Gee, and I really miss the holidays at home. I'm so glad you could go, and then I can experience it vicariously. Oh, wait! My evil plan has worked! My mother has supplanted me with a proxy daughter -- and you got caught in the net! So at least someone gets to experience thanks-giving with my newly inaugurated butt pirate brother, his knocked-up dumb-ass girlfriend, my nutcase mother, and her crazy friends. And you managed to work dog sex into the whole thing, which proves that beastiality makes the holidays fun for the whole family.

And people wonder why I moved away from the South and my family. It's amazing what a shine 2000 miles can put on something. Siberia rocks.

Well, another Turkey day has passed, and for the fifth year in a row, I have been at what I fondly refer to as an "orphans" gathering -- where all the people who don't have family nearby go for a family holiday. I don't miss being home, except for the not having to cook anything and having tons of great food. For the first three of those years, I was the host and cooked the turkey bird. Raw turkey is absolutely disgusting. Ick. I don't miss that. For some reason, I cannot for the life of me remember what it was I did last year. It's a blur. That's weird, when you can't remember what you did for the last holiday. I'm sure I was somewhere eating, but I don't have a clue who with or where. Hmmm. Old age, apparently.

I don't know about these holidays. On one hand, I think it's great that we've institutionalized days to remember the things and people important to us. But on the other, for those without family nearby or family they want to spend time with, it kinda sucks. I've enjoy making things my way, rather than having my mother organise our entire holiday. There's something liberatingly adult (the good kind, not the bill-paying responsible kind) about deciding how it is you would like to spend a holiday, a day that society has ultimately, for whatever reason, deemed Important and Meaningful. And that includes choosing not to celebrate that holiday. I like the fact that, if I so chose, I could decide NOT to celebrate Christmas, my least favorite holiday. I hate the commercialism of Christmas, the inescapability of the damn season, the fucking red and green, the carols EVERYWHERE, and the frenetic pace of the whole season. I like the idea of recognizing your family and friends and thanking them for what they contribute to your life. I've traveled home for the past many number of years, flying in in a frenzy, rushing around trying to navigate the damned suburbs of Atlanta in my mother's car to see all the friends and family I have in the area. Last year, I flew in to Hartsfield at 5:30 am Christmas morning, leaving the west coast the night before. Ugh. I hate that. I hadn't been sure where I would be or doing what, so I postponed getting tickets until the last minute -- and that's what I got. This year, I am not going home. I've been preparing my mother for this since March. She may survive the shock.

But the best thing is that this year, I can do it the way I want to. The important part will be servicing the kitty -- I'm going to get a tree for him to climb. What a present! Aren't I a good kitty servant? I'm thinking wired to the wall, the tree may actually not fall down too many times. Fun with cats and fun with trees. Fun from outdoors brought indoors. New traditions.....

Okay, yeah, I’ll admit a metrosexual trainer sounds fun, but where the hell would I find one? There are no metrosexuals in Siberia. For one thing, there are no metros here, and for the other, the sexuals are kept mostly under wraps. It’s like Christo for your sexuality. As though the whole state has a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It’s the same, more or less, if you’re a liberal. Don’t ask, don’t tell, and we can all perk along at the same status quo rate of life that just thrills the hell out of me. Our legislature actually had a discussion about the legal issues inherent in licensing cosmeticians for bikini waxing. The differences between a Brazilian wax and a regular bikini wax were discussed (after being explained to) by a bunch of middle aged white men. And you can bet few, if any, would consider metrosexuality a reality, a possibility, or of interest.

I have a few choice words for you on siblings: You can do NOTHING for them when they choose to fuck up their lives. It’s the same with other family, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, etc. and so on down the line. You control no one but yourself. How is it, though, that two children raised in the same environment by the same people turn out so differently? You and your sister share genes, too, for fuck’s sake! So you’re basically supposed to start out life on the same foot, but she ends up flunking out of grad school and with no social skills, and you end up with a career and more dating experience than anyone else I know.

At least my brother and I cannot claim the same genes. There are some reasons to be thankful for adoption. But this case study does really make an argument for nature over nurture. But then again, he was a boy and I was a girl, and that really does change not only the expectations that your parents place on you, but those of society, and the way that you each are treated. He got away with much more than I did, partially because I’m the oldest, but also because he was a boy and there was less emphasis placed on learning how to act and being responsible for one’s actions. After all, people still believe that “boys will be boys” and will act out, and that’s just normal and okay. This is the same society, remember, that still can’t help blaming the rape victim or the abuse victim. The same societal malaise that refuses to admit that we condone a world in which women are still second-class citizens.

But back to MY sibling, he’s in jail again. I wish he would become a real criminal, and learn how to rob people, or steal cars, or jump trains, or even threaten. Instead, he’s in jail for the THIRD time for something incredibly stupid. It’s a matter of thinking. I remember my mother constantly telling me I needed to think before I acted, think before I spoke. I don’t always, but I do realize that my stupidity has consequences. My brother, well, he just never figured that one out. He’s going to end up in prison, just like I told my parents he would back when he was 10. And I’m not even clairvoyant. I guess this makes Christmas shopping easy: cigarettes and soap on a rope. For the good Catholic boy in prison, where can I find one with a picture of the Pope on it? Pope soap on a rope!

It’s Monday morning. According to the thermometer outside the window of my spare bedroom, it was exactly ZERO degrees when I left my house, despite the deceiving sunnyness. The trees are covered in hoarfrost, making lacy white sparkly patterns against a soft blue sky. It’s pretty outside, but frickin cold.

I hate Monday mornings basically because it takes half the morning to figure out what it is that needs my attention immediately. I know that I have emails I need to answer (yes, they’re work-related) but the email system is acting up and I’m unwilling to battle it right now. I have a stack of things to read, and a to-do list, but the only things that seem to make it on to the list are things I keep not getting around to doing because they aren’t significant enough. Oh, and it’s cold in the office, too. We have giant windows, which are great, but they also suck off the heat. To combat this, an HVAC system was installed right in front of the windows – but the heat isn’t on for some reason. Brrrr.

I cannot believe that it is late November. I don’ t know where the time goes, but it does disappear when you are a working drone. 8 hours a day makes the days go away. Granted, if I look back at the last 8 months, so much has changed that it makes the lost time seem well-spent, or at least I can get an idea of how it was spent. I feel different than I did then – a little more confident that I can be a competant working drone. I’ve hated every job I’ve ever had until now. I hated going there every day. I’m still not sold on the every day thing, but I have some really good days to go with the mediocre and the shitty ones. I generally like what I do, and most of the people that I do it with. I’m not so sure about this snowing in October (we’ve now had our second snowfall of the year, which, coming from places where one was a big deal and not an annual event, is new and frankly cold).

I don’t know. I’m in a pensive mood, happy, but needing time to sit on my ass and think. And I won’t get that today. After work I have to go to a public meeting and listen to the city tell me why they have to widen a two-lane street to prevent this town’s version of “traffic” (i.e. a two-minute delay on ONE north-south corridor – there are other, quicker options). The street goes through our historic district, and not only are the frontages not big enough to support street widening without people losing their small front yards, but there are gorgeous street trees (which are not old – they are in their prime, according to the city forester) which will be torn down. They add to the character of the district and the quality of life not only for the people who live there, but for people like me who occasionally drive around to look at the prettier parts of town (and dream of living someplace that is visually pleasant, rather than in my suitable but drab and without a view basment apartment.) Ah, dreams.

Work-related gripe:

I work with mostly non-professional writers who are generally writing on subjects that, even if they are used to writing, they are not used to writing about. The essays that they are required to write (may I mention that the program is voluntary and you sign yourself up?) are outlined and described in an instructional booklet. The booklet clearly describes how the process works, including how many essays there are (2), how they need to be written, and what the subject of each essay is. IN DETAIL. And yet, I spend half my days explaining these things to people! When you call someone and say, “I want to get involved in this, send me some information.” and the person at the other end of the line obliges you, shouldn’t you give her the courtesy of reading the information before calling with 20 questions?

Oh, and here’s the kicker – it’s not the farmers, housewives, and small town folks that I have problems with. Their writing is simple, and they don’t usually know comma rules, and they tend towards the vernacular in language. But they understand the simple concepts involved in writing these short descriptive essays, and they have a grasp of basic sentence structure. These are the people we often thing of as uneducated. The people I have problems with are the engineers, architects, and doctors (of something, although definitely not of English) who think that they can write, but can’t. These people have college degrees, often more than one, in fact, and yet do not know how to write a complete sentence. And what the hell is it with capital letters? Why are there capital letters everywhere? We’re not the fucking Germans! We don’t capitalize all our nouns! And architects are the worst about it. I know they don’t have the excuse of being multi-lingual, as they usually don’t even have a language requirement! ARGH!

When did we stop teaching basic writing and communication skills?