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January 03, 2007

The Exorcism of Melissa Dawn

I don’t really like to write during the holiday season. One, because I hate the holidays. And two, because it’s smarter to keep that negativity to myself which is hard to do when you have a blog so I just had to stay away.

I was also a little preoccupied. My boyfriend went on a little tour and shit. So I had the whole house to myself. Shit got lonely after awhile. But then he played several shows on this coast and I was able to attend five of them and um, we’ll get back to that in a separate entry.

So you want to know about the holiday party?

If you need refreshing, go here to read about the tragic events that led to the almost demise of my party time. Something about a glycolic peel leaving behind a massive scab right by my mouth two days before the boss’s party. Yeah, that. I mean, seriously. This was authentic panic type shit. Everyone stares at your mouth when you talk. Your mouth is all you have at the party. Damn your outfit, your shoes, your hair – it’s the talking that counts most. Shoes second. Then eye makeup third. (In my opinion.)

Now, before my boss’s party, that afternoon I had to go to my boyfriend’s company holiday party. I got to be the announcer during the raffle, you see. Besides, it’s my self-created job as “company wife” to attend these events. Luckily for me, I really enjoy hanging out with the company folks either a) because they are on the same level of obsession with hangbags and mascaras as I and b) because they’re just interesting people. I mean, it’s not every day that you pull into the parking lot of your boyfriend’s office and see a glitter green car-truck with rims and an airbrushed painting of an evil clown on the hood. I mean, that woman’s got to get to work too.

Anyway, I caked the concealer on the scab. For this afternoon party, I did my nighttime makeup face just to see if the concealer could handle all the movement, eating, drinking and socializing. I did look a bit crazy with smoky eyes mid-day, but shit, I had to get a practice session in.

Throughout the party, I went from table to table to see if anyone could tell. They have no reason to lie to me. I’d say, “Can you see a gigantic scab under there?” and they’d say no and I’d tell them it’s okay to be honest. I can handle it. And they’re really like NO. So then I whip out my camera phone pictures. Oh yes, I had been documenting the scab. The photos were as follows: Scab Day 1. Scab Day 2. Scab with Concealer.

I summarize the story like this. I’m addicted to beauty procedures. No pain, light pain, next level toe-curling shit – I’m into it. Plus, I’m turning 30. Had a peel. Shit got crazy. Now look! And they ooh and aaah and say “Damn dude. Okay yeah, now I see it. But you have to really point it out.” Which is exactly what I was doing. Whatever. Y’all ain’t fooling me. A scab with that kind of texture and hardness is so showing but it’s cool because miracles can and do happen every single day.

During the coffee and dessert portion, I was sipping on my coffee when I looked into the cup and saw a little thing in there floating. Naturally, I was like oh hell no. Somehow forgetting that I had any manners, I scooped the debris out of the coffee and was totally mystified slash disgusted. Just then a terrible thought ran through my mind, and just as I’d thought it, I reached up -- with the back of my hand because I thought maybe the back of my hand is cleaner than my fingertips -- and I patted my skin where the scab should be.

Totally smooth skin.

The scab fell off in my coffee.

Now, everybody at the party is having a good time at this point. They’ve already had appetizers, dinner and drinks and now dessert and coffee and people already won the raffle. So everyone was occupied with checking out the flat screen that some guy just won. Therefore, I was free to be my real self in one of the most embarrassing moments ever.

I took a mirror out of my purse and sure enough, there was no scab.

Have you ever felt simultaneously delighted and nauseous? Dude, it can happen. It happened to me.

The skin beneath was a soft and dewy pink new skin. A sight to behold, really. Cell rejuvenation right before your eyes. I was happy.

So I went home from the company party to start my regimen over in preparation for my boss’s party. New shower, new makeup and as Puff Daddy would say to Babs, new hair options.

The party was fabulous just as I’d suspected it would be. I was dressed up like an extra in a Prince video, but whatever. I felt great!

Now, I never discuss this for fear of being judged poorly, but I’ve found you’re not allowed to say anything about being not that into the holidays. It doesn’t come off as realistic even though it totally is. Instead, it’s just like you’re an inappropriate bitch which is never what anyone should aspire to be.

Let me explain.

I walked into the party and the tree was really really pretty. White and hot pink and just insane and not like any boring green tree I’d ever seen. To no one in particular, I said to myself out loud “Gorgeous tree, if you’re into that sort of thing.” It wasn’t super loud and I even caught myself midway through the realization that I was saying some shit out loud and I just hushed up. And went back to mingling.

Well, two people heard me. And they laughed, but I could tell it was an uncomfortable laugh. Like, I’d just made some people unnecessarily uneasy. Oops. I really didn’t mean to.

Here’s the thing. I don’t need to be exorcised. It’s not that serious. I just can’t really get into it.

Now don’t get me wrong. I can get down with sending impoverished children shoes and blankets and school supplies. I’m into that. Even though the experience of sending that package was a total (two-hour) nightmare which is another thing you can’t say. Basically while doing anything nice for people that don’t have the luxuries we have, you can’t say shit.

You can’t complain about the fact that the post office worker told you to go to the back of line three times. You can’t complain about the fact that you were sent to the back of the line those three times because three different times you’d been told to do the wrong thing or not told to do another thing. You can’t complain about the fact that the man was looking crazy-eyed when you asked to borrow the tape gun. You’re just like, don’t you fucking traffic in boxes and tape? Isn’t your whole business model built on the very things I’m requesting – why are you looking at me sideways? Keep in mind, I didn’t seal the package because I was told that I’d have to itemize the entire box and note the materials that each item consisted of. Yeah, have you ever heard of that shit? Me neither.

You can’t even complain when he runs your card and tells you it is declined which is impossible because you just spent a grip of cash on the contents of the boxes you’re sending so how sir, is it possible that I can’t spend another grip to ship it? You can’t complain about the fact that you ran across the street to get cash out of the ATM and the card totally worked just like you’d expected it to. And no, you can’t complain about the fact that the post office worker told you a long story about how in Africa, they have a different value system placed on mail and there’s no guarantee that my items will arrive to their final destination for little Elizabeth and Costansia. That maybe someone will go through the boxes and remove the things he needs and send only the rest. I said, Surely you don’t think an armed guard somewhere needs two Crayola boxes of 64 with the built-in sharpener? Could he possibly steal Hello Kitty bedding and stationery and children’s Chuck Taylors? I mean, seriously? So yeah, that’s how that went. I’ve been crossing my fingers for my two girls. I’ve actually lost sleep worrying about it. Can you imagine how terrible they’d feel if all the other kids got stuff and they didn’t? Why would the post office man tell me that! Wow.

So anyway, about this holiday thing.

It’s just so much. I don’t think every front yard needs an 8-ft inflatable snow globe. The flying reindeer on the roof is just out of control to me. The houses with the menorahs and the Christmas trees – well, that blows my mind. The everlasting music, the chimes and the bells. It’s just a lot to take on all at once. The holiday commercials, the extra flair that the waiters in all restaurants have to either wear or perform – it’s just doing a lot.

And now I’ve got a whole new set of problems. J’s been on the road and so we postponed Hanukah for the day he comes home. In the meantime, I’ve received lots of cards from his friends and family. Like, the address label says Melissa Howard and…

Meaning the card is totally for me too. Which is nice.

But then I thought, I didn’t send cards to these people. And these aren’t just any old cards. These are photographs of babies on card stock. Like, with love from our whole family type cards. Like, the kind of card that is so nice you feel like a bad person for not reciprocating. J has no address book. He’s never sent a card in his entire life.

So I was talking to his mom about this. I said, “B, so what’s the deal with the sending of the cards?”

She said, “Usually it’s the woman that handles that.”

I was like, “Oh? Because I don’t send out cards to anybody I know. And I know your family now but J’s not that into this whole holiday spirit thing but I guess…”

Hello! I guess that means I have to take that on from now on. This fool got me up here playing house without a ring and now I have to send cards to people? Whoa! Did I just say that out loud? Well, shit on the eve of my 30th birthday I’ve decided that I just have to be my true self. Sometimes I say fucked up shit that makes people uncomfortable and I don’t mean to. I’m just being honest. I love you J, damn. Sorry!

Anyway, back to the card-sending.

In those two hours that I waited in line at the post office, every single person was complaining about how many cards they had to write, how many times they’d been here before, how much money they’d spent on postage blah blah blah. Dude, you’re doing it to yourself though. Can’t you see?

I don’t even want to think about the global warming aspect of this. All that paper! All those machines and toxins to make and distribute the papers? All the manpower – how many UPS dudes get to even enjoy the holiday? No, for an entire group of workers in the US, the holidays are the worst ever and no one wants to give them a break. It’s a vicious cycle. So I thought I’d do my part and just not get involved, but now I have to.

Otherwise, J’s whole side of the family will never get cards from him when they know full well that I am the girl in this. So now I’m tripping off the idea that everyone will be talking about how I don’t even send a card. And the sending of cards really matters on Long Island. I don’t know if it matters where you are, but I’ve been to many family events and heard many times that so and so didn’t send a card or such and such didn’t call about the blah blah blah and that shit matters. So now I’m that bad girlfriend that doesn’t send cards. Ugh. OH NO.

I’m saving all the addresses now. I guess I should get the birthdays of the babies down on paper too.

I’m not even married and I’m dealing with this. Is this a recurring theme? Why do I keep saying that out loud? Am I really feeling this way? What have I become? What am I talking about? Well, shit. Thirty is no joke. (Small voice: I'm scared, y'all.)

Speaking of not even being married, I had a fancy exchange with a Nigerian cab driver this past Wednesday. I know about five of you out there just went, “Why he gotta be Nigerian?” Because he is, okay. That’s why. Is it integral to the story? Probably not, but it’s a detail and I’m telling it so chill.

We’d had some small talk on the ride, and he was nice enough.

I went to hand him my money for my fare and he stopped and said, “I need directions.”

I said, “What?”

He said it again.

I was like I don’t follow.

He said, “I need directions to your heart because it seems your man hasn’t found the way yet.”

He was looking at my hands. I guess the ringless finger is a dead giveaway? I was like DAAAAAAAYUM J, he got you. J wasn’t even in the cab, much less in the same state but I was cracking up. I proceeded to give him $10 for a $6 ride and went on about my business.

Now let’s talk about the insane things I saw while attending a few of my boyfriend’s shows. Get there.

Posted by melissah at January 3, 2007 12:49 PM