A Dusting on New Year's

Well, congratulations, we did it. Unless you did something really bad, really fast, you've made it to 2013. It's a feat that we all kind of considered unlikely in the back of our heads (oh you tricky, Mayans), but in the face of apocalyptic threats and the other unfortunate things we've done up to this year, we've happened upon a year that wasn't supposed to be. For those of us who never really worried about the future, this New Year's doesn't mean that much, but for those of us who did things in the face of a potential world ending, you're responsible for correcting those boo boos and actually planning for a long term future.

New Year's has always had this vague importance in the back of my head because I love the idea of a fresh start. After you graduate, you don't get "new semesters" anymore, so you're left reaching for as many fresh starts as life will allow you. You can make these resolutions that probably will not be fulfilled, but it's cool because at least you took the time to realize there is something that can be improved upon. In my case, I always made big goals that ultimately went completely ignored about 17 hours into New Year's: massive weight loss, the dismissal of red meat, no sexual interaction with anyone at all. That is until recently when I decided to tackle resolutions that were more attainable, which includes but is not limited to: learning the Nicki Minaj part to "Bottoms Up," and watching every episode of Will and Grace.
But my greatest superstition surrounding New Year's is that the way you spend your New Year's Eve is representative of how the following year will play out. In my case, the superstition has always proven to be somewhat true, especially in the last couple of years. Last year, for instance, I spent the better part of my New Year's Eve at a fraternity party watching a freshman down an entire bottle of Jaegermeister, while I casually sipped on a couple of beers. In the final thirty minutes, I rushed home with a friend so that I watch the New Year's ball drop on television with my family. In return, I watched a decent number of people, including myself at times, party senior year away. Then, I entered the chaos of post-grad life, and just in the final moments of 2012, I have settled down enough to catch my breath.
But New Year's Eve has not always been so docile, and it's usually reflected in the year that followed it. My sophomore year of college, I went to a party at my friend's house; it was my first year I had ever spent New Year's away from my parents and brother. I was intoxicated with the idea of running into a cute girl, talking by the beer cooler, and possibly... just maybe... getting that New Year's kiss that I had so desperately longed for ever since I found out that was what people do. My friend's attendees were not people that I was used to though considering that I was apt to get tipsy off the small amount of mouthwash I didn't spit out after brushing my teeth. I was the valedictorian of my graduating class and not well-versed on social decorum, so I immediately felt out of the loop. In between moments of Zak introducing me to his cohorts, I sat on the couch, channeling Dick Clark (may he rest in peace) and trying to hear the musical performances. I remember partially making a breakthrough after accidentally making a joke about Natty Light. When someone pulled it out of the cooler, I casually announced, Hey! That's what my Mamaw drinks all the time. It wasn't until I joined a fraternity that I understood the humor in the joke. Other than that, the night seemed to drag on.
Zak would always introduce me to his friends as "our valedictorian," then go on to tell people how smart I was and how I would go on one day to be a lawyer, which in essence was a complete lie, but whatevs. People seemed to be impressed until a stronger alcohol or cute girl came by, so I embraced it. By eleven o'clock, I had met just about everyone at the party, and I needed to go to the bathroom. I walked in and two people were in there... I know what you're thinking... you thought they were having sex, right?? Nah, just cocaine. The guy turned around from the bathroom counter and asked me if I wanted to do some blow, and without having the educational lyrics of Kesha (or Ke$ha, if you prefer the stylized version), I had no idea what to say. I quickly backed out of the door, falling over a bucket on my way out.
Soon after, I found Zak and told him that I was leaving without trying to explain my run-in with Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz in the bathroom. I just wanted to escape quickly before the cops came and busted the snort-sesh happening just a couple rooms away. My dear acquaintance/pusher who really seemed to like me about ten minutes before came out of the bathroom, and I told him that I was leaving. Apparently, what you're not supposed to do is act sketchy or deny people who offer you cocaine. When I told him goodbye, he flipped out saying "Dude, you come up in here thinking your f*$&ing better than us?!" Then he lunged at me as if he were going to hit me. Zak immediately dove between us, and all I could think about was that I had somehow stumbled into a scene from The O.C. I had always considered myself the Marissa-type, but I just wasn't jiving with the idea of doing cocaine, or fighting someone who was doing it, for that matter. Eventually I escaped, but the year that followed proved to be as tumultuous as the night that ended the year before.
The night did teach me a lot. One time, my roommate in college did cocaine, and I remember what would happen if I tried to fight him on it, so when he came in rubbing his gums and announced that he had done coke in the back of a club in the Old City of Knoxville, I just kind of high fived him and told him it was cool. I Wikipedia-ed cocaine to make sure he wasn't going to die, then I made him watch Blow the next day as I spread pixie sticks all over our coffee table. But moreover, I learned that sometimes New Year's is best spent in doors.
People asked me what I would do with my first New Year's in DC, and what eventually happened is that I stayed in with my roommate, watched Carson Daly (oh how the times have changed), called my mom at midnight, then forced a neck nuzzle upon Andrew at midnight because I still haven't gotten that New Year's kiss. Eventually, I dominated an entire bottle of champagne, then I went to bed. No, I didn't party it up in DC, and I don't know what that night spells out for the rest of my year. From the sounds of it, it sounds like I'm just going to be chillin with one dude for the year, occasionally making trips to the gas station, and end the year drinking a lot by myself... but then again, the final night of the year has never been a literal translation, so there's still hope. No matter what, it's nice to know that this year contained a little less illicit drugs and a little more of my norm: friendship and wine.

An Open Letter to Santa Claus

Hello Santa,

It's nice to talk to you again--I send warm wishes from the United States capital. As I'm sure you already know, 2012 has been quite a difficult year, and I would like to start by saying it's not my fault. Looking back on 2012, I know that there are things that have probably led you to believe that I deserve to be on the naughty list. Well, those things are lies. Lies on lies on lies. As I have come to understand, you live in the same house in Heaven with Jesus Christ, which I think is really cool and fun. You all probably talk all the time. Go Santa. But much like church and state, I believe there should be a separation between church and Christmas presents. When we blur that line between Santa and Jesus, things start getting complicated. With the whole Chick-fil-a debacle that happened earlier this year, I think it's best if religion keeps to itself when it comes to figuring out who's going to get the most boss presents this year.

After reviewing my timeline of life events, I understand that there could be some discrepancies on the table when it comes to my behavior this year. None of us are perfect, Santa, and that's why I'm completely okay with how you could have possibly grossly misunderstood my "situations" this year. We get busy, and that's just how it goes--details tend to fall through the cracks. Back in the good old days, all I had to do was brush my teeth and make my bed to keep things straight. Golly, have things changed. I have to balance a very adult lifestyle, and from what I've heard, you've replaced all those elves with Apple Store workers. You are no stranger to progressing with the times, and in that, you understand that sometimes, there are more difficult hurdles to cross than there used to be.
So, let me be frank with you for a second, Santa. I have my reasons, and just in case you saw it from the wrong side of the viewfinder, I want to give you some brief explanations on some of the highlights that may be lingering in your mind as you consider my behavioral status.

February 14, 2012---Valentine's Day
From the way that you saw it, you probably saw me as quite the glutton that evening--tearing into an oven full of groceries cooked to a Southern standard that is hard to even comprehend.  I will even admit that at the end of that night, I felt a little sick to my tummy. But to recap, let's go back and evaluate my very extensive involvement in Valentine's Days-passed. Oh, you don't remember any specific Valentine's Day particulars, other than that one February 14 when I ate a heart shaped pizza with my ex-girlfriend? That's because there haven't been any, Santa. And yes, I'm sure that you're quite aware that you are the popular girl of holiday entities, but the other holidays matter, too. So when my relationship was falling apart the very day before Valentine's Day (which should have been identified before it started, but that's neither here nor there), maybe I should have ended it there. But damn it, Santa. I deserved Valentine's Day. So I went to the store and bought groceries. I skipped class, partially because I was in delusion and partially because I needed those goodies. I cooked all the food, and my then-lover, soulmate... dare I say... reason to breathe, barely even touched the plate. The last thing I remember hearing was something about homework, then there was no kiss, then I just remember sitting there shoving chicken breasts and mashed potatoes in my mouth. Yeah, it's gluttonous. Okay, I was a mess, but in the spirit of healthy holiday competition, my desire to never waste food, and my ultimate allegiance to Christmas in the face of being duped by Valentine's Day, I think we're going to give this one to me.

Santa: 0, Justin: 1

May 5-19, 2012---Pre-Graduation Party
Oh, Santa. Let's be honest. That was a rough weekend for everyone involved. We were being thrust from the life of a college student into whatever you call this new place we live. So you can imagine that the day got easier when I went and bought myself a box of Franzia, followed by a brief trip to the EZ Stop to pick up a couple of styrofoam cups. Deep into the night as classmates were insisting that I do a wine stand, a young man came and pulled me away. Immediately, I was thankful because I thought he was pulling me away from the wine stand because contrary to popular belief, I like to enjoy my low grade white wine slowly. But soon into the diversion, he pulled me into the bushes and offered me a shot of his vodka. After a couple of shots, he leaned in to kiss me. Immediately, I had the words of leviticus and Paul Ryan singing through my head, and I denied his advances. Close call, right? Then, in a violent growl he asked, Why?! What's your problem? I explained that a) we were behind some thinly veiled bushes that everyone could see into. B) I wasn't interested. C) I had... well, I'll just tell the story. He said, No! You broke up my relationship. You know what, Santa? He was correct. I did do that. I made out with his girlfriend, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'll keep this short and sweet--I was drinking tequila, and I didn't know the specifics. I would never break up a home, and after that proclamation, I only really considered a follow up make-out once. As Miley once said, Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has those days. Even you, Santa.

Oh yeah, I made sure the styrofoam cups were properly disposed of, away from animals.

Santa: 0, Justin: 2

August 9, 2012
I moved up to DC. I know... damn liberals. I'm not even going to fight you on this one.

Santa: 1, Justin: 2

August 17, 2012
I got those Barry Manilow tickets off of Craigslist, and I'm not going to lie... it was a steal. But considering that I had been in the DC area for a grand total of like... what? 7 days?... there was no way that I could ever understand the concept of city living. And I'll admit, there were a lot of outstanding factors to do with the Barry Manilow concert night that could be construed as reason to put me on the Naughty List this year: let's list them. (1) I got the tickets for free off Craigslist. In actuality, the old people had the tickets and wanted me to come along. Your logic is invalid, Santa. (2) I blew off people I already had plans with to go to it. In actuality, those girls often referred to me and my roommate as "the boys," and if I'm right, you'd get annoyed by that too, Santa. (3) I didn't pay my toll at the toll booth. In actuality, I had the money to pay... I just didn't have said money in change. That's also why I don't think I got a ticket when I drove through that toll booth because there has to be a solid three minutes of video footage of me holding up traffic while desperately holding two dollar bills out the window. Everyone won in the end, Santa.

Santa: 1, Justin: 3

Every Other Thursday Since September, 2012
So I drink wine a bottle at a time. Yeah? Jealous? You can't tell me that you and Mrs. Claus don't pop open a nice bottle of spiced and/or buttered rum and sit back and get crunk every once in a while. But you know what you and I have in common, Santa? You don't get behind that sleigh, and I don't either. There's nothing like some nice Grey's Anatomy and some obscure hipster music to accompany a nice bottle of $3.99 Chardonnay from the 7-11 down the road. My roommates like to consider it alcoholism, but considering that when we drink, one roommate is feeling good after three beers and the other can kill a half bottle of raspberry rum, then I think maybe we are all birds of the same feather. If you're looking for repercussions, I did have that terrible allergic reaction to Thai food while drinking the wine, so with that...

Final Score: Santa: 1, Justin: 4

And now, I'd like to include a short list/collage of things you can bring me. Considering that you have one point, you can take one of these off the list, but it cannot be the Macbook.

From Top Left, Clockwise: a lot of Frank's hot sauce, that otter hat and/or
the child wearing it, a macbook, a pyramid of Franzia (Crisp White, please)

Thank you for your time, Santa. Tell Jesus that I said hello.

Best dishes and wishes from my kitchen to yours,
Justin Theodore Kirkland, Age 22 1/2

Reasons I Elected to Find a New Mamaw on Facebook

The last time I visited my mamaw, it was a spur of the moment thing. I was on my way back to school, and I swung by her house, even though it had been ages since I had stopped by. It didn't take long to remember why. I stood in the doorway, unsure as to whether I should sit down or not. I started in about school and everything that was going on that I thought she'd like to know. Soon, we got to the question.
"So, when you going to bring me a girlfriend up here?"
"Oh Mamaw, I've been focusing so much on school and all the stuff I'm involved in that I haven't had time to think of anything like that."
She gave me a look and walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold Natty Ice, Mamaw's drink of choice. She placed it on the counter and announced, "Yeah, you never really were that interested in girls." Bam. There it was. Mamaw was calling my bluff, and I wasn't sure really what to do. She cracked open her brewski, and I could have sworn I was transported. The sound of Christmas past.

All the Christmases that I had at the Kirkland house seemed really forced. I would fight my cousins for a front tree spot, but Maggie was always promised that prime real estate. Casey and I were never really able to force ourselves to the front; we were too small, too mild. We would sit in the back and await our Christmas givings. Even as a child, I like to believe I wasn't too high maintenance, but in comparison to the other cousin's gifts, I couldn't help but feel that maybe... just maybe... there was some underlying message behind the gifts we received. The first gift I remember was a VHS of the musical Annie, which in retrospect could be construed as Mamaw's first passive-aggressive jab at my alleged lifestyle. Nothing could compare to the year that followed. Casey and I unwrapped our presents. The other boys were pulling out pocket knives; the girls were pulling out make-up and Barbies. Casey and I pulled out a miniature can of Beanee Weenees and Spicy Vienna Sausages (respectively), and toboggans. Mine had hair in it. Sweet deal, if I ever saw one. Casey and I traded gifts, mostly because I knew that Casey had this weird thing for Beanee Weenees that I still don't understand. Mamaw asked us how we liked our gifts. Casey and I looked at each other, just a tender 8 and 9 years old, and agreed that the only thing we should do is nod enthusiastically. Mamaw patted me on the head and said, "Good. I know how you guys like to eat." Thanks a heap, Mamaw, for picking up that my favorite hobby was... eating. We attempted to go one more time, but that was the year that the family decided to have Christmas in the rec center behind the flea market. We respectfully declined.
Sometimes I kind of miss Mamaw, but I refresh my memory with all the memories that we've created, and I'm good for at least another 6-18 months. She pops up in the best ways; for instance, the first night that I ever drank, a friend offered me her signature beverage, and being the naive 18 year old I was, I announced to the group, "Oh cool! This is what my mamaw drinks!" She's always had the ability to add a little bit of extra flavor the conversation, even if it is the cheap kind that tastes similar to what I would imagine horse piss tastes like. She's the kind of Mamaw you would take to a kegger... that everyone's already drunk at... as long as there's no homosexuals in attendance. Yeah. That's about right.
Regardless, everyone wants a Mamaw that loves them without inquiring about his sexuality and/or eating habits. That's where Facebook came in. Eventually, I would start sending friend requests to any woman who shared my mamaw's name that could remotely qualify as typical "mamaw age." That's when I found Mamaw Joyce, a 69 year old living down in Alabama. So far, she's been present for my admission to grad school, my birthday, and my college graduation. It's not like she needed me; she has a giant family of her own, or at least what I can see from Facebook. She took me in, all filled with Beanee Weenees and resentment, and treated me as her own.
Even though I don't play baseball like the other Kirklands, nor have any desire to acquire a girlfriend, I consider myself adopted... kind of like a mail order grandson. Mamaw 2.0 seems to be working out fantastically. So, in turn, I just collect my own family. I find them and adopt them as my own, and sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to have them all come together. I like to call it "Fantasy Family," and it works in the same way a fantasy draft would for sports. You go and get them from other walks of real life, and then you keep up with them to see how they're faring. You know that you've won at the end of the day when you realize that picking your own family is a lot more fun than sticking with only the players you were given by chance. And damn it, I made sure that all of them know that I have no preference for canned pork and beans.