A Christmas Wish For You

Sam and Ben-Ben on Christmas morning a few years ago.

I've been on the blogger naughty list these past weeks but I didn't want the holiday season to go by without touching base with you, my dear friend.

I know this year has been a challenging one for you, but through all of it, you have remained solid and strong. Oh sure, you've collapsed on your bed many a time, sobbing your heart out – I mean, haven't we all? But there you stand, regardless, facing yet another Christmas and another whole year, with optimism, excitement, grace and enough cookies to feed a small nation.

My sincere hope is that you find peace in your generous heart, and happiness, and at least a bit of the love you have shown me. Oh, and a big honking present under the Christmas tree.

Merry Christmas, my friend. Merry Christmas.

Deck the halls with boughs of vomit

I was humming Christmas carols this morning while making coffee.

This happens to me every year. I'm slow getting into the Christmas spirit but, by the time it's over, I'm in full-on, meet-me-under-the-mistletoe, buy-something, wrap-something, eat-something seasonal-greetings splendour. So I feel like the little brother in A Christmas Story, the kid who is so overdressed that he can't walk, can't run, can't fart, and is continuously whining, "Come on guys, wait up guys, oh guys..." That's me, whining, as the Christmas train blows past.

Yesterday was one of those days you wish never happened. We were headed north to visit friends we hadn't seen in some time. Sam seemed fine before we left. He was having a little trouble going to the bathroom (he gets constipated sometimes) but nothing untoward. He started looking uncomfortable just as we passed the last turn-off to civilization and public bathrooms. When it was clear we were in the land of nothing-but-swamps-and-bush, he suddenly announced, "I gotta have a crap and I feel like I'm gonna throw up!"

Nothing speeds a driver to a curb as fast as a kid saying the throw-up word. Tires squealed and my face just missed hitting the dash as Dave swerved off the highway. I jumped out to help Sam get out of the car safely and then watched as he scrabbled down a steep, snow-covered embankment. At first it looked like he was going to throw up, all gaggy and retchy and such. Then, without further adieu, he yanked down his jeans and squatted in the ditch.

I was impressed and repulsed all at the same time. My kid was going to defecate at the side of a busy four-laned highway. I have Crohn's disease and I wouldn't be caught doing that in a zillion years. I can't see very well at the moment (my cataracts) so I thought, maybe he's only peeing.

"Are you peeing?" I asked. Hopefully.

"I'm crapping," said my son.

Oh geez.

"I'll go get you some Kleenex," I said. I grabbed a box out of the car.

Dave asked, "Is he puking?"

"No," I said, "apparently he is crapping."

"Oh geez," Dave said.

I thought I could just lob the Kleenex box straight to Sam, but I missed by, like, 20 feet and thus had to slide down the embankment towards the crapping child to wrangle the box out of the only tree in the ditch and hand it over. I did so, discreetly, not wanting to embarrass Sam, who was already crapping in front of every person driving north on one of Ontario's busiest north-south highways and probably didn't care one iota about crapping in front of his mother. Although I would never crap in front of my mother. I don't think. Maybe if I was desperate. OK, so Sam was desperate.

Moving on, we came to Burk's Falls where there is a Tim Horton's.

"Sam," I said, "would you like to go to Timmy's and use their bathroom?"

"Yes," said Sam.

Thank goodness, I thought. An actual bathroom will be so much less embarrassing than a ditch. While Sam was in the bathroom, Angus and I went to the counter and ordered coffee and hot chocolate. I was just about to pay the nice young cashier when Sam came up to us, white-faced and sick-looking.

"Mom," he said, "I just vomited in the bathroom."

The cashier's smile disappeared but she continued to get my change.'

Inside I was thinking, "isn't it cute how he uses the word vomit?" What I said was, "You threw up in the toilet, right?"

Sam shook his head. "There was somebody on the toilet so I vomited on the floor."

All colour drained from the cashier's face and, I swear, went to mine. I looked to her and squeaked, "I'm sorry."

"That's OK," she said, but I wasn't convinced.

I told Sam to go back in the men's room and wash up. Apparently he still had to use the toilet as well, "but the man who was in there got poo all over the seat," so he decided against it.

Those poor Timmy's staff. Cleaning up my son's vomit and some old guy's poo. There ain't enough money in the world to pay me to do that.

Top photo: my new coat and mittens I found under the tree. Thanks Santa!
Second photo: Misty in her Christmas dress.
Third: Dave with our festive mailbox.
Fourth: my handsome non-puking men - Sam, Dave and Angus.
Fifth: me and Dave wishing you and yours a happy ho-ho-ho.

A country church on Christmas Eve

A baby, face red and damp with sleep, dozes in his mother's arms.

His older brother, in a Santa hat, squishes down on the small spot left on her knee.

Her eyes are heavy; they almost close during Silent Night. Two long weeks of shopping, wrapping and cooking with two young children in tow has worn down her edges. She is soft in the glow of candles. Around her the Christmas Eve congregation sings lustily of peace and the birth of Christ, but the young mother dreams of just one night of uninterrupted sleep.

Her baby's hands are chubby and small. I long to reach over and touch them. I remember how perfect a baby's fingers are, like silk, like joy, like love.

He stirs and opens his sleepy eyes. The old man behind smiles at the tyke. The baby smiles back. The young mother kisses his forehead, kisses his cheek, touches him with her loving fingers and her soul.

This is Christmas.

This crowded country church.

These people.

This moment.

This is Christmas and this is why I love it.

To all my friends far and near, may happiness and peace find your heart this Christmas.
And may you find love, the greatest gift of all.

Christmas photos from the chocolate box

"Christmas isn't the same anymore." That's what my mom said last night.

"Your father loved Christmas and it doesn't seem the same without him."

I found these old photos in a long-empty chocolate box when I was looking for photos of him and Aunt Judy for my last post. When all of these were taken, Christmas was pure, unadulterated magic. My siblings and I would get so wound up on Christmas Eve that we'd puke all night. My poor mother. It was bad enough, doing all the work she had to do to prepare, without the added burden of holding back hair, wiping foreheads and cleaning up from those who didn't make it down the hall.

My mom says Christmas isn't the same without Dad, but it has always been Mom who has made the holiday spring to life. She never missed a beat: all the food was homemade and fabulous. Her fudge was neighbourhood renowned. She stored it in a green Tupperware crisper in the bar fridge in the basement, making it in advance so there'd be plenty on Dec. 25. We'd steal it every chance we got in the weeks before, until, invariably, she'd be forced to make fudge on Dec. 24 because we'd cleaned the Tupperware out of everything but crumbs.

Mom had a record book for Christmas cards. In the days before computers, this was her storage unit of addresses, births, deaths, who sent a card last year, who was sent a card, new people, old people – it was all there. As a result, our own house was filled with cards from well-wishers from far and near. Mom hung them all over the house, resplendent in their own Christmassy glory.

She shopped, she wrapped, she decorated, she baked, she worked and worked and worked and I never heard a word of complaint.

Mom, maybe you're feeling a little down this year, maybe you do feel Christmas isn't the same without Dad. But I can tell you, without any word of a lie, that as long as we have you, we will always have Christmas.

Top photo: My mom on Christmas morning in Markham, Ont., mid-1970s.
Above, family photo in Midland. That's me, Mom, my brother Billy and my Dad.
We were posed in the parlour of the old Victorian house on Seventh Street.
 It was a room we were almost never allowed in – the exception
was piano practice and Christmas Day. This photo was probably taken in 1965,
before my sister, Liz, was born in 1967. I remember that old teddy bear.
Much loved, it was.

My parents, probably at a New Year's Eve party.
Look how young and adorable they are.

Christmas, mid-1970s. I think I was in Grade 11 because I remember that stupid haircut.
That's my cousin, Karen, in my lap with one of her ratty dolls. She got a new doll every Christmas
and then proceeded to demolish it with bubble gum and jam and other muck.
On the couch is her brother, Paul, with her parents, Uncle Howard and Aunt Mary,
as well as my brother and my dad.

Once Christmas morning was out of the way we went to my grandparents' house in Buttonville, Ont.
That's a photo of me with my Grandma, Hazel Hooper (and my cousin David in the foreground).
Grandma's house plays a big part in the novel I'm writing. This room, in fact, stars as
Weezie Polk's refuge from the big bad world. The house is torn down, has been for decades,
to make room for a stupid industrial plaza, but I'll never forget it.

Bill, Liz and me, probably around 1973.
Doesn't everybody look kind of dopey and messed up on Christmas morning?
Or was it just us? Liz certainly looks raring to go!

Not sure what year this was, but I was probably a senior in high school, judging by my haircut.
(How I judge everything but I really am terrible at remembering dates.)
One of our family's many traditions included a photo of stocking hanging on Christmas Eve.

Check out the tape recorder one of us got for Christmas. At the time it was
pretty high-tech equipment.

Hot Mama #2

OK, dress #2. Low-cut ruffled neckline, flattering swish at the hips, as opposed to strapless and sequinned. Dave likes this one better because, as he says, "it really shows off the girls."

It's all about the girls, for Dave.

Which one do you like better? Gawd knows, I want to hear. Yesterday's comments blew me away. YOU GUYS ARE SO FUNNY. I was laughing out loud all day long, you know, when I wasn't dancing around to Nancy Sinatra's These Boots are Made for Walking.

Speaking of boots, I DID IT! I hugged the Boss! My sassy friend and colleague Sarah had promised me $5 in raffle tickets if I hugged the boss, something that just isn't regularly done at my office. I was kinda hoping she would have forgotten about the bet but even before dinner was served she was swaggling over saying, in her clever sing-song way, "I've got three raffle tickets with your name on them ..." So I had to, right then and there, go hug the boss. Even though I'd only had half a glass of wine and technically it wasn't nearly enough.

"OK," I said, getting up from my chair. "Let's do it." Sarah grabbed her camera and I marched over to the head table where the boss was talking to an even bigger boss (so many bosses, so little time ...). I waited until the bigger boss finished talking and then excused myself. "I made a bet with Ryeland over there, that I would hug you." I gestured to the giggling Sarah with her camera. "Three raffle tickets are on the line."

He smiled. "In that case," he said, "we'd better do it!" He stood up and gave me a sound and wonderful hug. I thanked him profusely and got carried away and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed and I blushed and the bigger boss laughed and Sarah took our photo. She handed over the tickets and, by rights, I should have won one of the big prizes. C'est la vie, however. I still won the bet and I had a nice hug and the boss smelled really lovely. So there!

In other party news, I had been asked by super-party-organizer Laura to rewrite Twas the Night Before Christmas and read it to the party-goers. She printed out the poem in a book form (my first published work!) and dragged out a comfy chair for me to sit on. Her cohort Stephanie held the microphone and I told the story. Way too much fun! I think everyone enjoyed it as much as me. Here's the photo Dave took. Funny thing is, even 50 pounds lighter, this photo shows me I still have many pounds to lose. So what. I knew this weight loss thing was going to take at least a year and while I still have many miles to go, I am proud of how far I have come.

Here's the poem:

‘Twas the Night before Deadline

‘Twas the night before deadline, when all through the office

Not an ad rep was stirring, except for the bosses.

The ad copy was e-mailed to production with care,

In hopes that a gosh-darned Photoshop miracle soon would be there.

Production, as usual, was strung out and weepy,

Due to copy that was misspelled, messy and creepy.

Everything said in I-Chat came out in all-caps,

As they whined and they yawned and dreamt of some naps.

When out in the parking lot there arose such loud chatter,

Bill scrambled from his desk to see what on earth was the matter.

Away to the back door he strode in a hurry,

Sending inserts and flyers to the air in a flurry.

The moon on the crest of the snow-covered asphalt

Showed gum wrappers, coffee cups and an unopened bank vault.

When, what to Bill's wondering eyes should appear,

But a safecracking dude, and eight tiny masked reindeer.

With a balaclava, some dynamite and a flickable Bic, 

Bill thought it highly unlikely that this guy was St Nick.

Slower than snapping turtles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now, Andrew!  Now, Dougie! Now, Jackie and Tony!

On, Davey! On, Jenny! Stop eating baloney!

To the top of the safe! Try not to fall!

Now blow it up! Get 'er done! Let's see it all!"

As dynamite was lit and the Bic was let fly,

The door of the safe blew up into the sky.

Into the vault the masked bandits they flew,

With a sack full of ads and a story or two.

And then, in a twinkling, Bill heard on the roof

The stomping and pounding of each rubber boot.

He went back to his office and was turning around,

When down the back stairs St. Joe came with a bound.

He was dressed in Armani, from his head to his shoe,

And his suit was all tarnished with ink shaded blue.

A bundle of newspapers he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a reporter, a full-blooded hack.

His eyes - they were bloodshot! His fingers how weary!

His cheeks were all puffy, his nose kind of beery!

His sly little mouth was drawn up in a smile,

And his Movember moustache was as long as a mile.

He was in shape and buff, a right jolly young elf,

And Bill grinned when he saw him, in spite of himself!

A peek at the quarterly report and a nod of his head,

Soon gave Bill to know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke a few words to his faithful young lads

And they began filling the papers with bazillions of ads.

And laying his orders on the desktop for Bill,

He climbed out of the office and ran up the hill.

Bill danced back to his desk, on his lips was a whistle,

There were so many ads, like the seeds in a thistle.

He flung open his window and yelled with all his might,

"Happy Newspapering to All, and to All a Good-Night!"

Hot Mama #1

I know, I said there weren't any photos of me from Dave's Christmas party last Friday but, I mean look at these, they're blurry and they're unfocussed and my eyes are shut so really, I don't.

Check out those feather earrings. Yes, they're earrings. In the bottom photo they kinda look like a Playboy bow tie. Uh, no. They're dangly black feather earrings I bought when I went shopping and forgot my brain in the parking lot. I wore them for a while but I noticed people were looking at me funny. I figured it was either telltale cheesecake crumbs stuck in my teeth, boogers hanging off my nose, my gargantuan arms or those damned feathers.

See? I told you. I've been eating so much chicken lately that I've been sprouting feathers. You should see the ones growing out of my ass.

Tonight is my office Christmas party. AND I HAVE ANOTHER DRESS. I know, there are starving children around the world and I have two party dresses. But it was on sale! 50% off! I had to do it!

I promise. More photos tomorrow. I'm going to take photos of all my workmates and post them, too. And I will make fun of them, profusely, because that is how I roll. You can tell me what dress you like better, OK?

Also? My colleague Sarah has promised to buy me a $5 raffle ticket for the bigscreen TV up for grabs at the par-tay if I hug the Big Boss. Well Sarah, these gargantuan arms are made for hugging, baby, and that's just what they'll do. One of these days these arms are gonna hug all over you... badda boom, badda boom, badda boom....

Are you ready, arms?

Start hugging...

Lollipop train derailment

Where did my mojo go?

Have you seen it?

I'm half-afraid I ate the fecking thing. I've been eating everything else in sight these days, why not the lollipop train that's been chugging stupidly along the losing-weight-writing-a-novel happy track?

Picture a zombie. Mindlessly trudging along, a song in its putrefecating pustule that once was a heart, locomoting one asphalt-sucking galosh at a time until it finds some cardio-challenged fattie it can chow down on. Right? Get it? That was me, the zombie. Finishing NaNo was finding the fattie. I chowed down and now I'm at a total fecking loss at what to do next. I feel like I'm adrift in a sea of goal-lessness.

Yesterday was bad. I woke up feeling like a bear with a sore ass and I went to bed feeling like an ass with a sore bear. I had no reason for it, but there it was.

Losing 50 pounds was also like finding the fattie. Tonight I went to Weight Watchers and I am not proud to announce I gained four pounds. In one week! Feck! I came home and bawled.

Oh, I KNEW I was going to gain weight this week. I'm not making up stupid excuses – I just ate too fecking much. I ate out four times (once at the dreaded all-you-can-eat Mandarin buffet, henceforth to be known as the Mandarin Factor); I ate a wedge of chocolate birthday cake, not a piece, a wedge – it was so big you could jack up your house with it. Worse, I suddenly remembered why I was going to Weight Watchers in the first place: I LOVE TO EAT. Even now, right now, I am craving something sweet. Like Mr. Christie's Fudgeo cookies, the ones with Double Stuf (wishing there was Triple Stuf), or homemade oatmeal candy. Or my mom's shortbread cookies, the ones with the sprinkles on top. I have a Santa bowl on my kitchen table and all I can think about is how good it would look with ju-jubes in it. The really fresh kind. The ones coated in sugar. I saw someone eat a bran muffin today and I wanted to take it from him, forcefully, and stuff it into my own great gaping maw.

I'm on dangerous ground here. I know, I've been here before. I am at a crossroads of getting back on the zombie track or jumping the rails and saying "feck it" and gaining every single pound I lost and then some. You skinnies are going, "why in hell would she gain 50 pounds back?" But you fatties and former fatties, you know what I'm saying – it's a mad desperation that can grab us by the balls and send us howling back to the great buffet of life as easy and as fast as a wink of the puffy eye.

I need to find my way again. I need to find that light switch in my head that's currently switched to OFF and turn it ON again.

If I don't, there are bad times ahead and Christmastime is no time for bad times.

Happy at Starbucks

I am so happy right now, so very very happy.

I am at Starbucks in Streetsville, which is a village within a city and it is very chi-chi. Don't tell anyone but I have a humongous cappuccino at my elbow, fully loaded with raw sugar and cinnamon and it's in a happy Let's Merry Christmas paper cup which, as I found on Twitter, John Wiswell hates  (Wiswell John Wiswell "Let's Merry"? As though I needed a reason to loathe you, Starbucks.) but frankly it makes me ridiculously happy. I like following John on Twitter, by the way. He's funny.

After two days in a truck stop where I felt like I was gonna get killed any minute, I am relaxed and mellow and listening to Joni Mitchell sing abstract jazz. There are five or six other people working around me, noses buried in their laptops. One girl has pages of music in front of her. She is slender and ethnic, a student of music, with her regal long nose and her long legs and her black coffee. There's a chubby young man in a pink shirt across from me. He is earnestly wearing a Remembrance Day poppy and his MacBook Pro is exactly like mine. There is an older woman from the suburbs, sitting at a stool at the coffee bar. Her hair is like Weezie's, the main character of my novel. She is sitting on her white down-filled ski jacket. I heart her ski jacket but if I had it it would be filthy within the first hour of use. Maybe the first half hour.

There is no Starbucks where I live. No happy Christmas cups. No earnest young men in poppies or regal-nosed music students. I want to buy a mug to take home with me, to remember how creative I felt sitting with the other laptoppers, listening to Joni, eating the cinnamon-sugar foam off my cappuccino with the slim wooden stir stick, the shiv of the Starbucks set.