it’s the most wonderful time of the year…

There’s this little thing in the month of December that I look forward to for eleven long months. A little thing that ignites the Christmas spirit in me, that evokes pure joy, and blissfully satisfies my every need. It is Santacon, and it’s the best day of the year.

I first heard of this gloriousness when I was in New York City five years ago. I remember walking the streets on a late Saturday morning, when I saw dozens and dozens of santa suits winding in and out of the crosswalk. What child is this? It was a santa bar crawl.

The following year, my own city adopted the event, and a Christmas miracle was born. Not only do people dress in santa suits, but they go all out in anything remotely related to the holiday. It’s all about having a theme. Creativity and debauchery at its finest.

Everyone is friendly and thoroughly enjoying themselves. You make friends with people simply because they wished you a merry christmas. You exchange free drinks with others simply because you’ve got a similar outfit on. Unity. Father Christmas would be proud.

If your city partakes in this jolly goodness, then I highly suggest checking it out. It’s my Christmas gift to you.


the new summertime.


Summer is fast approaching, and for working twenty-somethings that means, well…more work. Years of being conditioned to impatiently wait for school to let out and summer vacation to begin make the transition to adulthood a bit difficult. We were used to unemployment, sleeping until noon, and asking parents for money on the weekends. You do that now, and you’re called ‘a recent college graduate’. Ha. Jokes.

Nope, the summers now have a different meaning. Vacations depend on if you have enough days off and/or enough money. Daily sun bathing depends on how quickly you can get home from work before the sun goes down. Bonfires cannot occur during the week because you can’t stay awake long enough. And weekends are reserved for weddings because summer means ‘let’s all get married’.

Negatives aside, you will find some positives about the new summertime. We don’t have reading lists to complete. We can hit up a happy hour right after work on any given day of the week. We can rent a car on vacations. We don’t have to go to summer school if we failed a chemistry final by two points, still bitter about that one. Summer flings are easier thanks to tinder. And we can do what we want when we want…well, as long as it fits within our work schedule.

So, onward! What did we always say as kids?..’let’s make this the best summer eva’! Sigh.

the binge watching.

In a follow up to my last post about the downtime, I thought it was appropriate to mention the binge watching of tv shows. Yes, since we’re semi-adults and do semi-big life things, we have enough time to sit on the couch for ten hours watching marathon episodes of tv shows. I mean, what else would we be doing on a friday night after returning home from happy hour?

Case in point: Game of Thrones. I spent the last week obsessing over watching every single episode of the series. You know why? Because, I could. I finished three seasons in one week. It wasn’t easy, but it was the most dedication and effort I’ve put in to something since, well, Breaking Bad. Had a lunch break at work; GOT. Reheated food for days so I didn’t waste time cooking; GOT. Had time to nap, nope; GOT.

Some may say watching tv is pointless, that you should find something constructive to do. But hey, I’m learning things here. Dracarys. That’s another language. And there’s more where that came from. Burn.

To quote the great Kevin McCallister, “I’m ten years old, TV is my life.

the hangover.


If there’s one thing that really makes you feel old, it would have to be the hangover. When I was younger, people used to tell me that as you get older your drinking recovery time gets longer. I would laugh at such fallacies. Scoff at such tales. But then, it started. Little by little, year by year, the headaches would linger a little longer. The waistline expanded a little wider. Things were taking a turn for the worse.

While I couldn’t enjoy the night scene like I used to, I had come to terms with that. I am now older, wiser. I use fancy glasses, and come up with wild drink concoctions. I am a self proclaimed master mixologist. I choose quality over quantity.

And then Sunday hits, and I am defeated. My aging body has turned on me, despite all of the gatorades and electrolytes I drank in preparation. I am a sad sight, slumped over in my bed, holding my temple, wishing for the pounding to stop. Lazy Sundays have hit a new extreme, all because I had three margaritas. Just three.

I succumb to my illness, and vow that next time I will only have two.

And then, I sound like those that have come before me: I just can’t drink like I used to.