Sunday, 25 December 2011

Num num, rum rum in my tum tum

You guys.  I've made a dramatic discovery.  I've identified the one and only CURE for Ebeneezer-itus.  I can't believe I haven't found it before.  It's so obvious.  Are you ready? 

It comes in the form of eggnog. 

RUM and eggnog. 

Mmmmmm...
I've had fun this week. 

Thursday at work was extremely uneventful, and I may or may not have arrived very late and departed very early.  Maybe. 

Friday was even better.  I got to the office in time for the children's pancake breakfast with my adorable twin-mom friend, LB.  I toured around showing off her babies as if they were my own, and then we ate pancakes.  Well, LB and I ate pancakes.  The babies drank some milk.  Actually, it could've been eggnog. 

When I finally got to my desk, a coworker came into my cubical:

"Ok! Let's go!"

"Let's go?!  I just got here!  I'm LOGGING INTO MY EMAIL RIGHT NOW. It's five minutes to 12, for godsake." 

"K. I'll give you five minutes."

And so we left.  I did send one work-related email, so at least there's that. 

After I battled the Christmas Eve downtown traffic (I don't want to talk about it), Hubby and I went hopping about town shopping and eating and doing all things Christmassy. 

And then it happened.  My Holiday Spirit finally made itself officially known.  Via eggnog.  And RUM. 

We watched the Griswolds and drank rum. 

Click here for Youtubey

Yesterday we wrapped gifts and then opened them almost immediately afterward.  I even got a kickass new iPod!  We ate duck breasts for dinner and then drank more rum, and then Tuxedo ran away with a duck breast and left dirty little paw prints across my floor.

As for today, the snow started last night and has been falling at a slow and steady pace ever since.  Even though all the weather experts said it'd be a green Christmas.  But they were wrong, weren't they?  Because CANADA NEVER FAILS.  Want snow? You got it, Canada says. 


See?

The fam comes tomorrow, which of course we're looking forward to.  I just hope I don't run out of rum.   

Happy holidays y'all.  If I can find my Spirit, we know it's not all lost. 

Thursday, 22 December 2011

Money can't pay for that. Not even close.


This one's serious.  And not at all Christmassy.  But I had to write it.

*****

I have a predicament.  An unorthodox Christmas gift/curse. And true to form, it's a doozy. 

I may have mentioned before, the man whose sperm contributed to my creation is an evil and disgusting criminal.  He's not even just a dead-beat-dad.  He's worse.  And beyond everything terrible that he's done, he never paid a damn cent of child support to my lovely mother who did everything possible to protect me from his Crazy. 

Since then, almost 25 years later, he owes, like, I don't know... hundreds of thousands of dollars in back payments, taxes, and arrears.  Not exaggerating.  Fucking asshole.

A couple of years ago the government dragged his ass to court and the judge decided that if he managed to land a full-time job at minimum wage he could afford to pay $700 per month of back-owed child support.  And if he doesn't pay?  Jail. 

Fine, I thought.  If this is where this shit show is gonna land, then fine.  I can deal with that. 

Not that simple.   

Of course the fucker never pays.  Sometimes they garnish his earnings (drug earnings I'm sure) and my mom ends up with 50 or 60 dirty dollars, which she usually splits with me, because she loves me. 

But here's what I've realized: 

I HATE THAT MONEY. 

I hate it.  That money represents my pain.  That money puts a dollar figure on what we went through, the abuse we endured, the struggles I faced, the struggles I still face. 

Beyond that, it haunts me.  It shows up randomly, out of the blue, and I have no idea where it truly came from or why I have it. 

But this is not my dilemma.  I've come to terms with this.  I've decided that as long as the money flies under the radar, I can live with it. 

Until last week. 

Last week my mother called to say that he was getting out of jail and she had $17,000 coming her way. 

$17,000. 

Mom was pretty excited.  Not pleased, per se, but glad to get a Christmas bonus.  And of course I understand.  She went through a lot of shit and having an extra $17,000 can't hurt. 

But it does hurt. It kills me.  It's like he's paying some penalty and then getting away with all the awful things he's done.  Not to mention that he's easily bummed that money off some other poor fool who will never see it again. 

On top of it, he's getting OUT of jail. When he's in jail for the wrong reason alltogether.  Just paying his fine and being set free. 

Free

While I suffer.  While I live with what he did.  While I try to figure out what to do with this ghost money that now sits in my bank account...

So I paid off my credit card.  Because the thought of having some one "fun" thing to treat myself to is sickening.  And the thought of having it stay in my bank account where I can see it all the time is just as bad. 

So I'm debtless. 

Debtless, in theory.  But so damaged. 

And money can't pay for that.  Not even close.

Monday, 19 December 2011

Trying is the operative word

Wow, December 19th and this is only my fourth post so far this month.  Must be some type of record or something. 

Everything's fine.  No need to worry. 

My Holiday Spirit is still nowhere to be found, but it doesn't really bother me - I'm not really investing my energy in trying to locate it.  I've done very little Christmas shopping, and I don't intend to do much more.  I've not sent any holiday cards, nor baked any goodies (although I still manage to eat a shit-ton), and there's a significant possibility that I won't get around to doing either of those things. 

Instead, I'm focused on our upcoming beach resort vacation next month.  "Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya... Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go..." I've spent a lot of time thinking about what type of new bathing suit I'll buy, where I'll find some cute summer dresses on sale, and how many granola bars I can fit into my suitcase, 

And today I researched how not to die while I'm in a developing country. 

And then I set up an appointment for Hepatitis vaccines and memorized the recipe for a rehydration mixture. 

All in all, my vacation is what I'm looking forward to.  As for the holidays, I'm looking forward to attempting a lamb dinner with Hubby on Christmas Eve, opening our gifts, and having some wine by the fire.  The Griswold Family Christmas may sneak in there somewhere too. 

After that, we'll see.  There will certainly be time for family hugs and minor gift exchanges, but there are no set plans yet. 

And I'm ok with that.  For once in my life, I'm ok with that.  I'm doing what I feel like doing and I'm trying not to put so much goddam pressure on myself. 

Trying.  And so far not failing, so at least there's that. 

Sunday, 11 December 2011

Less is more. And elves on steroids.

K, so a fucking elf threw up in my house this weekend.

Despite the fact that my Holiday Spirit flew to the Dominican for Christmas, a dirty little elf apparently snuck in here last night and made a mess of my living room. 

It started with a tree.  And after that, the Christmas bins from my basement showed up in my kitchen.  And before I knew it, THIS happened:



It even SMELLS like elf puke


Luckily the rest of the crap stayed in bins. No garland, no second or third tree, no candles, no table runner, no smelly pine cones.  I think the bastard elf got tired. Or lazy. Or he realized none of this shit really matters. If my Holiday Spirit decided to skip it this year, why should the elf care?

But I guess he does care - just a little - because at some point yesterday this tree of some traditional winter species did appear in my house.  It's a small one, but still.  I don't even know how the little bugger carried it - it's too big for an elf to lift.  He must have some sort of super-elf strength.  He's probably on steroids.  I wonder if Santa knows.  Probably not.  If Santa knew, he would've called the cops or thrown him into rehab by now. 

They should make a rehab facility for elves.  I bet there's a lot of stress for an elf that could easily drive him to drug and alcohol abuse.  And overeating.  How could you not overeat with all those sugarplums around? 

Come to think of it, I think I might start a rehab resort for the mystical creatures of Christmas.  And I wont make them do ANY of the normal Christmas activities.  They can just sit around and eat cheese and peanut butter and play iPhone Scrabble. 

In fact, maybe they could take turns.  Every year, one third of all the Christmas elves can take a year off.  The remaining suckers will still assume the responsibility for the carols, and baking, and cooking, and parties, and lights, and trees while the chosen third enjoy a well-deserved vacation.  It'll be like a shift rotation.  Like a special workplace mental wellness program.  But for elves.

That way, no one elf has to take on all the requirements of the holidays for more than two years in a row.  And when they return to work after their retreat they'll be rested and reminded of the beauty of the holidays.   Distance makes the heart grow stronger and all that. 

Also, the workforce each year will be reduced by one third, which means we can cut one third of the "fat" from the holidays.  The level of cheer and generosity can remain, but with less toy building and crap gift exchanging.  A re-prioritization of duties, so to speak.  A restructuring of Christmas. 

And our new motto? 

Less is more.  We can't do everything, so we'll just do some.

I like this plan.  Help me implement it, won't you?


Wednesday, 7 December 2011

My mother-in-law totally gets me

It's true.  She may not always agree with me ( I don't think - although I have no idea why, given that I'm of course always exactly right), but after 10 years as part of her family she has managed to figure out my sick sense of humour.

A couple of weeks ago she sent me an email complaining about the R-tard sales girl at a local shop who seemed to think it was totally reasonable to place a sample of liquid hand soap out on the cashier's counter.  HAND SOAP.  LIQUID. You know, along with the hand lotion.  So Ma-in-law would pump liquid soap on her hands while standing in line at the cash.  PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS. 

She also sent me these genius ecards which continue to make me smile and nod in agreement every time I see them in my inbox. 






I basically AM each of these people.  Except Freud.  Although he does seem to be speaking my language on this one.

Saturday, 3 December 2011

How do I get a personal shopper?

I used to love shopping for clothes.  From age 15 to 22 I worked at a denim store.  I got a wicked discount and I spent a significant percentage of my paycheque on clothing.  In high school I had 60-some-odd pairs of pants. 

60.

But as I got older, it got harder to justify the expenditure on all those clothes.  Especially after we bought a house.  Once we bought a house, our expenses jumped form increments of hundreds into increments of thousands.  A house will Thousand-dollar you to death

Shopping for clothing has also gotten trickier since I stopped exercising.  (Although I did go to Yoga the other night for the first time in months, but ended up wanting to punch the instructor in the throat.)

Anyway, I went shopping with my best friend last Saturday.  I had only one mission: A dress.  Hubby and I have a wedding to go to on December 17th, so I need a winter- AND wedding-appropriate dress.  Not black, but not slutty/slinky either.  And no flowers.  Flowers are for summer.  Of which IT IS NOT.

We went into LeChateau - tons of prom dresses and lots of jewel tones to choose from.  And of course, several intolerable little sales brats. 

I was about to enter the change room with a few dresses.  I asked one of the little brats to find me my size in another pretty one I'd spotted. 

Brat: Oh really? I dont' think you need that size.  You need a smaller one.

Me: Um, no.  My size please. 

Brat: Well, let me look at you.  *turns her head to the side*

Me: *stands there uncomfortably*  My size will be fine, thanks. 

Brat: I think the smaller one will work.

Me: *walking away toward the change room, hollering over my shoulder* No, my size please!

I started throwing on dresses (which of course all looked like shit) while my friend waited outside. And when the Brat brought me the final dress, what else would you expect?  The piece of crap didn't fit over my fat ass.  When I peeled it off, I looked at the size.  THE SMALLER ONE. 

THAT.  BITCH. 

So naturally, I freaked out and shouted over the wall. 

Me: I TOLD YOU I WANTED MY SIZE.  NOT THE SMALLER ONE.

Brat: Um... Ok, I'll get it off the manikin.

Me: NEVER MIND!  Tell her to never mind!

My friend: *clueless as to what is going on* Uh, she says to never mind...

Me: *storming out* Bringing me the smaller size just makes me feel like SHIT.  Thanks for that. *tears welling up*

Brat: *staring blankly*

I don't even know what to say about this.  It's shocking.  

Whatever.  I ended up finding a dress that was a fraction of the price.  It's cute and the salesgirl was quite friendly.  Which I guess means I win. 

But I don't feel like I won.  I feel like a fat pig (no matter how irrational that is - it's still a legitimate feeling) and I'm afraid that I'll never again enjoy shopping. 

Unless maybe I win the lottery and can have all my clothes delivered to my house.  Ooo, I would totally get a personal shopper.  Someone funny, friendly, and honest.  Someone KIND.  Someone I could trust. 

Will one of you gals be my personal shopper?