Small Talk Ain't Sweet Talk and That's for Fuckin' Sure

Every year I think of the bit from "When Harry Met Sally" where Harry says, "boy the holidays are rough," and Sally responds dryly, "lots of suicides." Heh.

NYC sure seems to love/hate the holidays. And it's that constant duelistic tension that creates a sense of manic panic in the air. I've witnessed a multigenerational family breakdown in the underwear section of Target, a marriage meltdown at the Border's in LaGuardia, stray, screaming children in Walgreen's toilet paper aisle...

And somehow, the holiday's aren't really getting on my nerves as they usually do. I even voluntarily watched the Charlie Brown X-mas Special on Hulu while grading papers last week, and though it's easy to love those Peanuts, I usually skip the end where Charlie Brown gets over his blues and blahs. This time I let it play all the way through.

My primary grievance this year is the stupid holiday party small talk I've had to deal with. The theme this time is "no, where are you really from." "You're Indian right?" "You look like you're South Asian." What happened to the usual inane shit like "I like those boots," or "where did you get that dress?" I'll tell you what happened: I didn't get a new dress. In an effort to save money I'm still rockin' my 2004-2009 collection. And my boots? Well, everyone and their dog has great boots in Brooklyn. Well, of course not everyone, but there are enough of them stomping around that no one needs to give a crap.

So what's left to talk about with total strangers? My brownness. Indeed. What's that line from "Hannah and Her Sisters"... something like "if Jesus really did exist, and if he ever did come back, he'd never stop throwing up." Amen to that and to all a goodnight.