Naughty or nice?

Mrs. Lorenze taught us to "gleek" when I was in seventh grade. It is quite easy: chew a smartie in the back of your cheek, press your tongue up and forward on the roof of your mouth, and watch in awe as you shoot spit wherever you so please. Gleeking seemed like a useful tool, and if she had only taught it to the girls it would have been acceptable, but I'll let you imagine the sheer joy that was the skill of gleeking to seventh grade boys. The fact that people who are obsessed with Glee are called "Gleeks" is just totally strange and brings back wet and slimy memories.

On an episode I watched tonight Mr. Schuester tells one of his students that someday she will find someone who falls for the things about her that she doesn't like. It is this type of deliciously romantic moments that force every girl to fall madly in love with Mr. Shue, adding yet another man to the list of fictional characters we will all force other men to try to live up too. Those famous men such as Jacob Black, Mark Darcy, Ron Weasley, Jack Sparrow, Derek Shepard and the unbareably desirable others practically doom all men to living lives of insufficiency in the eyes of every woman who has read a love story, heard a country song, or watched a movie. I have also been contemplating my possibly unhealthy addiction to country music and Mark Darcy. There is no denying that I am a totally and unashamedly corny girl. Give me a guy who can sing George Strait and I'm a goner.

In Sweden, Christmas is celebrated on Christmas eve, and a friend here just asked me if I have been nice this year. I was all ready for bed and exhausted, and then he asked that, thus sending me into a fabulous frenzy of panic that I wasn't nice enough. Regardless of if I believe in Santa, the fantasy of it is enough to make me have that full year evaluation of my behavior hoping that I will be deemed nice, and not naughty. I could ask Santa for a George Strait singing boy who would like the fact that I snore, talk in my sleep, can't bake cookies and have no photogenic gifts whatsoever. I could ask for that guy the Mr. Schuester was talking about, but to be honest, this year I just want Starbucks, Taylor Swift, or a puppy in my stocking. The whole puppy deal is kind of a lost cause; I figured Santa didn't really love me much when, after nine years, I am yet to get a puppy for Christmas. And frankly, Taylor is probably off being blonde and fabulous and not willing to sit under a tree simply so I can drill her on what hair product she uses. No girl will turn down a great guy, but unless Mark Darcy was waiting for me under the tree, this year I would really just rather have a peppermint mocha. Which is also impossible since Sweden is yet to have a Starbucks in a location other than Terminal Four in the Arlanda airport. Not that I Starbucks Locations-ed that prior to coming or anything.

The whole evaluation of naughty or nice will be determined tomorrow night; my faith in Santa is dwindling, so unless there's a puppy waiting for me in the morning, I am going to go to bed tonight hoping that SOMEDAY Santa will stick a snuggly baby dog in my stocking. Until then, I will be as naughty or as nice as I feel like at whatever the moment is. So take that, Santa.