Dear Santa, Those Xanax Weren’t For You

When I was young, my mom used to always shovel blueberries down my throat, whilst telling me that with every bite I was prolonging my lifespan and thwarting off cancer. Apparently, they were rumored to have the most antioxidants of anything on the earth. That was, until, the pomegranate phenomenon spread like STD wildfire throughout the country and caused my mom to question her entire world view.

0007874209002_215x215So given this general knowledge, I’m deducing that it is in the best interest of my health and well-being to polish off all four boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream that I just bought. And prepare yourselves  to have me around forever, got it?

Ok, now we need to talk about a few less important things. Like why I haven’t been around. And why the Osmonds won’t seem to go away. Or why I went to Walmart to buy green beans and walked out with 4 boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream, a dozen chocolate glazed donuts and a #3 from McDonald’s.

It’s no secret to my inner circle that I’ve been suffering from a bit of a holiday depression this year. Normally, the tree is up by October with my christmasy music mix playing on repeat. I can’t get enough Christmas. Until, this year. No tree. No peppermint hand soap. No music. No cocktail party with teeny tiny foods.

But then I got bombarded with a slew of holiday cards, in attempt to lift my spirits… Look at me, I’m so popular!  I’m so loved!

christmas-cards

Oh wait…. they’re all from my mom!

christmas-card

That’s right. My mom just wouldn’t tolerate my holiday funk this year. She sent me a Christmas card every single day of December, and each time she came to my house she’d sneak a pre-decorated mini tree into a different room. FYI: she was the ONLY one who sent me a Christmas card, so that whole “popular” comment was a bit of an exaggeration.

Speaking of Christmas, here’s a sound bite of how my holidays went:

MOM: Before we open presents we have to have some Christmas music playing.

AUNT: [to uncle] Honey, can you turn on some music? [looks at a huge list] Go to CD #81, that will be good.

[about 3 minutes pass as they are trying to figure out the stereo… finally instrumental music starts playing]

ME: Um, what CD is this? And why does it sort of make me want to cry but yet kill people at the same time?

[…silence…] […looks of confusion…]

AUNT: Hmmm. What is this?   …..Ooooooooh, this is my Last of the Mahicans soundtrack. That’s okay though, this will be fine.

ME: Um, what? We can’t listen to that while we open presents. That’s the most depressing movie of all-time.

AUNT: Well, I don’t know how this came on, I gave him the number for Celestial Winds.

ME: Celestial Winds? No. That won’t work either. We’re not getting facials.

MOM: We HAVE TO HAVE Christmas music to set the mood.

BROTHER: Oh my God.

ME: Hey, you don’t happen to have the Gladiator soundtrack do you?

DAD: Is it time for pie?

Kenny Chronicles: Don’t Cry Or My Fake Tan Will Run

[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]

Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.

[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]

Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee.  I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.

Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.

Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?

Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.

Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?

Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.

Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.

Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.

Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]

Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.

Kenny: Um, no.

Me: What do you mean no?

Kenny: We’re not those people.

Me: Those people, who?

Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.

Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO!  ….Turn the car around.

Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?

Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]

Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?

Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.

Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!

Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that isOh wait, you didn’t know that?

It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:

Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.

Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?

Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.

Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?

Kenny: No.

Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?

Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.

Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.

[silence…]

Me: Get out of my house.

rockford-il-photography

And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.

The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:

Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.

Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?

Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.

Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]

Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.

Me:  Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.

 

And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…

To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water