Boxing Day traditions

For a few years now, I have made it a habit to spend Boxing Day in my pyjamas, drinking and cleaning. It's sort of my thing.

Drinking makes cleaning far more enjoyable, but it also yields questionable results.

As this Boxing Day comes to a close, I am already finding that I can't quite remember how much I actually accomplished over the course of the day. I do have a vague recollection of sitting in the bathtub, shower turned on and spray raining down on me from above, chanting, "Please, don't throw up. Please, don't throw up," for about ten minutes or so. I did not throw up. 


Because that is the least I can do

I sat there, watching as my mother spoon fed him strawberry ice cream, wondering how aware of his surroundings he actually was.

My grandfather had fallen a little over a week earlier and sustained a nasty black eye, a cut to his forehead and a broken right hip. He'd spoken very little since the accident, and, even before that, he'd been displaying signs of confusion.

With "swallowing issues" to take into consideration, even my grandfather's water required a thickening agent. I looked over to the tray, where a cup of gelatinous water sat, and couldn't really blame him for not wanting to eat or drink.

I'd suggested bringing ice cream a few days earlier when I'd noticed his nurses had unsuccessfully attempt to sneak his pills into his vanilla pudding. "If we get a chocolate based ice cream, he may not notice the bitterness of the pills as much," I told my mom. A trip to the grocery store found Hagen Daz on sale. Two dollars off - surely an omen.

As my grandfather began to doze, we decided it was time to take leave. I bent down, kissed his forehead and told him I would be back again soon. "Try to stay out of trouble, Old Man," I said. He smiled at me in return. "I am serious," I warned, "I won't bring you any more ice cream if I hear you've been bad."

As I turned to leave, one of the other men sharing the room called me over. "Today is the happiest he's been since he came here," he told me. "I think it's because of you."

"Well," I paused, "I told him not to make a scene. I am now trusting you to ensure he doesn't get into any mischief. If he gets up to no good, I am holding you responsible." And I winked, because I am always looking for an opportunity to wink at someone.

It is hard watching someone you love die. I wasn't sure, at first, if I'd be a strong enough person to do it. I have seen it before. I used to work at a hospice. I was surrounded by death every day, or at least, statistically speaking, once every 14 days. But it is different when it is your family. It is different when you are the one sitting at their bedside.

I am not sure how much longer my grandfather has. I am not sure if his heart will suddenly stop in the middle of the night or if we will have a little bit of warning before the time comes. What I do know is that, if he needs me, I will be there to hold his hand as he takes his final breath; to stroke his head and tell him that everything will be alright. 


At least when it comes to meat

"I'm going to eat that," I said. And I did. I ate all of it. Making up for more than fifteen years of vegetarianism all in one shot.

"Wow, you're really taking this whole 'eating meat' again thing to heart, aren't you?" my aunt asked. It wasn't the first time someone had said this to me.

"Go big or go home," I replied.

Part of me is starting to think that I need to re-think my "Go big or go home" philosophy. 



Late, in the quiet of the night, it haunts me.

Show me that smile again. Don't waste another minute on your crying. 

I can't escape it. Try as I might, the second my eyes close it starts.

We're nowhere near the end. 

I toss and turn, hoping it will just go away.

The best is waiting to begin. 

But it doesn't. I find no refuge in the darkness of my bedroom.

As long as we've got each other, we've got the world spinning right in our hands. 

The Growing Pains theme song.

Baby, you and me.... We gotta be....

Of all the theme songs...

The luckiest dreamers who never quit dreaming.

Why does my subconscious always choose this one? 


Olympic Fever

While I have no complaints with how Team Canada performed at the 2014 Olympics, I am disappointed that I didn't achieve my own personal goal of having a threesome with the Hamelin brothers.

It's one instance where a speedy finish would have been discouraged. 


Greatest meeting ever.

As I sat on my couch, knitting yet another mitten, I stared at the TV in a mixture of shock, horror and just a little bit of intrigue.

Jackass II was playing.

I cannot say that I have ever really been a fan of the Jackass franchise, but I will admit that there was a brief period of time (specifically the fall of 2002) when I had a small crush on Partyboy.

For me, most of 2002/2003 was spent in my friend Rob's basement, sitting on a couch with a bunch of twenty-year-old dudes while they drank beer and played video games. I learned a lot during this time in my life, like how to shotgun a beer, that Snoop Dogg had his own pornographic video in which he did not actually engage in sexual relations with anyone but did often offer commentary on the sexual escapades of others, and that twenty-year-old guys will have sex with pretty much anyone/anything at any given time.

But I digress... This post is supposed to be about midgets (only you don't know that yet).

So, as I sat there (on my couch... knitting a mitten... watching Jackass II), Weeman appeared on the screen, naked and drinking a beer. He entered a room where some sort of business meeting appeared to be taking place, climbed up on a table, walked across said table, climbed down off of the table and then exited the room.

"I wish that would happen at one of the meetings I go to," I said out loud to no one. "I would like to be the one taking minutes when something like that happened."

2:00 pm - Meeting begins.
2:03 pm - Gordon suggests seeking new donor engagement opportunities that contain more of an interactive educational component.
2:07 pm - Naked midget enters room and climbs on to table.
2:08 pm - Naked midget exits room.
2:10 pm - Susan suggests cutting department costs by eliminating hard copies of newsletters aimed at younger demographics and sending electronic copies only instead.


I also am really into loose leaf tea now...

Lately, I have been knitting like a mother fucker. Actually, truth be told I do not know how a mother fucker knits. It would be rather insensitive of me to assume that all mother fuckers knit or that all mother fuckers have the same level of skill when it comes to knitting, so I really should have thought more about my word choice in that first sentence.

Let's start again.

Lately, I have been knitting like an individual who has very clearly defined goals when it comes to what they hope to accomplish through their knitting and semi-specific ideas about the timeline that they would like to accomplish these goals within.

There. That's better.

I was inspired to take up knitting when I was forced to discard a pair of mittens that had been purchased  by a friend on a trip to Poland and gifted to me upon her return. My mittens were made of big, scratchy wool and smelled vaguely of kielbasa. I loved them immediately.

Parting with those mittens very nearly broke my heart, so I vowed to find a way to fill the void they left.

Or maybe I just got bored one day and decided that knitting seemed like a neat thing to do and that I should give it another shot. I can't really remember, but the end result is that I knit now.

To date, I have completed one pair of mittens (that may or may not look like they were made for someone with severely misshapen hands), 1/6th of a scarf and half of a second pair of mittens (with marked improvement when it comes to craftsmanship).

I have zero ambition to move increase my range beyond mittens, scarves and maybe hats. 



I once woke up in the middle of a dream about zombies to go pee and spent the next ten minutes sitting on my toilet trying to decide what my best course(s) of action would be if I suddenly found myself in the midst of a zombie attack.

"Wait a minute," I said to Hudson as he lay sleeping in the bathtub, "zombies are not real. Why am I sitting here trying to come up with a legitimate plan for a zombie attack?" He groggily lifted his head up and stared at me suspiciously before sighing.

"Whatever, Hudson. Who are you to judge me?" I asked him. Hudson pees on himself practically every time he goes to the bathroom and still runs into walls when he gets excited. Also, his favourite place to hide is under a glass table, so I am guessing that any plan he'd come up with to escape a zombie attack is probably not going to be that successful.