Well, that time of peace and joy and love for my fellow human beings has passed. We’re now in the dark winter of cynicism and sarcasm and wishing everyone else would get a clue already. However, before writing me off as a bitter Betty, consider that it is only my deep concern for my fellow human beings (and my high regard for myself) that allows me to present the following list of Resolutions for Everybody Else. Follow them, and make the world a better place (for me) this year.
1) Resolve to always take note of your surroundings. Are you walking down 8th Avenue in a throng of hurrying commuters? Then perhaps now would not be the best time to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and tie your shoe. DUH.
2) Resolve to hold the door open. It’s common courtesy. Whether you are male, female, old, young, whatever, it is very, very rude to let the door slam in the face of the person behind you. DUH.
3) Resolve to turn off your cell phone in churches, theatres, and other quiet environments. There are signs everywhere. It’s printed at the top of the church bulletin. There’s an announcement before the show starts. There is no excuse for “forgetting” to do this. Can’t miss a call? Every cell phone on the planet has a “silent” tone. Learn how to use it. DUH.
4) Resolve to have your method of payment ready at the check-out. You’ve seen those commercials for the Visa check card? They’re more accurate than you think. Don’t be the dingbat fumbling in the bottom of your pocket for and additional 12 cents. You know what that time you spend standing in line is for? It’s for you to get out your cash or your credit card, find your wallet, end your cell phone conversation, and just generally be ready for your interaction with the cashier so that you don’t hold up the rest of us. DUH. And for that matter, if you are one of the 14 people left on earth who still write checks at stores, buck up and join the 21st century. Get yourself a debit card and learn to use it, STAT. Or at least stop shopping at the places I’m shopping, because I will shoot you murderous looks and not so subtly mutter about you under my breath. DUH.
5) Resolve to send thank-you notes. Has someone done something nice for you? Did they give you a gift? Did they go above and beyond for you? Don’t you think you could do them the small honor of taking pen to paper and thanking them? Like your mother always told you, it builds character and it displays character. Be a good person. DUH.
6) Resolve to let other people exit before you enter. This applies to train cars, elevators, and buildings in general. There’s no need to shove yourself in. That seat isn’t going anywhere, that elevator isn’t going to move, until the people who are already inside get out. Make life easier for everyone and do your waiting on the platform. DUH.
7) Resolve to ask yourself, when faced with a behavioral conundrum, what would Sarah do? If in doubt, feel free to ask. I will always have a right answer for you. DUH.
So take my advice and take my help, and do your part to make my life a little less stressful this year. It’s the least you can do to make the world a little nicer!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Holy Family Sunday=Hate My Family Sunday
I’m pretty sure that sometime, a couple hundred years ago, some pope had it in for me. I know you’re thinking, “Yeah, sure, dude. I’m sure Gregory the Eighth or whoever developed this modern liturgical calendar was deeply concerned with how it would affect your sad and pathetic little life.” But I say, “Clearly so.” How else to explain the fact that the Feast of the Holy Family falls on the Sunday after Christmas every single year, ie, the one Sunday a year that every Catholic college student and young adult is guaranteed to be sitting in church beside his/her disapproving father and grandchild-crazy mother.
Let’s face it. Most of us were raised Catholic and are now about as likely to darken a church door as reruns of Arrested Development are to show up on the Hallmark Channel. (I myself, with my Eucharistic Ministering plot to meet an eligible, non-gay bachelor, am the rare exception.) But we all go home for Christmas, to listen to our parents tell us every year that this is the last year we will be receiving gifts as we unwrap our new Ipods, to eat ham at Grandma’s house and be slipped a fifty dollar bill and a bag of chocolates on the way out the door with the admonishment to not tell our parents, and to revisit our high school days by sitting sullenly beside our parents in a pew the next Sunday, silently mouthing the words to the Nicene Creed after being elbowed by our mothers and playing a rousing game of “Can I make my sibling wince by squeezing his/her hand during the Lord’s Prayer?”
So some Pope, back in the day, was clever enough to realize that if we’re only going to make it to church one Sunday a year, they ought to make it the one where they can annually beat us over the head with St. Paul’s admonishment to obey [our] parents, and for wives to be subordinate to their husbands (reason number 612 I will probably never get married.) This in turn, seems to make our parents believe they have free license to harangue us for the rest of the day about our life choices and our crazy, liberal, hippy beliefs about gender equality and ideas that maybe, just maybe, we don’t see things quite the same way as our parents and that at the age of 25-ish, it might just be time for them to buck up and realize that the days of obedience are over, and the best they can do is offer unsolicited advice that we will at best, ignore, and at worst, openly mock before defiantly ignoring.
At least this is how it all goes down in my family. No matter what day Christmas falls on, the Sunday after is always that point where we are just about sick of each other and itching for excuses to slam doors and sulk in our childhood bedrooms, if only for old time’s sake. So thanks, liturgical calendar, for adding one more layer to the crazy family Christmas traditions that will keep my therapist in business for the next ten years. At least his kids will get a pool out of it.
Let’s face it. Most of us were raised Catholic and are now about as likely to darken a church door as reruns of Arrested Development are to show up on the Hallmark Channel. (I myself, with my Eucharistic Ministering plot to meet an eligible, non-gay bachelor, am the rare exception.) But we all go home for Christmas, to listen to our parents tell us every year that this is the last year we will be receiving gifts as we unwrap our new Ipods, to eat ham at Grandma’s house and be slipped a fifty dollar bill and a bag of chocolates on the way out the door with the admonishment to not tell our parents, and to revisit our high school days by sitting sullenly beside our parents in a pew the next Sunday, silently mouthing the words to the Nicene Creed after being elbowed by our mothers and playing a rousing game of “Can I make my sibling wince by squeezing his/her hand during the Lord’s Prayer?”
So some Pope, back in the day, was clever enough to realize that if we’re only going to make it to church one Sunday a year, they ought to make it the one where they can annually beat us over the head with St. Paul’s admonishment to obey [our] parents, and for wives to be subordinate to their husbands (reason number 612 I will probably never get married.) This in turn, seems to make our parents believe they have free license to harangue us for the rest of the day about our life choices and our crazy, liberal, hippy beliefs about gender equality and ideas that maybe, just maybe, we don’t see things quite the same way as our parents and that at the age of 25-ish, it might just be time for them to buck up and realize that the days of obedience are over, and the best they can do is offer unsolicited advice that we will at best, ignore, and at worst, openly mock before defiantly ignoring.
At least this is how it all goes down in my family. No matter what day Christmas falls on, the Sunday after is always that point where we are just about sick of each other and itching for excuses to slam doors and sulk in our childhood bedrooms, if only for old time’s sake. So thanks, liturgical calendar, for adding one more layer to the crazy family Christmas traditions that will keep my therapist in business for the next ten years. At least his kids will get a pool out of it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Merry New York City Christmas!
Confession time: I’m a Christmas-aholic.
I love Christmas. I love wandering in and out of stores to the dulcet tones of Bob Gedolf making offensively stereotypical generalizations about the entire continent of Africa. It’s the one time of year I can forgive the tourists in Rockefeller Center, because let’s face it, I find the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree pretty damn exciting too. I break out the tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, spend hours wandering the holiday decorations aisles at Target, and annually download tons of new Christmas music from iTunes (What? I have a thing for pop Christmas music. This year’s catchiest tune? The Jonas Brothers’ “Girl of my Dreams”. STOP making fun of me.)
The entire month of December is just a whirlwind of parties and festivals and shopping and traveling and celebrating and I love it. It’s my favorite time of year anywhere, but I think there’s something especially magical about Christmas in the city. Twinkling lights. Carols in the air. Christmas trees and pretty wrapped packages in shop windows. Fluttering scarves in a rainbow of colors as the people scurry home with their shopping bags. Bags from Bloomies, from Saks, from Tiffany, Lord and Taylor, Zabar’s, the Met. Frosty bus windows from which to watch the city fly by. Light snow falling. Holiday greetings everywhere. Smiles. Laughter. Joy.
It’s so rare that I view things with this rosy perspective. I know that if I stop and think about it, I will realize that there is really no difference in the season. No one is kinder or more polite to their fellow human beings. We all race through the streets ignoring each other, caught up in our own little worlds the same as always. That big bag from Macy’s might contain a gift for your mom, but no way is anyone going to let that old lady cut in front of them in the line for the subway turnstile.
But just for one brief season, I choose to ignore my inner cynic. I choose to believe in the spirit of the season. I choose to celebrate Christmas, and to believe that everyone else will make the right choice too.
Merry New York City Christmas!
Bring it on!
I love Christmas. I love wandering in and out of stores to the dulcet tones of Bob Gedolf making offensively stereotypical generalizations about the entire continent of Africa. It’s the one time of year I can forgive the tourists in Rockefeller Center, because let’s face it, I find the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree pretty damn exciting too. I break out the tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, spend hours wandering the holiday decorations aisles at Target, and annually download tons of new Christmas music from iTunes (What? I have a thing for pop Christmas music. This year’s catchiest tune? The Jonas Brothers’ “Girl of my Dreams”. STOP making fun of me.)
The entire month of December is just a whirlwind of parties and festivals and shopping and traveling and celebrating and I love it. It’s my favorite time of year anywhere, but I think there’s something especially magical about Christmas in the city. Twinkling lights. Carols in the air. Christmas trees and pretty wrapped packages in shop windows. Fluttering scarves in a rainbow of colors as the people scurry home with their shopping bags. Bags from Bloomies, from Saks, from Tiffany, Lord and Taylor, Zabar’s, the Met. Frosty bus windows from which to watch the city fly by. Light snow falling. Holiday greetings everywhere. Smiles. Laughter. Joy.
It’s so rare that I view things with this rosy perspective. I know that if I stop and think about it, I will realize that there is really no difference in the season. No one is kinder or more polite to their fellow human beings. We all race through the streets ignoring each other, caught up in our own little worlds the same as always. That big bag from Macy’s might contain a gift for your mom, but no way is anyone going to let that old lady cut in front of them in the line for the subway turnstile.
But just for one brief season, I choose to ignore my inner cynic. I choose to believe in the spirit of the season. I choose to celebrate Christmas, and to believe that everyone else will make the right choice too.
Merry New York City Christmas!
Bring it on!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
