The Year in Review

For Christmas this year, I got a head cold and my period. My body really needs to work on its creativity because it gave me the exact same thing a month ago for my birthday. And don't even get me started about last week when, while at Best Buy, I suffered the aftermath of eating an entire jar of hot peppers.

My body and I are at odds these days. It is unhappy with me because I have been forcing it into doing things it is not inclined to do, like spend an hour on the exercise bike each day and walk 18 km just because I can.

But I digress...

This post is really my annual year in review. It is a tradition that I started in 2006 as a secret means of encouraging people to go back and read posts I had written that year that I found more funny than others.

I do not have much selection this year, so I suspect that it will be relatively easy to make the selections for many of the twelve months.


In January, I....

Started the new year off right and disclosed secret information about myself.

In February, I....
Was critical of those who celebrate "Valentine's day."

In March, I....
Found a new way to cope with nerves when giving oral presentations.

In April, I....
Met a little boy with an interesting imagination.

In May, I....
Told the Internet that I am an unemployed bum who touches herself. For the record, I am still unemployed, but I am touching myself less and less.

In June, I....
Ran a mother fucking race!

In July, I....
Prepared my brother for life at university.

In August, I....
Had some faulty logic.

In September, I....
Sent a loving message to a friend.

In October, I....
Gushed over hand dryers.

In November, I....
Got even older.

In December, I....
Mourned for my favourite Christmas tradition that is no more.


I did more stuff this year than that though, Internet. I helped raise over $300,000 for various charities. I won a scholarship. I graduated for the third time but attended a graduation ceremony for the first time. I applied for two grants to help my teenagers and was awarded both. I embarrassed my sister by informing some old Canadian rock stars that I am a sweaty person and could not lift my arms up too high when we went to hug because the pit stains I was sporting were not socially acceptable according to the aforementioned sister. I had business cards made. I finally renewed my passport and went to Florida. I even skinned my knee playing laser tag (I tripped and fell because I am THAT COOL).

What is in store for 2010? I do not know, Internet. Get off my back. I am not a freaking psychic. Jeez.

I am open to suggestions.

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.

It's almost like a Christmas miracle..

I want to write flowery poetry about you, but I am not going to. I do not write flowery poetry. I do not write flowery poetry about you or anyone else for that matter. But I want to write it all the same.

The amount of time I spend wishing I were in your presence fills me with a sense of, well, intense nausea. It is sickening how often I wish I were beside you. My heart beats a little faster at the idea of merely basking in your presence.

I do not bask. And the only thing that is supposed to make my heart beat faster is strenuous physical activity.

I am slowly becoming a crazy person. No, really.

Exhibit A:

Yesterday, I actually gave serious thought as to what we would name any progeny we had. I decided that you could pick the first names (I reserve the power of veto of course), but I would pick the middle names.

I find this all to be terrifying. Immensely so. Yet, at the same time, it does not bother me at all. Actually, that is not true. Never before have I been concerned that my attachment to a male was so profound that I might actually run the risk of scaring him away with my overwhelming desire to simply be in his presence. The idea of it scares the shit out me. The amount of shit it scares out me is actually comparable to an incident that occurred at Best Buy last week while I was Christmas shopping. But that is another story all together.

Favourite Pastime: Inventing Games

When I lived alone, or at least when I mostly lived alone, I used to pass the time by creating new games to play with my dog. One of my favourite games to play was something I like to call "Toilet Ball."

Toilet ball is obviously a very complex game and requires a little bit of preparation beforehand. By preparation, I really mean that it is probably in the best interest of game participants if the toilet has been cleaned beforehand. Of course, by "participants," I really mean "human participants" because, let's face it, it is doubtful that the dog participants really care about the crap (literally) that may be in the toilet.

But I digress, toilet ball is simple, if your bathroom is set up properly to play it. The human participant stands approximately twenty feet away from the toilet and, with both the lid and toilet seat up, proceeds to attempt to throw a tennis ball into the toilet bowl from his or her stationary position. The dog then fetches the ball and returns it to the human participant. If the ball goes into the toilet bowl, the human participant is awarded one point. If the ball does not go into the toilet bowl, the human participant receives zero points. The dog receives half a point for each time he or she successfully returns the ball. If the dog does not return the ball, the dog is a douche and automatically forfeits the game.

I had to stand in my kitchen in order to successfully play toilet ball. And let me tell you, Internet, the game was an absolute hit in my house. One time, I decided to play toilet ball spontaneously, which really means that I forgot to lift up the lid and toilet seat and ended up smoking my cat in the head with the tennis ball because, for some reason unknown to me, the cat had decided that the toilet was his new favourite location to lounge. Needless to say, the cat picked somewhere else to lounge after the first official toilet ball injury occurred.

But I want you all to know that I follow Margaret Atwood because I am cool like that

I just cannot seem to get into twitter. This surprises me because I am the master of over-sharing, and it seems to me that twitter is a wonderful medium through which to over-share.

If you are my friend, at some point in time you are going to receive a phone call, text message or email from me during/in which I discuss, in great detail, my bowel movements, fears of incontinence or menstrual cycle. I am more than willing to discuss things such as masturbation, vegetation and even ordination. If it ends in "ation," I am in.

But I have difficulty with twitter.

Firstly, I am long winded. Limit myself to 140 characters? Spaces included? Psh.. like that is even possible. I refuse to use weird Internet short forms. That would be contributing to the downward spiral of the English language. I do not even like to use contractions. On occasion, I will use an acronym, but I must first ensure that I have fully spelled out whatever the acronym is representing prior to using it.

Secondly, my life is not interesting enough to warrant keeping people updated about my activities. What am I supposed to say? "Decided to make sure I drink at least three litres of water each day!" followed by a, "Peeing!" and finishing that train of thought up with a, "Still peeing!" Even I can only talk about urine so much.

I feel like the messages I leave should be concise, funny and meaningful. This creates a sense of pressure, and this sense of pressure causes all thoughts that could ever potentially be concise, funny or meaningful to flee my brain.