Happy Statutory Holiday

I grabbed an olive from the dish and popped it into my mouth. When I bit down, I realized I had made a mistake. Blue cheese. The olive had been stuffed with blue cheese.

If I were to create a list of people and things I consider to be my nemeses, blue cheese would fall somewhere around number fifty.

But it was Christmas day eve. Dinner was late to the table, and I was hungry. So the blue cheese ultimately won this round with its surprise presence and my need to consume something in order to silence the rumbling thunder that was emanating from my stomach region.

Christmas, as a whole, had been enjoyable but relatively uneventful.

During the Christmas eve service, my brother and I whispered back and forth to each other.

The minister called all of the young children to the front of the church to explain to them the significance of Christmas presents. "We give gifts as a reminder of the gifts of the three magi. They are in celebration of Jesus's birthday," she said.

I leaned into my brother and said, "Actually, that is only partially true. Yes, the gifts are meant as a reference to the magi, but they are not in celebration of Christ's birthday. They are in celebration of Christ's birth in general. He would have been well over a year old by the time the magi reached him. Evidence suggests that Christ was born in the summer or early fall, so handing out birthday presents for Jesus in December and calling it 'Christmas' is a misnomer."

"You should stop the minister right now and correct her," my brother said.

"Don't worry, I will," I said.

I didn't though.

I know where my bread is buttered, and I suspect correcting the minister in the middle of the Christmas eve service is probably a good way to cause the church to rethink the pay raise I am getting in the new year. Plus, I do realize that the minister was probably just trying to explain Christmas to the children in a relatively simple way.

My sister refused to attend the Christmas eve service. In fact, she refused to follow through with many long established Christmas traditions held by my family - my favourite being the one where she sleeps with one of the neighbour's sons on Christmas eve and my father has to use all of his problem solving skills to determine which house on our street he should call on Christmas day in order to summon her home to open presents around the tree. So she is in a relationship. Big deal. That is no reason to end what we all consider to be, arguably, the most entertaining aspect of the holiday.

And now, with the holidays over, it is time to dress my dog up in the Santa suit my father purchased. Sure, he cannot wear the pants (they are much too large), but I am sure he will look handsome in the coat, beard and hat. Humiliated... but handsome.



Google Webmaster Tools tells me that the 97th most common keyword on my site is "transvaginal."


It shows I care

I received a message on facebook today, from one of my friends from University, informing me that the card I had sent her had arrived safely.

In so many words, she told me how thankful she was for such a thoughtful gesture.

But that is the kind of friend that I am. An idea will come to me - a beautifully scrapbooked card featuring Michael Jackson, perhaps - and I will then spend the next several days bringing said idea to fruition before sending it out into the world. 

Can I help it if that idea turns out to be creepy? No. No, I cannot. 


Dentist Approved

Yesterday, I smoked marijuana and then brushed my teeth for two hours. 

“Two minutes!” I told myself right before I had an epiphany. “Two minutes, three times a day is six minutes. If I brush my teeth for two hours, I will not have to do it again for another 20 days!” 

It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, and my electric toothbrush made it relatively easy to accomplish, or at least it did during the first hour. It turns out that electric toothbrushes do not have a particularly long battery life and were probably not intended for brushing marathons. 

Regardless, my teeth have probably never been cleaner than they were yesterday. 


Upon returning home, I have developed a new respect for double-ply toilet paper

I just returned from my annual week-long foray into the woods (read: Algonquin Park) with a group of teenagers. 

As per usual, it was chocked full of dirty words and talk of bodily functions. I am not going to lie, the talk of bodily functions was primarily me talking to myself aloud about the indigestion I was experiencing. Every so often, I would corner one of the teenagers and over share, telling them how many trips to the outhouse I had made that hour alone. 

On one of my many trips to the outhouse, one poor camper (whom I had briefly left unattended at the site in order to take care of "business") was terrorized by a moose who came charging through our site. I heard the feral animal galloping past my kybo of choice and, had I not already been pooping, probably would have soiled myself. 


Being a Good Sister

In order to better bond as a family, and perhaps better prepare him for University, I became insistent upon fabricating a beer funnel for my little brother. He is going to be somewhat far away from home this coming fall, and I wanted to ensure he had a surefire way to bond with his peers. 

Thus, we made a trip to the Home Depot on a Thursday afternoon and purchased 10 feet of tubing, one ball valve and two hose clamps. Later on, I  made a solo trip to Canadian Tire to purchase an over-sized funnel. The individuals working in the Auto Department looked at me curiously when I asked them if they had a funnel large enough to fit two beers in. 

After a few false starts, Project Funnel was complete. "I will stand on the stairs here, and you will sit there on that bench," I told my brother. "I will pour the beer into the funnel, and then, when you are ready, you will open the valve and ingest the beer at a rate that is faster than you usually would. You should probably wait until most of the foam has dissipated, otherwise you will probably be very gassy."

My brother looked at me and nodded, but the truth is that I have only observed funneling in the past and never actually partook in it myself. After all, I am a lady, and I do not particularly care for beer.   


How I spend my Saturday mornings

I hate running. 
Hate it.
So it made perfect sense that I would pay approximately $120 to join a running group that meets every Saturday morning at 7:30 a.m. Did I mention that the running group meets half an hour away from my house? I am mentioning it now. The running group meets at a location that is half an hour away from my house. This means that, in order to roll out of bed and be ready for running group, I need to wake up by 6:30 a.m. at the latest. 
Did I mention that I was instructed to eat something before running group and drink some water? I am mentioning it now. I was told to eat something before running group and drink at least one cup of water no less than one hour before I run. 
One hour before I run. 
This means that, if I am going to eat something, I need to eat it by 6:30 a.m. This in turn means that in order to have something prepared to eat by 6:30 a.m., I have to get up prior to 6:30 a.m. On a Saturday. 
So far I hate my running group. Each Saturday, I arrive at our meeting place and silently curse everyone in the group. I am smiling on the outside, but on the inside I am giving foul-mouthed sailors a run for their money. Each week we run further and further. First it was one kilometer, then three. Now it is five kilometers and soon it will be six. By the end of August, we will be up to ten kilometers, although we do have a twelve kilometer run to complete one day. 
I must secretly hate myself. Why else would I be doing this?


Tall Tales

"I am going to stop you for a second," I said to the little boy who had previously been speaking. His name was James, and he was telling an elaborate tale of an encounter he "had" with the local authorities.
"I am going to go out on a limb here and say that the police never shot at you."
"They did," he insisted.
"Tell me, James, why would the police shoot at an unarmed nine-year-old?" I asked him.
"I am native," he declared, "I had a bow and arrow. I was shooting at them." 
While there was no denying that he was indeed native, I still found his story less than credible.
"I once went to Tim Hortons and saw a van get hit in the window with a paintball," another little boy piped up.
"Now that I believe," I told him.
The discussion that takes place during Sunday School is much different than I remember it being when I was young enough to attend. 


It isn't alcoholism because I was drinking in a room full of people

Drinking before, during and after an oral presentation will help ease your nerves I have found. 
Today, upon recounting the tales of my involvement with a relatively prestigious festival, I sipped from a glass of wine rather than a bottle of water. 
Sure, I may have slurred my words some, but I was calm. 


I'm just saying....

"We don't celebrate Valentine's day because it is too commercial and common for us," she said. "Instead we do something special a month or two later."
"What I am hearing is that you just celebrate Valentine's day late," I said.
"No, we don't celebrate Valentine's day," she repeated.
"Yes, you do. You just do it late and call it something different so that you can tell yourselves that you are individuals," I clarified. "It is still the very same premise. You are still going out and buying the cards and chocolates, and having a fancy dinner."
"It's not the same," she insisted, sounding slightly less sure of herself. 
"Oh, it's the same. It's not your anniversary. It is not in celebration of some other sort of special occasion. It is Valentine's day, only it's late."

I find Valentine's day to be ridiculous and not merely because I am single.  I have never felt the need to celebrate the day. In fact, I have never celebrated the occasion in any special way other than going out of my way to ensure there was time for extra sex that day. In the morning? Don't mind if I do. A nooner? Sure, why not? On the kitchen table, waiting for dinner to cook? How can I resist? Did you hear that? The television program we are watching is on a commercial break. Quick, we must figure out something to do to help pass the time. 

But I digress. Valentine's day is a sham. We should all insist on being more loving on a regular basis instead of saving it all up for one day. 



I was sniffing the air, trying to determine where the smell of marijuana was coming from, when I saw movement to my right, in the passengers seat."Are you rolling a joint in my car?!" I asked, though I clearly already knew the answer.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to realize what I was doing," she laughed. 

Lately, when confronted with someone else's bad behaviour, I have taken to pointing my finger and firmly stating, "no." In case they do not get it, I often repeat myself in a slightly slower, more condescending voice. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Bad," I say.

I was sitting at the back of the library studying. Every so often I would glance up to the window above me and stare at the freshly fallen snow in the middle of the courtyard. It was cold in the library, and it was boring. Still, I returned my attention to my books and did my best to absorb the information in front of me. I lasted for exactly one hour and five minutes. 
Studying is boring. 
I began to gather my notes and arrange things in my school bag when I was interrupted by a thud against the window in front of me. I looked up and was surprised to see several of my friends standing there staring at me. 

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be Jewish. I do not know where the notion first came from.


Biological Clocks

I am sick and am therefore in a whiny, introspective mood. 
"I have a cold that has given me a smoker's cough," I tell him.
"Sexy," he replies.
"I know. I will surely find a husband any day now," I say, pausing briefly to hack up one of my lungs. "I will pick him up by saying, 'Hey baby, my biological clock has started to tick.' And then I will cough all over him. Guys love that."
Though he seems slightly hesitant, he eventually agrees with me.
"I am ten years away from asking you to father my children. I am just putting that out there. We cannot do it though because it would just be too weird," I declare.
"Yeah, but maybe in ten years it will seem normal," he postulates. 
"You could be right, but I am making no promises."
"Me either," he agrees. "I may even say no."
"I don't think you will. Your biological clock is ticking too." He is silent now because he knows this is true. "Plus," I add, "I am so smooth that you will not even realize what has happened until the offspring is 30."