So I’m off for fucking Christmas vacay this week. It’s a stay-cay as I can’t fucking afford to go anywhere. Like, I don’t know how I got myself into this debt cycle of late but then, yes, I do know. When I was out of work I tapped my retirement account for mega monies and –wouldn’t you know it, Uncle Sam wants his cut. Monthly the government takes a chunk for taxes on that early withdrawal. Plus I like nice clothes so there are those pesky SAKS and Neiman Marcus credit card bills that just never ever hit zero balance because oh-hey-gurl-hey-cute-shoes purchases abound.
I lunched with one of this town’s most influential, recognizable media mavens today. It was so fucking awesome to have a mini Kim K moment walking through the dining room while heads turned. And while I maintained a Cary Grant purposeful stride and fixed smile on my face I was really jumping up and down inside enjoying my private rainbow pony, glitter-apalooza moment in her warm spotlight. “Yasss, betches….look who I’m lunching with!!!” But there is no hash tag for that. So, yeah.
Work is status quo. While I’ve had about a week to digest the news of my company being sold, the initial nuclear bomb OMG-we’re-all-gonna’-die feeling of crisis mode has diminished solely on the fact that the hatchet squad left town several days ago. I met with them; the vague term bandied about was “in flux.” Corporate speak for “we’ll axe your job on our own time-table.” I left my ‘go fuck yourself’ attitude at the curb that morning and listened to two, snarky thirty-somethings in cheap suits work their running commentary like it was a vaudeville act. All they needed, really — to complete their show was a tired-ass donkey and a drum set made from the stretched skins of all those axed before me. Clearly they are adept at sawing people in half and magically disappearing.
So I don’t know. I’ve told another media friend of mine in publishing. She’s a polished gem of a friend. Within an hour I received a text: “I got your back.” I don’t know what that means exactly but it does allow me to enjoy a bit of my stay-cation minus thoughts of leaping from my 20th floor window with a sprig of mistletoe clenched in my asshole.
I have zero expectations for Christmas day. The exBF already declared this year a non-exchange year. And while exchanging Christmas presents with an ex is fraught with trips down holiday lanes past, I must confess I’m going to miss not opening a bottle of come-fuck-me cologne on my wish list Christmas morn. Earlier today, I passed a faux homeless person with his Sharpie inked cardboard sign: “Lost everything. Need food.” Yes, and I need a bottle of TOM FORD’s Sahara Noir so, with all due respect — we’re both fucked this Christmas, bitch.
I asked my lunch pal today what — if money was no object, she would want for Christmas. She chimed in with “a villa in the South of France” while I aimlessly stirred my cappuccino and examined my monogrammed cufflink for scuffs. My Christmas wish was far more obtainable, though not shared table side: a finger bang from young, tall, dark and handsome Eduardo, our waiter would — indeed, be a fucking Christmas miracle.