December who?

Do you remember when things took so long to happen? When school vacations were eons away but in reality the three months until "no more pencils, no more books" could be shouted at the top of our young lungs? It's no longer the case.

Maybe it's because I turned a milestone birthday this past week. Yes, Scribe can no longer claim to be in her 30s. It's a new decade baby, and with it comes an acceleration in time. One month seems like yesterday. So imagine my dismay when I realized I had neglected you again. For a whole month. To make up for it, I will do a synopsis of the last month and everything that has gone into it.

Balloons for the Gusafus
There are a surprising number of birthdays to be had this past month (mine included). We know what certain parents were doing nine months before... and yes, that includes mine but they did it only twice. Once with my brother and once with me. Tell me any different and I will stick my fingers in my ears and start singing at the top of my lungs.

You may have noticed an influx of green balloons on December 7th. Hulk Green to be exact, to recognize a certain young man's birthday. He may have passed, but I sure hope the balloons reached my buddy Christopher and reminded him that he still has big fans in all of us. Friends, family, teachers... we were all there in the cold to send our message across Ontario and hopefully beyond. Boyo the Boxer, however, was happy they were out of his house and not taunting him any longer.

'Tis the season, mothafuckas
I hate malls, the crowds, the recycled air, the attempt to spend less and appreciate more, so Christmas is a hard time for me and I try to spend as little time as possible in the mall. This year, I managed to never set foot in the mall, opting for online purchases of hockey tickets to the local OHA team, books and spa gift certificates. The Man and I have opted out of gifts this year, instead putting our money away to collect dust and hopefully interest as we save for our first vacation together. I did put a stocking together for him and I'm hoping he took the hint when my stocking continues to lay empty (I sure do hope he's reading this. HINT.)

I even purchased my Christmas cards online and I will send them out IF the kind people at Zazzle get them to me soon. I'm quite excited about these cards, you see, because it features one James Garfield courtesy of the Bloggess, who, I learned, will be donating the funds generated from the Xmas cards to presents for those in need. So even though I may receive the cards in February it's okay since it's going to such a good cause. Besides James Garfield would have wanted it that way.

The greatest moment in history
Mark this on your calendars people! December 17th. It may not be the epiphany but it should have been. Scribe was born, and this year, she turned 40. Why is she talking in third person all of a sudden? Damned if know. It's annoying so I'm compelling her to stop.

I think it was the vat of wine I consumed on Saturday, the day after the big day when the world could start turning again. In all, the day was good, owing to the fact that I had the day away from Cell Block C (and I needed it). I was also saying goodbye to our house guest: one slightly untrained, definitely sweet 10-month-old boxer pup who, in three days managed to eat a pair of my pants and mascara, rearrange all of my shoes from my shoe cupboard to various locations throughout the house (I'm still searching for a flip-flop) and give Kao a taste of his own medicine by constantly following, jumping on and kissing him every minute of the time he was in our care. A jaunt to the fave sushi restaurant and Yuk Yuk's followed, where I laughed until I almost wet my pants with the deadpan delivery. A wedding and a day of recovery followed by finishing up Christmas shopping and that is my weekend and month to-date.

I wish everyone a happy holiday season. May the malls be open, may your pocketbooks be limitless and may you spend as much time with your family and friends.

Tits up, Mother!

You might often be tempted to ask the question: when is it okay, kosher if you will, to talk about tits with your mother – or more specifically for her to push her tits up.

Picture a 74-year-old woman who never leaves the house without her lipstick on and a general rub of colour on her cheeks, whose hair has been many colours but not yet blue.

The answer might surprise or shock you. It certainly shocked me since I was the one asking the question and I didn’t get the expected shot upside the head. Well, she was too far away and her knee has been acting up lately so there’s that. That, and she was too busy laughing.

My family is an anomaly, with generations upon generations either having babies later in life or having an “oops” baby 16 years after the first. My brother and I were the later in life babies, though I continually call my bro the “mailman’s child” since he’s got blond hair, blue eyes and longest goddamn eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy.

What does that mean besides a lot of tired mothers and kids frustrated with the number of walkers and wheelchairs in the living room? It means having a 40-year difference between sets of cousins. And it means that your Uncle Jimmy (he’s actually a cousin but so old we call him Uncle) will talk about his morning routine of putting his teeth in and straightening out his back before kissing your aunt or how life was during World War II. It also means that your less-than-colourful mother (save the lipstick she insists should never be missed) will be a little more easy-going with the off-colour humour than if she was shushing you after you ask if she fancies a little spotted dick. But that’s only IF Uncle Jimmy is around. I swear he’s an elixir. Either that or he bathes in the stuff.

And so it went this past weekend where the cousins got together to remember Uncle Billy and his positive outlook, his perfectly sliced turkey and stuffing and the times he tried on his wife’s bathing suit, complete with grapefruits for the bits he couldn’t fill. There’s proof in pictures and we saw them too.

After delivering eulogies and tributes, remembering all of the good times we shared together, it was time for a few pictures of the cousins. The younger generation first – thankfully I was included in that (a debate since I’m in between an intergenerational member) – and then the oldies.

I don’t know what possessed me – perhaps after being regaled with stories of how vulgar and amazing my family can be – but as my aunt, uncle, father and mother were standing, posing with prim and proper smiles on their face, I opted for the less traditional call… “Okay, everyone! Make this count! Tits up, ass out.” Jesus Christ Margaret choked on her wine. My uncle was buckled over laughing and with tears in his eyes, and my dad and aunt bravely lifted their chest, pushed out their ass and grinned.

I think this may be the only time I will get away with saying “tits” to my mother. I can’t even fathom how she’d react if I called her “Hootie McBoob” or my moniker “Chesty LaRue.” Even better: her new name… Tits McGrath. I can’t wait until her memorial service. Really. There's going to be spotted dick for everyone!

Espresso love/hate

Espresso is my enemy. It lulls me into a deliciously fragrant and strong psuedo-reality that this time I won't be affected by its grasp on my now wide-awake brain. So many thoughts in my head, so many ideas fluttering about and I can't seem to keep still for one minute so one will alight on me and I can savour it for a minute or five.

Espresso is my drug; sleep its victim, and it's my morning-after sanity that pays. In spades. My fingers fly across the keyboard, clicking and clacking, making big words come to life and melding thought streams into other streams and it takes a map to unravel my travels.

Tomorrow is a work day. Tomorrow, I have to venture into the office and order vests, clocks, awards and holiday chocolate - wares to promote, to announce a message, a mantra - and I hope I don't leave keyboard creases on my cheeks as my head hits the desk.

Espresso, you are my frenemy.

Uncle Billy

Looking up at my Uncle Bill always reminded me of looking way up at a very tall tree, the tallest in the forest, and you could imagine climbing limbs to reach the sun.

Always quick with a hug, a laugh, a smile or a kind word, he gave selflessly. His smile could brighten any day and I always looked forward to every family gathering to see him and my Aunt Kay. This past Saturday, the sunshine dimmed, the clouds drew and the earth stopped turning for a time as we held our breath and bid farewell to a favourite person in so many of our lives.

I hadn't seen him for a few years, but my most treasured memory of him was what I always associated with him - a warm embrace - as I stepped off of an airplane to spend the weekend at his Calgary home. He and my Aunt Kay had opened up their home to me when I managed to land an interview at one of the city's thriving magazines. They had great plans for me. I was to move there and offered up their basement as my temporary home base for as long as it took to find my permanent place in Calgary. It was all set and they were excited for me and looking forward to having me in their home. That's how both my aunt and uncle were - unassuming people quick to lend a hand to anyone in need.

We spoke about my Aunt Ann, his mother, who he doted on, ever a loving son. We spoke about how my life might change with this new opportunity. We spoke about the past and the times we got together at our house and theirs for Boxing Day and summer pool parties, or the ever-popular euchre nights in which all of the cousins tried to trump the others. We spoke about his golf games and his quest to one-up his cousin and favourite duffer, my Uncle Jimmy. He helped me map my way to my potential office building, teaching me about the landmarks in the city, and I spent a wonderful day with him, my aunt and cousins Carol, David, Meaghan and Leigh to celebrate Mother's Day. It made for great memories and I'm upset to know it will be my last of him.

In two weeks, the cousins will get together to celebrate his life, share stories and open a bottle of three of wine to toast him - one Celebration of Life in Calgary and another in Toronto - with pictures and memories shared between the two to celebrate him and the impact he's had on us all.

I can't remember a time when Uncle Bill wasn't planted firmly in our lives, the roots stretching across the miles and tethered to our heart strings. Toronto, Calgary and abroad, the strength of his love will be firmly entrenched and his smile engraved in our lives.

Inspired by the CBC? Hell yeah!

Okay, one more post before my head hits the pillow. I had to get this out. It was too good not to share, and you'll never guess where I got it from... CBC.

I have a guilty pleasure. Yes, just one of them. I try to watch CBC's Being Erica every week. It's a novel concept - time traveling to fix or learn from your mistakes - a bucket list of regrets and potential do-overs. And in tonight's episode, I heard this gem:

"Your past mistakes and bad decisions are in the past... your future is spotless."

Gotta love it!

Amber in the bramble bush

I'm searching for a title for my latest artistic creation. Again, my abstract landscape took a turn and this time it ran into a forest of texture, vines and undergrowth. Not to mention, the whole process inspired me to dip both hands into a can of white paint and take some gauze and cobwebs along for the ride.

So, without further ado, here it is.

It was really an experimentation in texture and colour, with many layers of paint and gloss... sort of like me. Many layers and a lover of gloss. Just look in my makeup bag.

Happy Thursday, bloggers. It's a mini-Friday and that's all right by me.

Remembering to remember... where Scribe goes silent

I'm amazed at how much I continue to learn about my parents over the years. Just a few months ago, my dad and I were talking about his somewhat nomadic life, moving from the family homestead in Markdale, Ontario out to Ajax, Mildmay and Toronto. It was during the Depression so my grandfather went where there was work and that meant renting out the family home and renting digs in some remote city.

Remote is relative when you come from a small Ontario town, population 999, where everyone knows what you've done or not done even before you reach your back porch. My grandmother was a telephone switchboard operator; my grandfather worked in many jobs - co-owner of a hardware store and civil servant among them. He also worked at the artillery plant in Ajax, Ontario during World War II where he, my grandfather and my then-young father worked in a munitions factory.

He spoke about doing odd jobs in the munitions factory and making sure he wasn't caught bringing in any matches or lighters as he snuck a smoke with his buddies. One spark, he said, and we were all goners, forget about our Axis enemies. He spoke about living in rented digs where the only heat would come from a grate in the floor - war-time houses that probably still stand to this day. I'm not sure if they've upgraded to central heat or even central air, but I sure hope so.

I never knew about this direct relation to the war effort, and now as we sit on the evening prior to Remembrance Day, I'm remiss if I don't think of the people, men and women who fought and continue to fight in wars around the world, but also of the people left behind to pick up the slack - my father included.

I didn't think I had an immediate connection to any veterans save my uncle who was in the RAF stationed in Egypt. The only proof is a picture that used to sit on the bookshelf in my aunt and uncle's house in Gorebridge, Scotland. My aunt did her part too, but because my family was so far removed from them, thousands of miles across the ocean, it didn't occur to me that I should remember their sacrifice too.

This year, I am. I'm offering up two full minutes of silence, which for me, is a feat. I will remember the sacrifices of the soldiers of the past and save a smile and a salute for the men and women serving today.