This is the magical time of year that Hallmark starts churning out seasonally inspired romantic schmaltz for nominally evangelical, Christian-cultured, true-blue American white women.

Hallmark movies are coming out at a speed that’s only rivaled by cheap romance literature. Which is probably no coincidence since these movies are the exact same thing, just on your TV and with actors you may or may not recognize from something or other or a previous Hallmark movie.

If you think I’m being over the top dramatic, I checked (authoritative) wikipedia for how many Hallmark movies are coming out this year. It’s 47 in total. Which is just less than one movie a week. EXCEPT you must realize, this does NOT count Hallmark MYSTERY specific movies. There are 27 “mystery” movies. These can be holiday movies as well, but are more about the mystery. Most of the grand total 74 films (seriously??) are catering to our unique obsession with holiday inspired love stories (how is that a real thing??).

Since I am 100% in their target demographic range, I don’t mind admitting that I watch these little sugared droplets of mediocre-poor storytelling with rabid enthusiasm. What I love about them:

• I can feel crappy about how poorly I’ve decorated my house by comparison/pick up new better than pinterest ideas for decorating my obvious dirt hovel.
• I can pine away hoping for two attractive men in my own small town who are devastatingly in love with me. Despite my off-putting temper, cold manner, and general shrewish demeanor. I’m sure if I had a chance I could lure them in with an earlier, younger, “better” version of myself, or homemade snacks and Christmas made crap.
• Sure, one of those guys would be a total douchebag, more interested in business and work than a whole full life with a family and kids, but I’d figure out that when I start banter arguing with guy number 2, aka my TRUE Christmas present.
• I can pretend holiday parties are occasions for formal wear instead of the “I was cold and stayed in my sweats but put on real shoes you should be happy, here’s your damn appetizer of chips and salsa” that they actually are.
• I can be grateful I decorated my tree alone and not with someone who took that time to remind me “this is the spirit of Christmas”.
• I can imagine that finding the perfect gifts for all my loved ones is possible. Maybe by divine intervention, or magical intervention, or just some well-placed clues in strategic conversations with the necessary parties. Why don’t more people telegraph the perfect gift for them in my budget range??
• I can briefly live in a world where Christmas season is not “get the stomach virus and vomit everywhere” season but instead the “those kids’ have red cheeks from outdoor excitement and not a fever” season.
• Also, the writing is horrific. And it makes me feel better about myself.
• Also, I make excellent jokes to myself. So hilarious.

Romance and Christmas are tied right together in the Hallmark world. It’s kind of the hallmark of their movies (see what I did?) No one ever wants to talk about how maybe nostalgia and Christmas schmaltz shouldn’t be what you build your new together life around. But it’s what we all want, obviously. We want Christmas to unite unlikely couples. We want Christmas to be so magical that it transforms the whole year into a total love-fest between former childhood chums. We want to be able to say the worst possible lines ever written and have it be the right thing to say to our loved ones.

Hallmark delivers all that and so much more. So in that spirit, here’s a way to utilize some spirits for your Hallmark viewing:

• If our hero has a dog, take a shot
• If our heroine has a kid, take a shot (one shot per child)
  • If our heroine has custody of someone else’s kid(s) take more shots.
• If there’s an angsty conversation at a coffee shop, take a shot
• If there’s a montage of holiday scenery, shot
• If our hero chases our heroine, two shots (you’ll need them)
• If there’s a totally arbitrary reason to have a gala in which everyone gets dressed up fancy, drink.
  • If our lovers share an angsty dance, drink.
• If our heroine’s best friend is quirky, drink
• If our hero’s best friend is his dog, drink
• If the parents are way too involved in the relationship, tip that bottle back.
• If our hero or heroine gets advice from an enlightened older person, keep drinking.
• Bonus drink if they’re someone random, but frequently spotted throughout the movie.
• Drink if someone explains the meaning of Christmas and gets it totally wrong.
• Drink if our hero is a busy businessman
• Drink if our heroine is in some kind of “decorator” or “interior designer” occupation
• If you’re lucky enough to be watching the Mark Ruffalo one from many many many years ago, stop drinking immediately and savor that unique opportunity.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays, friends!

We’re on the cusp of another Thanksgiving. It’s that special time of the year — my favorite holiday on the calendar (excepting my own birthday, which is, objectively the best) –where I spend 5+ hours in traffic from Seattle to Portland avoiding car accidents, inclement weather, fellow terrible drivers, and road construction stretching miles.

Every year I go down to visit my family for Thanksgiving and every single year I self-medicate for the journey with oddles of junk food and candy. How can you be upset in traffic when you’re eating jelly beans?

Let me tell you something: it’s possible.

It’s not only possible, it’s guaranteed that no matter what else happens on Thanksgiving weekend, if my Aunt G. forgets the deviled eggs, or my Aunt N. and I never make it to a movie, if my cousins don’t spend a portion of the day engaged in clearly inane sports talk, if we never get around to turkey or don’t go Black Friday shopping at 5 a.m. for socks, I will most definitely and assuredly experience road rage that borders on tears from sheer total frustration.

Happy Thanksgiving indeed.

I see it coming every single year but it keeps happening. That’s the definition of insanity isn’t it?

I’ve tried to head off this road rage with alternate transportation. Taking the train is so romantic, isn’t it? Well it would be until you’re packed in like sardines with college freshmen on their first break from school. They think they know everything and isn’t school impossibly hard? You should see the paper they’re working on. And did you know about…

Not to mention, I’ve never once had a successful train trip down to Portland because inevitably there are mudslides and we have to bus it from Edmonds to Seattle. Bus rage might be more enjoyable as a group, but it’s still very personal for me.

So. It’s time for a new plan. It’s time to either arrive in Portland, or alternatively back home north of Seattle, stress-free and non-murderous. No doubt my mother, who is praying for my safe travels (not frustration free, just safe), would tell me to use that time to think of all the things I’m thankful for.

But in these situations I’m afraid I take after my father (is road rage inherited?) “I’m thankful for my car. I’m thankful that idiot in front of me also has a car so that he can ruin as many lives as humanly possible. And I’m thankful that no one knows the speed limit because it means we will all arrive at our destinations safe FIVE HOURS LATER THAN EXPECTED.”

Sarcasm is fun, but not in traffic.

No, this year I’m going to try not to rush. I have this absurd, wild aspiration to make it down to Portland in under two hours. Again, a gift from my father. Must arrive early. Must arrive yesterday if at all possible. But I’ve been in the car with drivers who don’t get road rage and I think I’ve learned the secret to their success.

They don’t mind going the speed limit. They don’t even mind if sometimes they go under the speed limit. It’s so incredible I don’t even know how to explain it. They seem to enjoy the drive!

I’ve always claimed to love driving, but admittedly there’s shockingly little proof. But what if I did take it easy? What if I didn’t panic that I’d let down Thanksgiving by arriving late? What if I enjoyed the drive and maybe stopped for coffee breaks and to stretch my legs and to eat a sandwich instead of funneling an entire can of Pringles furiously into my mouth?

This year I’m going to try something new. I’m going to enjoy the moment I live in and not the moments I don’t know about yet. It’s entirely possible I’ll spend huge amounts of moments in my car this coming weekend, but it doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them. I guess I will be spending my Thanksgiving giving thanks a lot.

And more than likely deeply in prayer because I am most assuredly going to forget — several dozen times — that my goal is to enjoy the drive.

But dammit, I can do this.

If you’re traveling this weekend, or just experiencing rage because it’s a holiday, I’m sending up a prayer for you, too.

Stay safe, stay thankful, and be a blessing to your loved ones — and fellow travelers.

I’ve heard the phrase “boys will be boys” said so often in the past that it’s one of those phrases that almost loses all meaning. I was jealous as a kid because it meant boys got to be mischievous troublemakers and it was looked on with pride. It wasn’t a path I thought girls could really pursue, so I envied them. And then came the 2016 election.

“Boys will be boys” is such a great permissible phrase. It means, if I gather correctly, that whatever current action is currently upsetting, frustrating, confounding you, should be acceptable and understood because it’s just the nature of the beast.

For example: Boys will be boys if they give each other wedgies, or go play in mud puddles, if they bring a frog into the house as a “present” for Mom. It basically meant, accept irresponsible behavior from kids, because kids act irresponsibly.

Except a quick google search assures me the equivalent phrase for girls isn’t a thing. I get hits to articles on Hilary Clinton, and a link to this gem: Girls Will Be Girls. It’s a movie about three women struggling to make it in Hollywood. All three central female characters are played in drag by men.

Truth is, girls don’t hear the permissible phrase “girls will be girls” when they’re children. There is no permissible phrase for a girl acting up. When a girl acts in an untoward way she won’t hear “girls will be girls”, she’ll be told she’s not being “ladylike”. Imagine that, expecting a little girl to act like a mature lady. Even as she ages she’s not going to hear anything accepting her more unsavory qualities. If they are commented on she’s more likely to hear, “stop being such a bitch”.

I’ve heard that girls just naturally mature faster than boys. But I’m not sure I buy this any longer. If I am expected to believe that men are more rational, more reasonable, more level-headed and sensible than women, but are also allowed an extended adolescence, I’m wondering when exactly, and how quickly, that maturation comes to pass.

We’ve agreed puberty is too soon, I think. What with the hormones flying around and female shoulders being too irresistible to boys to be seen in classrooms. I’ve heard college is too soon as well because players will be players and athletes will be athletes. But then again, apparently 50+ years of age is an acceptable time for “boys to be boys”, so I’m not exactly sure when I should be trusting men to be the intelligent, rational grounded influence that I so desperately obviously need as a woman.

But I’m not just talking about boys being adorable little troublemakers either. “Boys will be boys” past the age of 10 no longer means he’ll do mischievous, playful, sometimes financially draining things; “boys will be boys” after childhood means he’ll do sexist, misogynistic, financially draining, emotionally damaging, personhood-altering things.

“Boys will be boys” is almost entirely dependent on “girls being mature women”, “girls being nuns”, “girls being devoid of sexuality-beings”. I’m not sitting here asking that I be allowed to be a girl a little while longer, I’m sitting here saying if I could learn to mature to make sure boys didn’t devolve to beasts, surely it’s not too much to ask that boys learn how to be men before the sexual assault charges start piling up.

Surely it’s not too much to expect that adult men behave in ways toward women and all people that reflect mature adulthood, and surely it’s not too much to ask that we stop condoning outrageous, offensive behavior with the permissible “boys will be boys” brush off.

Surely it’s fair to expect the same maturity from men that we do from women.

My bra broke at work last week. The underwire for one of the cups just became two pieces, making me uncomfortably aware of how much bras squish boobs into specific shapes. Mostly because before I realized it was broken I was doing the squishing and maneuvering and getting frustrated. It’s no wonder the cup snapped as well.

But it’s got me thinking about this whole bra thing. Women have a love/hate relationship with bras. They can do amazing things for your breasts, but at what cost?

I assume the root purpose of a bra is to keep the boobs in place, contain them, keep them on lock down, so they don’t go wildly bouncing around at inappropriate moments. Bras are insurance that I don’t accidentally become an unpaid floor show.

And yet. Apparently they serve many more purposes. Otherwise we wouldn’t have water bras, push-up bras, bras that can hold wine, bras with memory foam (memory foam!), and bras that defy all kinds of gravity on your behalf. It’s that fine line for women between sex object and functioning human. Or sexy human. Or objective human. Or something.

Side note, it is almost impossible to buy a utilitarian, comfortable bra that is also pretty. It’s just not a thing. You either have to be pretty and uncomfortable, or comfortable and blah.

Come on, world.

Feminism has long been linked with women burning bras which although false, feels true given the resentment women have toward the contraption. Remember seeing those cone bras of the past? Like that was a natural shape for a woman.

One of the bras I bought (online) to replace the one that broke was so difficult to get into and out of that I almost needed a second pair of hands. Like choking, trying to get a bra off is one of those times where you’re aware of how helpless you are when you live alone.

There’s also the bras that make you feel somehow fat when you try them on. As if an improperly fit bra means your boobs are too fat. Please. But it’s there, isn’t it? It’s when the cup doesn’t fit right, or when the band of the sports bra rolls up on you. Suddenly you’re this monstrosity who doesn’t deserve a properly fitting bra because you’re too big for this world.

The amount of loathing you can feel toward an object increases when it seems that object is judging you by breaking, trapping you, or making you feel worse about yourself. If women ever have burned bras it’s not because they’re making a stand against the patriarchal oppression of the system, it’s because historically, bras suck.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: the best bras are the front closure ones. These feel like you’re slinging on a detective’s gun shoulder holster when you get ready. For about ten seconds it’s like you can confront the world.

Outside of that? Bras are mostly a lot like life. Kind of uncomfortable, kind of ill-fitting, and kind of hard to get working in the morning when you’re half asleep.

Yesterday I was getting out of my car, parked on the street, when a jeep passed me, windows rolled down. The passenger then stuck a bike horn out the window and honked it in my face as they rushed past.

It had been a long day. The kind of long day where I just wanted to go inside and eat pizza in my sweatpants and watch Heathers. I had neither Heathers, clean sweatpants, or pizza though so I was resigned to be annoyed.

And then someone honked at me from close range and as my ear was ringing later, and the rage came over me — like it does from time to time, I had this thought. This …. biting little gnat in my brain.

Ostensibly, catcalling women on the street, shouting at them, honking your horn, revving your engine, is supposed to elicit a response of some kind, right? I’m no expert, but I assume that when you do something obnoxious it’s to get a response.

Like toddlers, right? I mean, that is your base of reference isn’t it? Because adult humans don’t do these things. Mature, rational, reasonable, intelligent humans do not act like drooling infants who cannot control their fine motor skills and act out on every hormonal or emotional impulse, so that’s what you intend, right?

I’m going to go with yes. Let’s assume you know you’re being a horrible person when you do this. Of course you do, how can you not? It’s not as if someone has ever responded to your “attention” with gratitude, have they? Do women actually clasp their hand over their heart and shout “thank you” as you fly past? Do they, perhaps, scream their number after you and wait for a call?

I’m going to go with no. So you’re doing it to be a dick then. Fine.

You’re still doing it wrong. Because you see, part of being a jerk is getting acknowledged for it.

Flying past me loses the gratification of seeing me flinch, seeing me scowl, seeing me resist giving you the finger because it’s a main street, my church is across the way, and I have been raised to not do that even when I really, really want to.

You missed all of that! And why? I will tell you why. Because you’re not courageous enough to slow down and wait for the reaction. You’re too terrified of the fallout. Whatever that may be. And to be honest, with me it’d just be a stern, clipped, irate response that will probably be more funny for you later than your hasty retreat.

In hindsight though, I do have to acknowledge that you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing it exactly right as chauvinistic prick. You’re objectifying women and giving them no voice in the matter, no say, no way to rebuttal. You’re assaulting women on the street for your own amusement. And because no one can ever say it’s you, you can continue to do this as long as you like to as many women as you like and pretend later that you’re a “good guy”. But you’re not.

I know, I’ve made a lot of assumptions about you, you in the over-compensating vehicle with the excessively loud music. I’d like to stop making assumptions though. I’d like to get to know you in person.

I’d like to believe that once I got to know you and talked to you that we could discover the rational, reasonable human being in you. But there I go again, making assumptions.