2017 was a terrible year. The last thing I wanted to do was dwell on more racism, sexism, and Trump. Doesn't really make you want to type things, you know?
Let's focus on the good stuff! I made my dad's lifelong dream finally come true: Hawai'i. It's a beautiful place with a beautiful spirit. And for a $600 plane ticket, it was a no-brainer. All four of us went, with Jadek spending 15 days with the 'rentals. I was worried - I shouldn't have been. Everyone got on and we had a lot of fun.
2017 also had us knee-deep in house stuff. The basement flooded in late 2016 and so we spent a lot of 2017 recovering physically and emotionally (mostly emotionally) from that. New roof, stonework out front... it was nesting in all its glory.
So, 2017 slithered away. Despite some significant highlights, it was a trying year that I'm happy to see the back of.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, January 29, 2018
Saturday, July 13, 2013
expectations
I have, what some polite people may call, an eclectic family. Actually, I have, what I call, a crazy family. And just when I think I’ve come to grips with my history, something happens to blow my mind. Way more on that later.
I took a four-day jaunt to visit my family in NYC. Yes, four days. I actually don’t like visiting that particular branch, but not for the reasons you may think**. They’re gregarious, funny, honest, and totally down-to-earth. I have spent many a hour on the phone with my Aunt, in stitches from her daily commentary on life. She can’t get through a sentence without swearing – and the kind of swearing that would put a sailor to shame. I learned so many interesting ways to cuss while in her home. Her youngest son is only a month younger than me: when we were growing up, we were inseparable. We played Thundercats with such vigour that we broke beds, bones, and boundaries with equal panache. He’s now about to be a father, something I can’t even begin to fathom. My Aunt’s only daughter – whom they always just called Daughter (even in Christmas cards) – is pretty much a loser. She abandoned her two eldest children almost ten years ago. My niece and nephew, whose father is an equal deadbeat, were brought up by their uncles and grandmother. They had a hard childhood and I always worried for them – this was the branch where no one had even finished high school, forget college. (The boys all landed on their feet, they work crushing hours to make a decent living.) The elder, my nephew, dropped out of high school. No surprise. I am very happy to report that he wrote, and passed, his GED. He’s a talented boy, a tattoo artist and skateboard designer – but works in a Manhattan kitchen. The younger, my niece, graduated this June. With Honours. Scholarships to schools. Of course, I had to be there to see her get that diploma. Not just me, but my whole immediate family. So, no option for a hotel. Stayed we did.
It was a lovely ceremony (all the way out in Long Island!), staged in a huge gymnasium for only about 150 kids (but at least 2000 family members). Graduation is a big deal there. For this school especially, which had gotten used to a 65% graduation rate before becoming chartered. This year, they boasted an impressive 95% graduation rate, with almost 80% of those kids getting some sort of scholarship. Wow. Her future was bright indeed.
Was.
You see, on the surface, this is a feel-good story. Fighting the odds to be the first high school graduate in her family – with honours in health sciences, no less – surely she would be fine. But the truth is, this is a story about family values. A story about the importance of caring parents, strong role models (both mom and dad) and the absolute need for boundaries. Sure, I’ve gotten into my fair share of mischief. Who hasn’t. But I had a strong dad, one with a steely grip on my freedoms – just enough slack to explore but yanked back real quick when something untoward was happening. Like, when I had a boy in my room and I had closed the door. Never mind that he was my gay best friend, that we were sitting at the desk using the computer – that was the end of that. Or how about when I got a henna tattoo on my arm at Canada Day; even after I showed him it was washable, he wasn’t happy until it had all come off. My mom said it best: you had a strict dad and you didn’t really need one. My niece does. But it’s hard to be strict when you work 60 hours a week and are only about ten years older. Even harder when you don’t live under the same roof. And my Aunt? Well, she was never much for discipline anyway.
So now, my niece, whose boyfriend has been sharing her bed for a month, has decided to defer her education (and lose her scholarships). She’s decided to work as a cashier in the same Manhattan eatery as her brother. When Dad tried to turf her boyfriend on behalf on my Aunt, my niece left the house and wasn’t heard from until she knew my parents (namely, my strict Dad) was gone. I’ll give them this – no one ever talks back to my Dad. He has a lot of authority. He’s that guy, you know? Boy, did she need that guy growing up.
I had wanted to help plan her first year away from home, make lists of things she’d need, talk about my own dorm experience and what she could expect. I wanted to take her shopping in Manhattan – just the girls – and make a day of it. I guess I had her frozen in my mind as that sweet nine-year-old who was so starved for affection, that she literally clung to me the minute I walked in; who asked quietly if she could sleep with me on the tiny twin bed; who delighted in berry-flavoured sparkly chapstick. That was my mistake. Turns out, she’s stubborn, rude, and dismissive – typical teenaged stuff that’s easily addressed by good parenting. This is what happens when you don’t have parents looking out for you.
Who would have thought a family trip to NYC would become a morality play?
**Why don’t I like visiting? In short – they’re slobs. I’ve never been in a house that filthy. And I genuinely think they try but actually have no concept of clean. I’m a finicky person and thus entirely uncomfortable staying there overnight. I’ve been to NYC many times, and am happy to take the E train to Jamaica-VanWyck for a visit. That’s about all I can handle.
I took a four-day jaunt to visit my family in NYC. Yes, four days. I actually don’t like visiting that particular branch, but not for the reasons you may think**. They’re gregarious, funny, honest, and totally down-to-earth. I have spent many a hour on the phone with my Aunt, in stitches from her daily commentary on life. She can’t get through a sentence without swearing – and the kind of swearing that would put a sailor to shame. I learned so many interesting ways to cuss while in her home. Her youngest son is only a month younger than me: when we were growing up, we were inseparable. We played Thundercats with such vigour that we broke beds, bones, and boundaries with equal panache. He’s now about to be a father, something I can’t even begin to fathom. My Aunt’s only daughter – whom they always just called Daughter (even in Christmas cards) – is pretty much a loser. She abandoned her two eldest children almost ten years ago. My niece and nephew, whose father is an equal deadbeat, were brought up by their uncles and grandmother. They had a hard childhood and I always worried for them – this was the branch where no one had even finished high school, forget college. (The boys all landed on their feet, they work crushing hours to make a decent living.) The elder, my nephew, dropped out of high school. No surprise. I am very happy to report that he wrote, and passed, his GED. He’s a talented boy, a tattoo artist and skateboard designer – but works in a Manhattan kitchen. The younger, my niece, graduated this June. With Honours. Scholarships to schools. Of course, I had to be there to see her get that diploma. Not just me, but my whole immediate family. So, no option for a hotel. Stayed we did.
It was a lovely ceremony (all the way out in Long Island!), staged in a huge gymnasium for only about 150 kids (but at least 2000 family members). Graduation is a big deal there. For this school especially, which had gotten used to a 65% graduation rate before becoming chartered. This year, they boasted an impressive 95% graduation rate, with almost 80% of those kids getting some sort of scholarship. Wow. Her future was bright indeed.
Was.
You see, on the surface, this is a feel-good story. Fighting the odds to be the first high school graduate in her family – with honours in health sciences, no less – surely she would be fine. But the truth is, this is a story about family values. A story about the importance of caring parents, strong role models (both mom and dad) and the absolute need for boundaries. Sure, I’ve gotten into my fair share of mischief. Who hasn’t. But I had a strong dad, one with a steely grip on my freedoms – just enough slack to explore but yanked back real quick when something untoward was happening. Like, when I had a boy in my room and I had closed the door. Never mind that he was my gay best friend, that we were sitting at the desk using the computer – that was the end of that. Or how about when I got a henna tattoo on my arm at Canada Day; even after I showed him it was washable, he wasn’t happy until it had all come off. My mom said it best: you had a strict dad and you didn’t really need one. My niece does. But it’s hard to be strict when you work 60 hours a week and are only about ten years older. Even harder when you don’t live under the same roof. And my Aunt? Well, she was never much for discipline anyway.
So now, my niece, whose boyfriend has been sharing her bed for a month, has decided to defer her education (and lose her scholarships). She’s decided to work as a cashier in the same Manhattan eatery as her brother. When Dad tried to turf her boyfriend on behalf on my Aunt, my niece left the house and wasn’t heard from until she knew my parents (namely, my strict Dad) was gone. I’ll give them this – no one ever talks back to my Dad. He has a lot of authority. He’s that guy, you know? Boy, did she need that guy growing up.
I had wanted to help plan her first year away from home, make lists of things she’d need, talk about my own dorm experience and what she could expect. I wanted to take her shopping in Manhattan – just the girls – and make a day of it. I guess I had her frozen in my mind as that sweet nine-year-old who was so starved for affection, that she literally clung to me the minute I walked in; who asked quietly if she could sleep with me on the tiny twin bed; who delighted in berry-flavoured sparkly chapstick. That was my mistake. Turns out, she’s stubborn, rude, and dismissive – typical teenaged stuff that’s easily addressed by good parenting. This is what happens when you don’t have parents looking out for you.
Who would have thought a family trip to NYC would become a morality play?
**Why don’t I like visiting? In short – they’re slobs. I’ve never been in a house that filthy. And I genuinely think they try but actually have no concept of clean. I’m a finicky person and thus entirely uncomfortable staying there overnight. I’ve been to NYC many times, and am happy to take the E train to Jamaica-VanWyck for a visit. That’s about all I can handle.
Thursday, January 03, 2013
#2
(countdown of LilBro's biggest fans - as ranked by Facebook)
YAY! You made it! FIREWORKS AND STREAMERS! Now could you just please stop pestering about this, okay? Look, I know you're my sister, and your interest in my stuff is always welcome, but you got to give me some slack here! 25 people to gush over is a daunting task. I mean, I had to somehow compress the importance of A and L's work, and then expand on the importance of drinking with the twins, and make them seem equal, which they aren't! Clearly A saving lives far outweighs how many shots K and I can do in one sitting (no offence buddy). I realize the irony of giving myself a task that I am now complaining about, trust me. Can I move on now? Thank you.
But I wouldn't be her brother if I didn't come in kicking and screaming. And really, that must have been her first memory of me, kicking and screaming.
I'm not going to bore you with our life story, it would be unfitting for such a large and dense story to be made here on a Facebook status. So instead of trying to get into it, I'll speak in metaphor as best I can.
Once, there were two people. One was older, smarter, logical, with an appetite for knowledge, and who would not be stopped by flaws or social trends. The younger one was more rowdy, reckless, humorous and would not be stopped by reason and social law. They were forced to somehow relate and feed off each other's strengths. In the beginning, they most certainly did not get along. It was not until years later that the finally found true kinship and complimented each other's life.
M--- is definitely the archetype for "Older Sister". If there was Oscar for who played the part the best, M--- would win. She's kind when she has to be, she's strict when she needs to be. She's saved my life about 4 times now, and real-life saving, not that bullshit "Oh she got me out of a rut, she's my emotional rock" thing, I mean saved my life from the possibility of Jail, Drug Addiction, being Seriously Injured for doing something dumb, and yes, Death. That's a big four. And yeah, she'll probably take all the kudos and praise she can for it, maybe a little cocky about it too, but that's okay, because deep down, M--- does these things because it's her reflex to do so. It's in her bones to save people. This is a girl who grew up on Thundercats, Batman, Buffy and Star Trek TNG. And that's just TV, I won't even count the books. So now you understand why it's in her.
It's her nature, it's a sense of duty that she carries through all aspects of life. I seent it, y'all. She is my number one fan of all my hard work, she recognizes when I've put work into something. I have tried my best to be a good little brother. That means washing her car from time to time (because I borrow it a lot), painting her house (because I crash on the couch), and whatever little favours she asks of me (because I was, and still can be, an annoying little shit). But really, I can't repay all the times I got ice cream money from her as a kid, it's impossible. And that really is a microcosm of our relationship: M--- rewards me with ice cream if I've been good and haven't annoyed her that day. Sweet deal, I say.
So Cheers to the #2 spot, my sister. I love you THIS much.
<--------------------------------------------------------->
YAY! You made it! FIREWORKS AND STREAMERS! Now could you just please stop pestering about this, okay? Look, I know you're my sister, and your interest in my stuff is always welcome, but you got to give me some slack here! 25 people to gush over is a daunting task. I mean, I had to somehow compress the importance of A and L's work, and then expand on the importance of drinking with the twins, and make them seem equal, which they aren't! Clearly A saving lives far outweighs how many shots K and I can do in one sitting (no offence buddy). I realize the irony of giving myself a task that I am now complaining about, trust me. Can I move on now? Thank you.
But I wouldn't be her brother if I didn't come in kicking and screaming. And really, that must have been her first memory of me, kicking and screaming.
I'm not going to bore you with our life story, it would be unfitting for such a large and dense story to be made here on a Facebook status. So instead of trying to get into it, I'll speak in metaphor as best I can.
Once, there were two people. One was older, smarter, logical, with an appetite for knowledge, and who would not be stopped by flaws or social trends. The younger one was more rowdy, reckless, humorous and would not be stopped by reason and social law. They were forced to somehow relate and feed off each other's strengths. In the beginning, they most certainly did not get along. It was not until years later that the finally found true kinship and complimented each other's life.
M--- is definitely the archetype for "Older Sister". If there was Oscar for who played the part the best, M--- would win. She's kind when she has to be, she's strict when she needs to be. She's saved my life about 4 times now, and real-life saving, not that bullshit "Oh she got me out of a rut, she's my emotional rock" thing, I mean saved my life from the possibility of Jail, Drug Addiction, being Seriously Injured for doing something dumb, and yes, Death. That's a big four. And yeah, she'll probably take all the kudos and praise she can for it, maybe a little cocky about it too, but that's okay, because deep down, M--- does these things because it's her reflex to do so. It's in her bones to save people. This is a girl who grew up on Thundercats, Batman, Buffy and Star Trek TNG. And that's just TV, I won't even count the books. So now you understand why it's in her.
It's her nature, it's a sense of duty that she carries through all aspects of life. I seent it, y'all. She is my number one fan of all my hard work, she recognizes when I've put work into something. I have tried my best to be a good little brother. That means washing her car from time to time (because I borrow it a lot), painting her house (because I crash on the couch), and whatever little favours she asks of me (because I was, and still can be, an annoying little shit). But really, I can't repay all the times I got ice cream money from her as a kid, it's impossible. And that really is a microcosm of our relationship: M--- rewards me with ice cream if I've been good and haven't annoyed her that day. Sweet deal, I say.
So Cheers to the #2 spot, my sister. I love you THIS much.
<--------------------------------------------------------->
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
movember
LilBro says:
"Now that Movember is officially over, I have a few sharp words I wish to share. I'm going to try and be as placid as possible in writing this, I will attempt not to swear as it may diminish my purpose and point.
Let me take it back a few years ago. There was this "internet fad", if you will, of females posting vague statuses that went something like "I like it on the X" where "X" is any location they choose. Many people, at first, assumed it meant something to do with sex, and where they prefer to have it. However, this was a ruse, and in fact it was supposed to be where they put their purse. The point was to not share this information with my gender, and have us all in bewilderment as to why anyone would blatantly state their favourite spot for coitus on Facebook. But the purpose of this was actually rooted in, if you remember, breast cancer awareness.
I have already made my statement on the matter, and if you know it, skip this paragraph. For those of you who are unaware of my stance, it was that of unfortunate disappointment. Reason being, there was no symbolic reference to breast cancer awareness. As well, the point was to not let in half the population in on the ruse, thereby effectively cutting awareness by 50%. It was counterintuitive. It was also doing something that I've never been a fan of, and that is the sexualization of Illness. Since the breast is considered a sexual organ in the 21st century, I suppose some of us in society deem it appropriate to link the two. I do not believe in this practise. There is nothing sexy about a debilitating disease that kills over 5000 women in Canada a year. I find it much more suitable to wear a pink ribbon if you want to raise awareness, and if one wants to show support on Facebook, one can make a profile picture simply wearing pink. But that was an old point.
Fast forward to today, where the Movember movement is very much a part of our pop culture. The point is simple, grow a moustache for the month of November. The Purpose? Raise awareness for prostate cancer. Its simple enough, the meme is there, everyone understands the goal. Many men even raise money by growing facial hair at this time.
However, there is an ugly reaction that has surfaced this year.
"Now that Movember is officially over, I have a few sharp words I wish to share. I'm going to try and be as placid as possible in writing this, I will attempt not to swear as it may diminish my purpose and point.
Let me take it back a few years ago. There was this "internet fad", if you will, of females posting vague statuses that went something like "I like it on the X" where "X" is any location they choose. Many people, at first, assumed it meant something to do with sex, and where they prefer to have it. However, this was a ruse, and in fact it was supposed to be where they put their purse. The point was to not share this information with my gender, and have us all in bewilderment as to why anyone would blatantly state their favourite spot for coitus on Facebook. But the purpose of this was actually rooted in, if you remember, breast cancer awareness.
I have already made my statement on the matter, and if you know it, skip this paragraph. For those of you who are unaware of my stance, it was that of unfortunate disappointment. Reason being, there was no symbolic reference to breast cancer awareness. As well, the point was to not let in half the population in on the ruse, thereby effectively cutting awareness by 50%. It was counterintuitive. It was also doing something that I've never been a fan of, and that is the sexualization of Illness. Since the breast is considered a sexual organ in the 21st century, I suppose some of us in society deem it appropriate to link the two. I do not believe in this practise. There is nothing sexy about a debilitating disease that kills over 5000 women in Canada a year. I find it much more suitable to wear a pink ribbon if you want to raise awareness, and if one wants to show support on Facebook, one can make a profile picture simply wearing pink. But that was an old point.
Fast forward to today, where the Movember movement is very much a part of our pop culture. The point is simple, grow a moustache for the month of November. The Purpose? Raise awareness for prostate cancer. Its simple enough, the meme is there, everyone understands the goal. Many men even raise money by growing facial hair at this time.
However, there is an ugly reaction that has surfaced this year.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
taking credit
You know, I give LilBro a hard time. I can’t help it – I’m older, wiser, and (sometimes) smarter. I take pride in my sense of responsibility; equally, I loathe that same sense because I feel it is sometimes to my disadvantage. I’m getting more and more cynical as I age, though still lagging far behind my compatriots. Anyway, this is all to say that I’m often dismissive of the talents, skills, and genuine good-naturedness of my sibling. And I shouldn’t be.
Where I may be smarter, he’s certainly more clever and witty. He’s open to new ideas and discussions of big and little things alike. He has opinions – strong ones – but that doesn’t mean he’s closed-minded. He can be convinced with logic and rationale. This is a quality that is rare. It takes a lot to make a stand and then to admit that you may have been wrong. Where I may be wiser, he still carries some of that audacity of youth that I have long since lost. I have wisdom at the expense of courage. I know how to make, spend, and save money. He knows how to make, spend, and save creativity. Which of us is wiser?
I may be older…well, I am older. Nothing is changing that. I have become less pliant, more brittle, easily hurt. I don’t twist an ankle, I tear three tendons; I don’t have a sore muscles, I have chest pains and nausea; I don’t have heartbreak, I have a permanently broken heart. What I do with it is useless: I bury it, stomp on it, forget where I put it and let it go. He fuels it into music and song, takes something painful and makes something beautiful.
Where I may be smarter, he’s certainly more clever and witty. He’s open to new ideas and discussions of big and little things alike. He has opinions – strong ones – but that doesn’t mean he’s closed-minded. He can be convinced with logic and rationale. This is a quality that is rare. It takes a lot to make a stand and then to admit that you may have been wrong. Where I may be wiser, he still carries some of that audacity of youth that I have long since lost. I have wisdom at the expense of courage. I know how to make, spend, and save money. He knows how to make, spend, and save creativity. Which of us is wiser?
I may be older…well, I am older. Nothing is changing that. I have become less pliant, more brittle, easily hurt. I don’t twist an ankle, I tear three tendons; I don’t have a sore muscles, I have chest pains and nausea; I don’t have heartbreak, I have a permanently broken heart. What I do with it is useless: I bury it, stomp on it, forget where I put it and let it go. He fuels it into music and song, takes something painful and makes something beautiful.
Friday, October 19, 2012
"awesome things from my childhood"
(lifted from LilBro's FB update...with a few edits... what? I am the older sister after all!)
"While growing up, my sister and I would only get about one hour each to play Nintendo, on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. To most of you that seems ridiculous, but it is what it is. One of our favourite games was the obvious staple, Mario Bros. 3. But since our time was so constrained, we had to devise plans to beat the game, and collect as much power-ups as we could for the final fight against Bowser. Trust me when I say, we had shit down to a science. Warp whistles, P-wings, you name it, we had it covered.
One great example of this meticulous calculation was the sheet we created of all permutations of the N-card Match game that used to pop up randomly. It took us literally months to figure out that there were eight different match games in the game, and over the course many months, yes months, we had a full cheat sheet ready to go at a moment's notice. It was an accomplishment admired by our friends, and to this day I don't think I have put that much dedication into a video game.
Looking back, I remember clearly memorizing about 4 of those puzzles in my head because of the time spent deciphering them. We never used to have game genie or had Nintendo power growing up, so all these little secrets and gems, we found on our own.
 |
| themushroomkingdom.net. |
One great example of this meticulous calculation was the sheet we created of all permutations of the N-card Match game that used to pop up randomly. It took us literally months to figure out that there were eight different match games in the game, and over the course many months, yes months, we had a full cheat sheet ready to go at a moment's notice. It was an accomplishment admired by our friends, and to this day I don't think I have put that much dedication into a video game.
Looking back, I remember clearly memorizing about 4 of those puzzles in my head because of the time spent deciphering them. We never used to have game genie or had Nintendo power growing up, so all these little secrets and gems, we found on our own.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Birthday Weekend(tm)
I don't how many times I was asked the same question this past weekend: “what’s so special about this birthday?” And I answered the same way as well: “All my birthdays are equally special.” It’s true. For as long as I can remember, my birthday has been a great excuse for a party. The first party of the summer. Or a joint celebration with my Mom (two days before mine). Or World Cup Finals. Or blockbuster movie releases. So even when my birthday falls on a mundane Wednesday, there’s been a convenient excuse to elongate it to the weekend, at least.
This year is no different. Jadek had already planned to take me to see Beauty and the Beast. Dad wanted to take my Mom and I for a dinner cruise for both our birthdays on Friday. DjDwight is playing his Hybrid set (first Saturday of the month) and all of sudden, we have an itinerary. Nish’s visit home cinched the whole thing together and my birthday became a Birthday Weekend(tm).
Actually, it began on Thursday night, when we went to see a movie. That was a nice treat, watching a late movie on a weeknight. Slept in the next day and moseyed our way downtown to check in. Dinner on a boat that meandered its way through the Toronto Islands, chatting with the family. Had Saturday breakfast at Fran’s before window shopping and heading off to the theatre. Dinner at The Three Brewers (thanks AnCe!) before hotel shenanigans ensued. Yes, I waited until my 32nd birthday to have hotel security come in and try to break up the party. No worries, ten minutes later, we were cabbing it to Neu+ral.
Let’s get it straight, poppets. I was fully inebriated before we even stepped into the club. If there’s one thing us Frenches do right, it is party. And with LilBro around, I had no choice but to keep up. Thankfully, I have a boyfriend who was like a sentinel all night, making sure I was happy, hydrated and generally safe. The next morning, I was in no condition to actually attend our 1pm brunch appointment. So, instead, I nibbled on corn chips while watching the Wimbledon final (so sad, Mr. Murray!).
Best story of the night? There are three:
Monday, I shopped and contemplated a piercing before having house food with the family. All in all? Excellent.
This year is no different. Jadek had already planned to take me to see Beauty and the Beast. Dad wanted to take my Mom and I for a dinner cruise for both our birthdays on Friday. DjDwight is playing his Hybrid set (first Saturday of the month) and all of sudden, we have an itinerary. Nish’s visit home cinched the whole thing together and my birthday became a Birthday Weekend(tm).
Actually, it began on Thursday night, when we went to see a movie. That was a nice treat, watching a late movie on a weeknight. Slept in the next day and moseyed our way downtown to check in. Dinner on a boat that meandered its way through the Toronto Islands, chatting with the family. Had Saturday breakfast at Fran’s before window shopping and heading off to the theatre. Dinner at The Three Brewers (thanks AnCe!) before hotel shenanigans ensued. Yes, I waited until my 32nd birthday to have hotel security come in and try to break up the party. No worries, ten minutes later, we were cabbing it to Neu+ral.
Let’s get it straight, poppets. I was fully inebriated before we even stepped into the club. If there’s one thing us Frenches do right, it is party. And with LilBro around, I had no choice but to keep up. Thankfully, I have a boyfriend who was like a sentinel all night, making sure I was happy, hydrated and generally safe. The next morning, I was in no condition to actually attend our 1pm brunch appointment. So, instead, I nibbled on corn chips while watching the Wimbledon final (so sad, Mr. Murray!).
Best story of the night? There are three:
- Nish: “do you remember the shots? We lined them up and told you to take yours. You picked one up and downed it. When I said ‘hey, you didn’t wait for the cheers’ you said ‘oh my God, I’m so sorry!’ before picking up another one, saying ‘Cheers!’ and drinking that one too.”
- AnCe: “I asked you if you wanted some water and you’re like ‘God yes’; I handed it to you, you tipped your head back and attempted to drink. When nothing happened, you got confused and asked me to ‘make it go’ – at which point I simply pointed out that you should try unscrewing the cap.
- Jadek: “Last call, and I asked what you wanted and you very responsibly, said, ‘water please!’ So I hand you the bottle, you unscrew the cap, lean back on the bar, chug the entire thing in one shot and proceed to toss the empty bottle over your shoulder, behind the bar. Like a Viking with an empty mug.”
Monday, I shopped and contemplated a piercing before having house food with the family. All in all? Excellent.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
thirty-three
My parents celebrated their 33rd anniversary this weekend. Christ himself didn't last much past this milestone. I'm always awed by how much more in love my parents seem than when I was growing up. Is it because they're less stressed out by their kids? Their jobs? Is it because my mom is over the worst part of menopause? That my dad has totally mellowed in old age? Is it me? Am I just better at seeing them as humans and not prison guards?
Monday, August 01, 2011
unplanned
How to have an unplanned weekend:
1) Start Early. I mean, if you can, take Friday off. I did (having worked a Saturday previously) and so I started my weekend on Thursday night.
2) Watch an excellent movie with a cute Muggle.
3) Spend Saturday afternoon hanging out with good friends planning for your next blowout vacation. This time, we bought tickets for our Vegas shows, confirmed our hotels and generally got very excited about driving the length of Route 66.
4) Get last-minute tickets to see a show downtown with your bestie. Afterwards, go to a pub for drinks and confabulation; if the waitress asks for your ID, make a game of it! Ask her how old she thinks you are and then feel really good about the answer for the rest of night.
5) Wake up early on Sunday, jump in the car and head off for an adventure. The crazier the better! If you happen to check off an item on your life to-do list while you're at it? Bonus!
6) Head home for a shower and a quick nap. if you get a call from your parents' asking if you want to go to a favourite Aunt's house for BBQ, say yes! Hang out by the pool, eat heartily and, heck, watch the Women's World Cup final since you're there. Cheer for the underdog; freak out when they win in OT penalty kicks.
7) Join your LilBro for a pay-per-view Wrestling event at the theatre across the street. Relish that, for once, you came in after the previews started and still had a kickass seat saved for you. Totally mark out with the crowd and indulge your secret trailer-trash fantasies.
8) Go home, take a long shower and marvel at your "boring" unplanned weekend. Decide that life really is what happens while you're planning to live it.
1) Start Early. I mean, if you can, take Friday off. I did (having worked a Saturday previously) and so I started my weekend on Thursday night.
2) Watch an excellent movie with a cute Muggle.
3) Spend Saturday afternoon hanging out with good friends planning for your next blowout vacation. This time, we bought tickets for our Vegas shows, confirmed our hotels and generally got very excited about driving the length of Route 66.
4) Get last-minute tickets to see a show downtown with your bestie. Afterwards, go to a pub for drinks and confabulation; if the waitress asks for your ID, make a game of it! Ask her how old she thinks you are and then feel really good about the answer for the rest of night.
5) Wake up early on Sunday, jump in the car and head off for an adventure. The crazier the better! If you happen to check off an item on your life to-do list while you're at it? Bonus!
6) Head home for a shower and a quick nap. if you get a call from your parents' asking if you want to go to a favourite Aunt's house for BBQ, say yes! Hang out by the pool, eat heartily and, heck, watch the Women's World Cup final since you're there. Cheer for the underdog; freak out when they win in OT penalty kicks.
7) Join your LilBro for a pay-per-view Wrestling event at the theatre across the street. Relish that, for once, you came in after the previews started and still had a kickass seat saved for you. Totally mark out with the crowd and indulge your secret trailer-trash fantasies.
8) Go home, take a long shower and marvel at your "boring" unplanned weekend. Decide that life really is what happens while you're planning to live it.
Monday, June 27, 2011
funny shit my dad says (that i share and others judge)
Yesterday, I posted the following two conversations on facebook as my status:
Dad: I could be a top chef.
Mom: Oh yeah? What's a truffle?
Dad: ...Cake.
Mom: What?
Dad: You know, the opposite of trifle.
Dad: listen, I want to get your Mom something nice for her birthday.
Me: okay, you got any ideas?
Dad: yeah, channel 5.
Me:... you want to get her the TV Guide?
Dad: No! The perfume!
Me: ...Chanel? No. 5?
Dad: that's what I said.
Most people got a good laugh out of it (as did we at the time of the actual conversation). If there's anything my dad appreciates, it's a joke. So, everyone chuckles, people choke on lettuce, whatever. and then I get the snide comment (from one of my older cousins) "I am smarter than my parents..."
WTF?
Who said I meant that? it was funny play on words. Both times. Like the time I mixed up Carniverous with Coniferous. I swear, some people can suck the joy out of anything. This is one of the reasons I really hate having family on Facebook.
Dad: I could be a top chef.
Mom: Oh yeah? What's a truffle?
Dad: ...Cake.
Mom: What?
Dad: You know, the opposite of trifle.
Dad: listen, I want to get your Mom something nice for her birthday.
Me: okay, you got any ideas?
Dad: yeah, channel 5.
Me:... you want to get her the TV Guide?
Dad: No! The perfume!
Me: ...Chanel? No. 5?
Dad: that's what I said.
Most people got a good laugh out of it (as did we at the time of the actual conversation). If there's anything my dad appreciates, it's a joke. So, everyone chuckles, people choke on lettuce, whatever. and then I get the snide comment (from one of my older cousins) "I am smarter than my parents..."
WTF?
Who said I meant that? it was funny play on words. Both times. Like the time I mixed up Carniverous with Coniferous. I swear, some people can suck the joy out of anything. This is one of the reasons I really hate having family on Facebook.
Monday, May 16, 2011
small fries
If you can imagine it, imagine this: a woman writes you a letter and in it she says that her and her family will be moving to Canada in six months. You don't really know this woman. You are somehow related, since her husband is the youngest child of your youngest aunt, neither of whom you've met. You being the oldest child of the oldest sibling, there's over thirty years between you and this woman. She writes in her letter that they don't know anyone in Canada and is asking for your help - could you recommend a place to stay? someone to call? ...How would you know? You've been living here for over twenty-five years. You have a crazy idea and, as you look around your two-bedroom condo on the quiet side of the DVP, you decide to talk to your wife about it when she gets home from work. You're retired, she's about to and you have a new home in Barrie that is going to be your retirement present to yourselves. That night, after dinner, you pen a letter back to the woman and tell her your crazy idea: why not come and stay with us?
I have no idea what my Uncle Len was thinking when he extended that offer to my mom, my dad, me and my (still a baby) brother. The only reason my mom had his address was because she had been polite enough to send Thank-You cards to everyone who so much as RSVP'd to their wedding. As a result, she was in regular correspondence with my Uncle Len, whose distinctive "ruler-writing" made his letters so recognisable. In his later years, that writing would be the only part of him that didn't give in to age. He and dad were indeed first cousins, but had never so much as exchanged words on the telephone (not like we had a telephone to make this easy). And when we arrived at the airport, it was Uncle Len who recognised our young family first.
I have no idea what made him take us in. Their condo was so posh, I remember thinking. My dad had a slightly panicked look when he saw all the very breakable and stain-able furniture and had begun to pre-empt any future incidents by hissing to us just not to touch anything. at all. ever. What would LilBro know about that? He was barely eighteen months old and everything was so gosh-darned pretty. Uncle Len's gentle "no-no-no" while moving my brother's hand from the lamp to a toy is an indelible memory from those two weeks we spent living with them.
Yes, it was only two weeks. Remember that house in Barrie? Well, it was move-in ready for September first and the Don Mills condo had been sold. They offered for us to come and live with them up there (how different life may have been!) but told us truthfully that jobs would be scarce. Not ten days after meeting us, Uncle Len met our first Canadian landlord and stood as a guarantor for our lease, because no one was willing to take a chance on this young, unemployed couple so fresh-off-the-plane, they were still jet-lagged. Mom and dad didn't disappoint.
Over the years, Uncle Len became like a surrogate grandfather and cool older uncle rolled into one. I had lost three of my four grandparents already and my Dada was quite frail by the time he, too, passed, five years later. Uncle Len bought me my first Bible (first communion), Scrabble board (tenth birthday) and thesaurus (the last Christmas in Scarborough). More importantly, he was a role model for my dad and (later I found out) would always stick up for us when my parents were being particularly harsh. He's the reason I was allowed to attend sleepovers when I was little, a concept completely lost on my parents. He was very good to my brother too - taught him to play pool, gave him his cue (a beauty named Matilda) and christened him Small Fry (the junior version of Frenchie, my dad).
Uncle Len showed us with every action and gesture what it meant to be a classy, dignified and decent human being. When he moved to London, it became difficult to see him more than once or twice a year; but, it felt good just to know he was around, to see his ruler-writing on birthday cards and notes tucked into random gifts he would send (badminton rackets and coffee mugs came with a note saying that I'd need both while away at university and, if I changed my mind, Western wasn't too far away from their place).
I have no idea what he was thinking on Friday night when, surrounded by family and in his daughter's arms, he slipped away from us peacefully. Typically, he had done it on his own terms, having already arranged for the funerary services, having just taken his last rites, having waited for the whispered words "you can go dad; I'll take care of mom" before sighing his last. I hope, whatever it was, that he knew just how loved and honoured he was, just how much he touched all our lives and just how safe and comforted he made a little girl feel when he said "welcome home" on a hot August afternoon more than twenty years ago. Goodbye Uncle Len.
I have no idea what my Uncle Len was thinking when he extended that offer to my mom, my dad, me and my (still a baby) brother. The only reason my mom had his address was because she had been polite enough to send Thank-You cards to everyone who so much as RSVP'd to their wedding. As a result, she was in regular correspondence with my Uncle Len, whose distinctive "ruler-writing" made his letters so recognisable. In his later years, that writing would be the only part of him that didn't give in to age. He and dad were indeed first cousins, but had never so much as exchanged words on the telephone (not like we had a telephone to make this easy). And when we arrived at the airport, it was Uncle Len who recognised our young family first.
I have no idea what made him take us in. Their condo was so posh, I remember thinking. My dad had a slightly panicked look when he saw all the very breakable and stain-able furniture and had begun to pre-empt any future incidents by hissing to us just not to touch anything. at all. ever. What would LilBro know about that? He was barely eighteen months old and everything was so gosh-darned pretty. Uncle Len's gentle "no-no-no" while moving my brother's hand from the lamp to a toy is an indelible memory from those two weeks we spent living with them.
Yes, it was only two weeks. Remember that house in Barrie? Well, it was move-in ready for September first and the Don Mills condo had been sold. They offered for us to come and live with them up there (how different life may have been!) but told us truthfully that jobs would be scarce. Not ten days after meeting us, Uncle Len met our first Canadian landlord and stood as a guarantor for our lease, because no one was willing to take a chance on this young, unemployed couple so fresh-off-the-plane, they were still jet-lagged. Mom and dad didn't disappoint.
Over the years, Uncle Len became like a surrogate grandfather and cool older uncle rolled into one. I had lost three of my four grandparents already and my Dada was quite frail by the time he, too, passed, five years later. Uncle Len bought me my first Bible (first communion), Scrabble board (tenth birthday) and thesaurus (the last Christmas in Scarborough). More importantly, he was a role model for my dad and (later I found out) would always stick up for us when my parents were being particularly harsh. He's the reason I was allowed to attend sleepovers when I was little, a concept completely lost on my parents. He was very good to my brother too - taught him to play pool, gave him his cue (a beauty named Matilda) and christened him Small Fry (the junior version of Frenchie, my dad).
Uncle Len showed us with every action and gesture what it meant to be a classy, dignified and decent human being. When he moved to London, it became difficult to see him more than once or twice a year; but, it felt good just to know he was around, to see his ruler-writing on birthday cards and notes tucked into random gifts he would send (badminton rackets and coffee mugs came with a note saying that I'd need both while away at university and, if I changed my mind, Western wasn't too far away from their place).
I have no idea what he was thinking on Friday night when, surrounded by family and in his daughter's arms, he slipped away from us peacefully. Typically, he had done it on his own terms, having already arranged for the funerary services, having just taken his last rites, having waited for the whispered words "you can go dad; I'll take care of mom" before sighing his last. I hope, whatever it was, that he knew just how loved and honoured he was, just how much he touched all our lives and just how safe and comforted he made a little girl feel when he said "welcome home" on a hot August afternoon more than twenty years ago. Goodbye Uncle Len.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
ringing in 2011
Things I learned during the wee infant hours of 2011:
1) Laotian Bucket Drinks: renamed the Fuck-It Bucket, this ingenious idea requires the following items
- one dollar-store toy bucket, the kind you used to use in the sandbox
- one mickey of your favourite whiskey
- one can of Red Bull
- a splash of coke for taste
- enough ice to fill what's left of the bucket
- plenty of straws
...Apparently, in Laos, these cost $2.50 USD. Worth every penny. As Mike said, before you realise it, you're about 25 shots in! Also: delicious! So, whenever someone lamented something from 2010, there was a general chorus of "fuck it! drink from the bucket!" Good times.
2) The worth of one's pyjamas is directly correlated with how close you are to them. Case in point: we had a 45-minute walk home that night, in balmy 9-degree weather (Celsius, for my American friends) and two conversations occured.
a) glass v. rock
Me: I think I have a piece of glass in my boot
Nish: Are you sure it's not a pebble or something?
Me: No, it's sharp-ish, like glass.
Nish. Well, if it's glass, we'd better stop; if it's a rock, suck it up.
Me: Nah, i'll just wiggle it to a place where it doesn't hurt.
b) feet v cab
Me: (after forty minutes of walking) That's it, I'm done.
Nish: what?
Me: I'm done. This walking thing has lost its novelty. If we see a cab now, we should just take it.
Nish: We're, like, ten minutes from home.
Me: yes, but in one minute we could in our jammies...
Nish:...*hails cab*
3) No resolutions this year. As Jadek says, they set us up for failure. Life changes will be made, including less junk food, more dancing and even more reading.
All the best in 2011, poppets!
1) Laotian Bucket Drinks: renamed the Fuck-It Bucket, this ingenious idea requires the following items
- one dollar-store toy bucket, the kind you used to use in the sandbox
- one mickey of your favourite whiskey
- one can of Red Bull
- a splash of coke for taste
- enough ice to fill what's left of the bucket
- plenty of straws
...Apparently, in Laos, these cost $2.50 USD. Worth every penny. As Mike said, before you realise it, you're about 25 shots in! Also: delicious! So, whenever someone lamented something from 2010, there was a general chorus of "fuck it! drink from the bucket!" Good times.
2) The worth of one's pyjamas is directly correlated with how close you are to them. Case in point: we had a 45-minute walk home that night, in balmy 9-degree weather (Celsius, for my American friends) and two conversations occured.
a) glass v. rock
Me: I think I have a piece of glass in my boot
Nish: Are you sure it's not a pebble or something?
Me: No, it's sharp-ish, like glass.
Nish. Well, if it's glass, we'd better stop; if it's a rock, suck it up.
Me: Nah, i'll just wiggle it to a place where it doesn't hurt.
b) feet v cab
Me: (after forty minutes of walking) That's it, I'm done.
Nish: what?
Me: I'm done. This walking thing has lost its novelty. If we see a cab now, we should just take it.
Nish: We're, like, ten minutes from home.
Me: yes, but in one minute we could in our jammies...
Nish:...*hails cab*
3) No resolutions this year. As Jadek says, they set us up for failure. Life changes will be made, including less junk food, more dancing and even more reading.
All the best in 2011, poppets!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Dear 2010,
You've been a good year - a very good year indeed. I've seen lots of places, done lots of interesting things, indulged in my passions, and been treated like a princess. I'm a firm believer of the five spheres - family, friends, wealth, health and love. Most everyone and everything in our lives fit on one of these spheres. I think 2010 was the first year that I felt like my spheres actually clicked together, as opposed to smashing into each other..
Family: in a continuing upward trend, my family and I are beginning to enjoy each other's company. I think my twice-a-week visit helped quite a bit with that. We've actually chosen to hang out together, play games and just chat. I know people tell you this will happen, but I didn't really believe them.
Friends: I've been able to actually get this under control - weed out the chaff, as it were. Monthly Book Club meetings are one of my highlights in life and I simply love those ladies. Finding a new travel buddy that actually jives with Nish and my craziness has been a serious bonus - Ance, you're a gem. Board games are back on, although with less frequency, and I'm finding that they keep my competitive edge sharp. Work friends have become real friends (I can't tell you how lovely it is to walk into your office and have roses - or a scarf! - greet you).
Wealth: it's the first year I didn't feel poor (although, my bank account still does) and I've been afforded the gift of time to enjoy books, movies and mini-crafts. My job has been extremely satisfying and I feel like I've really made a difference. My recent promotion, I think, testifies to that. Speaking of which, in a month or so, I get to go back to a bipedal commute that's under fifteen minutes. A new challenge and I'm a little excited (though still sad to be leaving where I am now).
Health: any year where I don't contract a fatal disease is a good one. *knock wood* Having gotten over my initial illness early this year, we've had a pretty good run.
Love: ahh, love. Elusive little minx. I'm lucky to say I've found someone who will put up with my special brand of crazy and who doesn't seem to mind that I travel without him, have a life outside of him and who loves me despite (because of?) my tendency to be incredibly demanding. Who knew this was possible?
So! As I think back to my 2010 resolutions this year, I realise I did almost none of the things I set out to - I think I drank less, read less and crafted almost nothing. I did get Netflix and began bringing home library DVDs every week, so I guess there's that... but I still watched a LOT of movies this year. Meh - I don't even feel guilty. I clearly did something right this year, so why mess with a winning formula...if only I knew what that formula is...
Thanks, 2010, for being kinda awesome. You've set a bar.
Sincerely,
-Me
[Happy New Years, everyone! Best of luck for 2011 and, as Elle says, I hope you all make more money than a comatose pigeon!]
Family: in a continuing upward trend, my family and I are beginning to enjoy each other's company. I think my twice-a-week visit helped quite a bit with that. We've actually chosen to hang out together, play games and just chat. I know people tell you this will happen, but I didn't really believe them.
Friends: I've been able to actually get this under control - weed out the chaff, as it were. Monthly Book Club meetings are one of my highlights in life and I simply love those ladies. Finding a new travel buddy that actually jives with Nish and my craziness has been a serious bonus - Ance, you're a gem. Board games are back on, although with less frequency, and I'm finding that they keep my competitive edge sharp. Work friends have become real friends (I can't tell you how lovely it is to walk into your office and have roses - or a scarf! - greet you).
Wealth: it's the first year I didn't feel poor (although, my bank account still does) and I've been afforded the gift of time to enjoy books, movies and mini-crafts. My job has been extremely satisfying and I feel like I've really made a difference. My recent promotion, I think, testifies to that. Speaking of which, in a month or so, I get to go back to a bipedal commute that's under fifteen minutes. A new challenge and I'm a little excited (though still sad to be leaving where I am now).
Health: any year where I don't contract a fatal disease is a good one. *knock wood* Having gotten over my initial illness early this year, we've had a pretty good run.
Love: ahh, love. Elusive little minx. I'm lucky to say I've found someone who will put up with my special brand of crazy and who doesn't seem to mind that I travel without him, have a life outside of him and who loves me despite (because of?) my tendency to be incredibly demanding. Who knew this was possible?
So! As I think back to my 2010 resolutions this year, I realise I did almost none of the things I set out to - I think I drank less, read less and crafted almost nothing. I did get Netflix and began bringing home library DVDs every week, so I guess there's that... but I still watched a LOT of movies this year. Meh - I don't even feel guilty. I clearly did something right this year, so why mess with a winning formula...if only I knew what that formula is...
Thanks, 2010, for being kinda awesome. You've set a bar.
Sincerely,
-Me
[Happy New Years, everyone! Best of luck for 2011 and, as Elle says, I hope you all make more money than a comatose pigeon!]
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
fruit cake recipe
Last week, I was in Virginia visiting family, most especially my Nana. We have a special arrangement for our matriarch: she spends many months at a time at one of her kids' residences scattered across the globe (Canada, US, UK, Australia and her own home in Bangladesh). She was supposed to have come to stay with us in September until January, but within five days of landing in VA, she suffered what doctors could only describe as a mild stress attack and was told she was not to travel for at least six months, meaning no excursions north. Much disappointment ensued. So, we packed up our car instead and headed down to be with her, even if for a few short days.
Nana is 77 years old. She doesn't look or act it, but her body must sometimes feel it. All this jet-setting around the world can't be good for her. We would gladly have her come live with us, but alas, the Canadian government has a different concept of "family" that doesn't include adoptive grandmothers whom we love and miss dearly. In fact, we pretty much fight for custody.
Since I last saw Nana, things have changed. I've completely taken over the Holiday baking from Mom and so I knew I'd have to cajole the Christmas Fruit Cake recipe from her. It's no secret that Nana is the best cook in our family (and possibly the world) but the woman cooks from her head not from a recipe. Challenge issued. I asked if I could watch her bake one and then she could watch me bake one. It was interesting to try and take notes about "pinches" "dashes" and "andaaz" (roughly translated as "know-how")... and I did it. In all the revelry, however, I did not get to bake one for her approval.
As I walked out the door to leave for home, Nana hugged me close and whispered to send her a piece. I told her it wouldn't taste nearly as good as hers and she said that wasn't the point, that she didn't want the cake, she wanted something made by my hands. At that moment, I was more than prepared to stow her away in our car and bring her away with us, for good.
Today, I began soaking the fruits and nuts in dark rum.
Nana is 77 years old. She doesn't look or act it, but her body must sometimes feel it. All this jet-setting around the world can't be good for her. We would gladly have her come live with us, but alas, the Canadian government has a different concept of "family" that doesn't include adoptive grandmothers whom we love and miss dearly. In fact, we pretty much fight for custody.
Since I last saw Nana, things have changed. I've completely taken over the Holiday baking from Mom and so I knew I'd have to cajole the Christmas Fruit Cake recipe from her. It's no secret that Nana is the best cook in our family (and possibly the world) but the woman cooks from her head not from a recipe. Challenge issued. I asked if I could watch her bake one and then she could watch me bake one. It was interesting to try and take notes about "pinches" "dashes" and "andaaz" (roughly translated as "know-how")... and I did it. In all the revelry, however, I did not get to bake one for her approval.
As I walked out the door to leave for home, Nana hugged me close and whispered to send her a piece. I told her it wouldn't taste nearly as good as hers and she said that wasn't the point, that she didn't want the cake, she wanted something made by my hands. At that moment, I was more than prepared to stow her away in our car and bring her away with us, for good.
Today, I began soaking the fruits and nuts in dark rum.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
6 a.m.
A.M, Six a.m.
Another Saturday night gone into the keys.
And this hole in my chest keeps growing.
A lasting embrace is all we need. A chance to be wrong. A chance to be right.
Acronyms and similes are poor protection. After a thousand years, it won't matter.
As the last haze whispers and floats into the morning, I stare.
Away from here, to such great heights.
But this is not home. Stop. Turn back your clock. Stop. Set your Alarm. Stop. Your ideas have suffered enough. Stop. Avenge your inner child. Stop. Exercise. Stop. Exorcise.
If I could marry this chord, I would, and have symphonies of children.
Pure Fuckin' Bass. Fragile, Stripped, and Bare Digital Sine Waves echo through my head. They are trapped in our hearts. A heart that shines and burns in our moments of being lost.
Outstretched limbs from the family tree create shelter and shade, but I need to shake my root, and soak in the sun.
Chase it wherever it goes. Cast a reflection back on the holy waters that filled my lungs.
And breathe slower. And slower. And slower.
Until the sun is gone. and there's no more light to chase. Asphyxiation writes me out.
And the void from my chest implodes. The curse has scratched and clawed out; tooth and nail. The continuum draws in.
The rules and arithmetic are broken, the physics are battered and torn.
Its 6 a.m.
The Ethics have turned Into Dust.
~Jai Daniels. 2010-06-18 @ 0635
Another Saturday night gone into the keys.
And this hole in my chest keeps growing.
A lasting embrace is all we need. A chance to be wrong. A chance to be right.
Acronyms and similes are poor protection. After a thousand years, it won't matter.
As the last haze whispers and floats into the morning, I stare.
Away from here, to such great heights.
But this is not home. Stop. Turn back your clock. Stop. Set your Alarm. Stop. Your ideas have suffered enough. Stop. Avenge your inner child. Stop. Exercise. Stop. Exorcise.
If I could marry this chord, I would, and have symphonies of children.
Pure Fuckin' Bass. Fragile, Stripped, and Bare Digital Sine Waves echo through my head. They are trapped in our hearts. A heart that shines and burns in our moments of being lost.
Outstretched limbs from the family tree create shelter and shade, but I need to shake my root, and soak in the sun.
Chase it wherever it goes. Cast a reflection back on the holy waters that filled my lungs.
And breathe slower. And slower. And slower.
Until the sun is gone. and there's no more light to chase. Asphyxiation writes me out.
And the void from my chest implodes. The curse has scratched and clawed out; tooth and nail. The continuum draws in.
The rules and arithmetic are broken, the physics are battered and torn.
Its 6 a.m.
The Ethics have turned Into Dust.
~Jai Daniels. 2010-06-18 @ 0635
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
suffer little children
I’ve been vacillating writing about this; frankly, I don’t want to be the target of religious zealousness.
I went to Easter Sunday mass, one of my two concessions to my mother (the other? Christmas Eve). This year was especially martyr-esque, as I had crawled into bed at 4am and had to be back up for 10am. It was not easy. Anyway, showered and dressed in my Easter Sunday frippery, I went to church. Choir was boring, singing none of the songs that make the ceremony tolerable. I saw a few familiar faces, looking just as dejected as me; I wondered if they were C&E’s too or if they were now judging my conspicuous presence. This is what church has always done to me, made me paranoid without warrant. In reality, those people probably didn’t even notice me.
And then my least favourite part: the sermon. A few caveats:
1) I mostly like the priest in charge: he seems really laid back, he laid off the second pastor and his deacon is part-time in an effort to save money, he went green by replacing light bulbs and turning off the fountain at all times, except for the Blessing of the Water.
2) I find the sermons a real stretch when it comes to real-life application. I mean, what does a celibate old man have anything to do with me?
3) My mom used to be cool: she once told her marriage prep priest that if she wasn’t going to use birth control then he could take care of her dozens of children. I wonder what happened to that chick? Maybe you’re just inherently more rebellious when you’re in your twenties.
...So, the sermon is focussed on forgiveness. But not just forgiving your neighbour from pruning your prized gardenias or your little brother for putting a frog down your shirt in front of that cute boy. It’s not even about the more serious things in life, like rape and murder. No, this entire twelve-minute sermon was all about the specific forgiveness of those priests convicted of molestation under Ratzinger's turn at the helm. What. Maybe I’m a bad person, but I couldn't believe that I was being asked to forgive men of the cloth who had debased their oath to God (both the chastity and moral behaviour therein implied) by molesting young boys. Hello? If I’m a gay man and I participate in consensual sexual behaviour with another man, I’m going to hell; but, if I’m a priest that abuses my position of power to sexually assault children, that’s okay because I’m a priest? What bullshit is that about? The communion wafer stuck in my throat. I get that good Christians are all about turning the other cheek, but the Church has to realise that people will not stand for hypocrisy.
I looked over at my father: he was half asleep. I looked over at my mother and she had a curiously blank look on her face. A couple of years earlier, in a similar Easter sermon, the priest had asked the congregation to fill in protest letters for Dr. Morgentaler being honoured with the Order of Canada. In the parking lot, I blew up, crying foul, stating that Morgentaler did more for women’s rights than the Church ever did. This time, I swallowed my rage.
Is it wrong of me? By attending service, albeit silently and reluctantly, am I condoning the message? Is it worth fighting over, since I only attend twice a year for the appeasement of my parents (you know, honouring them)? And why is it that the intercession of a man is necessary for my communion with God? I just can’t believe that the big JC would have asked for forgiveness for these monsters-in-priests-clothing; I mean, He lost his cool when people sold doves on the steps of the synagogue! What would He have said about men taking innocence in a church rectory?
I went to Easter Sunday mass, one of my two concessions to my mother (the other? Christmas Eve). This year was especially martyr-esque, as I had crawled into bed at 4am and had to be back up for 10am. It was not easy. Anyway, showered and dressed in my Easter Sunday frippery, I went to church. Choir was boring, singing none of the songs that make the ceremony tolerable. I saw a few familiar faces, looking just as dejected as me; I wondered if they were C&E’s too or if they were now judging my conspicuous presence. This is what church has always done to me, made me paranoid without warrant. In reality, those people probably didn’t even notice me.
And then my least favourite part: the sermon. A few caveats:
1) I mostly like the priest in charge: he seems really laid back, he laid off the second pastor and his deacon is part-time in an effort to save money, he went green by replacing light bulbs and turning off the fountain at all times, except for the Blessing of the Water.
2) I find the sermons a real stretch when it comes to real-life application. I mean, what does a celibate old man have anything to do with me?
3) My mom used to be cool: she once told her marriage prep priest that if she wasn’t going to use birth control then he could take care of her dozens of children. I wonder what happened to that chick? Maybe you’re just inherently more rebellious when you’re in your twenties.
...So, the sermon is focussed on forgiveness. But not just forgiving your neighbour from pruning your prized gardenias or your little brother for putting a frog down your shirt in front of that cute boy. It’s not even about the more serious things in life, like rape and murder. No, this entire twelve-minute sermon was all about the specific forgiveness of those priests convicted of molestation under Ratzinger's turn at the helm. What. Maybe I’m a bad person, but I couldn't believe that I was being asked to forgive men of the cloth who had debased their oath to God (both the chastity and moral behaviour therein implied) by molesting young boys. Hello? If I’m a gay man and I participate in consensual sexual behaviour with another man, I’m going to hell; but, if I’m a priest that abuses my position of power to sexually assault children, that’s okay because I’m a priest? What bullshit is that about? The communion wafer stuck in my throat. I get that good Christians are all about turning the other cheek, but the Church has to realise that people will not stand for hypocrisy.
I looked over at my father: he was half asleep. I looked over at my mother and she had a curiously blank look on her face. A couple of years earlier, in a similar Easter sermon, the priest had asked the congregation to fill in protest letters for Dr. Morgentaler being honoured with the Order of Canada. In the parking lot, I blew up, crying foul, stating that Morgentaler did more for women’s rights than the Church ever did. This time, I swallowed my rage.
Is it wrong of me? By attending service, albeit silently and reluctantly, am I condoning the message? Is it worth fighting over, since I only attend twice a year for the appeasement of my parents (you know, honouring them)? And why is it that the intercession of a man is necessary for my communion with God? I just can’t believe that the big JC would have asked for forgiveness for these monsters-in-priests-clothing; I mean, He lost his cool when people sold doves on the steps of the synagogue! What would He have said about men taking innocence in a church rectory?
Sunday, December 06, 2009
boom goes the dynamite
Save me from menopause!
Last night, like a dutiful daughter, I went to the 'rentals to continue the 29-year tradition of decorating on the first Saturday in December (and mark the twentieth anniversary of eating pizza while doing so). I showed up at 1930, arriving directly after the staff Children's party, with a change of clothes. I noticed that everything was basically done, with only a few tree trims and some rejigging of the North Pole (apparently, Dad did not remember the "story" and the elves were all just placed willy nilly!). So I did what I could to finish it off and at around 2145, the three of us sat down for pizza; LilBro had long fled the building. I have no idea how we got to this place in the conversation, but we were discussing trees when Mom says: "if it were up to me, I wouldn't even put up a tree!"
I say: "You mean, you wouldn't decorate for Christmas?"
She says: " I didn't say I wouldn't decorate; I said I wouldn't put up a tree."
I: "Why not? what's wrong with a tree?"
She: "A tree is for children. Everyone here is grown up now. There's no need for a tree."
I: "Where would you put the presents? and who just puts up decorations and no tree? I mean, you can put up a tree and no decorations, sure."
She: "oh, you've been to everyone's house? you know that no one ever puts up decorations with no tree?"
I: "No, but I've never seen a house decorated that had no tree. Besides, it's tradition. You might as well say we won't go to Midnight Mass anymore."
She: "Oh, so if we have no tree and presents then we don't go to Church? We can't just celebrate religiously?"
I: "I don't think Jesus would begrudge us a tree on his birthday. besides, it would be weird, to go to Midnight mass and then come home and just go to bed."
She: "So Midnight Mass isn't worth going to without gifts, is that it?"
I: "No, Midnight Mass and opening presents afterwards and calling family until 4am... that's tradition. That's what makes it special.
She: "Church is special on its own. I don't like that you think you go to Church just for the gifts."
I: "I didn't say that. I said that decorating and Midnight Mass and gifts and all that are all part of what makes Christmas special."
She: "Well, Christmas isn't about gifts!"
…What just happened? Christ, I don't care about gifts! I would rather spend the same money and buy myself stuff, but instead we do this whole exchange thing because it's tradition. And tradition is what binds families together. At least, our family. Honestly, I was pretty close to just going back to my own home after that stupid exchange. Why do we do anything, if not for tradition? Why do I go over to decorate a house I don't live in? Or bake cakes when I'm diabetic? If it wasn't for my Dad who just whispered, "Don't worry, your mom is a little cranky these days. Don't take it personally." I would have spent the night in the comfort of my own bed, TYVM.
God. Conversation with my mother has become like negotiating a minefield. Save me.
Last night, like a dutiful daughter, I went to the 'rentals to continue the 29-year tradition of decorating on the first Saturday in December (and mark the twentieth anniversary of eating pizza while doing so). I showed up at 1930, arriving directly after the staff Children's party, with a change of clothes. I noticed that everything was basically done, with only a few tree trims and some rejigging of the North Pole (apparently, Dad did not remember the "story" and the elves were all just placed willy nilly!). So I did what I could to finish it off and at around 2145, the three of us sat down for pizza; LilBro had long fled the building. I have no idea how we got to this place in the conversation, but we were discussing trees when Mom says: "if it were up to me, I wouldn't even put up a tree!"
I say: "You mean, you wouldn't decorate for Christmas?"
She says: " I didn't say I wouldn't decorate; I said I wouldn't put up a tree."
I: "Why not? what's wrong with a tree?"
She: "A tree is for children. Everyone here is grown up now. There's no need for a tree."
I: "Where would you put the presents? and who just puts up decorations and no tree? I mean, you can put up a tree and no decorations, sure."
She: "oh, you've been to everyone's house? you know that no one ever puts up decorations with no tree?"
I: "No, but I've never seen a house decorated that had no tree. Besides, it's tradition. You might as well say we won't go to Midnight Mass anymore."
She: "Oh, so if we have no tree and presents then we don't go to Church? We can't just celebrate religiously?"
I: "I don't think Jesus would begrudge us a tree on his birthday. besides, it would be weird, to go to Midnight mass and then come home and just go to bed."
She: "So Midnight Mass isn't worth going to without gifts, is that it?"
I: "No, Midnight Mass and opening presents afterwards and calling family until 4am... that's tradition. That's what makes it special.
She: "Church is special on its own. I don't like that you think you go to Church just for the gifts."
I: "I didn't say that. I said that decorating and Midnight Mass and gifts and all that are all part of what makes Christmas special."
She: "Well, Christmas isn't about gifts!"
…What just happened? Christ, I don't care about gifts! I would rather spend the same money and buy myself stuff, but instead we do this whole exchange thing because it's tradition. And tradition is what binds families together. At least, our family. Honestly, I was pretty close to just going back to my own home after that stupid exchange. Why do we do anything, if not for tradition? Why do I go over to decorate a house I don't live in? Or bake cakes when I'm diabetic? If it wasn't for my Dad who just whispered, "Don't worry, your mom is a little cranky these days. Don't take it personally." I would have spent the night in the comfort of my own bed, TYVM.
God. Conversation with my mother has become like negotiating a minefield. Save me.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
a little help
Things I've learned in the last 13 days:
1) Shock is a powerful numbing agent. Also: always go to the hospital if you find yourself in an ambulance.
2) Anti-inflammatories + muscle relaxants = twelve-hour death-like sleep.
3) I do not own enough stretchy-pants.
4) The opposable thumb - you know, the digit that separates us from 99% of the other species that inhabit this planet - is truly the wonder behind our evolution. Try, if you can, to live one day without using one thumb (just one) and marvel at the inability to do the simplest of tasks. Never has a juice bottle seemed so daunting.
5) The measure of your friends is found in your times of need. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the amount of work and time people have put in for me. Thank you for taking out my garbage, putting away my dishes, making me food, taking me grocery shopping and, most importantly, keeping me company.
6) Mom can still wash my hair and then put it into braids as efficiently as she used to when I was six years old. She can still cook the best "sick" food and never forgets which pills I should take when.
7) Dad always comes through. Always.
1) Shock is a powerful numbing agent. Also: always go to the hospital if you find yourself in an ambulance.
2) Anti-inflammatories + muscle relaxants = twelve-hour death-like sleep.
3) I do not own enough stretchy-pants.
4) The opposable thumb - you know, the digit that separates us from 99% of the other species that inhabit this planet - is truly the wonder behind our evolution. Try, if you can, to live one day without using one thumb (just one) and marvel at the inability to do the simplest of tasks. Never has a juice bottle seemed so daunting.
5) The measure of your friends is found in your times of need. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the amount of work and time people have put in for me. Thank you for taking out my garbage, putting away my dishes, making me food, taking me grocery shopping and, most importantly, keeping me company.
6) Mom can still wash my hair and then put it into braids as efficiently as she used to when I was six years old. She can still cook the best "sick" food and never forgets which pills I should take when.
7) Dad always comes through. Always.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
papa bears
Living on my own, I have come to appreciate the handyman skills my father passed down to me. Just this past week, I installed light fixtures, 'remantled' my closet and fixed a 'spurting' tap. As I stood underneath a newly opened glass dome, bits of plaster from the cottage cheese ceiling falling on my forehead and in my hair, I thought "damn, am I ever glad I know the difference between hot, neutral and earth."
I remember sitting over the disemboweled remains of a radio, its wires and coils in varying stages of connection, my dad holding a skinny Phillips screwdriver like a cigarette, tapping the tip on the radio's body cavity. I kept pointing to random things and asking, "what's that?" and he would tell me something that I have no idea about now. He could have told me anything and I would have believed him. I couldn't have been more than five or six. We didn't fix the thing, but I did glean a few essential facts about positive and negative charges.
Once, we made a model solar system for my science fair project. It had all nine planets (including the now dethroned Pluto), a yellow-light bulb-sun and a moon stuck permanently over Iceland. Dad and I went to White Rose and bought Styrofoam balls, paint and glue. We went to the library to get a Solar System book so we'd know what colours to paint our planets. We went to Canadian Tire to get a light bulb socket and box cutter. Then, we made the dining table an assembly line and put this thing together, destroying my mother's salad dryer in the process - hey, the solar system needed to orbit, okay? and we never ate salad anyway. I wish I still had it, but the teacher had asked to keep it at the end of the year for the Science Corner in the library and then I moved away.
The day after I got my driver's license, before insisting I get on a highway for the first time and drive two hours to London, Daddy made sure I knew how to put gas in the tank, put windshield washer fluid and antifreeze in, change my wiper blades and clean my car until it looked almost new, with all the potions necessary (ArmourAll for the tires and dashboard, Windex for the windows, Turtle Wax for the body). Again, we went to Canadian Tire and this time we made an emergency kit together, just in case. Ahh, the days before cell phones, when being stranded for hours on the side of a highway was a real possibility.
When I moved to Kingston, we had to install bracketed shelving and the washer and dryer. I quickly learned about studs (and how to find them without a stud finder), toggle bolts, drywall anchors and the difference between torque and tension. He insisted I figure out how to identify drywall from plaster, so I wouldn't have my framed posters fall down in the middle of the night. I rolled my eyes then. I wouldn't do so now.
These days, Dad's not as young as he used to be. Standing at the top of the ladder, trying to twist three wires tight enough to fit into a cap, he gets short of breath and his arms tremble from the strain of holding them aloft for too long. He needs his reading glasses to discern the hot from the neutral. Sometimes, he confuses a Robertson with a Hex screw. When I moved into the condo, he insisted on installing the bathroom fixtures for me, while we women unpacked the kitchen. In the end: I had to remove the wonky toilet roll holder, fill and sand the holes, repaint and reinstall; I removed the medicine cabinet alone, patched and repaired the holes, installed toggle bolts for its new location and put up a towel ring in its place; I had to re-tape the showerhead, because it was leaking profusely. And though, at the time, I cursed these facts, now, I think, I really only have one person to thank for these skills (and the confidence to act on them).
I remember the two things my Dad ever insisted upon after I made the announcement that I was moving out: that there be tight security in this newfangled condo building; that we go to Canadian Tire to buy and stock a toolbox. And after I had bought these things? We sat down and made sure I knew how to use the drill and socket wrench so when I'm alone and something needs to get done, I can get it done, with confidence. He's made me the woman I am today. Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
I remember sitting over the disemboweled remains of a radio, its wires and coils in varying stages of connection, my dad holding a skinny Phillips screwdriver like a cigarette, tapping the tip on the radio's body cavity. I kept pointing to random things and asking, "what's that?" and he would tell me something that I have no idea about now. He could have told me anything and I would have believed him. I couldn't have been more than five or six. We didn't fix the thing, but I did glean a few essential facts about positive and negative charges.
Once, we made a model solar system for my science fair project. It had all nine planets (including the now dethroned Pluto), a yellow-light bulb-sun and a moon stuck permanently over Iceland. Dad and I went to White Rose and bought Styrofoam balls, paint and glue. We went to the library to get a Solar System book so we'd know what colours to paint our planets. We went to Canadian Tire to get a light bulb socket and box cutter. Then, we made the dining table an assembly line and put this thing together, destroying my mother's salad dryer in the process - hey, the solar system needed to orbit, okay? and we never ate salad anyway. I wish I still had it, but the teacher had asked to keep it at the end of the year for the Science Corner in the library and then I moved away.
The day after I got my driver's license, before insisting I get on a highway for the first time and drive two hours to London, Daddy made sure I knew how to put gas in the tank, put windshield washer fluid and antifreeze in, change my wiper blades and clean my car until it looked almost new, with all the potions necessary (ArmourAll for the tires and dashboard, Windex for the windows, Turtle Wax for the body). Again, we went to Canadian Tire and this time we made an emergency kit together, just in case. Ahh, the days before cell phones, when being stranded for hours on the side of a highway was a real possibility.
When I moved to Kingston, we had to install bracketed shelving and the washer and dryer. I quickly learned about studs (and how to find them without a stud finder), toggle bolts, drywall anchors and the difference between torque and tension. He insisted I figure out how to identify drywall from plaster, so I wouldn't have my framed posters fall down in the middle of the night. I rolled my eyes then. I wouldn't do so now.
These days, Dad's not as young as he used to be. Standing at the top of the ladder, trying to twist three wires tight enough to fit into a cap, he gets short of breath and his arms tremble from the strain of holding them aloft for too long. He needs his reading glasses to discern the hot from the neutral. Sometimes, he confuses a Robertson with a Hex screw. When I moved into the condo, he insisted on installing the bathroom fixtures for me, while we women unpacked the kitchen. In the end: I had to remove the wonky toilet roll holder, fill and sand the holes, repaint and reinstall; I removed the medicine cabinet alone, patched and repaired the holes, installed toggle bolts for its new location and put up a towel ring in its place; I had to re-tape the showerhead, because it was leaking profusely. And though, at the time, I cursed these facts, now, I think, I really only have one person to thank for these skills (and the confidence to act on them).
I remember the two things my Dad ever insisted upon after I made the announcement that I was moving out: that there be tight security in this newfangled condo building; that we go to Canadian Tire to buy and stock a toolbox. And after I had bought these things? We sat down and made sure I knew how to use the drill and socket wrench so when I'm alone and something needs to get done, I can get it done, with confidence. He's made me the woman I am today. Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
burst
It was quite the long weekend (Victoria Day for my American friends). It shouldn't have been, since I get Mondays off every two weeks, but when everyone you know also has a Monday off, it becomes special.
Started it off with a digital showing of Star Trek. It was the 2140 show on its second weekend, so I didn't expect a line-up. Nevertheless, there were five of us watching it and I wanted us to be able to sit together. Jadek and I got there an hour before showtime and, much to my surprise, they let us go upstairs; further, upon getting to the theatre #10, there are people waiting. What? Anyway, we lined up dutifully, making snarky comments about nerdy trekkers and how early must they gotten there to be first in line on the second weekend. Some guy comes up behind us and asks if "this is the line for Angels and Demons" - oh yeah, I'd totally forgotten that opened this weekend. "Nope" I say at the same time as the guy in front of us says "yep." I go back downstairs to investigate and it turns out all those nerds in front of us weren't Trekkers after all; it also turns out they're all standing in the wrong line. Now, we are the first ones in line. Snarky comments can be heard from those who line up behind us. Good movie; great discussion about time travel and infinite loops and parallel universes follow over nachos and long island iced teas.
Saturday brings us to a party hosted by LilBro while the 'rentals are away. Woohoo! I felt old, trying to keep up with the younguns, but they were good kids. Except that one, but there's a douche at every party. Crawled into bed at 0430, but was disturbed and kept awake until 0600. Birds were clearly chirping and the sun fully risen by the time I got to sleep. I woke up fully expecting to cook breakfast only to find guests already left, sneaky devils. More sausage for me! Spent the day napping and watching snippets of TV. Finally woke up at 1845, drank two Red Bulls and started to get the plan together for that night - HYBRID @ neu+ral. Oh, how I love the Hybrid experience (great music + awesome DJ + cheap drink + fab peeps = fantastic night). Crawled into bed at 0500, after LilBro makes yumtastic breakie.
Monday was hard. Forced self out of bed by 1030. Packed, checked in with the 'rentals in NYC, cleaned up a bit and went home, where I had to cook for the week and do laundry and all those boring adult things. My plan to watch the Survivor finale was foiled by a very slow torrent. Instead, I bundled into a blanket, dragged a chair out on to my balcony, poured a glass of wine and got ready to watch some fireworks. I had expected to a couple. I got a spectacular show, from near and far. Facing northwest, I could see the big shows put on by neighbouring cities and villages which make up mine. I would like to send a special thanks to all the houses that line the 403 between Hurontario and Mavis - you people had some great pyrotechnics! And since I could watch hundreds of houses at once, it was like my own private show! At one point, there were literally dozens of flares happening at the same. It was like that ubiquitous "doomsday" image of many missile silos launching at once (which of course, I can't find anywhere right now - I watched T3 on the weekend, and it had one), except they were flares and chrysanthemums, spiders and kamuros - the entire horizon sparkled fro lose to two hours. It was one of those moments that reminded me just why I moved out.
Happy Vicky Day!
Started it off with a digital showing of Star Trek. It was the 2140 show on its second weekend, so I didn't expect a line-up. Nevertheless, there were five of us watching it and I wanted us to be able to sit together. Jadek and I got there an hour before showtime and, much to my surprise, they let us go upstairs; further, upon getting to the theatre #10, there are people waiting. What? Anyway, we lined up dutifully, making snarky comments about nerdy trekkers and how early must they gotten there to be first in line on the second weekend. Some guy comes up behind us and asks if "this is the line for Angels and Demons" - oh yeah, I'd totally forgotten that opened this weekend. "Nope" I say at the same time as the guy in front of us says "yep." I go back downstairs to investigate and it turns out all those nerds in front of us weren't Trekkers after all; it also turns out they're all standing in the wrong line. Now, we are the first ones in line. Snarky comments can be heard from those who line up behind us. Good movie; great discussion about time travel and infinite loops and parallel universes follow over nachos and long island iced teas.
Saturday brings us to a party hosted by LilBro while the 'rentals are away. Woohoo! I felt old, trying to keep up with the younguns, but they were good kids. Except that one, but there's a douche at every party. Crawled into bed at 0430, but was disturbed and kept awake until 0600. Birds were clearly chirping and the sun fully risen by the time I got to sleep. I woke up fully expecting to cook breakfast only to find guests already left, sneaky devils. More sausage for me! Spent the day napping and watching snippets of TV. Finally woke up at 1845, drank two Red Bulls and started to get the plan together for that night - HYBRID @ neu+ral. Oh, how I love the Hybrid experience (great music + awesome DJ + cheap drink + fab peeps = fantastic night). Crawled into bed at 0500, after LilBro makes yumtastic breakie.
Monday was hard. Forced self out of bed by 1030. Packed, checked in with the 'rentals in NYC, cleaned up a bit and went home, where I had to cook for the week and do laundry and all those boring adult things. My plan to watch the Survivor finale was foiled by a very slow torrent. Instead, I bundled into a blanket, dragged a chair out on to my balcony, poured a glass of wine and got ready to watch some fireworks. I had expected to a couple. I got a spectacular show, from near and far. Facing northwest, I could see the big shows put on by neighbouring cities and villages which make up mine. I would like to send a special thanks to all the houses that line the 403 between Hurontario and Mavis - you people had some great pyrotechnics! And since I could watch hundreds of houses at once, it was like my own private show! At one point, there were literally dozens of flares happening at the same. It was like that ubiquitous "doomsday" image of many missile silos launching at once (which of course, I can't find anywhere right now - I watched T3 on the weekend, and it had one), except they were flares and chrysanthemums, spiders and kamuros - the entire horizon sparkled fro lose to two hours. It was one of those moments that reminded me just why I moved out.
Happy Vicky Day!
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