This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

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There was a time in my life (not so very long ago) when I truly believed that my sex appeal could be rated somewhere below that of a geriatric stripper. I have since realized that I was dating all the wrong men. Men who loved me like a sister. Men who “respected” me too much. Men that never even considered finding and pocketing a pair of my underwear.

At a certain point, that becomes bad for the self-esteem.

I recall one night in particular when I decided to make an attempt at being seductive. I wore something curve-accentuating, put on make-up and perfume, and dimmed all the lights. When my then-boyfriend arrived, I opened the door just a bit and leaned against the frame. Blocking the entrance with my body, I asked him suggestively, “What’s the password?”

He stared at me dumbfounded for a moment. Then he answered, thoroughly disoriented, “Um . . . camel?”

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To anyone who’s ever said, “I’ll do it myself!” I salute you . . . you crazy son of a bitch.

Long ago I determined that a childhood love of Legos means that I have the makings of a mechanical engineer and can therefore build anything. In my defense, given enough time and an instruction booklet in English, Spanish, French, and Dutch, I usually am able to construct something like the picture on the box. That doesn’t mean I have an easy go at it, of course, as I was reminded when I dug up this journal entry this afternoon:

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If you really think about it, celebrating Christmas requires a bit of skill. Nothing short of military training is required to brave the malls. Oscar-worthy performances are necessary to convince elderly relatives that footie pajamas were just what you wanted this year. It’s time to put into practice the evasive maneuvers formerly used for in-laws, but now essential to avoiding bell-ringing Santas. And let’s not forget about preparing dinner. Fortunately, Martha Stewart isn’t in the can this year and probably has a TV special designed to help you with all that holiday cooking and baking . . . and you may even learn how to make a festive Christmas centerpiece out of pine cones and candy canes.

I realize that everyone can’t be good at everything. I won’t mock your poor gift-wrapping skills (although there may be a book on origami in your stocking). I won’t point out that while you’re dressed like Santa, you’re still about two Scotches short of being jolly or merry. I won’t even find it unforgivable if you get so preoccupied with trying to catch our neighbor under the mistletoe that you let my second cousin eat a hearty sprig of holly.

I will, however, belittle and demean you if your Christmas decorations suck.

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I am ever so fortunate to live in a part of the country where it begins to snow right around Thanksgiving time. So if you’re wise enough to stay in bed on Black Friday instead of getting trampled to death at Target while making a mad dash for the DVD players, Mother Nature will send you the friendly reminder that the holiday season has begun by dumping an assload of wet white powder on your doorstep.

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‘Twas the night before Christmas break, when all through the place
Every employee spread cheer with a smile on her face
The timeclock was watched by the workers with care
In hopes that closing time soon would be near.

With two hours to go they were popping their meds
While visions of Jack Daniel’s danced in their heads.
And I and my colleague (poster child for Gap)
Had just settled down for an eyes-open nap.

When what should deter me from the promise of slumber?
Silver wrapped packages for myself (and the bumbler)!
Away to my present I flew like a flash,
“This gift is from Nordstrom! Damn, she dropped some cash!”

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