If We Took a Holiday…
My savings account had been hungry for some money.
For the past three years I had starved it silly, promising it would be filled with whatever supplementary income came my way under miraculous circumstances. It waited and waited. And waited some more. Some funds would eventually trickle in from my similarly ravenous checking account. Twenty-five dollars automatically journey across the land of electronic transfers at the end of each month and find solace in the empty wasteland that is Hiko’s Savings.
"Feed me, Hiko."
Just like the mutant flytrap in "Little Shop of Horrors," my savings account cried for some tasty fundage, and I kept making empty promises, knowing extra cash was far off the radar.
But then came the checks from my boss for housesitting during September and October. Just what I needed. I could treat myself to a sushi dinner and buy those rechargeable batteries for my digital camera at Target. My income had become slightly more disposable, and my savings account was treated to the fiscal feast it was dying for.
Suddenly, the engine light on my Focus flicked on. Something was wrong. My car was in need of a check-up. Check-ups cost money. Five hundred dollars to be exact, taken from my account, for two engine valves that needed to be replaced.
And of course, they were parts that weren’t covered under my warranty. It’s always something, isn’t it?
I have just finished my one-week stay at San Sebastian. I proudly played Thanksgiving Host for the first time. Nine guests, six bottles of wine, and two trays of stuffing conspired to make a wonderful evening that eventually resulted in serious food comas (got the attached pics to document it). Perhaps it was the inhaling of the dozens of appetizers that led to my demise.
Turkey Day ‘05 started with Razzie waking me up at eight for her morning pee in the backyard. By nine I had the Macy’s Parade playing on the flatscreen in the kitchen, listening to Matt and Katie’s silly commentary on the various floats which invaded lower Manhattan. Thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Today, I now know Arthur’s eyeglasses are wider than four windshields and that it takes eight hundred gallons of bird feed to satisfy the Big Bird float.
I TiVoed the rest of the parade so I could take the dog on a hike in the hills before guests started showing up at the gate. It was beautiful. As I stood at one of the viewpoints of the trail, I pictured kitchens across Los Angeles filled with the aromas of homemade pies, thick gravy, and freshly baked biscuits, Atkins permitting. The stuffing that I had mixed with my bare hands the night before went in the oven promptly at one. I mashed up the yams and marshmallowed the hell out of them before sprinkling cinnamon and brown sugar on top. Aforementioned appetizers were consumed around three, more guests showed up before four, and the turkey arrived an hour late due to traffic in Beverly Hills.
There was none of that "What I am thankful for" bullcrap at the dining table. No grace was uttered. Hands were not held for a moment of silence. My holiday companions and I dived right in, taking a scoopful of this and a forkful of that. Wine was poured generously, and mashed potatoes were devoured quietly. Bits of conversation floated over the string bean casserole, and to make sure everyone was on the same page, we all offered our own sound bites on the Nick and Jessica breakup. Within five minutes everyone dropped their utensils, rubbed their stomachs, and had the same painful expression on their faces.
It was time to retire to the media room.
The second half of the evening consisted of a round of SceneIt on the big screen, helpings of apple crisp, pumpkin pie, and chocolate mousse pie with ice cream, and a viewing of an episode from "The Golden Girls" (got the third season DVD last week). Watching those saucy seniors made us reflect on our own lives, where would we be in thirty years, what would we be doing with ourselves. For anyone over 35 who is reading this, forgive us for already feeling old at 25.
It’s as if someone had flicked on a rapid-aging switch when I hit that quarter-century mark.
I know I’ve reached 25 when my friends decide to leave a club before 1am. I also know it when we are in said club for the Madonna CD release party, and all of the under-21 kids (it was an 18+ event we attended two weeks ago) don’t know the words to the Material Mom’s songs pre-1990 (sad, but seemed to be true).
25 is when I started hanging out with married couples. I am now acquainted with husbands and wives! The proof is in the invitations to housewarming breakfasts, complete with crying toddlers and crayon-covered coffee tables.
How did this happen?
25 is also when your favorite singers/bands release their greatest hits compilations. Granted, most of these artists have been out for less than a decade. 25 is when "sleeping in" means waking up at 10 in the morning instead of after noon. It is when you look forward to the Sunday paper to collect coupons from your local supermarket. It is when the following retailers lose all of their allure: Abercrombie & Fitch, Hot Topic, American Eagle, Pacific Sunwear. It is when NPR becomes programmed on your radio dial. It is when your close friends start throwing words around like "real estate broker," "stock portfolio," "high school reunion," and "call it a night."
Apparently, it’s when you start to think too much about the future.
One by one, my friends departed, bellies full and smiles brightened. My Thanksgiving had been a hit.
I stayed in bed for most of the following day. Razzie was just as worn out. She kept me company as I watched DVD after DVD. It was when I finished viewing the behind-the-scenes featurettes on "War of the Worlds" that I realized a threat far greater than hostile aliens was hovering above me and my fellow Angelenos - holiday shopping at the malls. It was Black Friday. Do I dare step foot in the Glendale Galleria to brave the fierce foot traffic, succumb to the irresistible sales, and avoid being plowed down by speeding strollers? No. I wait (especially when I completed most of my purchases right after Halloween - booyah!).
As another page is ripped off the calendar, bringing us closer to Santa Sunday, I won’t panic over crossing off the remainder of my shopping list. No worries whatsover.
In the end, I always give good gift.
- H.P.M.
