Ixnay the Lanpay, eh?

So, the plan todat was: Write at some point.

Doh! No! Not happening! Or almost didn't.

Y'see, I've been quite the social butterfly this weekend. Keepin' it social, keepin' it real, and not hanging about chained to my desk, pleasing my minions. Oh, my poor minions! Be still your crushing, beating hearts!

Forsaking you is not one of the things I'm pleased with. Getting out, chilling, being one with the world? All good, baby! But forsook you. Oh, tragedy of tragedies.

We've been embroiled in insanity here in Vancouver of late. Hurricane-strength winds blew through early Friday morning and tore this city apart. One of the greatest parks in the world, Stanley Park, has been all but decimated. (Not such good weather for scooter riding. Can Santa hack it?)

It's a fitting metaphor for my life of late -- a whirlwind of tumult and unrest. I'd kill for a 12-hour sleep. Soon. Know how soon? Christmas day.

This year, unlike any year in the last several, I have sweet fuck all to do. (Whole dam fam's on the 23rd, my friends join me for dead bird on the Eve, but on the day? Solo!) Hear that? That's choirs of angels singing my praise. Ah! Sweet, sweet bliss! Alone, at last, and on Christmas, no less!

You see, I'm perfectly fine for being alone on Christmas. My landlady and I were both discussing how fabulous keeping to yourself can be on Christmas day. Both her and I have met with strange looks from others. "Alone? And you're happy about it?"

Yo, just because you have anxieties about being left alone doesn't mean the rest of the world's sympatico, my friends. Some of us thrive on it. Leave us!

But, there are indeed people who are alone and would love not to be. In Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, Michael says that there's no day that sucks more than Christmas Day to wake up single. 'cos you wake up alone, single, and the day -- the most magical day of the year -- feels just like any other.

[shrug] If you want it to, that is.

Later this week, I'm going to tackle a few stores, and I'm going to fill my Christmas stocking with things I love. In fact, I've even printed some of my photography as a gift to myself. And I'm going to wrap it and place it under my tree. I'll open it all on Christmas day.

The day proper, though, is down to three possible things I'll do: 1) a hike (sounds awesome -- an empty forest) 2) a flick (is it wrong that I'm dying to see Rocky Balboa?) or 3) I'll finally paint my hallway the cranberry colour it's been in my mind's eye for two years now.

Any way you slice it, I'm having a banner day. The day will start with a long sleep in, and then a luxurious brekkie, and more.

Thing is, being single can suck every fucking day. Being single is a hard thing for some people. This morning, I had an old, dear friend in for breakfast -- we just recently became reacquainted after more than a decade out of touch; it seems she stumbled on this bloggie and couldn't contain herself -- and she loved the feast I served: my over-the-top hash browns made with elephant garlic and too much butter, the chicken-apple sausages butterflied and broiled with a honey glaze, the scrambled eggs with carmelized shallots and peppers. So, she looked at it and said, "Well, you'd never go through all this just for yourself, right?"

Fuckin' right I would, I said. Why save the best for others? Don't I deserve it? Sure I do.

Being single's hard, and I'm as human as you are, and sometimes I wish I weren't a party of one. But the days when I roll out the red carpet and treat myself like the royalty I deserve to be, well, being single's feeling pretty fucking fab those days.

So why not Christmas, too? I'll have eggnog, great food, do something special for myself. GayBoy will probably come by and misbehave a little in the late, late hours, and that's just fine, too.

Point is, Christmas looms. Are you alone and hating it? Fucking do something for yourself. Do something you love. Plan it out. Put the plan in action. Anticipate it. After all, you only have to count on yourself -- odds of being let down? Pretty itty-bitty, don't ya think? Or, if you're really hating it, try and get yourself invited out. I know of a few events here in town for single people -- like a Christmas eve dinner at the infamous Sylvia Hotel (at ten floors, was the tallest building in the city a century ago, and became a hideaway for booze for both Heming way and Dylan Thomas during the evil prohibition years down south). All ya gotta do is look. Besides, if you're really stuck for company -- there's always an assortment of masses to attend, and some have great sermons, some great music, and some even have both.

Now. I need to decide what to put in my stocking. I think a few mini-bottles of booze might be a good start, and a bath bomb or two. And chocolate. Ooh. Decisions, decisions!

Dear Santa,
I don't know if you can do this, but for Christmas, I'd like for my mommy and daddy to get back together. Please see what you can do.
Love, Teddy

Dear Teddy,
Look, your dad's banging the babysitter like a screen door in a hurricane. Do you think he's gonna give that up to come back to your frigid mom, who rides his ass constantly? It's time to give up that dream. Let me send you some Legos instead.
Santa