new Legos (someone get me Legos, ok?).

A couple days ago, I mentioned to my boss that the December schedule he printed was wrong, because Christmas was on a Friday this year.

Finally, I checked a calendar for myself.

Yeah.

Guess I’ll have fun playing with my Legos on some crappy day like December 27th, if I even receive Legos on a Thursday Christmas.

There is a moral to this story, if it can even be called a story. Maybe it’s more of a grievance, or perhaps a saga. Actually, there are two morals.

One: spreading rumors and lies can hurt people. More than anything that ever happened to you in high school, more than any shit anyone ever posted about you on Livejournal, this story/grievance/saga really illustrates that.

Two: If you don’t trust other people’s medical advice without doing your own research, don’t trust them to tell you when Christmas is. No one would assume that three separate people would be wrong about something so non-contentious and easily verified, but apparently it does happen.

And a third moral: think very hard before you purchase your name as a domain name. Do you think that your own father is the type of person who woud lie to you about Christmas? And that, if he did, you would want to legally change your name and cut all ties because you can’t decide what hurts more: the Christmas misinformation, or the lies.


 

Note 1: Did you know that Black Friday is now an entire season? Black Friday deals starting in late October? I feel like I don’t even need to rant about that. It speaks for itself.

Note 2: I’m turning thirty in six months, which you would probably not guess from basically any aspect of this post.

Melted dreams and other objects

You've fought the good fight, window fan.

You’ve fought the good fight, window fan.

I wrote this post earlier in the summer, but held it back because August was so cool. But now that it’s September and summer has returned to toy with us some more, I have decided to call it out on some of the things it’s done. Here is a melodramatic list of things that melt in summer and ruin my life.

  • Coconut oil deodorant, because I am a hippie. My deodorant is made of cornstarch, baking soda, and coconut oil, a substance which melts at 76 degrees and then needs to be stirred.
  • Shoes, when placed in close proximity to a summer campfire. Before the invention of vulcanized rubber, sneakers melted on hot days. We’ve come a long way, but fire still beats sneaker.
  • Skin, from my thigh, when backed into a summer grilling apparatus.
  • Chocolate, when left in my car, a thing which is fine to do at sane times of the year.
  • Ice, from my iced coffee. Even if I made it strong (and you can bet I did) it will devolve to an unacceptable level of wateriness before I am through drinking it.
  • Ice cream. Eating ice cream could easily have gone in the post about summer activities that are better in winter. You mean I have 30 seconds to eat this before it’s just milk and corn syrup? It’s like defusing a bomb.
  • Crayons, when left in the car. Sure, they look cool all blended together, but sometimes I want to draw things that don’t look like an acid trip, and I can’t do that with 64 colors which have digivolved into MegaCrayonmon.

This should be the penultimate post of Humidfest 2014.  Maybe I’ll write some more if the heat continues into September, but at that point I think I’d need to change the name to GlobalWarmingFest.

Here’s a recap of the earlier posts in the series:

The dandy highwayman

Back in olden days in Great Britain, you and your wealthy friends might be driving down the road in your olden days equivalent of a Porsche. Maybe talking about what sweet ride it is. “Oh man, gilded door edges, 8-spoke wheels and an 8-cylinder horse. Real improvement over the 1749 model…”

Suddenly, a rider gallops up to you, weapons drawn, and halts your carriage. “Stand and deliver, your money or your life.” And of course you hand over your money, except for the coins hidden in your stocking, and you protest as the highwayman insists on jewellery too, because your necklace is sentimental. And at last the highwayman is satisfied and gallops off into the sunset… to rob one more carriage of rich folk before calling it a night.

Typically, the whole thing went down something like this:

These days, you and your wealthy friends… ok, I I’m still working on those. These days, you and the pile of trash on the floor of the passenger side are driving down the road, when suddenly… cop. Maybe you see, but can’t slow down in time. You continue down the road, praying to Fharlanghn… but no, the cop car slips out of its sneaky hiding place on the side of a fish and chips joint, tracks you like a predatory animal, and then lights up like a seizure-rave of fireworks.

And you hand over your license and registration, except for that time when you’d paid for your new registration only a month before and hadn’t really gotten around to taking it out of that orange folder yet. And, if you’re unknowing in the ways of getting pulled over, possibly protest that you were on your way to a fire…oops that came out wrong. The cop doesn’t outright take your money or wear a costume that looks really good on Adam Ant, but the cop does give you a ticket which requires you to DELIVER YOUR MONEY. Just like what the highwayman said. Or sang.

It’s mostly tedium, answering questions about how fast you were going, sitting and waiting while the cop runs your information. No gun pointed at your head, no choice of delivering your money or your life. And yet… the cop does still carry a weapon, pull over your vehicle, and demand money.

Reach for the stars?

DSC02326Setting goals always involves a strategic game of self-manipulation. This is difficult to do, since I know I’m doing it, and I can predict my every move and counter-move.

I have a bad history with setting writing goals. While I’ve participated in National Novel Writing Month for seven Novembers in a row, and reached 50,000 words for six of them, I never seem to do well with writing goals outside of NaNoWrimo. What happens is that I fall short of my goal, get depressed, set a smaller goal for next time, fall short of that goal also, get depressed, and then repeat the whole cycle until I’m at the point where I’m telling myself, “This’ll be a good writing month if I can just get a period at the end of that sentence I wrote a couple months back.”

July is Camp NaNoWriMo, the free and loose version of the main event in November. On the website, I set my goal as 60,000 words for this month. A goal, as it happens, that I had no intention of actually reaching. If I set 30,000 words as my actual goal, I would likely fail and only reach 14,000. Then get depressed, and shoot for 7,000 next time. See above. So this month, I aimed for 60,000 words, hoping to fail and land at 30,000 instead. Until now, I had even managed to trick myself into thinking this was my actual goal. I had charts and lists to show how much work I would need to do in a day to reach my false goal, and so I believed it was real. Like the Velveteen rabbit. Or not. Pinocchio? Lt. Commander Data?

Anyway, my goal of 60,000 words was alive to me. I believed in it.

That’s the kind of mental chicanery I need to pull with my pessimist’s brain.

Orange Marshmallow Apocalypse is my novel-in-progress about outcast middle schoolers trying to stop the bizarre and devastating effects of a nuclear bomb detonated in upstate new york, in an alternate world where said detonation is activated by magic. Right now, it’s a little shy of 40,000 words, 10,000 of which I wrote this month. I’m still wrestling with how I want them to find out that they may be able to reverse some of the magical effects of the detonation, though not the most tragic ones.

I’m also working on a children’s story about a girl who helps a trio of goblins save Halloween. This one is going better at the moment, although I know I’m going to be way off my word count. I have to choose between a smaller, simpler story that fits the picture book model I agreed on with my friend, the illustrator, or a larger, spookier, awesomer story that will probably be twice as long.

Camp NaNoWriMo has eight more days, counting today. I have 13,000 words left to fail at my official goal by 29,998 words but meet my actual goal, which I am pretending is not my goal.