TTFN

Okay people, the narcissist needs a break. You might have noticed the downward spiral in quality of recent posts, and more and more am I breaking from my daily posting habit. From the whole bah humbug tone lately, you can probably glean from my posts that I am going through a stressful time right now. So in order to ease some of it, I am just going to step away from Narcissistic Flight until after the new year. I am hoping things will look up by then, and I will have more fun and interesting things to post at that time.

Happy Holidays to all.

P.S. Update on the Roxy Method. You may be delighted to know that I was able to eat an entire Bacon Cheeseburger, Biggie fries, regular coke and medium Frosty last night. I think I caught up on all the missing calories and fat grams in one meal, clogging some arteries in the process. Hopefully that was the breakthrough I needed, because I am looking forward to stuffing myself at Christmas. Gotta make up for Thanksgiving, ya know.

Adieu, fair readers.

Party

Last night was our office holiday party. At last year's party we went to the Kirkland Keg and sat at a large table, ordered appetizers and drinks and talked to our neighbors. There were no spouses or partners, and it was no fun.

As our company grows, so too does the party. So we moved on up to the Bellevue Club Olympic Ballroom A. A Ballroom for our holiday party. You have no idea how big a deal that is. And it was catered. And there was an open bar.

Cy wasn’t able to make it, so I was free to socialize. I mostly spoke with the wives of a few coworkers, but toward the end of the evening I got to spend some time with our new hottie. That made my night. Sure he has a girlfriend, but she lives in California or some other far-off place. Do long distance relationships really work? Remember leaving your high school sweetheart when you went to separate colleges and you swore you would be together forever, but two weeks later you had The Talk? We didn’t talk about the girlfriend though, so she very well could be packing up her bags for WA as I write this.

What does that matter anyway? I was merely enjoying some intellectual conversation about human behavior (okay so we were discussing reality television, but our basis was in sociology, I promise).

You can witness my flirting self here (I blame the whiskey sours).
Yes, I know my eyes have a devilish glint. You can blame the alcohol, or the camera phone that took the photo - take your pick.

A fun time was had by all. But how could there not have been? We got to see both the CEO and the President smashed.

I'll Let You In On The Skinny

Forget low-carb. I’ve got a line on the next hot plan in weight loss strategies. You may call it the Roxy method. But I’ll let you in on a secret, shhh, all it is really is a stress diet. You don’t even have to decide to be on it. It just finds you. One day you are eating healthy well-rounded meals (if you count cheezits and cocoroos as well-rounded), the next you can barely choke down an entire banana.

It’s quite convenient actually. There is no need for appetite suppressants, points systems, or meetings. Your body makes the plan and forces you to stick with it. Food becomes a thing of the past. No longer do you have the desire to eat, and should you try to force yourself to eat just five baby carrots so, you know, you have some calories and vitamins to live on, you will find massive protestations from you dietary tract.

Yes, sir, the Roxy method is the absolute way to go. It has never failed any of its users. All have seen results. Why just look at me for example. Just a few short weeks ago I filled out my clothes. Now they hang on me like paper sacks. Have you ever wanted to see an entire rib cage? Why just look at mine, each bone is plainly visible. A spine? Count every last vertebrae. Yes sir, I am beginning to look like an emaciated famine victim, otherwise known as a fashion model.

Still not sold? Well stand tall. Now look down. Thighs touching? Oh, too bad. Try the Roxy method, and they will be miles apart. Don’t believe me? Tsk, tsk. I’m selling the truth here.

Now, I must admit, there are a few side effects for long-term followers of the Roxy method involving malnutrition and/or starvation, mostly because it is very difficult to forsake the method of one’s own volition. It just happens.

Why, the last time I was on it, just after my separation from my ex-husband, the Roxy method held me in its grasp for weeks on end, but it was nearing bikini season anyway, so I didn’t much mind. But just as others and I were growing in concern about my rapidly diminishing frame, Big and Coco introduced me to sushi that wasn’t from the grocery store deli. I ate it then ate some more and some more, and poof was released from the grips of the Roxy method.

So now all I need is that magic food to release me. So far, I have only been able to eat when a meal is purchased for me, though I consume only one quarter to one half of my usual serving. Sadly even the holiday food that has been amassing in the office kitchen has failed to tempt me, which is strangest of all because usually I am piling my napkins sky-high. So aside from finding a sugar daddy to take me out for every meal, I haven't quite found the out yet. I 'll let you know when I do.

But that aside, the Roxy method really is your weight loss solution. It takes absolutely all the brainwork out of shedding the pounds. Gasp! Exercise is not even necessary. So join me, won’t you? I guarantee you’ll be satisfied with the results.

Ho Ho Hum

Why do I feel like I am committing an act of child abuse by not stringing my house full of Christmas lights, garland and bows this year? I don’t even have a Christmas tree, and even lack a plan or the desire to procure one. I am just not doing the Christmas thing this year. No decorations, no tree, no shopping. I’m out for the first time in my life.

And aside from feeling guilty about robbing my daughter of the whole “Santa came let’s open a bunch of stuff” thing, I don’t regret it one bit. I listened to my coworkers talk about how much of their weekend was devoted to shopping and fighting the crowds and spending vast amounts of money on things no one will care about in two months and how stressed out they were about how much was yet to be done, and I leaned back in my chair, relaxed with no holiday stress, no holiday worries.

Besides, Audrey doesn’t seem to have noticed the absence of a tree. And what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, right? But still a part of me feels like I am ruining her childhood, depriving her of proper Christmas memories.

Do you feel obligated to celebrate Christmas or the other seasonal holidays while wishing you could just step away, or is it your favorite time of the year and you welcome the madness?

Knock Knock

You might remember that when I moved into my apartment, my first morning there I arose to play to piano as I do every Saturday morning. You may also remember that mere minutes after I started the downstairs neighbor was pounding on my door complaining that the noise went straight to their bedroom and could I please play later in the day. Since then I have muted my piano and moved it to the dining room so it would be farther from the bedrooms. I felt awful for bothering them, and vowed not to do it again.

But a few nights ago, I was up very late because of some crazy stuff that had been going on, and just before going to bed I remembered that I had a load in the washer that needed to be dry. Without thinking, I just shoved it in, turned on the dryer and went to bed. Half and hour later, there was a pounding at the door. It was the downstairs neighbor asking me to refrain from drying my clothes at night. I apologized profusely saying I had no idea that the noise would be audible below, turned off the dryer and went back to bed.

The next afternoon I came home to a message on the answering machine from the apartment manager. She asked that I refrain from doing laundry in the middle of the night and blah blah blah. I was incensed that the neighbor would call and complain after I apologized so nicely and promised never to do it again. Lesson learned.

But that night, I went to bed much earlier and was fast asleep when another set of poundings jolted me awake. I was startled and my heart started racing. I waited to see if I had really heard it or if it was a part of some very real dream. Moments later the knocker rapped on the door. I grabbed my robe and opened the door.

“I’m not running my dryer. I got the point all ready. There is absolutely nothing running in my apartment. I was just in bed sleeping.”

“Well there is something just…a constant noise or something…”

I was starting to get really mad. “It’s not coming from my apartment. Listen, it is as quiet as can be.”

“Well it’s coming right down into our room.” We stood there and argued for a few minutes more before him finally believed I had nothing to do with the mysterious noise.

You would think that would it, wouldn’t you? No, not at all.

Last night, same thing. I was fast asleep in my bed when I awoke to the pounding again. This time it wasn’t the middle aged man, but rather the old lady who had complained about the piano.

“Do you have to do your laundry in the middle of the night?” She asked me.

“I am not doing laundry. I am sleeping. I haven’t watched tv. I haven’t done anything tonight. I just read and went to sleep. I haven’t made a peep since I got home. Listen to my apartment.” I paused and we both listened to the perfect silence. She still didn’t believe me. Idiots.

I didn’t mind the first two times because there really was noise, but this was ridiculous. How sensitive are these people to noise if nonexistent sounds keep them up at night? Get a grip, get a noise machine and leave me the hell alone!

I told Cy about the needless midnight visits. He was beyond angry and called the property management place soon after the lady left. He left a very harsh message about breaking the lease and calling the cops if they do it again. I never would have done that, but this afternoon there was another message from the property management place. Apparently that man isn’t supposed to be in that apartment at all, so he should never have bothered us, and they are going to take care of him.

Now I don’t know whether to be glad that interruptions to my beauty sleep are a thing of the past or be sad that the poor man may lose his place at his momma’s pad.

Simple Life Abandoned

Do you ever get so sick of everything that you just wish that you could forsake it all for chopping wood or making boxes? Our lives are so abstracted and complex because we make them so. We analyze everything. We construct everything. Nothing can just be, for our worlds are complicatedly interconnected. We rely on so many things and have no earthly idea what life is like without electricity, streets, automobiles, even grocery stores. We need the people who build grocery stores, grow the food that fill them, transport the products to them, and power the freezers so the food is edible. We don’t know them, but we need them. Most people have no idea how to live without community. Few even have an interest to try.

Is life better in our world of two-hour commutes, skyscrapers and consumer research? There are people out there who know more about us and our habits than we ourselves know. Information is everywhere. Privacy is shrinking. So really, is our life better with microwaves and cell phones and the Internet? Are we happier than our forefathers? Or is life just faster and busier?

The first question I posed wasn’t mine, but one from a PhD researcher here in the office. Seemed ironic that he would ask me that when he is one of those who analyze our habits and the complicities of modern life; the complicities that some days I just wish would disappear. He is one of the ones that provide information to big corporations about us – the consumer – so we can then be provided with more perfect means to have a further complicated life.

I think that I would happily forsake central heat and air for a Little House on the Prairie existence. I hear a cabin in Montana calling to me. I honestly believe that I would be the happiest person alive; living off the land with a cabin I’ve filled with books, my piano, a typewriter and plenty of reams of paper.

Have you ever longed for simplicity? Or do you happily assimilate every modern convenience into your existence while eagerly awaiting the next?

A Rose By Any Other Name

Picture, if you will, an apartment. It isn’t quite a luxury apartment, and it is not even quite up-scale, but it is definitely one of the nicer places around. Now go inside this apartment. See the second-hand, but quality, designer furniture, see the oil paintings on the wall and the silver-framed pictures on the étagère. Look at the clean counters and the neatly arranged cabinets in the kitchen. Now stay in the kitchen a moment longer, please. Look a little closer. Just a little closer. Don’t see anything? Turn down the lights. Now, listen. Hear that? Just wait one moment more. Quick! Turn on the light. See, there it is. Oh wait, it’s there. Got it! You missed it? Well I will show you. Yes friends, it is a roach. A ROACH. A ROACH! Do you see something wrong with this picture, folks?

Okay, I lived in South Carolina, where there are so many roaches, we went and gave them a fancier name. Yankees, meet our Palmetto Bug. Palmetto Bug, terrorize the Yankees. It was hard to explain to our families from the North that roaches (AKA Palmetto Bugs) are just part of living in the South. Roaches, heat and humidity just came hand-in-hand. You put a bug guy on retainer, and get used to seeing the 3-inch buggers strolling across your neck in the middle of the night. Okay, so you never get used to that, you turn on all the lights in your room and huddle in a distressed panic in the exact middle of your bed for the rest of the night praying that no roach will ever, EVER dare to touch your naked body again. And okay, so besides wanting to be closer to my family, escaping the roaches was a HUGE motivation for leaving the South for bugless Seattle.

Newsflash!! Seattle isn’t bugless! Oh, and even bigger news than that…SEATTLE ISN’T ROACHLESS!!! (Excuse my excessive use for exclamation points, but believe me they are called for).

So back to the shattered image of domesticity I painted for you earlier. That was of course my apartment. That was of course my roach. That was of course my humiliation. In South Carolina, roaches, as I have explained, are matter of course. Here, in Seattle, they mean you are dirty and disgusting and don’t keep a clean house. Except… I do keep a very clean house. Believe me, I don’t have this Martha Stewart obsessive-compulsive image for nothing. So why, I ask you, was a roach crawling across my perfect kitchen? Where did it come from, and how many more of them are there? They are like ants. Where there is one, there are more.

It wouldn’t be so bad, except I wasn’t the one who discovered the roach. I was there, right there, but he found it. Cy and I were standing in the kitchen talking, when his attention was attracted to the counter. He quickly grabbed a paper towel and grabbed the offending bug. My face turned red when it was determined to be a roach, and I grabbed a sponge and began wiping the already clean counters. I ever started taking the stove apart to search for crumbs. Cy was disgusted, but he knew it wasn’t my fault. At least he told me it wasn’t my fault.

All I can say now is uck, ugh, gross and nasty. You can pretend to live in harmony with the “Palmetto Bugs” in the South, but I refuse to do it here. Get those f’ing roaches out of my apartment!

Hallejuah!

I have gotten so frustrated with being the family planner and matriarch of sorts that after the dreadfulness of my Thanksgiving I decided that I needed a break. The Monday after the holiday I slaved and cooked away for, I was plagued with phone calls by those asking about Christmas. What are we going to do? We should do this. Are you going to do this? I couldn’t take it. I hadn’t even cleaned out the old leftovers from my fridge and already my attentions were to focus on something nearly a month a way?

“Mom, how about this Christmas you guys plan the entire holiday and just send me an invitation, okay?” I finally said this when I could take thinking about Christmas no longer.

I didn’t actually suppose that I would be off the hook however. I never really believed that they were capable of planning it without me, since I have PLANNED EVERY FREAKING EVENT SINCE I MOVED BACK TO SEATTLE (big deep breath).

Today I got an email describing a Christmas “banquet” to be held at my aunt’s house. Immediately my hackles were raised. Banquet? They hadn’t asked me about any banquet. What the heck? I began to get mad. Why wasn’t I being consulted about this? And then I remembered my plea. I smiled and nodded my head. It worked. No more calls about Christmas. None. And to top it all off gift giving has been cancelled as well. We are going to concentrate on the meaning of Christmas and the joy of being together.

This is going to be the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

Sold

Seen on a sandwich board at the Doubletree Hotel Bellevue…Millionaire Mind - $10.

Is that a bargain, or what?

Pink Is Her Brand New Obsession

I always wondered if girliness is innate or something that just happens along the way. You would think that being a girl I would be more clued in to the topic, but perhaps upon reflection I am. When I was a little girl I wanted to wear dresses every day and an apron so I could fill said apron with wild flowers from the nonexistent fields surrounding our suburban home. But I loved Matchbox cars and cap guns too. I don’t think I was overwhelmingly girly or much of a tomboy either.

Audrey, however, appears to be all girl. She is fascinated by makeup and compliments my pretty eye shadow when I am wearing it darker for a special occasion. She hates when I pull my hair back, preferring it to be flowing down my back so she can brush it and play with it. She likes her hair to be a certain way, and she has to pick out her “special outfits” that are always completed with her boots and heaven help me if I call them shoes because they are BOOTS. And somewhere sometime she picked up an overwhelming affinity for the color pink. Why are little girls drawn to the color pink?

She found a pair of pink panties and wanted to immediately change out of the blue ones she was wearing because, “I only like pink, Momma.” And then a struggle ensued wherein I had to force Audrey to keep on the blue ones because I don’t want her to get into the habit of only wearing pink panties. She has but two or three pairs, and I am not going to do laundry every few days just so she can have fresh, pink panties on a daily basis. No, sir. She can sign up some other shmo for that one (Sam?), but it won’t be me.