The Hits and Misses of Christmas Past

The following is a hit and miss list of gifts and experiences from Christmases of yore. Enjoy!

1983

HIT—E.T. Phone. Yes, guy!

1985

HIT—A handcrafted Cabbage Patch Doll bunk bed from the Would-Have-Been Stepfather. It was so amazing I wanted to sleep in it—fuck the dolls!

MISS—A lump of coal. I was devastated because I prided myself on being one of the most well behaved people at school and daycare alike. Mom and the Would-Have-Been had a good chuckle. God bless my sensitive heart.

1986

HIT—Duplicate Barbie Dream Beds, one for each parent’s house. The commercial sold me a bill of goods, however. Here I thought Barbie’s dreams would show up on the back of the pillow just like on TV. Damn that trick black lighting.

MISS—Jenny Donkey: “Why is Grama crying?” Melodie: “This could be her last Christmas with us.” She celebrated 21 more Christmases.

1987

HIT—A Jill doll. She was anthropomorphic and finding her sleeping in my bed on Christmas afternoon was a little unsettling. Jill was more expensive than her rival, Cricket, even though Cricket was more popular among my cohort. One major difference was that Cricket played cassettes. Jill didn’t. She played special Jill cartridges that played in nothing else.

MISS—Losing the English cartridge. Lucky for me, Jill came with a back-up French cartridge. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand a word she said so I had to go by memory of the English version and speak when she commanded me to. “Est-ce que tu veux entendre une histoire?” YES!!! I was pleased to discover that she had an arsenal of two stories in her programming. She never told the story I wanted to hear, but at the heartbreaking point of disc loss, it didn’t matter much.

Pre-Christmas 1990

HIT—Ryan and I were bickering late one December night, as was our habit, and our Christmas tree fell over for the nth time that night. A very frazzled and frustrated Mims stood the tree up again, it fell over, she picked it up and screamed at us to shut up as she threw the tree into the wall over and over, decorations and all. We stopped fighting immediately, my brother out of fear, me to stifle laughter.

HIT—An electronic dictionary, thesaurus and word descrambler courtesy of Mims. It did not take standard batteries and I loved it until its convenience expired years later.

1991

HIT—A tape player. That was the day I began making mix tapes. Tarzan Dan, yes!

1992

HIT—Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell on cassette. Who? “It’s going to come back,” my father assured me. “It’s in that new movie with Steve Martin.” “Leap of Faith?” Leap of Faith was in theatres for a fortnight if I remember correctly. Meat Loaf did make a comeback but it took 9 months for Papa’s assertion to come true. Today, Bat Out of Hell is in my top 10 and I can still sing the song of the same title verbatim, complete with motorcycle sound effects.

MISS—A Chia Pet. Hilarious because that was one of my nicknames at school. Thanks, Dad. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go iron my curls.

1993

MISS—Waiting for Godot. Dad came a-calling at Mims’s, four hours after he said he’d pick me up, and dropped me in a cab that steeded us home. We (read: I) wrapped the cousins’ gifts while the cab waited in the driveway. We hustled/had a few more drinks and made our way to Mississauga via the waiting cab. “What’s yer name,” Uncle Al asked the driver. “Ram,” the driver answered. “Rum? Did you say yer name was Rum?!” “Yes, Ram.” “What a coincidence!” Papa exclaimed. “That’s what I drink!” We finally arrived, $70 later and about three hours overdue. The extended family had eaten but they fixed us a plate. The food was dry but I don’t think timeliness would have changed that. Dad and I celebrated Christmas the day after. He dragged himself out of bed in the early afternoon at which time he wrapped my gifts while I watched Christmas movies on TMN. Oh, fealty!

1996

HIT—Smoking hash BTs with the cousins. We went to the park and Shaun tied me into a box of silence and I got the fear pretty fierce. I didn’t let on. Shaun proceeded to throw up in the sandbox after smoking a cigarette. Turns out the spirit of Christmas exacted revenge on my behalf. I suggested to Mel that I might be too high to keep my shit together if I received a singing card from Grama. She loved her singing cards. Sure enough, my rubber fingers unwrapped a singing card and I exchanged a glassy eyed look with Mel who was sitting across the room. She too got a singing card. We always received the same thing for Christmas. We also received earmuffs I thought were the most ridiculous things I’d ever seen. I put them on for gags and I’ve been wearing them every winter since.

2000

MISS—Not being able to chew properly because of recent oral surgery.

2002

HIT—Hacking the shit out of the base of my tree my first Christmas on my own. I didn’t have an axe and chopped the fucker to fit in my living room with a meat cleaver. It’s a wonder I got it to stand in the tree stand on it’s own. I didn’t have to tie it to the wall like we used to do at Cayuga.

2004

MISS—Coaxing Papa off the floor of the guest bedroom at Mims’s house. I interrupted his one-man scream fest, managed to get him off the floor but not before I removed all breakables from the bedside table. Coaching him to remove his street clothes and don his pajamas through closed door was a challenge but I managed to do it.

HIT—The immortalization of the ignominious line, “She still loves me!”

2006

HIT—A 13” Pennywise the Dancing Clown figurine. A labour of love from me to someone special.

2009

HIT—Singing 1970s arena rock songs by Journey, Meat Loaf, Bruce Springsteen, Cheap Trick and Queen in the bathroom with Mary. “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, hey that’s me and I want you only. Don’t turn me home again I just can’t face myself alone again.”

General HITS: socks, Toblerone, vodka, TV on DVD, pajamas, baking, the smell of the tree

General MISSES: 4-hour train rides, clothing that’s bigger than XS, medium-stiff toothbrushes, Starbucks gift certificates

Monday’s Child Is Full of Rage

Monday's Child

Author: Unknown

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child must work for a living,

But the child that's born on the Sabbath day,

Is fair and wise and good and gay.

I don’t mind Monday as I know others do. Maybe that’s because I was born on a Monday. Swimming lessons used to be on Monday evenings and I used to love going. Dad and I would get home around 6pm which would leave us just enough time to have Lipton’s Alligator chicken noodle soup and bus up to the community centre. Because I loved school so much, Monday was a return to the passion and stimulation I couldn’t extract from the movies that baby-sat me on weekends.

According to the poem, Monday’s child is fair of face. While that may be true, if I could rewrite the poem to reflect my personality, I would start it Monday’s child is full of rage. I am. The smallest things set me off: they run the gamut from the irregularity of public transit to crowds, Facebook, negligent motorists and cyclists, people who don’t tip and s-l-o-w walkers.

I do a good job of keeping my rage under wraps most of the time but there are days when I just want to unleash the beast. I am not violent: my words are my weapons but on days the rage bubbles to the surface, I thank the stars I live alone with no one and nothing to kick or punch. However, I don’t think letting the rage simmer is healthy. I recently watched The Brood, a classic tale about psychological experimentation and the manifestation of rage. In this film, an angry woman, Nola, spawns featureless albino rage babies to wreak havoc on those people who have wronged her at some point. Included on Nola’s hit list are her mother, her estranged husband and her daughter. I identify with the distressed woman and would, if I could, spawn my own loving brood I could then lick clean of amniotic fluid (see film’s climax) and release into the world. Unfortunately, this is too fantastical to accomplish. Alas, I need an outlet.

The universe has recently sent a few options my way. Several of my new cyberpals, submissive men who want to be dominated, have messaged me on a dating website asking to be punished and humiliated. This outlet for my rage, though expertly timed and painfully convenient, seems a bit like a monkey’s paw. My fear is that once roused, my Ms. Hyde will then take over my consciousness and I will be doomed to skulk the earth as a whip-wielding thrasher hell bent on punishing these soft, psychologically damaged puppy dog men.

My compassion for the meek and my disdain for the arrogant and insufferable have prevented me from taking anyone up on their generous offers thus far. I’m not sure how long I can hold out. I do so love the look, feel and smell of leather and it, in turn, becomes me.

The Iceperson Cometh

This is my favourite time of year. I love the smell of late October, of leaves decaying and the promise, even though I am no longer a child, that soon my sweet tooth will be sated with an abundance of candy from friendly strangers. To me, Halloween is more than just a wanton display of slutdom in a Sexy (insert noun here) costume or the drunken and unapologetic pursuit of sexual gratification. It is my Christmas and I am not alone in feeling this way. But like the child who is surrounded by the carnage of unwrapped landfill on Christmas afternoon, I dread the monotony and malaise that accompanies the rest of winter.

As I watch nature blaze around me in a polychromatic blend of redorangeyellow, I can’t help but think of the entreaty of Mr. Dylan Thomas: Do not go gentle into that good night. As 2009 enters the mid-autumn of her existence, the time has come for her to burn and rave at close of day. In reverence of her, I intend to rock Halloween like a hurricane. Meanwhile, the impending winter nips at my heel like an untrained bourgeois house pet, taunting me about the fact that I don’t have anyone to hibernate with.

I appreciate that I am not the friendliest person. With limited cultivated interests and hobbies, it is difficult for me to meet people I have much in common with. I am severely lacking in cyberskill and the thought of online dating conjures images of lovelorn media geeks frittering their lives away on avatars, alternate universes and Trekathons. I should just get over myself. My friend Tracy assures me online dating is a numbers game. However, given her track record and the record of so many before her, a parade of unsuitable, unstable and emotionally irresponsible Messrs. Right Now sounds about as appealing as a bus tour through Western Canada with a cannibalistic seatmate.

I suppose that I have kept my wants and needs hidden from myself for a long time. What better place is there, I ask you, dear friends, but the public domain to expose a little bit of my soul? You can’t reap what you don’t sow, right Universe? So here it is, stripped bare, my shortlist. I am looking for someone who is active and does not tire easily. He must be possessed of a sharp wit, a refined sense of gallows humour and an appreciation for the macabre. He should be spicy and sweet (like me) and doting without being overbearing. Above all, he should be forthcoming and never keep me guessing about his motives or intentions. In return, he can expect loyalty, warmth, sparkling conversation and tons of affection. While I may be a battering ram of outspokenness to the thin-skinned, I am refreshingly candid to those who don’t care to have their words minced. And of course, I am frickin’ hi-LAR-ious.

So hopefully the Universe, a trickster of epic proportions who loves testing my reserve, will respond to this post by sending me a cosmic sign and soon. It gets dark outside too early these days and my hands are so cold. Have I mentioned that I make a mean fried chicken dinner?

Living Aboveground Is Extremely Underrated

Tonight marks the end of my third month in this apartment. I’d call it a monthiversary even though I know that’s an invented word blend. I hate douche bags that call things an n-month anniversary. A year has to pass for an event to qualify for an anniversary. Anni. From the Latin, annus, meaning, year. Buy a dictionary!

I digress.

Tonight feels like someone else lives here. It’s weird to feel like you’re subletting your own apartment. Living aboveground is extremely underrated and when I first moved in, I had difficulty adjusting to what most superterranean folks might take for granted (windows, daylight, hope). Comfort was foreign to me; I’d never felt comfortable in any place I’d ever lived before, including my childhood homes, due to the following shortlist of problems: mold, odorous roommates, a sinking power-of-sale house, an avian invasion, daily overhead circling of the wagons, and a stout little despot of a superintendant eager to take me to Fallsview Casino for “some fun.”

A garbage strike quickly robbed me of any comfort I may have felt. I had a fly problem that not even the encroaching spiders’ webs could solve. My living room doubled as the recycling holding area; there was a pile of cardboard that stacked up to two-thirds my height. The end of the month-plus-long strike met with a new inconvenience: physical evidence of loathsome mice that awakened the OCD sadist in me. I purged and bleached the kitchen and every morning since, I take the flashlight to inspect the countertop border that serves as the murine thoroughfare to god-knows-what, to see if there have been any midnight travelers on what Al McKinley would call the “Ventura Highway”. So far, I have found nothing, but there is no rest for the weary, friends. I have won the most recent battle of attrition but the war wages on.

Another hindrance to my happiness is the fact that I haven’t unpacked everything yet. Surprise, surprise. I always leave something in a box. I think it’s my inner nomad telling me not to get too comfortable in one place. I still have a moving box marked 2005 that hasn’t been opened since I moved into Zelda’s basement four years ago tomorrow. My inner nomad is a fierce See You Next Tuesday but I have faith that I’m slowly vanquishing my vagrant nature. While it’s true that my CDs haven’t seen the light of day in three months, I am perfectly comfortable basking in the setting sun atop my chaise. In fact, the piece of furniture I refer to as the European Vacation has done great work to make me and others feel welcome and at home. I have embraced the ideals of hospitality and I take great pride in hosting intimate cocktail and dinner parties. Ultimately, I’ve grown quite fond of the local colour that skulks by my window at any and all hours and there’s no end to my love for the ‘hood, which I refer to endearingly as Skagsville.

Perhaps I have finally made it home and should accept my discomfort with comfort as the last discomforting thing I have to overcome. Perhaps there’s hope at last for this restless wanderer.

Handbrakes For Life

I couldn’t bring myself to sell my bicycle. I smashed it up and decided to buy myself another one for my birthday. I took it up the street to sell to the repair shop but one look at the sad bikes for sale out front changed my mind. The thought of some local skid riding my bike of eight years made me cringe. “I can’t quit you now, bicycle,” I declared.  “We’ve had some tough times, and we’ve hurt each other really bad, and you’re really not worth it, but it’s not over between us yet.” Damn this sentimentalist gene of mine.

How did I smash it up, you may ask yourself? Fool that I am, I decided to take a shortcut. There I was, riding downhill eastbound on the Sterling Road bridge where College and Dundas diverge and there was nary a car in sight. The voice in my head piped up: Turn left. I should have heeded the advice of my best friend, Buck Stiles*, who once told me the only shortcut was failure. No, turn left, the voice repeated. So I did.

The road was bumpy, friends. My inner voice kept rooting for me: You can do it! You’re doing it! You’re … Streetcar tracks. Watch out. Oh my … GOD! Moments later, I found myself splayed grotesquely across the divergence like some Grade 10 Biology fetal pig. A do-gooder on a bicycle behind me asked me if I was okay. “I’m fine, thanks,” I sang in the cheeriest Sally Sunshine voice I could muster as I picked myself up and hobbled over to my bicycle. I set it aright and pushed but it wouldn’t move. A car approached and I scuttled to safety, endowed with the onerous tasks of carrying my bike while ensuring blood from my wounded elbow didn’t stain my sooty shirt.

I was more embarrassed than anything. I have no mechanical-savvy whatsoever and I was dismayed to discover that human touch does nothing to repair busted front brakes. I was angry and decided my vehicle needed to be punished. I locked it to the nearest post—that’ll learn ya—and continued on my way bruised, battered and filthy. I willed someone to steal it. No one did.  When I went back for my bicycle days later, I found it waiting ever faithfully in the rain. Brenda Lee sang on a loop in my head as I treated us to a cab ride home.

A sensible person would have gone home the night of the accident but I had a party to go to.  A gal committed is not a gal easily deterred.

So what did I learn from this experience other than that I have the stamina of a goat? Did the universe succeed in teaching me that risks only half-taken are self-destructive? Did my accident teach me humility and force me to realize I am vulnerable after all? In the words of Al McKinley, “The person who will get hurt the most should take the most care,” and I’m going to stay the eff off those g--d--streetcar tracks if it’s the last thing I do.

*Buck Stiles = alias