All posts tagged holidays

A Big Happy *sob* Birthday!

It’s the big one.  I’m officially old.  Practically ancient and decrepit, I’m only a few short years from being set adrift on my own personal ice floe.  One foot in the grave.  I’m pretty sure I found a gray hair this morning.  I’ll probably go bald, too.  That happens to women, sometimes, you know.  I’m definitely a spinster at this point, and I’m pretty sure I’m going senile.

What?  My birthday?  No, don’t be silly, that’s not for months.  My birthday hearkens the return of flowers.  Also, no, I’m not being over-dramatic here.  You are.  No, you are.  I know you are, but what am I?

Cue the Sad Violin.

It’s my baby sister’s 19th Birthday.  Nineteen.    She’s able to vote.  Well, ok, she could do that last year, But Still!  She’s living on her own in the far-away Ottawaland, having to scavenge for her own food and beverage in the not-quite-arctic-tundra of University Residentia.  She’s stopped thinking that boys are icky, probably.  She attends classes at an institute of higher learning.  She is officially able to purchase alcohol anywhere in Canada.  She’s an adult. 

She looks an awful lot like me. Only taller, more fit, and... well... like a taller, fitter me.

She was born when I was in Senior Kindergarten.  I was a great big sister right from the start.  When my teacher asked me what my new baby sister’s name was, I, already deeply attached to the girl, answered, “Dooor… something… something like door.  But… not.  I don’t know.  Can I play in the lego area?”

I taught her valuable lessons along the way.  Affectionate older-sisterly lessons like,

“Don’t lie down in the middle of the road while I’m riding my bike towards you, because you will be run over.  See, I wasn’t bluffing.”

And … well… off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything else that fits here.  Still.  I was a part of her education.

In return, she taught me valuable lessons like,

“If your demon-spawn baby sister comes up to you, looking completely innocent and cute, and wants to give you a hug, it’s actually in order to bite you on the face.“

And

“If you chop off your bangs, and all the hair along the part in the top of your hair, right down to a buzz-cut… twice … our hairdresser will actually get out the electric razor and start prepping your hair for being an all-over buzz-cut.  And it really seems like he isn’t bluffing.”  That was definitely not the best look for her, even if she avoided getting the full buzz-cut.

I remember reading the Harry Potter books to her… Aloud.  With voices.  We learned together that Hermione wasn’t pronounced how it was spelled.

She actually enjoys going on walks with me.  I don’t even have to bribe her, most of the time.

Even when it's cold out... And even after we realised that the thing Gwynn is so interested in there is a deer-leg. Yech.

When she was really little (in real life, not just in my mind), her teacher asked them to draw someone they cared for.  While all the other kids drew spider-blob-people or block-blob-people representative of their parents, she drew a surprisingly detailed and identifyable picture of her babysitter.  Having finished the front (curly hair and all) before the aloted time was up, she turned the page over, and did the woman’s back, too (typical hands-in-back-pockets-of-her-jeans stance and all).

She makes art.  Artistic art, and always has.  At the age when I was drawing super-creepy-spider-people with no neck and spindly arms and legs protruding at unnatural angles from their bloated torsos, she was drawing relatively proportional not-scary people whose eyes were in the right part of their heads, and the same size as each other.  She’s in art school now, and the piece she gave me for my last birthday will be the basis for all decoration in a room of my future-house.

A woman came to our front door trying to sell something, and my sister politely turned her down.  As the woman was walking away, she told the woman, “Be Safe.”  Like she was sending the woman out into the zombie-apocalypse-wasteland.

yup... it's a zombie-arm for Sadie. We are totally ready for that apocalypse.

She and her friends were once spat upon by a silver mime.

All in all, she’s pretty kickass.

I look at her, and I still see her at 5, 8, 10… maybe 15… sometimes.  But she isn’t – she’s a young woman, and all grown up.  Holy cow, I feel old.

So Happy Birthday, Doodle.  I’m proud of you, and very impressed at how awesome you grew up to be.  Have fun celebrating!

ps, I hope you didn’t get awoken at god-awful-in-the-morning again today!

10 Comments
by lexy3587 on February 3, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on February 3, 2012

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2012/02/03/a-big-happy-sob-birthday/

Happy Holidays!

What’s more festive than a dog in a hat?  Nothing.

Happy Holidays from me to you.  Be safe, be happy, and, if you have the opportunity, be with the people you love!

Since I know not all of you are participators in Christmas, here’s an alternate shot, too!  Whatever you celebrate this season, I hope it’s fantastic.

Also, “You’re a Wizard, Harry!”

9 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 24, 2011  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 24, 2011

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2011/12/24/happy-holidays/

The Nightmare Before Christmas

My absolute worst Christmas memory is of finding myself in the mall – the BIG mall – within about two days of Christmas.  I bet I tainted that Christmas for everyone in the family, too.  Considering the drugs I was on, it’s amazing that I even remember this, but that just proves how terrible it was.

... but less happy

Drugs, you ask?  Rewind a bit.  A few days before the start of the Christmas holidays that year, I got my wisdom teeth removed.  Rewind a few weeks from that day, and I was sitting in a surgical dentists’ office downtown listening to the man describe in excruciating detail just what he’d be doing in my mouth (I also had a cyst in the front of my mouth to remove.  Let’s just say getting that out would require… peeling…).  I spent the rest of the day trying not to vomit.  I have far too vivid an imagination.  The dental surgeon, in his explanation of the procedure, told me that I would be awake and just numbed throughout the process.  The process that involved… peeling…

I decided that one of us would be unconscious before the procedure started, and he could choose which, but if he chose wrong, then I wouldn’t be getting my wisdom teeth out that day… and he might have a concussion.

Part of the problem with the drugs necessary to knock you out is that they do mean that you take longer to recover.  I don’t handle drugs well.  As an example, the last time I took the full ‘adult dosage’ of cough syrup, I told my university roommates that I couldn’t feel my feet.  They considered taking me to the doctor.

Surgery:  “Ten…nine… … … … … …ech…se’en… oh… woo dong?” (translation: “you’re done?”) the rest of the day, I was pretty out of it.  It required both my parents to manoeuvre me down three flights of stairs to the car.

Then they gave me Tylenol 3 – with codeine!  I was strung out the entire time I was taking them.  The other pill they gave me was an anti-infection pill that was required to be taken with food.  That caused my stomach to empty every time, and left me unable to eat again for another 6 hours or so, at which time (you guessed it!) I needed to take the anti-infection pill again.

Most of the week leading up to Christmas, I was a vegetable.  I watched “Bend it Like Beckham” on repeat for about two days, according to my family.  They just kept coming in and restarting it when the credits rolled.  A few months later, I saw the movie for what I thought was the ‘first time’.

When I was finally holding food down, and capable of dressing myself, I found myself at the mall with my mom and sisters.  I have no idea why – this would not be something my mom would ever choose to do, if she had a choice – but we were at the mall.  Less than two days before Christmas.

I yam what I yam... and I YAM HUNGRY

By this point, my stomach had shrunk to the point that, while I could eat, it would be something like ‘a piece of bread’, and then I was full.  But not for long, and when I wasn’t full, I was empty.  Gut-wrenchingly cramping, clawing, ravenously HUNGRY.  So I found myself in the hell that is ‘Malls at Christmas’, kind of high (not high enough), highly emotional (yes, my stomach does control my mood), Popeye-faced from swelling and easily exhausted.

The mall was packed with people reeking of desperation and sweat.  The lights were too strong, the heat overwhelming, the sales clerks too aggressively seeking sales, the tinny peppy Christmas music was loud and discordant in my ears.

oooh, this! Grandma will Love it!

I might have cried.  I don’t remember.  I wish the memory were just a nightmare.

I couldn’t even eat most Christmas foods– I dropped about 15 lbs (in the least healthy way possible) over the holidays that year.  And I still hate the mall, especially at Christmas time.  I do all of my shopping online or well in advance of November.  That way, it’s still thoughtful, but not blood- and tear-spattered.

Worst. Christmas. Ever.

9 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 22, 2011  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 22, 2011

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2011/12/22/the-nightmare-before-christmas/

Gone a Huntin’ Christmas Trees

This Saturday, we headed out to find ourselves the perfect Christmas tree.

What was it like?  Dog-filled.  There were an immense number of dogs of all sizes, helping their people find that perfect tree (not that any of those people found it, because we took the perfect tree home with us.).  This was great for Gwynn, though I felt bad about having to keep him on-leash for most of the time we were there.  A lot of people chose to ignore the ‘dogs must remain leashed’ rule, but I have a long list of reasons why that wouldn’t be the best idea.

  • There are people out there who are afraid of dogs.  But not afraid of Christmas tree hunting.  Let’s keep it that way, shall we?
  • Small children who are afraid of dogs.  But not afraid of Christmas Tree Hunting
  • Small children who aren’t afraid of dogs but lack pettiquette – they feel the urge to poke dogs in the eye, or smack them in the nose, or otherwise be mean to them.
  • Have I mentioned there were a TON of small children roaming free?
  • Axes and saws – people bring them, but don’t always have a protective cover for it.  Sometimes they even let their children carry it, but most of the time, the blade faces backwards, and is at about Gwynn-face level.
  • Other dogs.  Just because they brought their dog with them, doesn’t mean the dog is friendly.  Can you guarantee that your dog will absolutely not approach another dog without your go-ahead?  When you might not see that other dog (due to forest of tiny trees) until it’s right near you?
  • Horses.  The tree farm has them – they pull a wagon.  Gwynn went nuts every time he saw them.  We didn’t get close enough for him to try out his herding techniques on those massive not-sheep… or for him to get trampled by their giant steel-shod feet.

one of the wagons not pulled by horses... because being around the horse-drawn one produced this awful high-pitched wailing-Xena noise from Gwynn that threatened to rupture eardrums

Gwynn got to drag his leash when we found ourselves surrounded by emptiness, nothing but us and the conifers.  And he did get to meet a number of dogs, while he was on-leash, most of whom appeared, leashless, from between the trees, and whose owners were nowhere near to ask silly questions like, “is your dog friendly?”, or “Can Fido say hello?”.  It might not be thanksgiving anymore, but one thing I am thankful for is that my dog doesn’t get nervous in that type of situation.  We also met some nice on-leash dogs, and we did not meet some dogs that were on the not-friendly end of the spectrum.

Gwynn... in his new boots. More on that later.

My mom grew up with white spruce.  WHITE SPRUCE is, apparently, the only acceptable form of holiday tree.  WHITE SPRUCE.  Anything else is a sad, sorry excuse for a tree.  I hadn’t clued in until this year just how strongly my mom believes in this.

Could we find a single white spruce less than 10 feet tall?  No.  We’d have either had to cut the tree half-way up, or have the point curving down towards the floor in the house.  Entering the Blue Spruce area, you’d have thought we were turning traitor to my mom’s childhood and burning all the memories, soaked in kerosene.  But at least it wasn’t a … pine…

Well, blue spruce at our Christmas tree farm was the right height, but kind of sad and sparse.  Clearly the spruce were all targeted by mother nature, regardless of the colour in their title.

It was a hard choice, but eventually the drastic inferiority of all the spruce wore her down.  She agreed, albeit unhappily, to choose a dreaded Scotch Pine.  It’s beautiful and full and christmas-tree shaped.  It’s still sitting on our back deck, waiting to be cut loose from the mesh wrapper they put it in for transportation.

Speaking of transporting your tree…

this is our tree... all bundled up (free with purchase of tree) in a mesh sack and strapped neatly (and safely) to the roof of the van. I swear, they relax back to normal tree shape quickly after you un-mesh them.

Or... you know... you could just... do this? The only reasonable explanation I could think of was that their tree was too big to go through the tree-wrapping machine. But it wasn't that big a tree...

I’m so excited for the christmas-ey smell that will fill our house once the tree is in place!  And last year, Gwynn didn’t once try to pee on the tree… I’m hoping it’ll be the same this year!  The trip was so much fun, though we missed having Doodle there (she’s off in exam-land in Ottawa).  That was one of the worst things about living away from home for school – I missed being home to go christmas tree hunting.

5 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 14, 2011  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 14, 2011

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2011/12/14/gone-a-huntin-christmas-trees/

A Christmas Memory Too!

I was like James Bond, if 007 had one primary mission a year, and it was reconnaissance.  My dad was like a combination of Dr. No and Scrooge before he found the spirit of Christmas. Only, unfairly, in this particular Bond movie, Dr. No won.  He always won.

The mission?  View the wonder that was the Christmas tree on Christmas morning before breakfast.

Until that morning, the tree was brightly lit, hung to within an inch of its life with every single ornament we could fit on it, all dolled up and sparkly and beautiful.  And, until that morning, it had nothing under its boughs.

Between the time we went to bed (Christmas will come sooner the sooner you go to sleep – how hard is it to fall asleep after a statement like that?!) and the time we awoke in the morning, the magic happened.  Presents – set out Oh So carefully and beautifully, arranged around the Christmas tree, reflecting the twinkle of the lights out into the room off their brightly coloured paper.  Stockings that, the night before, had been merely cartoonish socks draped over a chair were stuffed with possibilities – chocolate, candy canes, coloured pencils, animal shaped erasers, and other small supplies(one time, I got a measuring tape!), and at least one Clementine.

The house rule was that no-one gets to go into the living room until after breakfast.  And, of course, the whole family had to be finished breakfast.

Soft boiled eggs, lots of bread for dipping in the eggs – we all loved Christmas breakfast (still do!), but that was the longest meal of my life!  First, waiting for my mum to finally emerge from upstairs hours and hours after the rest of the family had gotten up (or, looking back, around 8:30, unnaturally early for my mom), and then, waiting through an entire breakfast, knowing that the magic was just down the hall.

I tried everything to get an early glimpse of the living room.  No matter how early I woke up, or how quietly I crept down the stairs (sticking to the edges to avoid making them squeak), there he was.  Dr. No.  Sitting quietly in the dark kitchen, and refusing me entry to Christmas morning, coffee in hand.

My creeping skills and rising early skills were no match for his cheerful “Good morning!”

Diabolical, I tell you.

Switching from creeping to cunning, I would casually announce that I had to go pee.  Ever so innocently, I would stroll towards the hall – the hall leading to the washroom… and the holy grail of conifers!

Dr. No was too sharp, though, and just as cheerfully as he mocked me with good morning, he suggested I use the upstairs washroom.

I left my book in the living room?  Oh, I noticed that last night, and brought it out here for you!

I want to go see the tree?  Nope.

Can we eat breakfast now?  Not until your mother and sisters wake up.

I’ll go wake them up!  No.

I’m going to go get something upstairs… something that has nothing to do with waking mom up.  No.

Curses, foiled again!

When we finally emerged from the kitchen, stuffed and happy, and finally got to see the tree, glorious tree, it was as a family.  And, sitting comfortably around the tree, faces shining with reflected lights, we finally got to find out what Santa brought us.  In the other family tradition of passing out one present to each person and waiting as each person opened their card, then their gift, and admired it.

In the end, though, it wasn’t the flurry of paper as presents got ripped open, and it wasn’t finding out what we got.  It wasn’t even the fact that we were allowed candy canes or pieces of chocolate orange right after breakfast (along with a Clementine or two).  Christmas morning was seeing the tree all lit up and in its full glory, with the mystery of the newly arrived packages still intact.  And, for a long time, it was also the challenge of trying to be the first to do so.

14 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 12, 2011  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 12, 2011

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2011/12/12/a-christmas-memory-too/

A Christmas Memory

We aren’t sure when she found out – I know that, after having had it ruined for me at a young age by my older cousin, I wasn’t the one to tell her.  It’s a kind of devastating truth, if it comes too soon.  I might not like my sisters all the time, but I love them enough to be unwilling to smash those rose (and green) coloured glasses.

I blame Sergei.  The number of times she came home upset about something that Sergei did, throughout the years, I can imagine that this little boy I never met was probably to blame.  I’m pretty sure he was in her classes around the time she lost the faith.  Or at least, around the time we figured out that she had lost it.

Regardless of when it happened, the more important part is what her reaction to it was.  It seemed like she genuinely believed she was saving Christmas for us by maintaining the charade.  Like, since she was the youngest child, and the last to still believe, that she was the only one standing between us and a desolate, tree-less, cookie-less, present-less December, hardly more exciting than any other soggy, slushy winter month.  I think she thought the rest of us only participated in the big day as a way of helping to maintain her childhood innocence, and that, once she had lost that, we’d move on to other things.  Less present-filled things.

ma-king christmas, ma-king christmas, Making CHRISSSSTMASSS

She became the defender of Christmas.  She was so over-the-top super-duper excited about it.  She talked about Santa like she was being sent secret messages on a nightly basis.  She squealed with excitement – the same squeal me-at-10(or 24…) would emit if I found a horse with a bow on it in our back yard – when she saw Santa from the Santa-picture-line.

She brought holiday spirit like a cheerleader strung out on tinsel and candy canes.  What do we love? CHRISTMAS!  When do we love it? ALWAYS and FOREVER!

She didn’t just like the season, she bowled through the festivities with enough intensely ferocious BELIEF that she could have single-handedly won the Leafs the cup.  Mall Santas everywhere were probably waking up a-la-Tim-Allen to find themselves with a full natural white beard and 30 extra pounds of jolly belly.

She decked the halls like Muhammad Ali decked… other boxers…

"Take that, disbelief!"

She rocked around the Christmas tree like a hurricane.

She was ensuring that Christmas, as we knew it, stayed right where it ought to be.  IN. OUR. HEARTS. DAMMIT!  She was really, really worried she wouldn’t get presents if mom and dad knew that she was no longer a believer in the man in a big red coat.

Much as we found cracked-out-on-Kringle Doodle to be entertaining, we found it alarming enough that we did our best to convinced her that Christmas wouldn’t end (and, more importantly, the presents would keep coming) just because she knew the big secret about Santa.  As long as, of course, she didn’t share this knowledge with ANYONE.

10 Comments
by lexy3587 on December 7, 2011  •  Permalink
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Posted by lexy3587 on December 7, 2011

http://goneforawalk.wordpress.com/2011/12/07/a-christmas-memory/

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