I have some questions and maybe you can answer them. Since I don’t know the answer to these questions, I will pretty much believe any answer you give me, as long as they are delivered with AUTHORITY and also AGGRESSION. For example:

Q: Why do people wear sweats outside of the house in a non-gym setting, such as a mall, restaurant, or bar?
A: EVERY IDIOT KNOWS THAT SWEATS HELP CUT GREENHOUSE GAS EMISSIONS BY 9.2%. YOU SAY YOU WENT TO COLLEGE? WAS THAT CLOWN COLLEGE?

See how that works? It’s like oh man, I had no idea, apparently I am worse than an idiot. I’m sorry for even asking.

So then, on to my questions. I hope that you can help me because these questions keep me up at night.

1. Why do all middle-aged mothers like Josh Groban, Andrea Bocelli, and Michael Bublé?

2. Who would win in a deadly deathmatch-to-the-death-to-the-death: Marie Curie or Nikola Tesla?

3. How do you explain to your mother that Jimmy Choo makes shoes that are for whores?

4. Why do people watch Grey’s Anatomy? That show sucks.

5. Why do my parents yell things that can easily be spoken in an indoor-voice like OH I REALLY LIKE TRADER JOE’S ORANGE-CRANBERRY SCONES.

There are a lot of other questions, but honestly I think these are the five most pressing ones.

Also Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and if you don’t, it means YOU WORSHIP SATAN just like my parents. The good news is that you can DESTROY SATAN by beating him at Guitar Hero.

So they “found” my luggage and delivered it to me. They did not know what happened. They fly to only three cities, you’d think they’d know what was up. They are sorry, but not sorry enough if you ask me. They delivered it. It was in one whole piece and not several pieces as I had anticipated. Christmas was not ruined. Not yet anyway.

Now I think, hey I have clothes! I have my gifts! I shall take a shower. A glorious shower. I shall wear new clothes. It will be amazing. Oh, wait, what’s this? My parents haven’t had HOT WATER in two days?????? Dude. Even my crappy compartment in New York has hot water (most of the time). An outrage! So now I must drive to my friend’s house which is 40 minutes away because my parents moved out of the Valley, but in the opposite direction from where all the “action” is. This is because my parents do not like “action.” They see “action” and they think, you know what? I will avoid it. I will go way over here. But then everyday I will drive to the “action” and it will be a very far drive. It is better this way.

I’m sorry for my odor everyone. It’s not my fault. I swear. When the situation allows it, I pay very close attention to personal hygiene. So now I recommend that everyone step back a few feet from me. Or stop breathing. Either one is fine.

The best part about going to Los Angeles is sitting next to an eight-year-old beastchild who cries and whines and bellyaches because she wants to watch a Disney princess movie and then for some reason, she throws up on her mother and the stench overwhelms the entire cabin. OK no, you’re right. That’s not the best part. The best part is sitting next to a couple who decides to fight for the first half of the trip and then make out the second half, but wait, they are sitting behind the boyfriend’s parents! What?!? Who does that? No wait, alright, alright, I’m lying. That is not the best part either. The actual real best part about going to Los Angeles is landing at LAX and waiting over an hour at the “baggage carousel” which is, interestingly enough, not as festive as a carousel but twice as annoying. The even bester part is that when the bags finally start coming down this baggage poop chute contraption, you realize they are totally drenched from the rain. But wait, wait, that’s not really the best part. This is the best part:

People tell you–unapologetically–that your luggage has gone missing. They just don’t know where it is, they’re sorry. The good news is that they will write a claim on your behalf. Oh how lucky I am. What does the bag look like? I say it’s green. They show me a profile sheet of different bags of different styles. Kind of like when people go to the police station and you flip through books that have pictures of criminals, except instead of criminals there are bags with labels like “soft-material, upright, with wheels and extending handle.” So now there is a claim on my behalf! 1 bag, style: 22, color: GN. I would rather write a claim on my own behalf, to be honest. After all, I am a writer. I can write my own claims, thank you. If you start writing for me, then I will be out of a job. So, then, my claim:

CLAIM: YOU HAVE LOST MY BAG. YOU HAVE NOT ONLY RUINED MY CHRISTMAS, YOU HAVE RUINED EVERYONE ELSE’S CHRISTMAS BECAUSE THEIR GIFTS ARE INSIDE THAT BAG. YOU KNOW, THE ONE THAT “HAS GONE MISSING.” MY CLAIM IS THAT YOU ARE INCOMPETENT.

There was another woman too, whose bag had also “gone missing.” She was on her way back from Australia. She was very tired. She started to cry. Then she started to get angry. Then she started to cry. I was exhausted just listening to her.

Having said all this, I am in Los Angeles. Hello, there. Also, I do not have clean underwear and my hair smells like vomit. The time is 5:17 am New York time, which I am currently on, despite the fact that I am in Los Angeles. I am wearing random things that belong to my mother, including her underwear. It is new underwear, fresh from a little tube, but still, it is strange to be wearing my mother’s underwear. Plus, it is big. Because she’s bigger. My mother laughed at me. Thanks, Mom. Why don’t you just kick me in the throat while I’m down? It’ll make the lack of luggage go down much easier.

I am going to go to bed now in order to wake up from this horrible nightmare. Maybe tomorrow I will have luggage and my friends and family members will have gifts. Or maybe not. If that is the case, I shall continue to sleep.

Tomorrow I return to the greater Los Angeles area (ahem, the Valley) to visit my family. I have decided to do things a little differently this year, as an experiment. Normally I get to L.A. on Christmas because we don’t celebrate it because my parents rather spend all day at church with their friends than spend it at home all together, and I don’t blame them since I much rather spend Christmas with my friends (though not at church), so it kind of works out for everyone involved. Then I stay until New Year’s which is a big holiday for our family, where we actually spend time together and fight and the cousins have to sit around listening to our relatives complain that we are horrible people for not breeding. OH MY GOD WE ARE NOT BREEDING. But this year I’ve decided that I’d like to spend New Year’s in New York because I don’t think I’ve ever done that before, and even though New Year’s is my least favorite holiday, it might actually be my favorite if I spend it with people I actually care about and not my family. Ha ha ha. NO really. So I’m going to L.A. now and do the pre-holiday warm-up with my family. It is good to change it up. Maybe. The whole thing can suck, I have no idea. Holidays make people crazy. Like I said, it is an experiment. Experiments can go horribly wrong and sometimes you end up burning your eyebrows off, just saying. Then the stench of burned hair kind of follows you around. Again, just saying.

Also: darts. I really suck at them. You’re throwing sharp objects at something. This should really be my forte. But no. I suck.

Also: The “this is not part of your imagination” that I heard was actually a COMMERCIAL for a stupid A&E show and now I feel really violated. Why don’t they just break into my apartment and rearrange my furniture and then take a photo of themselves with my toothbrush up their bums? Just saying.

Also: My right eye is crying but my left eye is not. My left eye thinks my right eye is a big baby. My left eye wants to punch the right eye to make it stop crying but knows it will only make it worse. My right eye isn’t really crying, it just has something stuck in it. My left eye is calling bullshit on the right eye. I mean, what a lame excuse. Suurreee. My right eye is indignant, no really, something’s stuck in it. My left eye thinks it could be the ‘very special episode’ of Friends that the left eye saw recently. My right eye is pissed because it really hates that show and it’s not its fault there’s a writer’s strike going on and Daily Show and Colbert Report are not running new episodes. Besides, my right eye much prefers watching The Wire and has Netflixed season 4. The left eye is tired of hearing the right eye’s excuses. The left eye is walking out on the right eye, which now makes the right eye cry for real. You can’t leave me, says the right eye. The left eye says, oh yeah? Watch me.

So for those of you who didn’t get a chance to walk along Prince between Mott and Elizabeth, near the old church, I am going to tell you what the fuss was all about. I’m pretty sure it’s not there anymore, so if you were planning on going, you can probably NOT BOTHER and also YOU SUCK. But, you know, in a nice way.

OK, so you are walking, walking, minding your own business, maybe you are listening to your iPod, or if you are a jerk, your iPhone, and suddenly you hear a whisper “This is not part of your imagination.” It’s quick at first, so you jump a little, you look behind you because it sounds as if someone is whispering in your ear. You see nothing, you think, hrm weird I guess it was just my imagination, but then you hear, “I am not part of your imagination” and then you realize the voice is FOLLOWING you as you walk down the block. It’s timed perfectly with your thoughts. I don’t know who the artist is, whether it’s just some guerrilla thing or if it’s like real, sanctioned art or whatever you want to call it. I tried to look for the speakers in the trees but couldn’t find them since it was dark. However, the ABSOLUTE BEST part of this is watching people FREAK OUT as they walk down the street. I actually saw a girl scream and yell and run down the block, her arms and flailing like a squid. It was fantastic. The weird part was that I wasn’t freaked out or anything. It was like oh cool, audio installation. Then I went on my way. I guess I am desensitized. At first I actually thought it was my iPod (I do not have an iPhone because I am not a jerk, OK fine I’d like one but come on, I don’t need half that crap, I just need a phone, which I have), but then I realized it wasn’t my music. Because Les Savy Fav just does not do that kind of whispering stuff. They are more like ROWR ROWR ROCK ROCK ROWR ROWR YOU ARE A JACKASS ROWR ROWR. Anyway how cool is that?

Now, a joke:

What did one eye say to the other eye?

On Friday I went to TWO architecture office parties. Two! That’s two more than any non-architect should ever attend. Have I lost my mind? Oh dear, I think I have. LOST: My mind. Answers to the name “Annie.” If found, please return immediately. No questions asked.

The first was at Front, where my friend works. It’s a few blocks from my compartment, so I thought, why not? There will be FREE BOOZE and I think that we can all agree that best kind of booze is free, much like the best things in life, such as free booze. It was fun. There was a band. The band members actually outnumbered the people. Oh fine, I’m lying, but there was a horn section. And a belly dancer. Not bad. Most office parties do not have a belly dancer. I think we can all agree on that. Nor do they have an accordion player. Note to all other office parties: You have been ONE UPPED. Anyway, if you plan on having an office party without a belly dancer or an accordion player, then I suggest you either find them, or not call it a party. Call it “a festive get-together that will be an OK time and you will not totally hate going but it could be drastically improved with the addition of a belly dancer and an accordion player.” I know that might be too long to put on your invitations, but you don’t want to piss anyone off. If you say “office party,” people will expect belly dancers and accordion players. Then if you do not deliver “the party” people will get upset and start throwing things out the window, including chairs, computing devices, and that mouth-breather Dan from Marketing, who probably deserves it, but still. Just a tip.

Party number 2 was at Snohetta. It felt more like a rave than anything else. Mostly because people were wearing glowsticks and everyone was a tall European and dancing to techno. I was like, wow, Snohetta pulled me straight back to 1998. I met Craig, who is shaped just like a pear and very smiley. I like Craig. He seems like a nice guy. I like that he treats his employees well and everyone leaves at 6:30. Everyone who was at the party wanted a job there. See? If you treat your employees well, then people will want to work for you and then you choose whoever you want. Then you can control the number of douchebags that work in your office and then you can throw parties with glowsticks and give Annie a bucket of cash monies. Snohetta has this huge office and you could probably fit at least 32 of my apartments in there, and they only use an eighth of it. I swear one room had dust in it. I was like dudes. Two words: BOUNCE HOUSE. Craig, you are a dick if you don’t give your employees a bounce house. Just saying. Get on that.

My office party is this weekend. On Sunday. I have no idea why it’s on a Sunday. Probably because it’s cheaper. It will be a dinner where we sit down and people will make toasts and speeches and it will be very civilized. There will be no glowsticks. No kegstands. No disco. No one will do the snake on the dance floor. Which is probably a good thing.

Now in non-party news:

OK, I have nothing to add here. I guess party is the only news.

So, uh, how are you?

For those of you who live in the City of New York: Walk down Prince St. between Mott and Mulberry. You know that old church there? Walk on the north side of the street, right near the brick wall, which is supposedly the oldest brick wall on Earth. OK fine it’s not, but someone told me something interesting about that brick wall and I totally forgot it. I guess it wasn’t that interesting, so I’ll just make up something better: This wall is made entirely of cream cheese specially crafted from the milk of ten burros. Anyway, go walk there, right next to the wall of cream cheese. Go there at night. During the week or something, when it’s kind of quiet and not full of people. You will BE A TOTAL WINNER if you do it. I will not explain, just that you need to walk there and that you need to do it kind of soon. I don’t care if you live in Brooklyn or Queens or the B-to-the-X and you are like, waaahh it’s too cold, I don’t want to walk. Trust me. Do it. At night. If you don’t do it, I will give you a check minus on your report card. For all you Asians out there, that means you’re parents are going to be pissed and give you more Mommy homework. Then check out the New New Museum. You know how people always say, oh Tom Cruise is a lot shorter in real life? Well the New New Museum is a lot like Tom Cruise. It’s a lot smaller in real life.

OK. Does anyone actually like Christmas music? If so, please identify yourself so I can punch you in the throat and call you a liar. NO ONE likes Christmas music. Jesus doesn’t even like Christmas music and half that crap is about him. So, why are people playing it? Sometimes I want to break down in the store and just cry and then have a throwdown with the first “customer service representative” I see. Christmas shopping is already stressful enough, it’s like they are actually trying to kill me. Santa, why are you trying to kill me? I don’t know which is the worst Christmas song. It might be the “Twelve Days of Christmas” song because it’s about twelve days long. Like, why not just sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”? Or it might be “We wish you a Merry Christmas” because the song is like 5 minutes long but there are only 10 words. The word to minute ratio is very, very bad.

That reminds me of how my mother called me “Santa Claus maid” when she in fact meant to call me an elf. This is because I am on the petite side of the human scale. I’d be huge for a dog, mind you, but for a human, I am kind of small. But not, like, that small. But you know what I mean. The point is this: if you have read Happy Birthday or Whatever, you already know this. Sometimes I find myself saying things I wrote in the book and people call me on it. Like, yeah Annie, I read it, duh. It’s particularly bad with my close friends because they’ve heard it a million times, and then read it, and then now they have to hear it again. I’m surprised I have any friends at all, really. So then I get embarrassed and it kind of puts a damper on the conversation and I have to be like oh sorry, I forgot, say, that’s a nice shirt you got on.