Christmas Recollections

In my family, we have our own set of traditions when it comes to the holidays. For example--Christmas Eve is our only extended family holiday time. We are out almost all day visiting relatives, drinking eggnog, giving and receiving gifts, and generally making jolly with our relatives. I kid you not, from noon until well after midnight we are out at different parties. We try and fit it in all in one day, because in the last ten years or so, we instituted our "Family Sloth Day" on Christmas day. We get up when we want--which in recent years involves my parents dragging us out of bed around ten; a funny role reversal-- unwrap gifts at a leisurely pace--we usually take turns unwrapping what Santa brought us, so we can all see each other's gifts--eat a glorious breakfast, and then lay around in our pajamas all day watching movies until its time to make our Christmas day feast--lobster tails, filet mignon and all the trimmings. It is seriously the best day of the year, because we actually take the day to bond with eachother instead of stressing about running around and having to be somewhere.



I've actually been tempted to buy these for my family just for Christmas day

After all the gifts are unwrapped, we also enjoy sitting around recalling past Christmases. This year was a little different as this was the first Christmas my brother-in-law participated in "Family Sloth Day." Obviously no stories were left on the shelf, so I thought I'd share one of my families favorite Christmas memories.

When we were younger, my parents were pretty strict about going to Mass on Sundays and holidays. "If we are paying thousands of dollars in Catholic School Tuition every year, you're sitting in those pews every Sunday," my Mom used to say. Christmas Mass was the ultimate sign of dedication and faith in our community. We were up, dressed in our Christmas finest and on our way to Mass after barely catching a glimpse at what Santa brought us that year. Needless to say, we all hated it. And resented the fact that we were drug away from our toys when the fun had only just begun. Sitting through an hour (sometimes two, depending on the priest that morning) mass was pure torture and we were always itching to get out and home.

As we got older and a little more daring, my sisters and I would sneak one of our new toys into Mass with us, to help eleviate the boredom. Usually it was something small--something that was easily hidden in a pocket or in your hand. I actually became quite the expert at hiding books under my coat and sticking them in hymnals once we were seated in church. To the outsider, I must've looked like a very devoted Catholic reading up on her hymns during mass, when in reality I was discovering that Harry Potter was actually a wizard and would be going to a wizarding school called Hogwarts.

One year in particular, my youngest sister took this it to a whole new level, and instituted a new "shake down" of toys before we left the house for Christmas Mass.

About 15 years ago (which makes me feel unbelievably old when I write it out) there was this British import, kid TV show called Bananas in Pajamas. It involved giant--not even kidding you, life-sized--bananas, in yes white and blue striped pajamas and the crazy hijunx that they got in to every day.

Shocks me that crap like this used to entertain kids!

I was 12 years old when this little show shot to fame, so I obviously didn't watch it. But my youngest sister, who was 7, was obsessed. She watched the show every morning before she went to school and even started eating bananas. These dancing human-fruit even had their own theme song;



Bananas in pajamas are coming down the stairs,

Bananas in pajamas are coming down in pairs,

Bananas in pajamas are chasing teddy bears,
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com

'cause on Tuesdays they all try to catch them unawares

boom boom pow boom boom pow

*And yes, I did have to look this up!*

This show was on constant loop at our house, to the point that my Dad started singing it at all hours. In fact, to this day my Dad uses this song as our wake-up call.

Obviously that year for Christmas, dolls from this show were the hot item. And when my sister saw that they had 2 foot, plush dolls that sang the theme song when you hugged them, it was at the top of her letters to Santa. It was really the only thing that she wanted that year. She begged and pleaded, sat on Santa's lap numerous times and made sure she was extra good all year round.

Sure enough, Santa brought her the set.



These things were huge!

My sister was overjoyed and literally hugged these dolls so hard that we thought she was going to wear out the batteries.

But as good God-fearing Catholics, the fun was short lived and we had to get to 10:30 mass--which at our church is usually the most popular mass to go to and it's always packed and standing room only. I remember my mom went crazy that morning trying to get us ready and out the door by 9:45. She was determined to get seats that year, as standing for 1+ hours is not fun. Somehow, we were all in the car and made it to mass at the precise time she wanted us to be. We even got our own pew right in the middle of church.

About an hour later, we were well into Christmas day mass-- which is filled with a lot of pomp, circumstance and carols. I'll admit, it's actually one of the only times I enjoy going to mass as an adult. Everything is so pretty and the mass itself is beautiful. But when you're 12 and your mother had just confiscated your new book, it was awful.

After standing for what seemed like forever, the priest told us to "Be Seated" as he began his homily. In unison, everyone in church pushed up the kneelers, and sat down on the ancient wooden pews. The priest had barely gotten 3 sentences out, when my sister decided to sit back into the pew and a sound started emulating from where she was sitting. Soft at first, but got louder and louder as the priest took breaths in his speech, a song started to play with the audible words;

"Bananas in Pajamas are coming down the stairs

Bananas in Pajamas are coming down in pairs....."

The song that my family knew by heart. The song that we had all just heard only an hour before. The song that was coming from our pew. Or more precisely, from beneath the back of my sister's winter coat that she still happened to be wearing.

In the chaos of getting 4 kids fed, dressed and out the door on time my mother neglected to take a good look at all her kids. My youngest sister cleverly hid her new, 2 foot toy beneath her coat. And by clever I mean she put on her coat and shoved the stuffed animal beneath and behind her back while my mom wasn't looking. No one seemed to notice the hump on her back or the two little sneakers hanging from the bottom of her coat as we walked in to church. And she almost got away with it, until she forgot it was there and sat back too hard in the pew.

The second the song played, my mother's eyes bugged out of her head and her face went ghost white. She instantly looked over to my sister, who was acting like she didn't hear it but continued to lean against it. By the time the song played a second time, the entire congregation was either looking at us or straining their necks to see where it was coming from. The priest even stopped his homily, looked up and said, "Am I the only one who hears that?"

My mom was mortified and started hitting my dad to get the toy off my sister. He was in a fit of hysterical laughter and could barely keep himself quiet, let alone grab my sister. The tears were literally rolling down his face, which only made all of us laugh and my mom didn't find it funny in the least. Then my Dad started struggling with my sister's coat but could not get her arms out of it, since the coat was pretty snug with the added "person" in the back of it. Once the homily was over and the congregation stood up, my mom grabbed my sister's hand and marched us all out the door. Naturally, the rest of us followed laughing even harder.

That Christmas will forever live in infamy with my family. It was the last Christmas my mom rushed us out the door Christmas morning without checking and de-toying us before we left the house. We also started going to the Christmas Eve Vigil instead--I'm not sure if it was to avoid noisy toys, or prevent any further issues on Christmas day. It also was the last year any of us recieved a toy that sang a song when you hugged it. We all still laugh hysterically when we recall this Christmas; my mom even joins in now that the sting of  public moritification has worn off. I actually asked my sister this year why she did it; her answer was simple, "I just loved my Bananas in Pajamas."

Hope you all had a great Holiday and a safe New Year!

THANK YOU for reading my Blog!

Timing for Butterflies

As most dating women are aware, there are two very big dilemmas we are faced with in those first few dates. The source of which takes hours and even days of thorough thought and pre-planning. No, I am not referring to wardrobe or hairstyles for the big night--although both a pretty key and are painstakingly planned, changed then decided on with our girlfriends or while looking in a mirror-- or even deciding the actual location or event--which let me add should totally be the man's domain; we have enough stress as it is with wardrobe, guys need to take the reigns on that one.

No, I am referring to those two things that are all dependent on timing and "the right feel" for the situation. If timing is off, or if you pull the cord too early, future dates could be canceled before they are even planned.


I am referring to 

1. Paying the Bill

2. First Kiss

 And lately I've been trying to figure out both for myself. 

In my merry-go-round of a dating life--where I'm always bringing new guests on and kicking old ones off--I recently started dating a new guy. We've gone on a few dates at this point, and I'm really enjoying myself and his company. But now I'm faced with the above dilemma; Should I offer to pay/ help pay for the dinner or activity bill? And when is it too early for that essential first kiss?

Let me go into each a bit.

My new guy is a union construction worker, who like most union members are subject to a lot of lay offs and are frequently unemployed. At the present time (and until last week) he was in the midst of one of those lay-offs, which is awful at any time of year but hits a little harder during the holidays. So we've gone out a few times--usually some sort of activity and then dinner--which I know can be pricey. Every time we have gone out, I have tried to be a bit conservative in choices, but as time went on I really started feeling guilty. Like, what if he can't pay his rent this month because he's taken me out? Trust me I know how it is--I went through my own 3-month stint of unemployment where I depended on those UCBenefits from the government. I don't know how I would've coped if I just started dating someone while I was in dyer money straights. It's very stressful.

But in normal circumstances, I wouldn't. Maybe I'm old fashioned and this notion may be archaic --and feminists may be rolling in their graves-- but I think men should solely pay for those first few dates. It goes back to old courting rituals naturally, but the man should take care of his woman. And honestly, if I'm going through the effort of getting all dolled up--which ladies, let's be honest, it is an effort to look pretty at all times, especially on first dates when we over-scrutinize everything-- I kind of expect the rest to be in the guys hands. If I'm taking all that time to impress you, when you're basically pulling the cleanest shirt out of your closet and slapping on some cologne, then you should treat me like a queen for the night. And in most instances, the guys want to pay and take of everything. It shows their prowess or some crap like that.

But on the other hand, some like the girl to at least offer. One of my girl friends will always at least reach for the check once it's placed on the table. Or she'll take her wallet out and have it in eye view of her date. I like to call it the "wallet jingle". She's not doing it for show, trust me she's an accountant and usually makes twice the money her dates do, but she genuinely wants to pay. Again, guys like girl to at least offer. But I think if a guy actually takes a girl up on those offer--especially on the first few dates--the girl should high-tail it out of there and never answer his calls. That is what I refer to as a cheap-bastard. And beyond rude.

My situation is a bit different because I know he's strapped for cash. The last two dates we went on, I really struggled with whether or not to grab the check. To not even let him touch it. But I also don't want to insult him. I know a lot of pride is associated with paying for dates and "taking care of your woman." To not be able to, is a kick to the balls and I think most good guys (and I say GOOD meaning the keepers) want to show their date that they are boyfriend material.

So I guess my only real solution is to wait and see, then just offer at some point. Like if we go out multiple times in one week--which this coming week we are--I'm going to try help pay. Maybe not for meals, because I know that's usually the bigger deal, but for anything else we do. Really, it's only fair. With one of my exes that's how we did it--if I went to his house, he paid for the date and if he came to my house I paid for the date. Kind of evened itself out with gas and tolls we both had to pay to get to eachother, especially if its a long distance thing.

Now for kissing.

It's usually an unspoken rule that you don't kiss on a first date. That girls who kiss on the first date don't get a third date. And you shouldn't kiss anyone until there is an emotional connection of some sort, and that there's no way you can have that within one date--or as my mom says "Don't kiss a guy til you know his last name." I tend to agree with this notion. The best first kisses are always the anticipated ones. The ones where you are thinking about it the whole time you are with them. When you stare at their lips and wander what it would be like to brush against them. You need to wait for those butterflies to build to a point where you feel like you will physically burst if you can't kiss him.

But on the other hand, waiting too long can be detrimental. For me, a lot rides on that first kiss. If you are a sloppy kisser, it's just not gonna work. No matter what kind of chemistry we may have built, it just won't matter if the kiss isn't there. It's a complete turn off and something that you really can't do-over. The absolute worst first kiss I ever had happened on a first date where we were jelling pretty well. Then he kissed me (or came at me unexpectedly with his lips) and it was awful. He literally licked my lips and thought it was sexy. All I wanted to do was go home and wash my face. I never talked to him again after that. So luckily I didn't waste a lot of time on him, I knew right after that kiss that it wasn't going to work.

So where is the happy medium? Because at this point with my new someone, we haven't kissed and I'm not about to make the first move--another one of my little rules. There have been some really close moments--especially last Friday when we went ice-skating--but I didn't want to push it and I know he didn't want to make that move unless he was sure I wanted him to. Trust me, I wanted him to.

Again, I guess I'll just have to wait and see. Let him make the first move and be patient. The kiss will happen when its meant to happen. And I'll just let the butterflies build til then.

Dating is definitely a tricky world. Lots of things to decipher and think about before hand. It's not just throwing on a pair of pumps and showing up to a restaurant for dinner. A lot goes into it, and obviously timing is everything. I guess I'm still trying to decipher parts of it, but I will say.....I'm enjoying the butterflies.

Love Letter

I dreamed about you last night.

As I do most nights.

You were alive. And everything was fine. It was all just a mean-spirited joke. The accident, the obituary, the posts, the pictures--all of it wasn't true. Someone faked all of it. You were safe and in hiding--in Europe or something--but finally coming out into the light. I was so angry and excited all at the same time. Felt like such a fool that I believed it all, so angry that I wanted to scream. Why would you hurt us all? Your poor mother and family! I cried for nights for your loss and now I know it was for nothing! Why! But that faded to the building joy in my heart. All wrong-doing easily forgotten. It really wasn't that bad, now that I think of it.You weren't gone! You were still warm and breathing! You were coming home! Maybe not to me, but you were still you. Maybe not to my arms, but in the same city. I didn't need you to be with me, only alive and safe. I went to the airport, I had to see for myself. I had to see you walking. I stood in the terminal trembling, almost crying. I could see your shadow, almost hear your voice.

Then I woke up.

And my heart broke all over again.

Dreams never last long enough. I tried shutting my eyes, to recall the fleeting dream but it had retreated to the back of my memory. Dreams can never be beckoned.

Sometimes, I really wish I could get you out of my head. That I could move on and stop thinking about you. Dreaming about you. And just move on. To find someone I click with from the start, like we did those many years ago. To have insane chemistry and affection for. To not actively look for things to nit-pick. To feel complete with someone else. To want someone as much as I wanted you. And I don't want them because they are not you. Not even close to you.

Sometimes I think you were my soulmate and the only love I was meant to have was what I felt for you for those few short months. How different things could have been if I hadn't gone back to school. If I had stayed home and gave us the time we needed. How our lives could've ended up. How you could've been by my side now, instead of gone forever.

I waste so much time thinking about the what-ifs. I can't stand it.

But still I pray at night to you. To send me a sign of what I should do. A sign to show me that everything happened the way it was meant to. Show me that you are okay and at peace. That my love wasn't one-sided. That from the beyond, you are sending someone else to me. Someone like you. Someone you'd want me to spend my nights with.

It's weird. I can still see your face. Like it was yesterday. Everything about you is so fresh in my mind. And the way I felt with you, in your arms.

I miss you.

I'll never stop missing you.

Stay with me.

Forever.

Scrooged

December is a time of family gatherings, colored lights, the smell of fresh pine needles, red and green wrapping paper, baking cookies, giving gifts, snow, Santa Clause, Frosty, Rudolph, Christmas specials, caroling, and ultimately love and happiness. It's the one time of year that the entire world comes together, in different ways, to celebrate the season and love for their family. It is truly the most magical time of the year, not just because of the gift-giving and time off from work, but this month evokes strong emotions of gratitude, excitement and love. Most people wish they could experience or live this one month all year long--I actually know someone who, when they are blue or lonely, will watch Christmas movies and will instantly feel better. It's a time of year that should be bottled-up and shared with all.

I have so many great memories from my childhood involving Christmas, as I'm sure many people do. But I think the one thing that stands out for me--which it may not for others--is the magic my parents try to create for us with Christmas. It's something I want to recreate with my own children.

When I was little, my parents would not decorate the house in any form until we were safely tucked in and asleep in bed on Christmas Eve. We'd get home from my Grandmom's house, put out milk, cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer, hang our stockings on the bannister (because we didn't have a fire place--which was an issue of high contention in our house.  "Santa has a magic key to our front door," my Dad would tell us), and set up our American Girl dolls around the Christmas tree. As soon as we were in bed, my parents would decorate the entire house, decorate the tree, wrap gifts, set-up my Dad's elaborate Santa village and train set, and assemble any gifts that had parts so they'd be ready first thing the next morning. No matter how late we got home, this was their tradition. Recently they told me that one year we got home close to midnight and they were up until 4 am getting the house ready--we came bounding in to their room Christmas morning at 6 am. Or one year they didn't wrap our gifts and the next morning I turned to my dad and said, "I guess the Elves forgot to wrap them this year." They admit now that doing this was a bit crazy, but completely worth it when they saw our faces the next morning. To see our excitement at how Santa decorated our house. We actually have some pretty hilarious home-movies of those mornings--our faces and shrieks of "HE CAME" are pretty priceless. Christmas in my house was seriously the best, and the entire season was decked in magic.

This year, I'm just not feeling it.

I have no idea why,  but I haven't found my Christmas spirit. True, December has only just begun, but I'm usually bursting with excitement for the season as soon as Thanksgiving is over.

Here is a list of things  I haven't done yet for the holiday season;

1. Listened to Christmas music
2. Watched a single Christmas special or movie all the way through
3. Decorated the house
4. Accompanied my parents to get our Christmas tree
5. Drove around my neighborhood to look at the decorations and lights
6. Contemplated sitting on Santa's lap
7. Hoped for a "White Christmas"
8. Baked cookies

All of these are pretty big traditions for me and I just haven't had the urge to partake. And it's not like I haven't had the opportunity. In fact, last weekend when my parents wanted me to go with them to get our tree--something I truly believe I have mastered--I passed telling them, "Oh I want to take a nap."

Yes, I know. With that utterance, I spit in the face of Christmas.

All of this isn't to say that I am making an active choice not to participate in Christmas. I actually have all my gifts bought, wrapped, and ready to give. A few of which I am truly excited to--especially the gifts for my grandmom and grandpop. But...it's just the feeling of Christmas seems to be missing. Like this is just any other month for me; not a month with the best holiday. Like something is missing in my heart when it comes to Christmas--like I'm just going through the motions and not really enjoying it.

Is there something wrong with me? Have I lost the Christmas spirit? Is it something you lose with age? Am I too old for the magic? Am I doomed to spend the rest of my holidays a Scrooge?

Baby Jesus, I hope not! Because life without Christmas would suck!

Now that I'm thinking about it some more, I can only come up with 2 explanations;

1. My house is a construction zone. My parents are adding a "Senior Suite" (or the "west wing" as we lovingly refer to it) to our house for my grandparents to move in. An entire wall was knocked down in our living room and there is dust and crap everywhere. Due to this, my parents haven't really decorated our house to the usual extent that they do. It's actually pretty sad.
2. I'm single.

I don't think it's the second, since I was single last Christmas and didn't feel like this then. Sure, it'd be great to be in love and to spend the holidays with someone special, but I wouldn't let that bring me down. Honestly, a boyfriend would be too stressful right now--I like being able to do my own thing and spend the entire holiday with my family, and not have to worry about other obligations. 

So I don't know. Maybe I need a "Christmas Intervention" of sorts. An intervention where the only cure would be forced consumption of Christmas cookies, watching Christmas movies and listening to B101 (the "soft radio station" that plays only Christmas songs from December 1st until New Years) at all times. Hopefully I'll get more into the spirit as the holiday gets closer, because no one can take Christmas away from me.

Not even me!

As I'll Ever Be

With my thumb, I applied pressure to the "On" switch. The small instrument in my hand buzzed to life as electricity pumped through it. The electric razor was vibrating. It tickled my palms as it sat in my hand. The blades, protected by a safety catch, moved back and forth in fast secession. It was clean and ready to go; I knew it would get the job done in no time.

I needed the closest shave possible.

I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable and firmly planted on the newspaper beneath my feet. Hair was always a pain to clean up and I wanted to create as minimal a mess as possible--didn't need any additional stress. I took a few deep breaths and felt ready to go. I placed my right hand on the chair in front of me and the clippers in my left, positioning myself to start shaving my client's head.

"You ready," I asked.

"As I'll ever be," she answered.

I let my left hand drop and the clippers connected with the front of my wife's head. I slowly pulled it towards me, letting the blades buzz off a strip of hair. Hair fell from her head, gently falling to the waiting newspaper and collecting on the floor. The only sound in the room was the buzzing of the blades. I had been holding my breath during that first strip, and now that it was done I could breathe again.

It was easier after that. As easy as shaving your wife's head could be.

My wife of 35 years, the mother of my two children, the occupational therapist and karaoke enthusiast asked me that morning to shave her head for her. The cancer had come back, for the fourth time in 6 years. First it was in her colon, then her ovaries and stomach. We were optimistic for awhile that she had finally beat it, that the cancer had moved on to better pastures. But one routine appointment brought it all back home.Now it was back in her colon and lungs. They caught it early, so the doctors said, and no surgery would be necessary. Another aggressive round of chemotherapy should keep the cancer from spreading further. It'd be easy this time.

But chemo is always a bitch.

She had hung in there like a champ for a few weeks. The effects were minimal at first and she was able to go about her normal routines. She was able to run and exercise and continue to eat what she wanted. But then they upped her dosage and everything changed. She had no energy, could barely keep food down and migraine headaches kept her in almost constant pain. In the last month, she has lost almost 10 pounds.

Her hair was the latest casuality.

She had prayed that this round of chemo wouldn't make her hair fall out. The first time it had and after 6 years, it finally grew back to its original length and thickness. She finally felt like herself and confident again in her own appearance. But chemo doesn't care about self-esteem.

She hid it from me at first. She wore her hair in ponytails all day long and wouldn't let me touch her hair. I didn't notice until I started finding clumps of hair in the tub and all over the bathroom. I'd quickly clean the drains and floors, wanting to keep up the charade and pretend that I didn't know what was happening. Let her keep an ounce of the dignity cancer was taking. I guess she had enough.

I was making her breakfast this morning when she asked me to shave her head. She didn't explain why and I didn't ask. I just set up the newspaper and chair and waited until she was ready.

"You okay," I asked after I finished part of her head.

"Yep," she answered quickly.

I kept going--strip by strip, letting her hair continue to fall to the floor. It didn't take long and I barely had to apply pressure to her skull. I took my time and made sure I was precise, but it took barely 15 minutes to finish. I set the clippers down on the kitchen table. I ran my hand over her freshly shaved head to check my work. It seemed pretty even to me, so I took the towel from her shoulders and shook the hair from it then brushed off her neck.

"Alright. I think..." I started to say as I crossed in front of her. Her eyes were closed tight but tears were falling down her face. My heart broke into a million pieces when I saw her face. I knelt down in front of her, took her face in my hands and whispered, "Hey, Hey.  Look at me."

Slowly she opened her eyes but she wouldn't look at me. I could tell the shame and embarrassment she was feeling.

"Look at me baby," I said.

"I can't."

"Why!"

"Because....I'm ugly."

"Honey, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. With or without hair."

"I'm barely a woman now," she said, finally looking up at me.

I stood up and lifted her into my lap. She was almost as light as a child now. "You are more of a woman to me bald then you would be if you had the thickest hair in the world." This only made her cry harder, as she leaned into my shoulder and let herself go. I just held her. Held her so tight that my arms ached from the pressure. We stayed like that for awhile; me holding her and her crying into my shoulder. Eventually she calmed down and pulled away from me slightly.

"It's just unfair," she said to break the silence.

"It is baby. It really is. And there's nothing I can say to make it all make sense. But I promise it will grow back. And in the mean time, I'm the luckiest man in the world."

"Why's that," she asked as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Because last night I went to bed with a blonde and tonight I'll go to bed with Sinead O'Connor."

A smile stretched across her face and we both broke into a fit of laughter. That was all I wanted. To hear her laugh and fill the negative mood with happiness for even a second. We hugged again, her pulling me in closely.  I could feel the pressure and stress release from her body.

And in that moment, I knew there was hope. I knew we'd beat the cancer as long as we could laugh our way through it. Together.

With or without hair.

Frozen Tears

The snow fell silently and quick,
as if  angry at the world
for some injustice on the heavens.
Her skin raw from the onslaught
of vengeful ice, she cried.
The bruise above her cheek,
torn blouse and crimson lips,
leaped out to the senses against
the muted world of white.
Brown from her blood,
flurries roll off her face
staining the perfection,
once so pure.

She walked,
slowly,
suffering with every step.
Feeling not the cold,
but her innocence shattered.
Leaving only footprints where
she once stood.

Butt-inski

As many other Americans did, last night I found myself at my town's elementary school to cast my vote in the 2012 Presidential Election. No, I will not be discussing my political opinions, who I voted for, or the outcomes of the election. I vowed a few months back that I would not be entertaining the topic more than once in my blog, and I fully intend on keeping to that vow. Really, just go on Facebook if you are that interested. You'll be assaulted with the amount of opinions available, trust me.

But my topic tonight is a much more sinister and corrupt topic than politics.

Line cutting.

No, I'm not referring to "cutting a line" of an illegal substance. In the movies it's usually something like cocaine; stripped into little lines on top of a mirror with a razor blade, then inhaled with a dollar bill. This act doesn't involve drugs in any form." This is the physical act of cutting to the front of a line. Or as we Philadelphians say, "butting-in" front of.

Obviously, yesterday was a pretty big election--remember it only happens every 4 years? Seriously, everyone and their mother turned out to vote last night. And more in particular, all my neighbors and people from my  town seemed to turn up at my polling place at the precise time that I was planning on voting--which was at 6:30. I breezed through the hallway, with its annoying party representatives handing out pamphlets (which, let me also state is a complete waste of time and paper. If I'm actually showing up to vote, chances are I'm completely certain of who and what I am voting for. Your pamphlets  will not sway my opinion, Mr. Ambiguous Republican/Democrat man. Really, I thought Americas was "Going Green.") I was a bit shocked to see such a large crowd lined up in the school's auditorium and waiting to duck behind the little blue curtain and light up the switch board for our nomination. The last time I voted, I was in and out in under 5 minutes. No joke, I barely took 2 good breaths inside the school. Now that I think of it, the last time I voted was for the congressional race last year, which explains my quick exit--it wasn't the "Big Show."

I trudged back to the end of the line and considering I have no patience especially for lines of any form, I was not happy about it. I also had the guy I'm currently "hanging out" with along for the ride-- who was in fact not there to vote (as he lives in New Jersey) and who I lured there with me with the promise of tacos after--and felt even more impatient that we were subjected to a long line.

After 5 minutes of waiting, I was half tempted to say "Ah fuck it. Let's go get tacos," but all I could picture were the suffragettes and Susan B. Anthony screaming at me from their "Votes for Women" picket lines. Couldn't let old Susie down, now could I.

So we waited. And waited. Every few minutes we were able to take a few steps forward and the lines behind us continued to grow. Actually it was quite impressive--I was told when I finally got to the front of the line and handed the volunteer my ID, that I was the 1200th voter that day which was more than they had ever seen. I started to feel more optimistic and less tyrannical as we got closer and closer to the booths. The end was in sight and so were the tacos that were awaiting us.

But then 1 woman shot all that to hell.

So I'm standing in line, innocently chatting to my "friend" about random things, when from the corner of my eye I see this woman--with too pink lipstick, hair that was beyond gray but she was obviously trying to cling to her youth, and bright red blush--roll through the door, taking a look at the long line and mouthing "Wow." She eyes up the line and then seems to decide, "Oh, I know you," to the man standing in front of me. Apparently she actually did know him. They were colleagues of some sort; they started talking about business and houses the other one sold. It seemed to be a happy little reunion of sorts, until you looked past the happy couple to the crazy with anger woman standing behind them.

The crazy woman being me.

I was pissed as hell. Literally ready to spit fire.If I had to wait in this damned line to vote, this tacky woman was sure the hell going to, too. Now you may be saying to yourself, "They were just talking! It doesn't mean she actually intended on cutting in front of you to vote." Well you're wrong! Because she moved with the line and edged her way into the line and in front of me, all the while keeping the conversation going between her and her colleague. If she hadn't intended on cutting, I figured she would have kindly stated to the man, "We'll talk after," seeing that the line continued to grow and every second she stayed to talk was minutes longer she'd be in line. But no! This obviously didn't cross her mind because she jabbered on and on.

My blood was boiling.

My "friend" could see my anger building, and being the Prince Charming that he is, offered to say something to the woman. "I have no problem telling this woman to get to the back," he whispered not too lowly. I told him no, it's not a big deal, we're almost to the front anyway. I resigned to the fact that this rude woman was butting-in front of me. "Just need to breathe and get over it," I thought.


But then--AGAIN-- a woman shot that to hell.

As the couple in front of me continued to rattle off about real estate, another haphazard woman waltzed into the auditorium. Similar to her predecessor, she was taken back by the large line in front of her. And as luck would have it--I swear God has a sick sense of humor--she also knew the couple in front of me. She marched right up to both of them and it was all kissy kissy and hellos. Then the newcomer turned to the other woman and asked, "Are you in line?" To which she replied, "No, no! I already voted earlier."With this reply, I instantly felt bad for judging her so harshly. Maybe her make-up wasn't too pink and her hair wasn't complete mess.

Maybe.

I was still thinking about this as my thoughts were interrupted by the newer woman to arrive.

"Excuse me? Yes hi! I need to butt-inski. Sorry I need to butt-inski," she said to me and motioned to the space between me and the older man.

"What?" I asked.

"I need to butt-inski.I hope that's okay," she said as she basically forced me to step back and stared me down until I did. Apparently I gave her the dirtiest look known to man and said "Um....I guess," and backed up.

I was shocked. Shocked isn't even the proper word. I was abhorred and instantly wanted to punch this rude-ass woman in her fat face. Not only had she used the word "butt-inski" in succession 3 times, but also saw nothing wrong with the fact that she was doing that rudest thing possible. My "friend" basically had to pet down my anger; rubbing my arms and talking to me like a child.

Now I ask you, is this act not the epitome of rude and immaturity? Is it not universally taught in elementary school that you don't cut in front of a line?

Not only was there a huge line but the line was for the most patriotic thing an American could do. Cutting in this line is almost like spitting on the Constitution! This woman just walked in like it was nothing and thought she was better than the line--who was she to wait in a line.

And trust me, the situation would be completely different if she had some heroic excuse--which she in fact did. She told the man in front of me that she had just left her elderly mother at home to rush out and vote. And trust me I'm not a complete bitch--if she had simply turned to me and said "Listen, my elderly mother is sick and waiting for me at home. Would you mind if I jumped in front you to vote" I would have been fine letting her cut in front of me. Like that's an acceptable excuse. Really, its all about asking, which this woman didn't even have the courtesy to do. She just decided to "butt-inski"  in front of a large group of people who had been waiting for at least 20 minutes and then say sorry. And really if she was planning on being an ass, the entire line deserved to hear her slay the English language.

People cease to amaze me. For real.

Eventually I got to vote and throw more than a few nasty looks at the ungrateful woman who now stood in front of me. All ended well and I got to eat my fill of tacos--even though I would rather have eaten them a good 40 minutes prior.

Moral of the story; If you don't ask, GET TO THE BACK BITCH!

Run-around Gal?

Do I have the word WHORE tattooed on my forehead?

Maybe PROSTITUTE?

Or I'M EASY?

Do people perceive me a certain way because I have blonde hair?

Or let me pose another question; Is there no such thing as "Guy-code" with the opposite sex? I understand that the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus," revolutionized the opinion that men and women are very different entities with different outlooks on life, but there has to be some sort of overlap with certain conducts. Right?

Let me explain.

If you've been living under a rock, then you haven't heard about Hurricane Sandy that slammed into the Northeast this past week. The only hurricane in US history to make landfall in New Jersey in the last century, the entire east coast was demobilized for the almost three days. Most were trapped in their houses--or "hunkering down," a phrase that I literally cannot stomach after three days of constant news reports telling us all to do so--praying that their electricity wouldn't go out.

This was one of the more hilarious depictions of the storm

I was one of the lucky few in the Philadelphia region that did no lose power, but nonetheless cabin-fever set in Monday night while the worst of the storm hit. It was 9 o'clock, there was nothing on TV, my book was no longer entertaining, the wind was howling at scary volume and everyone in my house was getting ready for bed or was already asleep. I was bored out of my mind, and was about to succumb to sleep when I heard a familiar PING from my computer. Facebook users are familiar with this PING, as it indicates that someone is using Facebook chat and has just sent you a message. Usually this PING annoys the crap out of me because it goes off with every message you receive. Normally, I just ignore the PING and don't answer any messages, but being in a exceedingly bored mood, I decided to climb out of bed and see who else was dying of cabin-feveritis.

But now I wish I had stayed in bed.

The message I was alerted to was from a casual acquaintance of mine; for these purposes let's call him "John." The jist of the conversation--which lasted only a few minutes, thank god-- from him was this;

"Yeah I'm really bored. No one is here. Yeah we still have power. But this storm would be a lot better if I had a lady friend in bed next to me. You could come over if you want? If it isn't too awkward. Or we could get a drink."

This message is awkward for a great many reasons. The first being the most obvious; we were in the midst of a hurricane, the worst in recent history, and he was asking me to drive over to his place. To leave my house and brave the elements. Yes, that is as crazy as it sounds.

The second awkward part of this is twofold. Obviously his message had a hidden agenda. He wanted to hook-up. Like let's not mix-words or say it was innocent. I knew his intention the second he brought up "lady friend" and from past experiences with this kid, I know what he was sniffing at. But there's also another part to this awkwardness.

Over the summer, I was hanging out with this guy named "Pete" (again, I have changed his name). He was a blast from my past; he lived in my development and was basically one of my best friends when I was little. We went to grade school and everything together, but after I switched schools in 6th grade we lost touch. A year ago we started talking again, and things progressed a bit further than that. He was no longer living in my neighborhood but owns a condo about 20 minutes from me.

A condo that he shares with John.

Yes, the same John who is also his best friend and who I also went to grade school with.

The plot thickens.

When I went to the condo to hang out with Pete, John was usually there. So there were many times when he hung out with us. But I want to make it quite clear that there was no flirtation on my end--I spoke to him casually and cordially. Every now and again, he would Facebook chat me, and I'm not going to ignore the guy I'm dating's best friend. And I know it was very clear to John that I was seeing Pete and that's where my interest lay.

Now Pete told me some creepy stories about John; about how he met women on the internet, brought them back to the condo, banged them and then never talked to them again. He also told me some dick moves John has done to Pete in the past; like offering to pick Pete up from work a few nights and then never showed up or answer his calls. He wasn't an exact angel or really even a great friend to Pete. And it only got creepier when John started messaging me asking me to come over when Pete wasn't home and hitting on me.

It put me in a really, really awkward situation and I felt compelled to tell Pete. Which I did, but Pete seemed to laugh it off and even told me that I should hang out with him--which I didn't take as a joke but a complete insult. Sorry Pete, you are NOT my pimp.

Eventually, my relationship with Pete fizzled ( please see "My Rant on "Little Boys" Pretending to be "Grown Men") and we stopped talking. We're not on bad terms to my knowledge, but things just kinda stalled. Which also meant I haven't been receiving any messages from John in recent months--a good thing in my book.

Then this message comes out of nowhere, where he's basically propositioning me, with no thought at all to Pete. Actually that's no completely accurate. He did say "I understand if it's awkward for YOU because of your relationship with Pete." So now there's no excuse...he knew of my thing over the summer with his best friend but was still trying to get something out of me.

Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this? Like really! It really makes me question the morale of the male gender.

With females, we have a little thing called "Girl-Code." Here's a little reminder if you aren't familiar with its finer points;

The fourth is the rule I am referring to; DON'T DATE ANOTHER'S  EX. It's really an unspoken rule because it's something you just don't do. Like ever. This rule also involves the following;

1. you cannot hook-up with a friend's ex
2. lust after your friend's ex
3. talk to your friend's ex
4. or do any of the above behind your friend's back.

If you plan on doing any of this, you obviously have no respect for your girlfriend and deserve the flaming pile of girl drama that is sure to be flung your way.

Obviously I am not a guy--I have breasts and I don't have something hanging between my legs. But I only assume that the same thing applies for men. That guys go by the same dating rules as women do. That you just DON'T hit on someone your friend hooked -up with. It causes the same drama as it does with girls, only male drama involves violence and not talking about someone behind their back.

My situation is worse because John is not only Pete's best friend but tenant. Like that is low and John obviously has no consideration or afterthought for Pete--he's only thinking with that thing hanging between his legs. No matter how miniscule our relationship was, I was still someone in Pete's life for a time period. And me waltzing into the apartment he pays for to hang out with his best friend is not right in any form. Can you imagine if I had no self respect and actually took him up on this offer? If Pete was the one to open the door when I got there and I was like "Oh I'm here to see John," and walked by him.  It would be completely disrespectful and a total bitch move. No, sorry. It's NEVER going to happen buddy! No matter what I think of Pete and what happened to our relationship, I would never stoop so low and hurt him like that. And John obvious thinks very little of their friendship if he is even propositioning this. YOU DON'T DO THAT!

Really, the lowest of the low.

So I ask again;

Do I have WHORE tattooed on my forehead?

Because obviously this kid thinks I can just be passed from roommate to roommate. That I'm at their apartment's disposal and I'll just jump from bed to bed.

And if guys don't have a guy-code, they seriously need to adopt one. Because this is just ridiculous!

Little Secrets

As humans, we all have a little OCD in us. Rituals , routines or little nagging habits are a way of life for us. It helps people feel normal to do certain things every day. It brings normalcy to hectic lives. It can be as simple as double checking that your doors are locked at night before going to bed. Not wanting to eat food that has touched or "mixed juices" while on your plate. Even the way you like your coffee every morning--and if the guy at Dunkin Donuts puts one extra Splenda in your drink, you swear you can taste it and it ruins your entire morning. As long as these little rituals or habits don't disrupt our days, what is the harm in them? All of it's perfectly fine and again, normal.

Until it isn't normal. Until it's actually obsessive compulsive.

In recent years, these compulsions are documented more and more. TV networks are popping up with shows more and more. TLC had an entire series dedicated to it--the name escapes me at the moment, but some of their gems were people who liked to dress and act like babies (complete with sleeping in cribs, wearing diapers, and drinking from bottles) and a woman who was obsessed with the color pink, so decided to paint and dye everything she owned pink (including her dog). One of my favorites is MTVs TrueLife: I Have OCD.

Now I love this show for a great many reasons. The absolute best hung-over, Sundays are when there is a TrueLife marathon on. Seriously, I will lay in bed all day and watch episode after episode. This particular episode documents the lives of three young people living with OCD.

This guy did this huffing thing for minutes on end when he yawned, uses almost an entire roll of toilet paper every time he has to go, and could spend an hour outside his door making sure the door is actually locked when he goes to leave. It's actually sad because he is a really talented guitar player but his anxiety and compulsions kept him from performing more.

This girl was convinced if she didn't do rituals God would strike down her mother or herself as vengeance. Her rituals involved organizing everything in her apartment to extremes--all labels on products needed to be faced out, and also placed to the left because it was closer to your heart, thus closer to God. She also could not pass a mirror without stopping and smiling at herself in it. And she always had to walk to the left of wherever she was going. She ended up going into an extreme therapy program where all of her fears were brought to her in real life--this involved her going to her mother's fake funeral and watching her give blood.

This girl had a thing for tapping things. If she ever touched anything, no matter what it was, she had to tap it three times. Even if she accidentally bumped into something, she would have to walk back and tap it 2  more times with her foot. This also included if people handed her something--she'd make them tap it three times. She also had issues with choosing things if given multiple options--particularly food. Her case was kind of sad because her parents refused to believe she had an issue, until she took them to the therapist with her and they saw it for themselves.

I'm telling you, if you have an hour to spare YouTube it. It's great television.

Obviously, not everyone has extreme cases of ritualistic tendencies. But on the same token, a lot of people keep their secret habits safe behind closed doors. They are things that we only do when we are sure no one is around because we all fear being judged or found out. Again, this is completely normal.

So, in an effort of full disclosure to my devoted readers and the blogosphere, I will reveal my own OCD habit. My secret ritual. But please, no judging!

Ok.

I wear socks to bed.

Actually, let me rephrase that.

I HAVE to wear socks to bed.

Most people wear socks to bed only in winter; to keep their feet warm in the frigid weather. But for me it's not just about my feet being cold--which don't get me wrong, they usually are. But I also wear socks to bed during the summer when it's sweating hot in my house. It literally just doesn't feel right sleeping without it. I can't really explain it. There's just something about socks that calms me and helps me sleep. It could be that I don't like the feeling of sheets against my toes. Or if I have to get up during the night to use the bathroom, I'd rather have warm socks protecting my feet then feel cold linoleum underneath them--there's seriously nothing worse then the shock of freezing cold linoleum when you are half asleep. But I couldn't tell you which is the real reason. Again, I can't pinpoint it or say exactly when I started doing it.

I know this habit sounds semi-normal and you may be scratching your head thinking, "How is the obsessive? It's just socks!" Well, trust me. It goes a lot deeper than just socks.

Here are two pretty big examples of my crazy.

When I was young (and yes, this compulsion has a long history), I had this one pair of socks that were my favorite. Yes, kind of strange that I had a favorite pair of socks. They were white, long and had orange pumpkins knitted into them. They were the most comfy socks I've ever had the pleasure of slipping my feet into and they were worn in to perfection. And yes; I wore them year-round. They weren't put to the side for only Fall or Halloween. I was actually yelled at by our babysitter at the time for wearing them during the summer: "Those socks are for Halloween! Give them to me," she said and tried to snatch them from me. Needless to say, I protected those socks with my life and kept them out of her greedy little palms.

Yeah, kind of crazy.

But it gets worse.

Because I went to a Catholic grade school, I had to wear tights to school every day. Which meant no socks. So in the morning as I groggily dressed for school, I'd remove my socks and hide them for two reasons;

1. so my mom couldn't snatch them away and either try to wash them (which I was convinced they'd end up destroyed or lost) or throw them away (which I know she wanted to do).
2. so I'd know exactly where they were that night when I wanted to wear them again.

Totally, totally gross! I know, you don't have to tell me. But remember...I was young and stupid and not up on hygiene yet! Don't judge! I literally wore those socks out--they were holes in the soles. I also continued to wear them...until my mom finally found them and threw them out.

Again, you may be thinking "Ok...you were young. Totally not a big deal." But I wish this habit was retained to childhood.

Over the summer, my parents rented a house in Sea Isle for 10 days. It would be our first full-family vacation in over 10 years and we were all going--my parents, 3 sisters and my brother-in-law under one roof, basking in the sun and laying on the beach all day. We were all pretty excited about it and were counting down the days until we can invade the Jersey Shore. Like I usually do, I was packing for about a week preceding our vacation. With my big Vera Bradley duffel, I packed and packed and repacked. Literally, every day I thought of something I was sure to need down the shore and my bag was getting pretty full--I actually ended up with about 3 bags to take down (and if you're a girl, you know that actually isn't too bad). I had to make sure to bring plenty of everything and options of clothing to boot. Literally packed almost my entire closet and tons of shoes. So, when I moved into my room in Sea Isle and opened my bag to unpack, imagine my surprise when I found that the only pair of socks I had with me were the ones I had on my feet. I was dumb-struck and tore my bag apart; swearing that I had to have packed another one and they were hiding in a far corner of my bag. Was so pissed at myself and seriously contemplated running out to a store and buying a weeks worth of socks. Then I realized it was August and I was down the shore. Who wears socks at the beach? And more to the point, who sells socks at the beach? It's flip-flop and sandal central--the lighter and breezier the better.

I was pretty much resolved to the fact that I was going to have to wash them everyday--which wasn't very appealing-- but I figured I was only going to wear them to bed and I'd be barefoot most of the day anyway. It would be okay.

Little did I know that my body was going to turn against me three days in to my vacation. While out at the bar one night with my sisters, I suddenly felt light-headed and achy. I called it an early night and went home, thinking I needed to sleep it off. I spent the entire night wrapped in blankets because I was chilled to the bone, or drenched in sweat. The next morning it only got worse--full on fever, ear infection and sore throat. It was some form of flu that was going around--my sister got it the week before--and naturally I had to get it the week I was supposed to be laying on the beach all day and partying all night. AND I only had one pair of socks with me. Right when I needed to be all toasty and warm, and not feeling gross in nasty socks. I swear God had a sick sense of humor that week--making me sick AND with no socks and no energy to wash the ones I did have like I needed to. He knew I didn't have socks, I swear! Seriously contemplated ending my vacation early and coming home.

I stuck it out though, but I was never so happy to get home and into nice, clean socks.

Now when most people hear about this, they think I have some sort of fear of feet in some form--which trust me I know people who do. They think I can't stand the look of feet so I cover them up the second I'm not wearing shoes. Actually, this isn't the case for me. I don't mind feet; I don't hate them or like them. I've actually been told quite often--mostly by the little Chinese ladies who give me pedicures--that I have "cute, little feet." 

What can I say? I just like to wear socks! All year round, and especially to bed.

So I'm free of my little secret.
Just don't judge...

Proper Etiquette

This past weekend, my two married friends had us all over to celebrate fall and have a bonfire in their backyard--and when I say bonfire, I mean they lit an instant log in their fire pit and we all sat around it and drank. It's the closest thing to being in the country as you can get in Philadelphia. It was freezing cold but we all managed to be bundled up (and buzzed ) enough that we barely noticed. While sitting outside, an interesting topic came up which became the conversation for the majority of the night and the subject of the following post.

My friend Mike's cousin is getting married in a few months. Her family is pretty well off--they own a string of pizza parlor's throughout the Philadelphia region (and no, I will not be name dropping) and her father just opened one in South Philly, which she is running. We call her the  "Princess of Pizza," because basically she's a spoiled bitch, which I'm allowed to say because I've known her since I was 13. Needless to say this wedding is going to be huge and very expensive. The reception itself is going to cost her parents $170 a head and 300 people were invited. There's is also a big, Irish family so there are a lot of bodies to pack into the reception.

Naturally, with weddings that big and a family to match, there had to be a cut-off for invitees. Usually this involves an age limit or only married/engaged/seriously dating people are invited with dates. It's proper wedding etiquette to be honest. With an age-limit, it makes sense to only invite people who are 21+, especially if there will be alcohol involved. Underage drinking is always an issue with weddings and doing away with the temptation and the drama is more easily done.

Well, Mike's cousin went to the extreme.

Instead of making a 21 age cut-off, she decided to increase the age to 25.

Yes, pretty random. Her reasoning? No one under 25 could afford to give the couple a good enough monetary gift to make up for the money they put out.Takes a lot of balls to actually admit that. Makes her sound 100% self-absorbed and spoiled and that the wedding is just a chance to earn a little cash. But as stated, she is a spoiled bitch so that statement didn't surprise me.

Luckily, my friend Mike and his wife just made the cut-off so they will have the pleasure of attending the "wedding of the century,"--which will end in the divorce of the century (oops, did I just say that outloud?)--but his one cousin, who was at the bonfire, was not. She will only be 24 at the time of wedding and will join 3 other of her cousins who are close but not close enough to the appropriate age. The rest of her immediate family is invited--including her two sisters who have parts to play in the actual ceremony. Naturally, she feels a bit left out and a tad angry but not for the reason you think.

Being the "Princess of Pizza," the bride has decided to invite every single one of her personal employees from the South Philly branch. Which is very nice and respectable. But here's the catch--there are quite a number of these employees who aren't at the age cut-off and are in fact quite a few years younger. Not only are they still invited but they are also invited with dates.

To make matters worse, the bride called the younger cousin to basically cover her own ass. She apologized and gave the whole sob story about how expensive weddings are. Then she gave the following options to her cousin

1. Come with the bride's younger brother as his date--who by the way isn't even 21 but naturally had to be invited.
2. Be a member of the "B" list of guests and wait for the RSVPs to come in. If an actual invitee backs out, she's in.
3. Replace her sister as a reader at the ceremony, which would garner an automatic invitation to the wedding.

The phone call, which wasn't really heartfelt or considerate in anyway, only furthered the younger cousin's anger. Which honestly, I can't really blame her. I'd be pissed as hell if I was in her shoes. And the so-called "options" were basically saying "I still don't want to invite you outright, so here are options so my hands are clean in this." Due to her anger, the cousin asked for our opinions as we were outsiders looking in. So here is my two cents on the topic;

First of all, if you are planning an exuberantly expensive wedding and you have a huge family and thus need to institute an age-limit to keep the party list down, you need to actually stick by it. There cannot be exceptions to the rules or people who slide in on the down low. No wiggle room or special treatment. If you are under the designated age, sorry but you're not invited. This only causes a lot of drama, especially within families. When my uncle got married, he had an age limit of 18 for his wedding, which made sense because I have a very, very huge family. I was 15 and really wasn't too upset about not being invited--I have two younger sisters who were also not invited and at the time, I really wasn't too interested in wedding festivities. Until I found out that my two cousins were invited--my two cousins who were younger than me. That really burnt my toast, let me tell you. It all went back to the male-centric way my family operates--that nothing I do ever measures up to my male cousins or how I and my sisters are easily over-looked by my grandmother because we were born female--and that my far younger male cousins were just more important. It was a slap to the face and something that still angers me.

So again, keep to your own rules!

Secondly, inviting employees is nice, but should they really override actual family members? I get it. Most people spend more time at work then they do at home, and relationships with co-workers are almost on the same level as family. But to bend an age-rule AND invite these people with dates is a little much. If you were inviting solo members from work, go ahead and invite them with dates so they aren't sitting alone and it isn't awkward. But this particular bride invited every single member of her staff, so what is the point of inviting them with dates? If you're going to sacrifice inviting family members, don't invite employees with dates---or only invite them with dates if you actually know their significant other. Personally, I'd rather not have a bunch of random people at the most important day of my life. You don't know how these people are outside of work and with their significant other.

So, if you're crunching numbers nix the dates first and not the family.

Thirdly, if you are going to back peddle on an age-limit or try to make excuses once confronted by a non-invitee, don't make yourself into the victim and put the decision in their lap. This particular situation probably wouldn't have escalated if the bride hadn't called her cousin, tried to make her feel bad and then gave her those asinine options. It really made the situation ten times worse because it made the non-invitee feel like shit even more. Obviously the bride had no issue with not sticking to her rule, but her cousin just wasn't worth putting out $170 for. And those options are only meant to not make her feel guilty.

So, stick to your guns. Don't play the victim.

We talked back and forth about this issue, discussing our thoughts, the best way to remedy the situation, and what we would do in her situation. It is a pretty tricky situation especially when you throw those options into the mix. But, in the end we all thought the following was the best thing to do.

1. Be a "B" list attendee. Wait for the RSVPs to come in and once invited, RSVP yes. But.....don't show up.

It's a nice little F U to the bride for not inviting her to begin with. Make her shell out the money for nothing. Either way, I'd totally crash the wedding and get really, really drunk.

But that's just me.