Lee, Elton, Ethel, and Orson

As the seasonal festive frenzy peaks, I invite you to pause a few moments and enjoy the following bit of holiday cheer:



Happy Merry!

Notes from the Trenches

[One cannot be expected to be productive at the office every day of the year, right? Especially with a company Christmas party coming up. The following is an excerpt from an instant message exchange with co-workers. Light editing was performed to clean up spelling errors and pare down personal details.]

Kim says:
It's tiring being cool and gracious all the time.

Kim says:
So I'm going to pick on Jess at the xmas party tonight.

Kim says:
Make fun of her airline hostess scarf.

Marvin says:
I can see why you might have wanted me to come though... Jess certainly would have dodged a bullet.

Kim says:
Exactly. You're a great punching bag.

Marvin says:
I thought so. Ask J for some salted peanuts and another pillow for me will you? (flight attendant reference)

Kim says:
Will do.

Kim says:
(snip)
Kim says:
Hey there, Marvin says he'd like some salted peanuts and an extra pillow when you've got a minute.

Jessica says:
Oh, hilarious.

Jessica says:
Marvin is only getting a slap in the face when I have a minute

(snip)

Marvin says:
OMG... you started the whole thing!

Jessica has been added to the conversation.

Marvin says:
Kim started the whole thing and prompted me to add something to the conversation. She should get the slap!

Jessica says:
You're both getting slapped

Jessica says:
that way it's even

Kim says:
Hee!

Marvin says:
Given the amount of things about me that I have to be bugged about (pear shape, hair loss, etc...) - don't you think I know to keep my mouth shut? Kim is evil... pure evil.

Kim says:
I never said you were pear shaped!

Jessica says:
Also, that's not even true

Jessica says:
you flap your lip all the time

Kim says:
Also, when I make fun of your hair it's because of its shape.

Kim says:
And yeah! You're a lip flapper!

Jessica says:
pear-shaped?

Marvin says:
No hang on that wasn't an invitation to start bugging me.

Kim says:
His hair you mean?

Jessica says:
yeah, what shape is it?

Kim says:
Sometimes astro boy, but lately it's like a triangle.

Marvin says:
Besides, Jess don't you have to prepare for arrival and crosscheck?

Jessica says:
there you go, flapping your lip again

Kim says:
I want her to point out the emergency exits.

Marvin has left the conversation.

Kim says:
Fine. He's left the conversation. What a wuss.

Jessica says:
I know, can't take the heat

Kim says:
And so he's out of the kitchen!

Jessica says:
sigh, what now?

Kim says:
Meh, I dunno.

Waxing Nostalgic

This candle is a family heirloom. He's been part of my Christmas landscape for as long as I can remember. And although more than thirty years old, Santa is as sprightly as ever.

Look at him: part of his left mitt was chewed off sometime in the late 70s, so he seems to be patting his hair coquettishly rather than waving. His cheeks and mouth are red, his eyelashes long, his wick still erect.

He is one of a set of three: two Santas and a Frosty the Snowman. Mom gave each of my siblings and I one when we moved out. She's funny like that. Every year I get a Christmas decoration in my stocking, be it a plastic penguin on skis, or a glass ornament purchased as part of a community fundraising effort, or a stuffed bear sporting a festive tuque. In the old days, mothers would collect linens for their daughters to prepare them for when they had households of their own. My mother does the same but with ornaments, as though a house is only a home at Christmastime when it contains a porcelain set of St. Nicks from around the world. I don't think any of us will ever burn our bequeathed candles. After seeing them lined up on side tables for a few dozen Decembers, setting fire to Santa and watching him melt would feel like sacrilege.

When I was growing up, my parents only lit candles that went on birthday cakes. Holiday pillars kept their white waxy tips from one year to the next, and this didn't seem unusual to me. My parents are not mood-lighting people. Although never stated, I think they view candle burning as an extravagance, and the flickering light an impediment to properly viewing the contents of their dinner plates. When we were young they probably also worried that one of us would accidentally burn the house down.

A few Christmases ago I took the train for the yearly trip to see my family. I arrived in the evening and mom picked me up at the station. When we got home I opened the front door and was greeted by loud music and a blaze of light. I can't remember whether carols were playing or if dad had simply put on some Dire Straits or Springsteen or Beatles or what. In any case, he was dancing, the tree lights were on along with all the overhead lights and lamps, and every single decorative candle in the room was lit. My sister and brother were already there, enjoying the show.

"He's been into the sauce," said Heather.

Dad looked over at mom and I and froze, making a mock show of fear. "Uh oh, now I'm in for it. Your mother's gonna kill me." Then he resumed his dance, throwing his head back and his arms up in the air.

"I did it, honey! I lit them! I lit them all!"

Mutual Admiration Society

It seems I've actually inspired someone.

Neat! This makes my day.

Thanks Amanda!

Image source

Cottage Life

I haven't thought about the cottage in a while. Or cottages; in my immediate family there were three.

The first two were on Clear Lake, located in the Rideau Corridor (http://www.rideau-info.com/canal/ecology/article-ecology.html).

Cottage #1 was a cabin that my parents bought when they were young and cash-strapped. Green rug in the living room, plywood floor leading to a bathroom with a porta-pottie, and gas lamps for light.

My brother and sister and I shared a room crowded with a bunk bed and a fold-out cot. In floor corners we'd dump oversized hobo pouches made of bright, patterned 70s fabric. Mom fashioned them for us to pack our weekend gear, labeling each with our names in marker. Leftover material was used for bedroom curtains.

Daytime activities were varied. Picking wild blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, blackberries. Seeking out frogs, turtles, mink, snakes, mice, and chipmunks.

Observing the beaver dam. Fighting over binoculars to better view the blue heron or the loons on the lake. Swimming, canoeing, and riding to Chaffey's Lock in the red motorboat. And though I never got the hang of the windsurfer, dad did. On gusty days he was something to see.

Blackflies, horseflies, mosquitoes. Damselflies and dragonflies.

Patches of trillium and the leaning cedar tree.

Large indentations on the hill around the bend that I hypothesized were caused by dinosaur or meteor.

At night we read or played games like Boggle or Dominoes. Or cards. Christ, I sucked at cards. My sister kicked my ass every time.

Then there were the chores -- stick gathering comes to mind. I was probably a real pill about it too. Yup, idyllic as it was, there were times I moped about having to go to the cottage with my little brother and sister when it would be much more fun to stay in town for sleepover parties with friends. And use a real toilet.

Cottage #2 was built on the same piece of land. A bigger construction with a wood exterior. My parents had the frame built, and then tasked themselves with finishing the interior.

I recall it being a lot of work.

The old cabin was hauled away in wintertime after the new one was erected. I didn't miss it, but it maintains a more prominent place in my memory than its successors.

A few years later my parents sold the second place. I don't know why. Money problems? Stress over keeping up a second property? Irritation at having to listen to children complain that they'd rather be playing video games or hanging out at the mall?

Whatever the issue, they must have resolved it for a time, because a year or two later they bought cottage #3. It was in the same general area. Two stories, a few bedrooms, fully finished. But I was only there sporadically. My weekends were being given over increasingly to summer jobs and to my high school social life, such as it was. After a while, my parents sold again.

The constant during the first twenty years of my life was my grandparents' cottage, located about 45 minutes away from ours.

I had more fun there. My parents didn't view their surroundings through a filter of to-do lists, and there were usually lots of people around to distract my siblings and I from our bickering.

Details of that cottage on Higley Lake are still vivid: the screened-in porch where we'd have lunch, old framed photographs, floral-print sofas, blue upholstered rocking chair, party-line telephone, and the smell of something that I can only think might have been old books. There was a big window that overlooked the lake by day, and provided an entomological showcase by night. And the lake itself was great. It wasn't overtaken by weeds, and it was deep enough that you could do jumps off the end of the dock. We'd spend hours down there.

Back inside, granddad would serve us ginger ale, and we would place our glasses on pastel aluminum coasters.

Theirs was the site of many extended family dinners.

Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yay God.

My grandparents sold the cottage in the mid-nineties, I think. They were getting older and having trouble keeping the place up, and with new constructions popping up along the property line, the sense of seclusion was spoiled anyway.

During my late teens and early twenties, the cottage experience faded. After years in the suburbs I was enjoying life in Toronto, and then Montreal. It was urban and it was exciting. At the time I couldn't get enough of it.

But lately there's been a shift. Getting out of town to a cottage is a treat that doesn't happen often enough for my liking. Granted, it's different now. My friends and I usually rent a place near St. Agathe. Or we take advantage of the Elkin family cabin near St. Sauveur. Our meals are fancier, the booze flows freely. We have Double Dominoes instead of Dominoes, and the best evenings include a few rounds of Celebrities.

But the nighttime absence of city hum and light is the same as it ever was, and the air smells just as good.

And while I may be all grown up, competitive dock jumping never gets old.

Sick List

I have been remarkably healthy this year. I think I came down with a cold back in February, but the fact that I can't quite remember suggests that whatever it was couldn't have been that bad. 

Every now and then, I feel my body flirting with illness. I go to bed wondering how it'll play out overnight, and then more often than not, wake up congratulating my immune system for another job well done.

Tonight I have that flirty feeling again. Maybe I'm just a little run down or experiencing a deep animal need to hibernate. Or maybe it's something more. H1N1 is all over the news and I've got friends currently suffering from viral slapdowns, so I'm particularly wary.

Finding yourself sick without the proper supplies sucks. There's nothing like having to haul your fevered ass outside because you're out of canned soup.

And do you think I can count on this chucklehead for any Lassie-style assistance?

"Cammie! I have been felled by the flu! Here, take this letter that I have laboriously scrawled in my weakened state and get help! Run, Cammie, run! Swift like the wind! You are my only hope!"

Nope. I'm on my own. So tonight I got organized and ensured that I have everything on my sick list:

- hot toddy ingredients**

- soup

- throat lozenges

- cold meds

- books

- movies

- Gatorade

To all the germy germs out there: bring it on.

**Digginteresting Hot Toddy Mix

Serves 2

- 4 cups water

- 4 inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and thinly sliced

- juice from 1 lemon (or to taste)

- 2 tbsp honey (or to taste)

- 2 shots brandy

- lemon verbena leaves, fresh or dried (optional)

Add ginger to 4 cups water, and bring to a boil. If desired, add lemon verbena leaves. Lower heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes. Strain liquid into two mugs. Divide fresh lemon juice and honey, then add a shot of brandy to each mug. Serve immediately.

Note: Don't go overboard with the brandy. In a sickly haze a couple of years back I dribbled too much hooch into the brew and have a distinct memory of being incapacitated on the couch, thinking: "Great. Now I'm feverish and I'm wasted." Trust me, it's less fun than it sounds.

The Obscenity of Objects

I always feel dirty washing my hands at Kurt and Guillaume's.

Instead of a soap dish by the bathroom sink, they have a contraption from Guillaume's native Provence. Affixed to the wall, a rod protrudes onto which you slide and screw a special egg-shaped soap.

The design is clever in that it frees up room around the sink and keeps the soap from turning sludgy.

But the action required to work up a lather seems like the kind of thing that could get you arrested on indecency charges if performed in a public bathroom.

Sacré bleu!

And don't even get me started on the moves required if ordered to wash your mouth out with soap.

Tip of the Day

Never place a bottle of wine in a flimsy plastic bag already containing thai basil and kaffir lime leaves you bought in Chinatown, and then sling said bag over the handlebars of your bike.

But should you choose to do so anyway, hook the bag over the handle closest to the curb. That way when the bag breaks and your bottle hits the pavement, and assuming the bottle somehow doesn't shatter, it will roll under parked cars, instead of moving ones.

Then when you get home, you can uncork your miracle bottle and toast to surviving another day despite your demonstrated lack of common sense.

Things Overheard While Riding My Bike

Northeast end of Parc Jeanne Mance, due south. Mid-afternoon. Young woman turns to her friend and confidently affirms "FOUR."

Northbound on the Rue Clarke bike path between St-Viateur and Bernard. Evening. Hooded figure yanks dog leash. Pinched female voice exclaims to either me or the dog "Faites attention!"

Eastbound on Rue de Castelnau heading towards Avenue de Gaspé. Windy, overcast afternoon. A slight man in his fifties is gesturing wildly to someone walking away from him on the sidewalk. Cigarette dangling, grey pompadour swaying, arms flailing, he yells "No cheese!"

"NO CHEESE!"

No More

It was the end of a bad workday. I was tired. I was cranky. I was looking forward to going home and enjoying a G&T, some dinner, and a bubblebath. Unlocking my front door I thought to myself "I made it. Home free! See ya later, outside world. Things are finally looking up for the ol' Dig Digger!"

Before letting myself into the house, I reached into my mailbox.

And was greeted with this:

That's right: addressed to me personally was More magazine, the "only Canadian magazine that celebrates women over 40".

Oh More magazine subscription offer!
How do I hate thee?
Let me count the ways!

1. Get your demographics straight. I don't know who sold you my info, but you've hit too young. I may have started the downward slope to 40 but I'm not there yet.

2. This sort of thing could alienate the type of woman who might otherwise buy your publication.

3. I will never be the type of woman who buys your publication.

4. And you can't give it to me free for a full year either.

5. The GO girl! thing is lame.

6. The letter from the editor starts off with "Dear Fascinating Woman".

7. And it promises me that I'll learn "the latest about everything from hot fashions to hot flashes."

8. The whole thing makes me think of weekday morning TV talk shows.

9. And I haven't watched weekday morning TV talk shows since the late 90s.

Hah! Take THAT, More magazine, you and your attempts to prematurely age me. Why, I haven't enjoyed a rant this much since my weekend complaint about young girls nowadays being slouchy and prone to wearing t-shirts as dresses.


Uh-oh ...

Spice Up Your Life

[Kim at Kurt's before the other dinner guests arrive, hanging out in the kitchen as he assembles spices for the salmon. Kurt tries to shake coriander into a measuring spoon and sprinkles it across the counter instead.]

Kurt: God, I hate this stupid container.

Kim: Yeah, what a mess.

Kurt: The design is crap. Look at this, you can't even flip the lid open. There's just a hole punched in the corner. But then the spice gets caught in the ridge and winds up all over the place.

Kim: Not well thought out, is it?

Kurt: No, it's not. Cheap, flimsy garbage. That's why I keep some of my mom's old spice boxes and refill them. They knew how to make things back then. [Brandishes an Empress box of cloves.]

Kim: Wow! Cloves were $3.89 in the seventies?

Kurt: They were a luxury in Yorkton.

Kim: Before the global food revolution.

Kurt: Back when ships helmed by bedouins navigated the spice route.

Kim: Hey. I thought the bedouins were a nomadic desert people who probably didn't have much to do with ships.

Kurt: You wanna be fed tonight?

Kim: Yeah.

Kurt: Then stop interrupting my story.

Kim: Ok, fine. The bedouins traveled overland to Saskatchewan in caravans.

Kurt: Setting up makeshift markets by the train tracks. You didn't bring your children there.

Kim: The prices were outrageous, but you paid them.

Kurt: How else could we have fully enjoyed mom's glazed ham with canned pineapple rings and maraschino cherries?

Kim: How indeed? Your mom went to great lengths for ham.

Kurt: That she did.

[Pause]

Kim: I'm glad you're not making that tonight.

Kurt: Me too. By the way, I've decided to deny you the salmon after all.

Kim: I don't know why I keep coming here.

Kurt: Me neither.

Diggers Unite

This weekend I attended a family reunion held at neighboring cottages in Ontario. It was co-hosted by an aunt and uncle, and a couple to whom I must somehow be related. This is pretty representative of the crowd of sixty-plus attendees: intimates interspersed with complete strangers.

Mom, dad, grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, second cousins once-removed, random boyfriends and girlfriends, and a host of others I wouldn't know if they sat beside me on a bus.

Any embarrassing displays? No. Not enough booze for that. Although some protested my uncle's insistence that lunch be deferred so he could explain his research into the family tree. Like, who cares who we are and where we're from? Pass the potato salad.

It's good to catch up with people you've known all your life. In recent years my aunt has found her calling teaching therapeutic yoga, and she described the challenges she's faced starting her business. And my younger cousins no longer retreat behind closed doors to talk of things beyond adult comprehension. People have married and started families. Some have new jobs, others have been laid off. Everyone looks different from the last time I saw them.

Observing my father displacing youngsters on the inflatable trampoline boat so he could flop into the water like a sea lion, I also reflected that some people never really change.

********************************

Towards the end of the day my three-year-old niece spies me from across the room and hurtles towards me.

"KIM!"

Hugging my legs she sighs "Oh Kim," as though our time spent apart were measurable in years rather than minutes. She asks a barely intelligible question and gestures towards the door.

"What is it Vera? Do you want to go outside?" She nods. Stepping out into the dusk, she takes my hand. We walk along the dirt road flanked by woods until she slows and puts her finger to her lips.

"Shhhh," she whispers, eyes wide. "The noise." I stop to listen. Crickets sound from all around.

"Yes," I acknowledge. "The noise."

Softly we tiptoe, listening, until it's time to go home.

Hearts of Something

The evening is winding down. The wine's gone, Guillaume's gone to bed, and Kurt's turning off the iPod. Switching stereo functions, the radio comes on. Three seconds of Bridge Over Troubled Waters plays. Kurt turns it off.

Kim: Was that Bridge Over Troubled Water?

Kurt: Yes. I hate that song.

Kim: How can you hate Bridge Over Troubled Water? Who hates Bridge Over Troubled Water? God. You have a heart of stone. Stone and lemon juice.

Kurt: I can't even begin to imagine what your heart's made of.

Oh wait, I know ...

String.

Hairspray.

And bubblegum.

Kim: G'night.

Kurt: G'night.

Sorry Sale

I have a Google Mail account. When I check my messages, Google helpfully offers me advertisements for products it thinks I need. For example, a friend recently sent me a message with the subject heading Yo! Based on the ads for beginner English courses that displayed alongside the message box, my e-mail system has apparently concluded that I am illiterate.

Another recent message from a friend contained the word Sorry. Google took the term and ran with it, returning with the following promotional gold: Sorry Poem, and Apology eCards (“Hurt someone’s feelings? Make your apology memorable with cute eCards!”) Damn, Google. It’s like you can see inside my soul.

I like the idea of the sorry poem. We could all use one every once in a while, right? If you can’t get your hands on a case of beer and a couple of pool noodles, lines of verse can be the next best thing to diffuse tension and bring people closer together.

What I’m trying to say is this: I smell a money-making venture. I’ve been looking for ways to supplement my income, and I think sorry poems are the ticket. Check it out, here’s one with local flavour:

There once was a girl from Quebec

Who was sometimes a pain in the neck

She’d hold too much in

Then make friends’ heads spin

And they’d be all like “Meh! What the heck?”

Oh, wait. That won’t sell. It’s all exposition and no sorry. Maybe the limerick isn’t the ideal vehicle for amends. Maybe I need to try a different form. Maybe I need to haiku.

Pissy bull tips scales

Cherry blossoms float away

Bull says: “Shit. Sorry!”

See? I can totally do this. So the next time you’re in a pickle and duking it out with a loved one, drop me a line and I’ll see what I can whip up for you! 

Note: Will work for food.

MJ

I've been thinking about Michael Jackson today. His passing last month has brought him back from the dead and he is everywhere. Why, just yesterday there was a flash mob event here in Montreal with choreography and everything.

It's like a musical! But in real life! I was sad I missed it until I read in The Gazette that there's another one being held this Sunday, location TBD.

Funny how he's gone from pariah to lamented genius. I suppose you could chalk it up to widespread hypocrisy. But I think it's something different than that, or something more nuanced. In recent years the charges against him, and his overall weirdness, overshadowed the music. In death it's been reversed. It's easier to remember him as who he was before he got all pale and freaky now that he can't get any paler or freakier. And then there were the crimes he allegedly committed. Bodily crimes. As long as he continued to exist in body, it was hard to get beyond his violation of social taboo. Hard to appreciate the transcendent in a man who came to embody pervy weirdness.

Now he's gone. Free of the body, all we have left is the transcendent.

Earlier today I happened to stumble across a great remix by DJ Z-Trip. I defy you to sit still while listening to it.

Long live MJ!

Tip of the Day

No matter how many points you've scored with the boss, and no matter how much professional capital you think you've banked, it's probably still not enough to get away with bringing a half-eaten ice cream cone to your mid-year performance review.

Craftiness

I've been thinking about the spider problem I described in yesterday's post. I can't let these guys beat me. But I'm too much of a sissy to actually touch the webs and brush them away. What to do?

Introducing: The Spider Wand

Pretend you're a spider. There you are, sittin' in your web, suckin' on a shadfly, when this huge spider-shape comes at you. And you're all like "Whoa! Is that God?", and I'm all like "Take that! I'm going for a BIKE RIDE. HAH!"

Cool eh? I made it myself. How do I do it? It's easy! All you need are a few common household items: some recycled cardboard, a wooden spoon, tape, scissors, and a marker.

Start by drawing your spider on the cardboard. It may take a few tries to get it just right, but it's all part of the fun!

Cut out your shape.

Apply tape to the back, stick it to the spoon, and voila! Your very own spider wand! And look, I added some sparkly ribbon to the base for extra razzle-dazzle!

So go ahead and put on your crafty hat! Impress your friends! Beat a path through the real and figurative webs that shroud the fully realized YOU!

What a Web We Weave

I keep my bike out back in the shed. A spiral staircase leads down from my fire escape to the back yard.

Lately, I find it strewn with spider webs occupied by tiny inhabitants and their prey. Spiders so minuscule are barely scary, even to an arachnophobe like me. But the feeling of invisible thread on my arms that won't easily brush off makes me hyper-sensitive to any hint of crawling. Whether it's a spider or just my imagination, I flap my hands about my head like a lunatic.

Best to avoid this predicament if possible. Bad for me, bad for the spiders.

If I told you this was the reason I don't get out enough, would you believe me?

Smuggling for Dummies

[Kim on the phone this morning with her brother Marc]

Marc: You’re a bum.

Kim: No, you’re a bum.

Marc: No, you’re a bum.

Kim: No, you are.

Marc: No, YOU are.

Kim: Mind if I change the subject?

Marc: Not at all, please do.

Kim: Thank you kindly.

Marc: Think nothing of it.

Kim: I totally smuggled a third bottle of wine into the country this week.

Marc: Really?

Kim: Yes. How could I not? You can get the good stuff in grocery stores in France, and it’s so much cheaper than it is here. Even after converting Euros to dollars it’s still half price. So I got one in each colour.

Marc: Huh.

Kim: Yeah, and I think I get away with never having my bags searched because of my overconfession technique.

Marc: What’s that?

Kim: It’s where I go up to the customs agent and instead of saying I have nothing to declare, I express concern that the jars of homemade jam I brought might be in violation of Canadian import laws. But I know they’re not, so I come across as being super-honest.

Marc: Except that you’re not. You’re a liar.

Kim: That I am.

Marc: That’s awful. It’s people like you who carry plagues across borders and ruin ecosystems.

Kim: What? With an extra bottle of wine?

Marc: Oh, it starts out that way. But then you move on to bigger and riskier things, until next thing you know, you’re sneaking in a mogwai.

Kim: Omigod! I forgot how cute they are!

Marc: Exactly. You’re such bum.

Kim: No, you are.

Marc: No, YOU ARE.

The Grind

I’ve been thinking: heading back into the office after vacation could be hard. But then again, maybe not. For one thing, I can ride in on my beloved bike.

Enjoy some scenery along the way.

Fortify myself with a little “You go girl!” treat.

Yes! I can totally do this! Maybe I've been worrying too much. Maybe heading back into work won’t be so bad after all.

Uh-oh. I forgot: heading into work is one thing. Actually arriving there is another.

Oh my, it hurts. Well, maybe lunch will cheer me up. 

Bleah. You know, I'm not so sure about this whole “not being on vacation” thing anymore. I’m not feeling very comfortable with it.

Hey, I know!

It worked in France.

And ...

... no.