My whole theme, if you will, for my trip to Mexico (realized on 14th Noviembre, returning 20th Noviembre, late at night) was to be friendly, open, really happy and upbeat. In short, a ball of professional sunshine, but getting to know everyone outside of work. The people were so nice, and never let me pay, and showed me all the best parts of Puebla, the town, and kept telling me how little I ate and encouraging me to talk and be part of their group. I had fun, I did, being this really outgoing version of myself, accommodating and nice, always happy. It was so exhausting, though. I'd come back to my hotel room wiped all the time.
Maybe that sounds a little selfish, but I'm just not a person people call "Sunshine" (insert two instances in my life as exception here, then move on). Being so open and easy-going does not come naturally to me. I am secretive, with good reason. I am cold, and outside, and apart from a lot of things in this world. As Emblem related to me recently, I am nothing if not intense. Just, an intense personality, as she put it. Every emotion keenly felt and rippling beneath my blank exterior, which I have in recent years let fall by the wayside. To display an actual personality, any emotion but anger, took me years to accomplish. And I still have to work at it.
Slam back from the introspection into diary mode. SLAM! At least I warned you.
Thanksgiving was good, better than I though it would be, with my aunt and uncle and my step-cousin and her boyfriend. Pilgrim pie is my favorite thing to eat around the holidays. I could be happy eating a ton of my aunt's homemade mashed potatoes and even more of my mom's pilgrim pie with mounds of fresh-made whipped cream. That is, quite literally, a slice of heaven with clouds on top. We sat around and played Sequence until we all were too tired to count to five, then trundled off to bed. I woke up early and spent time with my ever-more distant aunt, though that time is never as sweet as it used to be when I was a young girl who woke up early to watch TV and cuddle on the couch with her. The choices she has made, the husband she has married so late in her life, the way they all tolerate muy insufferable trashy step-cousin, all pull me away from her. It has always been said that I am a younger version of her, with my fiery temper and sarcastic nature, our luck at games, our silliness. That bond has been stretched. Not broken, but distorted, a mere shadow of itself. And it is like a dull ache when I see her, asking to be renewed. She started cutting it, absentmindedly, unintentionally, and I just pulled on the string, like a kite striving to see the world, unheeding of the holder of the handle. That's life as a kite. Capricious, unintentionally cruel, and inanimate. Straining without logic against the only bonds that hold you up, keep you aloft, keep you safe from trees, and from losing yourself in the clouds.
Makes a certain sort of sense that I should be such an intense flyer. I always did like losing myself in the clouds.
Ready? Wait for it.... SLAM!
Gotcha!
We finally booked our trip for San Francisco! We're leaving on my birthday and coming back on the second. Amid jokes of see you next year, which I always forget, and always make me laugh to hear. I'll be 24. One of my favorite numbers. Magic number. Number of hours in a day, according to human time. Divisible evenly by 1,2,3,4,6,8,12, and, of course, 24. I want poke cake for my birthday, but I doubt I can convince my mom to make it for me. It's just the yummiest, even if it is humble and involves jello. And cannot compare to my mom's pilgrim pie. And eggnog. I never really enjoyed eggnog when I was little. Too plain for me. But I discovered a sudden, inexplicable taste for it last year during the holidays. With lots of nutmeg. Intense flavor for an intense gal.
Hopefully I can visit H., mi rey, mi acushla, in January. My boss mentioned a possible raise (oh, for joy) but who knows. If it comes down to it, I'd rather he bought me a computer or a lifetime's supply of airline tickets. Maybe I'll bring H. a celtic ring. I have my own claddagh ring, given to me not by a great love but as a graduation present from an Irish (that is, from Ireland) cousin I can't recall meeting. My dad's side, that would be. I love it but I am bad at rings, I can't ever quite get comfortable wearing them. Case in point, my lightest-of-light gold ring, which has H.'s name and the date he gave it to me, which matches his ring, also feather-light and thin. I want to take the heart off my neck and replace it with the ring, but he'd rather I not, considering that's a symbol of rejection where he comes from. Anyway, maybe I'll get him a manly claddagh, or a celtic knot ring. I'll bring his parents the blanket I got in Mexico, him the tees and other gifts, and hope that will be enough.
Mom's party on Friday, Hanging of the Greens on Saturday, and caroling on Sunday. I'd say I'm booked. For a little while each day at least. Oh, no! I have to climb into the crawlspace attic to get all the Christmas stuff down. AND bring it up from downstairs. I hit my head at least twice. It's tradition. I just hope I can find the hard hat this year...
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Unhelpful quote of the day: "Fa la la la-aaah, screw it."
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