Seriously, Why Do I Have to Be from HERE????

Merry Christmas to all my Goyim readers. Happy, happy, joy, joy, red lights and mistletoe and all that BS.

Let's take stock of what's going on the Green household, shall we?

Brother was gifted an $1,800, last-minute plane ticket to India where he will spend the holidays with one of my best friends, who is staying with Brother's girlfriend's family. Very cruel, right? I think so, considering the only thing I ever want to do is get the hell out of this country.

Stephanie was gifted with, well, nothing. Not a card, a check, a tzchotcke, a gift certificate. Nada. And I assure you there's no surprise present lying around. I am the Samantha Baker of Hanukkah this year, so it's highly fitting that I did the Sixteen Candles reality tour in Chicago a couple weeks ago.

My presents? Dad refusing to let me sleep past 10 a.m. and repeatedly banging on my door when I try; mom badgering me constantly, 'so what else is new?' (since the last time I spoke with you five minutes ago? Nothing!) A house full of barking dogs and a neighbor's yard with chirping bullfrogs outside my upstairs window. Not to mention the fact that I cannot get wireless on my Mac, so the work I was planning on doing--not happening. And a city, I am not exaggerating in the least, where the ONLY thing open on Christmas is the movies. Seriously, not even the gas stations are open in Jesusville. The only reason I'm here is for Dana's family's wedding. Otherwise, I'd be at the pool in South Beach. I hate this 'city' so much I can't deal. Too bad there aren't anymore homophobic signs for me to vandalize.

Bitter? Yes. See, us Jews are not required to have the 'spirit of the season,' thank fucking god. So today I will go to the gym--the JCC rather, the only non-theatrical place open in Jesus-fucking-ville--and probably go see Marley and Me.

And my Hanukkah gift to myself is a trip to the Left Coast for the anniversary of my mastectomy around Valentine's day. (Cause heaven's forbid I should be gifted with a plane ticket anywhere even in the continental U.S., forget about another continent.) I will finally be reunited, in person, with Dr. Laura, get to see Lay and Jill and Kim and Hank and all my long-lost LA friends, and perhaps take a jaunt down to La Jolla to stay with some family.

Oh, and my apartment will not be sold on Jan. 5, rather that is when the judge will make his summary judgement on how long I have to vacate. Probably 60 to 90 days, longer if we can negotiate a rental with the bank/new owner. Well, guess what bitches? I ain't moving. I don't care if I have to squat. I love my apartment. Wouldn't that make a fine human interest story?

"Well-dressed, Deranged, Wigged Woman Refuses to Leave Bentley Bay Apartment."

I'd love to do an apartment swap with a like-minded gal in the City for the month of March perhaps. So if you know anyone into that, hook me up. You've probably seen photos of my apartment, but being on the water in South Beach in March isn't too shabby. Me? I'd prefer to be wearing my shearling in New York and sitting in Bergdorf's shoe department people watching. Bah humbug.