“Hi, My name is Matt and I’m a Dick.”

(Editorial note: Comments, sarcasm, off-hand statements and humor can often come off as being angry, judgmental, or just plain mean. By no means in this commentary do I wish to make fun of these people or judge them in any way. I have the utmost respect for them, seriously, to deal with their problems and issues in a good and constructive way. If you feel that I’m being mean or weird or think for a minute that I think I’m better than them, well that’s just plain wrong. My hope is to make you laugh. Which, of course, I will probably fail.)

It was Christmas of 2004. Melinda, my manager, was about to head back to California, Hollywood exactly, to continue her career in the movie business. Her supposed two month stay in Seattle had turned into 12 months and I had patiently waited for her to finally head back down south and sell the script she was so interested in a year prior. It was a long wait and, finally, two days before Christmas, she was having a going away party.

Me, being the fun-guy-with-Santa-suit, I am, decided to attend the party wearing said Santa suit. Rosy cheeks, white eyebrows, awkward pillow, heavy black boots, gloves, the whole nine yards.

It took me a bit to find the beautiful house on Alki point in West Seattle. A VERY nice house, right across from the water and a beautiful view. One of those houses you immediately feel inferior when you walk through the door: you calculate how much the house cost, how you could never afford it, what is wrong with me, I’m a failure, look there’s a fireplace and a flat screen TV, I don’t deserve to live.

So I walk in and surprise everyone as I jingle my bells and “ho-ho-ho” my way to introductions and laughs. Melinda loved it, gave me a big hug, a “Hollywood” kiss on the cheek and introduced me to a number of her friends.

Surprise over, I dumped the confining beard (which fogged up my glasses) and hat (it was dang hot) and looked for beer, wine and food. Beer and wine were not to be found and the food was, well, healthy and small. Heavy sigh.

I sat in this too beautiful living room and made small-talk with an eclectic group of people. Then Melinda rushed over to me and said: “Oh, Matt, I want to introduce you to someone.” Being a manager, I was used to her sort of parading me around as her latest “find.” It was not uncommon to hear her say to someone I just met: “This is Matt, he’s a BRILLIANT writer. He wrote the most FANTASTIC script about Santa. He’s going to be HUGE in Hollywood. I absolutely LOVE him.”

So, expecting the same sort of hyperbole, she took me by the hand across the living room to introduce me to a large woman and said: “So and so, I want you to meet Matt. He’s a Christian too!” And then she flitted off to another guest who was just arriving. “I’m a Christian too?” That’s a new one, I thought. Almost like saying: “He’s also white and bald!” And THEN what was I supposed to say? How do you follow that? “Uh, hi! So, uh, what church do you go to? What denomination are you?” I mean, really, where can you go with that introduction? I mumbled something about the holidays, semi-insulted the person I was just introduced to, made fun of my outfit and went and hid back on the living room couch surrounded by people.

As more people came in I just sat there and took the comments of: “Are you dressed as Santa?” And: “That’s so great! You’re dressed like Santa.” And: “Look, it’s Santa!” Why, oh why, did I come dressed as Santa Claus? Lucky for me, if I stayed sitting away from the lack of alcohol and healthy snacks, and sat sort of hunched over, people didn’t notice my Santa suit and just assumed I was a really fat guy with a red velvet fetish.

After about a half-hour of inane chit chat and comments about “Santa” Melinda came over to me and whispered in my ear: “Matt, this is going to turn into a recovery party, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Was my response. And it WAS fine. I love to study human nature and this sort of thing doesn’t drop into your lap every Holiday season and, suddenly, these people took on a lot more interest. If I could be labeled a “Christian” (and proudly so in the Jesus Christ loving and accepting mould, not the fundamentalist evangelical, fire and brimstone, angry, hateful, mould) then I could quickly start labeling this group of people.

First, it was easy to see who had the eating disorders. The large gal I was introduced to earlier, the way-too-skinny gal, but what were the “others.” My interest was now piqued.

(editorial note: Melinda, for the record, suffers from an eating disorder of some sort. I guess, at one point, she was over 300 lbs, or something which, I assume, is like a bullseye on one’s back in the overly look-conscious Hollywood. Every time we went out to dinner, Melinda would order food like: “Okay, I’ll have the tortilla chips – they’re fried in non-trans-fat oils? Right? And the Salsa? Does that have sugar? I don’t want it if it has sugar in it. Can I get the chicken enchilada, but don’t put the sour cream on it, I need it on a dish on the side.” Then, when the food would arrive, she would take a large scale – about the size of a dinner plate - out of her purse and place portions on the scale and re-serve herself the correct portion.)

(second editorial note: She also looks damn good for someone who tipped the scales that high and whatever the hell she is doing obviously works for her.)

So Melinda, since it was her party, sat down in the middle of the living room, brought out a tray of tea-light candles, and recited the recovery prayer (“God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference”) – she then said: “I would like to hear people’s stories and then light a candle.”

So this older gentleman started and he talked about his drug addiction. His locking himself in his bathroom for hours to overcome his cravings and desires and it was a powerful, moving moment and I felt ashamed to even be in the same room as someone who has fought so hard. Candle lit.

Then a younger guy, probably in his late 20’s got up (and, and when they get up, it’s just like you see on TV: “Hi, my name is Carl and I’m a __________.” everyone: “HI CARL!”) and he talked about he was a member of Overeater’s Anonymous, Gambler’s Anonymous a Sex-A-Holic, an Alcoholic, a drug addict and a couple other things that had initials. Candle lit.

Then, of course, once I heard the word “Sex” I started scanning the group. It was one thing, earlier, to scan the group and think: “Well, obviously he’s got a drug habit or she eats too much (or too little) or whatever…” But now my interest was REALLY piqued. Who’s the sex addict? Can you pick them out of a crowd?

After he was done talking, the large woman I was “Christianized” to earlier (did you know that Christianized is an actual word? According to WORD it’s not telling me to spell check.) talked about how she was a number of “ics” including sex-a-holic. Candle lit.

Then someone talked about how wonderful Melinda was and she cried (it wouldn’t be the first time in the evening that she cried) and then I felt pressure. Do I say something? Do I confess something? I DO drink maybe a little too much on occasion. And I have looked at porn. And, well, maybe I’m a fringe “ic” – where I don’t necessarily want to be labeled, or recognized as being a part of this, or that. Still, I was stunned by how many were multiples. It’s almost like you can’t just be an alcoholic – you have to be a credit-a-holic, too, because you went bankrupt buying alcohol – or something. What was I? Was I going to be labeled? Maybe I’m a “Santa-a-holic!” I’m a “Holiday-a-holic!” Okay, the truth is out! I grind up candy canes and snort them. I wear nothing under my Santa suit but decorative wrapping paper. I lick mistletoe and tie it into my back-hair. The truth is all coming out and it hurts soooooo bad. Candle lit. Okay. I sat still, completely shut up and didn’t say a thing and continued to listen. Then I saw her.

“All an assumption is, is a premeditated resentment.”

She was beautiful and, of course, I immediately thought (hoped) that she was a sex addict. Well, she certainly looked like one. Blond hair, blue, eyes, she sat in front of the festively lit natural gas fireplace in a pretty sweater that was not very flattering and she talked.

She didn’t talk about how she was an “ic” and what organizations she belonged to. She talked about life. Her life. How she was beat up by her previous boyfriend (1. How could ANYONE hit a woman and 2. How could anyone hit someone as gorgeous as HER!?) and that she finally got out of the relationship after he stole all her money and put a gun to her head. And then she talked about her current relationship, with some loser guy who would rather play “Everquest” (I’ve heard it referred to as “Evercrack” – does that make him an “Everquestaholic?”) then spend time with her (1. How could anyone NOT want to spend time with this woman and 2. I would LOVE to spend time with this beautiful woman – if I was single of course) and, when he’s not playing “Evercrack” he’s too busy smoking pot. He’d HAVE to be high to be ignoring such a beautiful woman that was sitting only four feet away from me.

She then used the quote that I placed above and the more I thought about it – it made sense. And she confirmed that she was breaking up with the guy – SHE WAS SINGLE! And BEAUTIFUL and, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, she’s a sex-a-holic.

And then, after the great quote she talked about women. The power of women, the ability to accept one’s self. To not hide behind clothing or make-up (though it’s okay to wear make-up, she says) – she wore none and she was still hotter than a two-dollar pistol. She talked about empowering yourself, not being forced into situations or circumstances to fight for what you believed in to accept who you are and love who you are. It was a beautiful, honest, speech. Spoken by a beautiful, honest, woman. Candle lit.

I sat there, in my red velvet suit, stomach pillow cutting into me, sweaty feet dripping into my boots wondering how I got to this point in my life staring at a soon-to-be-single sex-a-holic (I’m sure!) very hot blond woman.

As she put the lit tea light on the tray and took her spot in front of the lighted fireplace, she was a bit too hot and took off her sweater…

Have you ever seen those cartoons where the character’s eyes fly out of their heads? That’s what mine did. She had this HUGE set of breasts that were covered up by her sweater. I was stunned. I had to reel my eyes back in and, then, suddenly, all the conversation, all the great quotes about self-empowerment and being true to who you were – were suddenly replaced by: “Man would you look at those tits!”

OhmyGod, now I was ashamed. Was this what I was reduced to? “Who cares about who she really is, as long as she’s got a nice rack!?” Oh, man, I felt bad and I figured out after all that I was a “ic.” I was a dICk.

Coming to that quick conclusion, and trying to avoid staring at the beautiful woman’s 48 DDD chest, I took the next break as an opportunity to skedaddle my red Santa ass out of there. Quick hug and Hollywood kiss to Melinda and I was on the road cursing myself.

If Melinda ever comes back up to Seattle and if I get invited to a 12-step recovery party again. I think I will take a moment to stand up and say: “Hi, I’m Matt Terry. And I’m a dick.”