"ribbon! Mama got me ribbon!"
between lonesome and blue
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I’ve been wrestling with what to do for New Year’s resolutions, especially since I can never seem to get around to accomplishing them, and whether or not I should post them up on evoque again. Nothing could have predicted the maelstorm of dramas that interrupted my placid progress towards completing the 2002 list. And being that I am Fate’s own Wednesday’s child, I don’t think I want to guess what could happen in 2003.
I had dinner—Chinese takeout, beef with broccoli, if you must know—with my nephew Parker (all of 18 months, what a cute kidlet he is) and he decided to smash open my fortune cookie for me. I had to laugh as it said “Please visit us at www.wontonfood.com.”
Actually, the other side read: “You are open-minded and quick to make new friends.” Which, considering my penchant for striking up conversations with strangers, is frighteningly accurate. But what does that get me, really?
Mike is still quick to argue that he, like so many other men in this world, loves an aggressive woman. I think that’s a great big lot of bullshit, and pardon my French. Santa’s already dropped off my presents, so I can be as naughty as I want to be. But I digress.
If I like you—really like you—and I’m rather quick to decide on that, you will be the recipient of my unflagging love and care and generosity. Sweaters, bottles of Penfolds 707 or Grey Goose, homemade chocolate-chip cookies, recordings of me reading a wee bit o’ Bobbie Burns for ye, airline tickets—these may all land on your doorstep, virtual and otherwise. I will answer your 3 AM drunken or heartbroken telephone calls, even when I am fast asleep, and probably do my utmost to make things good for you. Such is a life of care with me.
But the Mother Teresa complex has an ugly side to it. See, men don’t really like to be taken care of. And they’re at times frightened and emasculated by my willingness to shed the fetid cultural mores that delineate a woman’s role in society.
So I did what a wonderfully gruff old man told me to do when I was in my salad days; I live a life that I love with money of my own, and I am truly happy for it. What he forgot to tell me, however, was that Santa hasn’t gotten around to locating the good boy (the one who won’t have issues with such a “princess dork” as I) who gets to have me wrapped up in nothing but red ribbons and bows under his tree for Christmas.
So, one must wonder: is it even worth trying to be nice? Especially when one’s own tendencies run towards the truant? I think this next year, I will be as bad as I want to be; and if Santa gives me coal in my stocking, I shall use it to make a fire to warm his bare body and mine as I make up for all those Christmas mornings when I didn’t get a pony like I’d asked for.