Sleigh-bells ring. Are you listening? I am. And right now the holiday rush is a weight on my shoulders not unlike what that Atlas guy had going on. So, dear reader, we need to take a blog break.  To tide you jackals over, I’m re-posting my guest blog from the magnificent http://kaepasa.blogspot.com/ about my reflections on turning twenty-five (which I wrote when I was 38…). I’ll catch you all on the flipper.

December 31, 1997 – Los Angeles, California

To my dearly confused 25-year-old self,

Before you charge flailing into the next quarter century, I implore you to put down your Rolling Rock, check your bravado and allow me to share a few things your future self knows to be true.

1) There will be mistakes. Sooo many mistakes. Don’t try to stop them from happening, try to stop them from happening more than once.

2) Lighten up, buttercup! Don’t offer a running commentary on your faults. Guys only like the self-deprecating, insecure girl to run errands with.

3) Stop worrying. The things that will justifiably keep you up at night are nowhere near your radar.

4) Moisturize and drink water. It will never be this easy to look this good again.

5) Be here now. Stop obsessing about what comes next. Today is what you were rushing to get to yesterday so stop and stay for a spell.

6) You never really leave high school.  From Co-workers to other moms at Gymboree, there will always be cliques of overachievers, band geeks, cheerleaders and douche bags.

7) Don’t get a tattoo. You’ll regret it almost immediately. And even more so when the term “tramp stamp” enters the vernacular.

It’s OK to try and fall in love with an old friend even though the circumstances are against you. The good news is you’ll still be friends in the morning. And 13 years after that.

9) Keep a journal. This will be so much easier to write when you’re 38.

10) The Sid to your Nancy is about to get engaged. No matter how fantastic you look at the wedding, he’ll still go through with it.

11) Don’t be afraid of the unknown. Quitting a job doesn’t make you a failure. Ending a relationship doesn’t make you weak. Terminating a friendship that is sucking the joy from your soul won’t make you lonely.

12) Keep everything in perspective. The “rock” that you will make you the happiest will be the one your son picks out for you from the parking lot gravel at Home Depot.

13) Lose the overalls and the Birkenstocks. “Carefree Bohemian” and “Unemployed House Painter” are not mutually exclusive.

14) Be less available. You’ll end up at way too many weddings as the safety date/designated driver.

15) Enjoy being unattached. Some days you will miss the freedom that comes with only having yourself to worry about or answer to.

16) Facebook and Silly Bandz: Invent them.

17) That guy in Las Vegas has a raging case of strep throat. Just sayin’…

18) Be humble and grateful for the one friend that you can call no matter what.

19) It’s OK to be wrong. Take responsibility, learn to apologize gracefully and move on.

20) Most everyone is so much more screwed up than you would ever guess. So stop trying to impress them.

21) Your first-born won’t be named Dylan or Brandon.

22) Your gut is never wrong. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. If you can’t button your pants, you’ve had too much Taco Bell.

23) The hairdresser who thinks you can totally rock a pixie cut is lying. And more than likely, drunk.

24) Perfection is unattainable. Your relationships will be flawed, your hairstyles will be complicated, your writing will be, like, not poetic and stuff. Embrace the cracks and the rust – they’re the best part.

25) The mistakes you will make in spite of this list are all worth it. The stress, the drama, the hard work, the morning after, the depression, the hangovers, the tears, the calories … they all get you to right now. See #5.

I know you are all very aware of the Snuggie but have you heard of the Slanket? The first time I heard tell of the Slanket was on 30 Rock and so help me, I thought it was something that had sprung from the brilliant mind of Tina Fey because they couldn’t get the rights to use the word Snuggie. And then I thought it was going to be going to be a hybrid of a blanket and slacks – instead of arm holes, there would be leg holes? It makes sense, right?

Upon further investigation, I can find no discernible difference between a Snuggie and a Slanket. They are both fleecy. They are both roomy and they are both guaranteed to never get you laid. Unless you invest in the Snuggie for two – For real. I can’t make this shit up but I’d love to see the infomercial for this one:

“Are you tired of struggling to find your partner inside a regular Snuggie?”

But wait there’s more! Inevitably coming to the self-help section of a Barnes & Noble near you is the Snuggie Sutra! Again, my brain is exploding a little bit knowing that this actually got published…I can’t even get most of my clients to approve my copy so you can understand my bitterness. This is called The Charlie Sheen:

Winning, indeed.

I’m waiting with baited breath for the next incarnation of this blanket. Maybe a blanket big enough to zip around the entire chair that you’re sitting in – with a giant front pocket to hold the remote and your bag of pork rinds. Or maybe a something that zips around your desk at work so you can be warm and cozy and still have your hands free to fill out your time-sheets or report that creepy intern to HR. At this rate, It won’t be long before we’re all living in big, fleece nests where all the rooms will be connected by secret, fuzzy tunnels. The Snouse? The Snabode? The Snwelling!! Get on board, active people of America. There is no shortage of contraptions that advertisers want to wrap around you to keep you sedentary and in  your Snwelling, no one can hear you scream.

When I was a kiddo, we used to spend summers with my grandparents in Auburn Massachusetts. That’s just South of Worcester for those of you unfamiliar with tiny New England towns.

6 Idlewood Drive was where my mom and uncles had grown up and to me, it was better than Disneyland. There was a huge, faux-wood panelled basement with cosmic wall-to-wall carpeting that I’m sure was from the Elvis for Service Merchandise collection, an upright piano to play Heart and Soul ad nauseum and a yellow telephone chair in the kitchen that moonlighted as a step-stool or fort joist. If I had a dollar for every hour spent playing Love Boat and Charlie’s Angels with my cousins, I would be a few years into my retirement on my yacht in the Maldives.

My favorite room was the den. Their television (also from Service Merchandise, no doubt) was probably about five feet across – not the screen, mind you, and for years there was no remote control. If you wanted Channel 56, (Testify, children of New England!) you had to get up from the very itchy plaid, wool couch and turn the knob. Then, when it was time for your grandmother to watch her “stories”, it would be her turn. When there was multiple sporting events on, all bets were off as to how many of us were jumping up and down to change the channel.

Not only was there no remote control, there was a crazy contraption called a router (or Ro-tah if you’re from Boston) which looked like a giant sun dial. Every time you changed the channel you also had to crank the router to the right or the left to turn the antenna on the top of the house for optimum reception. There always seemed to be a grandchild elected to sit inches away from the screen to tend to this.

Eventually, the behemoth television was replaced with a relatively sleeker model (with a remote) and the router was replaced by a cable box. The plaid, wool couch also went the way of the dodo and all nine of us grandchildren actually got to have a seat on something other than the vinyl hassock. And there were other summers in other places spent doing other things that, at the time, seemed monumentally more exciting than watching Fantasy Island in your grandparents den with a bowl of vanilla ice cream on a TV tray – but I can’t remember what they are.

Before first dates and first jobs and first failed attempts, there was a television without a remote in a house in New England where you felt the most good. And sometimes what seems like doing nothing much will be what you end up remembering the most fondly.

Do you have too much person to fit under a regular-sized blanket? Are your hands too jittery from the six gin and tonics you’ve thrown back this afternoon to chop an onion? Are you too wrapped up in Murder She Wrote to take your dog outside?

Then you, my friend, are ripe for the sweet siren song of the late night infomercial. And if you are too lazy to reach for the remote, (the floor is covered with molten lava and you can’t leave  the couch/fort! Neener neener neener!) you should really click on this link:

http://www.asseenontv.com/

Everything you never knew you always needed to take Lazy to an entirely new level.

Relax. I’m a professional.

And by that I mean I have mad skillz when it comes to relaxing. Chilling, lounging, being vegetative, assuming the supine position…I am the winner and grand champion. If given the opportunity, I could sleep Rip Van Winkle under the bed – I can even do it under a pile of laundry that I don’t care to fold at the moment. I’m just that good.

And as much as I could major in Inactivity and minor in Indolent, I feel strongly that my talents are never really given the chance to shine anymore.

In 1998 B.C. (Before Child), A typical Sunday would probably consist of waking up around 10:00, lying in bed for another 45 minutes debating the pros and cons of actually getting out from under the covers, walking to brunch, walking home and maybe taking a nap. Even after the nap there would still be time to sit outside and read the paper (or an In-Style, who am I kidding…). And even with all of this leisure, I still managed to have a full-time job, go to the gym sporadically and complain that I had no time to relax. Silly me. If youth is wasted on the young, free-time is wasted by those who actually have some of it.

At the risk of admitting that I do, indeed, speak other languages besides Snark, I will say that being a mother is a miracle and having been given the chance to raise this beautiful, astounding little creature absolutely takes my breath away – mostly because I’m chasing him down the sidewalk at full tilt.  There is no job that is more full-time than parenting. It doesn’t stop at 5:00, you work nights AND weekends and you will most likely be taking vacations with your demanding boss.

When I think of all of the qualities that I hope I can instill in my kiddo, lazy-ass is not one of them. But how to teach the boy not to sit around and watch TV all day when all I want to do is sit around and watch TV all day? So far he seems unimpressed with my ability to disco-nap at any given point during the day and with only 50% of my genetic material, I’m hoping my little apple will fall hella far from this tree.

So the Word of the Week is LAZY – Because I’m so very good at it. And because I should write about things that I know.  And because when no one is looking, I miss it like crazy.