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I am enjoying taking a break from blogging. Perhaps you will enjoy watching this video clip.



The sleeping arrangements that my brother and I have when we go home to my father's house are identical to Bert and Ernie's set-up. Just substitute Ernie asking "What time is it?" in the video clip above with my brother asking, "Is it time to open presents yet?" and you will know how I spent Christmas Eve.

Ernie has visible wires that control his arms. My brother is able to live on his own, drive an automobile and have a career in the media industry. Makes you wonder.

Unsolicited Criticism of Your Christmas List

Every year, Pop and I wait to see what Little Brother is going to put on his Christmas list. We anticipate its arrival with a mixture of dread and excitement. One never knows exactly what will be on the list, but you can be sure it will be extensive, expensive and seemingly random, including at least a few items that to my mind at least, no fully formed adult person living outside of beer commercial would request. This year Little Brother sent us the list quite late in the season, so we're doing a bit of scrambling to make the prince's dreams come true. I thought I would post my thoughts on LittleBro's list, but then I thought that perhaps Little Brother doesn't want his wish list to be made a matter of public record, so below I present my itemized critique of Little Brother's Christmas List, omitting of course, the actual list.

1. Who? What?

2. Don't you own enough of these things? Are you actually participating in the NBA draft next season?

3. What brand, level of quality are you looking for? Never mind, I can't afford these any way.

4. a) The British or American version? Which season? Wait, were you aware that before there was an American version, there was a British version?

b) You realize that you were the only person watching this show in prime time, right?

c) Right.

5. Since when have you been a homosexual?

6. Having a nice brand of vodka to offer guests in your home is a nice touch. Learning how to actually spell "vodka" is a prerequisite for the classy element I feel you're striving for here.

7. Done and done.

8. Well, I don't think they make men's dress shirts with horizontal stripes.

9. Size info? You are one size to me: "uh, guy. Guy Size."

Your offer to add to the list in the next few days if you think of anything else was very considerate. How would you feel about a Starbucks gift card and some gently worn paperback novels, excellent candidates for re-gifting?

Here's what I put on my Christmas List this year:

A 4GB iPod Nano, pink of course
A set of full size flannel sheets in purple tones or pale blue
The Knit Picks Options Knitting Needles Set

Does anyone else want to share what's on their list this year?

Thank God it only happens once every two years.

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Hmm. These posts seem to do a lot better when I include less words and more photos of Little Brother.

So after a long day of work "training" Tempalopoditis it was time for me to enjoy my right to vote. First I headed into the back room. "Hey Germans, guess where I'm going right now."

"Where?"

"I'm going to vote. And you can't vote!"

"Oh! Vote for lots of Democrats!"

"Actually, I think I'll vote for the anti-immigration party. This country is letting too many immigrants into this country. Especially Northern European immigrants."

"Bah."

"Especially Northern Central Europeans. They're ruining everything."

"Get out of here."

"You'll miss me when I'm gone."

"We'll see."

So, I took the subway to Park Slope. When I moved out of Park Slope, I never changed my Voter Registration so I still have to go back there to vote. It's kind of annoying, but since it doesn't affect me too often, I figure I can deal with it. Of course I wanted to change my voter registration, but Mommycakes told me once that as soon as I did this, I would get jury duty. For some reason, I believed this. So last month I got my notification from the Board of Elections. It was mailed to me at my new current address and it told me to go to Park Slope to vote. It didn't make a lot of sense, but it was printed on bright orange paper, so it had some authority. So last night I got on the F Train and had that old F Train nostalgia: less crowded than the Q Train, but twice as slow.

I walked into the high school where I used to vote and a "helper" asked for my address. I gave my new address in Prospect Heights. He looked it up in the book. And looked and looked. "Oh you don't vote here, take this slip and go here," he said, directing me to an address five blocks from my house. It was 7:30pm and raining outside. I just wanted to vote.

"Mmm, are you sure I can't vote here?"

"Well, you won't be voting in the right minor races. You'll mess up the numbers." I gave the guy a death look. All the candidates I care about for State Assemblyman and such had been defeated back in the primaries and there was no way in hell either of these Brooklyn districts were going Republican. "Okay," said the poll worker. "What was your former address?"

Hmm. It's been less than a year and a half since I used to live in Park Slope. "852 8th Street," I said with confidence. The guy looked in his magic book. "There is no 852 8th Street." Really? Isn't that were I used to live? Guys? 852? And if not, did I ever live at 852 anything?

"I think you'd better go to PS 9," he said handing me a Voter Referral slip. I walked out in the rain and stopped to at Sweet Melissa's to pick up a chocolate cupcake and some Florentines to cheer myself up. I called Garrett on my cell phone. He was on his way out the door to the CNN Blogger Election Night Party. "Well you know, I'm busy on Election Night too, trying to vote and all!" I said. I then explained to Garrett, who already knew quite well, that I lived in an area with one of the nation's least contested races. You could have called them all last week. My vote did not, you know, matter so much. I was voting more as a self-righteous self-hating American Smith College Government Major and I wanted someone to pat me on the head, goddamn it.

I got to the intersection where I live. "Oh shit, I have to go, G, I just witnessed a car accident." Actually, I didn't witness the accident, I had been looking down and only looked up when I head the tires screech just in time to see the crash. Two cars smashed into each other at a pretty good speed, they didn't stop right away. The one closest to me lost it's whole back bumper and had side impact damage but seemed in a hurry to get going before the cops showed up. There were lots of people around, so I didn't stay to call 911. Besides, it was 7:52pm, the polls closed at 9:00pm and I still had to fucking vote.

I marched on, like a penguin with a biological imperative to march into the sea, or wherever it is the penguins are marching, I never saw that damn movie. I made it to PS 9 and when I walked in, there was a big bake sale going on, so I felt like a jerk with my $6.00 bag of tiny tasty tartlets from bourgeois Park Slope. Is voting in ProHo different from voting in Park Slope? Yes. Yes it is. I was directed to the appropriate card table and told I wasn't in this magic book either, so Wanda needed to be called. There was talk of sending me back to Park Slope. I said my own two magic words, "Girl, please." Wanda said I would vote by special affidavit vote. So instead of going into the voting booth, I said at a child-sized desk with a cardboard protector up for privacy and voted ScanTron style. Wanda told me when I was done, to put my ballot in the envelope, seal it and to fill out sections A and B. Only sections A and B.

My kiddie desk was next to the card table. This is what was going on as I was voting.

Woman with gold tooth: Wanda! Wanda, will you look at this hump on my back? It's a hump, right? Can you itch it?

Wanda: I think you just want me to be all touching you. You like that. [Two women approach card table.] Hey! You came back!

Voter: Can I bring her in with me? gestures to silent companion

Wanda: Is she kin?

Voter: pause She's my sister.

Wanda: Sure. She can go in with you. Blood is thick. She can tell you who to vote for. But I can't tell you who to vote for.

I finished my ballot at Time Out desk, sealed up the envelope, filled out parts A and B and handed it to Wanda. "Are you sure I don't need to fill out Part C?" I asked.

"No, just A and B. We fill out the rest."

"Are you sure? Because it says 'All Voters must fill out and sign Part C'".

"Let me see that .... Oh. You right. You right." I filled out Part C and handed over my ballot. I had about 30% confidence that my ballot was going anywhere and would be counted. Then I asked how I could update my address with the Voter Registration Board. I want to vote with Wanda all the time.

Happy Shalloweeen

So, last night I was talking to my brother on the phone and he said, "So, did you see my new MySpace photo?" and I said, "No, I haven't signed on in a few days." I know, I threw up a little bit just typing that sentence. Then I said, "Besides, your page is all messed up and the only thing I can ever see is Stephen Colbert pointing at me." Then LittleBrother said I was messed up and then we had a brief discussion about which one of us was too stupid to use a computer. Anyway, I signed on this morning and this was the photo I saw. Now, I am really hoping that this was LittleBrother's Halloween costume. It seems like a good possibility, since there is a Halloween balloon floating behind him and a girl in front of him that appears to be dressed up like my sixth grade English teacher. But then there is the guy on the right side of the photo throwing me off.

So let's suppose this is LittleBrother's Halloween costume. What could he be dressed as, I wondered. Miscellaneous jackass? Then I looked very closely and noticed a band-aid under his right eye. Oh. He's dressed as old-skool Nelly. I think.

Tonight I am going to a Smith Young Alums Happy Hour after work in Midtown. My costume takes a bit of close observation to discern, so I will help you out. It's called, "When Did I become this Person?". Features:

• Business Casual Clothes


• Sneakers, suggesting comfort over style and also "I've given up on ever finding a man"


• Black and lavender swirl top with black and lavender checked jacket; that is, I'm trying in the macro sense, but not in the micro sense


• Jacket has a fake silk flower on the lapel (purchased in 2004)


• Jacket is slightly too tight (but it fit in 2004)


• Melty face, which results in working under fluorescent lights for 8+ hours, wherein your makeup begins to run and pool in odd pockets on your face leaving both red blotches and cracks in your powder


• Some truly frightening zits I have been cultivating in honor of the holiday


• The fact that I'm at a young alumnae networking happy hour on Halloween night

It wasn't always like this. When I woke up this morning and heard that the weather in New York today was going to reach an unseasonably warm 71 degrees I thought, "That's great for the trick-or-treaters! Then they won't have to wear jackets over their costumes. It sucks when your Mom makes you cover up your costume with a raincoat!" Maybe I'm not yet a truly lost cause. Maybe next year I'll go as Lil Kim.

Now I'm Just Cutting and Pasting Emails From Dad

This email was in my inbox yesterday, subject line "luggage", no salutation:

While preparing for my trip to Atlantic City I discovered that I do not have a
suitcase that I can use. I had to go out and buy a suitcase for the trip. We had
so many cases at the old house. Do you and [Little Brother's full name] have 3 or 4 suitcases each at your apartments?? What happened to our cases?????? This is only one question out of many concerning missing items from my belongings. Do you remember the missing food processor. It just disappeared.

A confused father.

To begin, I have three suitcases at my apartment. The two red ones I purchased from Overstock.com when I moved to Brooklyn in anticipation of my first business trip. I also have one suitcase of dubious quality, I must say, that my father purchased me when I was in high school and I was going to Germany for the first time. I also own one LL Bean duffle bag that I purchased in college. These suitcases mostly come in handy for moving apartments. So if I have one piece of the family's prized luggage collection, this is the time where naturally all heads swivel in the direction of LittleBrother. LittleBrother was not copied on this email. This is typical. This is how communication works is my family, which is to say, it doesn't.

And let's not forget the food processor, shall we? My father insists that a small food processor went missing from his home sometime within the last five years. This was not a large, high quality Cuisinart, but something small that was good for mincing and dicing that my father most likely purchased from a television infomercial. Anyway, one day he couldn't find it and suspicion was naturally cast on his two children. I started getting calls in Brooklyn about the food processor. Then, when I went back to Rhode Island, I was confronted face to face. Now, I have acknowledged that there is an outside chance I took it. I don't remember it, and I haven't seen it since, but when I was packing to move to New York, it could have ended up in a box. That was January 2004. At that time, I was running around my father's house with about 3 days to pack up everything I own and co-ordinate a move to the Upper West side of Manhattan. My father stood there picking up things saying, "What about this? What about these brass candle sticks? You're going to need candle sticks." as I tried to figure out how I was going to cram everything into an Enterprise rental minivan. The whole thing is kind of a blur. However my father insists that he would not have offered me his beloved mini-food processor and I really don't think I took it.

[neck swivel] Little Brother? Now here is a far more likely candidate. LittleBrother lived in apartments his last two years of college and he lives on his own now. Also, this is sad, he does way more cooking than I do. And while I only had that one shot with the van to pack up everything and go, go, go LittleBrother has a car and travels home frequently. He could be loading up the car under the cover of night and be smuggling things out since 2003 and we would be none the wiser. His apartment is already decorated with half of my father's stuff anyway and MY LAVA LAMP and so on and so on. Still, he also maintains that he does NOT have the food processor. "Okay," says Pop. "If my children tell me they did not steal my food processor, then I believe them, because my children would never lie to me." Then he gives us a look that tells us he believes the exact opposite is true.

If I had to guess, I would say that my father has the following has the following fantasy surrounding his own death: My brother and I will be in the funeral home, saying a tearful goodbye over the open casket and then after we give the okay to the funeral director to close the lid, my brother will turn to me and say "Hit it." I will reach into my big purse, pull out the food processor, plug it into the nearest outlet, plunk it down on top of the coffin and we will gleefully begin pulverizing carrots chanting, "Sucker!" and "We really got the Old Man good!"

Still, like OJ pursuing the "real killers" my father must make a show of attempting to track down the food processor. Did he offer it to another family member, I suggest? What about the cleaning woman? No! That's nonsense! Why would Pop do that? He loved that little chopper! He used it all the time! Am I trying to trick him? Am I trying to make him think he's going crazy? The money is safe from me, I won't get a dime!

I'd like to believe Dad, but he makes it kind of difficult when we have phone conversations like this:

Pop: Where are you?

Cupcake: I'm in a cab. I'm on my way home from the airport.

Pop: The airport? Where did you go?

Cupcake: The wedding! Smarty's wedding was this weekend! [...] It's nice to have a day off to relax.

Pop: You're not going to work tomorrow?

Cupcake: Tomorrow is a holiday?

Pop: It's a holiday? What holiday is it?

Cupcake: Listen. Tomorrow is Columbus Day.

Pop: Tomorrow is Columbus Day?

Cupcake: Look, I know you're retired, but are you also retarded?

Pop: When you're retired, every day is Columbus Day.

Cupcake: Well, when's the last time you turned on the radio, or opened a newspaper?

Pop: Why don't you shut up, Nancy?

Cupcake: Are you the Unibomber?

Have fun in Atlantic City, Pop. Hope you win big!