Julie can’t stand the candy canes the secretary has hooked along the top edge of the lampshade. I hear her disgusted tone clear across the table at the staff Christmas dinner. Everyone hears her actually, with the exception of the secretary, who is, mercifully, absent. Julie thinks the candy canes are tacky. Not the canes themselves of course, but the way in which they adorn the otherwise upstanding lamp. This surprises me because, well, I think Julie is a little tacky herself. In fact, candy cane decorations are exactly what I think Julie is not only capable of, but covets. Now, Julie doesn’t wear spandex Mickey Mouse tights or flashing poinsettia earrings, but there is something about her that, while I can’t quite put my pinky finger on it, has essence of déclassé. Meow meow
I am thinking of Julie and the candy canes one morning as I cycle along our fair city’s scenic route, right through the heart of some old money homes and beachside retreats. I see some elaborately decorated residences, but for the most part, I see single-coloured, single-stringed lights hooked and hung evenly along sloping roof lines. A clean, symmetrical show of Christmas spirit. No dripping “icicles” or air-filled bobbing Frosties; no indoor lights crisscrossing the living room window or twinkling candy canes dotted around the front lawn. And goshdarnit, these houses look great. I feel a real affinity for these smartly-decorated homes and their loving owners. This is my kind of Christmas.
It has since dawned on me that Julie may be as tacky as all get out, but she too has her kind of Christmas, and, clearly, it is one without random bulk candy cane placement. Christmas traditions, for those who have ever celebrated this holiday, are, if not hard-wired, pretty close to super-glued. I’m willing to bet that Julie’s mother never hung candy canes from their living room lampshades. Her mom probably stuffed tinsel in the cracks of the dining room table and wrapped green sparkly garland around the banisters, but candy canes were just not on in Julie’s childhood Christmas, a permanently-etched and perpetuated memory.
My husband, to most, is a fountain of flexibility, a true man of the moment. To me, five Christmases and Thanksgivings in a row, a stubborn, ungrateful stuffing critic. My turkey stuffing. Year Two I managed to eek a semi-confession from him: Mum did something different. And all that implies. Mum’s was better. I only like Mum’s. I’ll try yours. I’ll even smile as I eat yours. But I prefer Mum’s stuffing. Despite all attempts, I have been unable to duplicate Mum’s stuffing and I have finally accepted I never will. My husband’s memory could sniff out an erroneous spice or an errant raisin. His childhood stuffing has been super-glued.
When I left a local, major department store last week, after a fitful burst of Christmas shopping, I noticed a holiday message pasted to the door that read something along the lines of “Merry post-Ramadan, middle-of-Hannukah, soon-to-be Kwanzaa, just about-Christmas”. It fell just short of Happy Festivus. I felt the tug of a lampshade candy cane and raisin stuffing; I felt my super glue flex and stretch. Surely no one is here tonight buying Ramadan presents? This is my Christmas, the same one I have celebrated since my mom can remember. This “holiday” message did not reflect my Christmas; how tacky.
Of course, the “Christmas debate” has been raging for many years now, between whom I’m not entirely certain, but I know that some people are irate about all this Christian clatter. And some people want to fix what is the matter. Political correctness has dictated that government, schools, and businesses extend an inclusive holiday message. Absolutely. But does it make sense if you aren’t celebrating a holiday? That’s like saying: Happy Valentine’s Day, you sad, pathetic guy who just got dumped. Or Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Elizabeth.
I was so relieved by a reasonable reaction last season to the stripping of Christmas décor at an American airport. The rabbi who had caused the kafuffle, feeling Hanukkah deserved to be represented just as tackily as Christmas, threatened to sue the airport. After much silliness, tearing down and re-decorating, a wise man revealed that Christmas is now widely celebrated as a secular holiday in many western and non-western cultures and not to the exclusion of anyone in those cultures. It can be one big food-filled, wine-spilled party for whoever wants to join! I was relieved because I could have my childhood Christmas and not feel guilty, not have to grin through the stuffing.
Some of us have our super-glued Christmases, some of us don’t. Julie tolerates the lampshade candy canes and goes home to her tinsel-stuffed dining room table. My husband grins and eats it. We have sloppy multi-coloured lights drooping from our roof and hedges. Our kids love them. I, well, you know what I prefer.
Christmas is what you have always known it to be, or something you are just starting to celebrate, or something you don’t even think about. Everybody and anybody can do whatever they want on December 25th; Christians can keep the Christ in Christmas; Bob can keep his eggnog spiked. There is room for all things tacky and otherwise in this Canadian’s Christmas, as long as I can call it that.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Birth of a Germaphobe
I’m the mom rolling her eyes at the “no- peanut signs”, thinking that if your kid is so allergic to nuts that my kid’s snack can make your sprog’s tongue inflate like a blimp than you really should be looking at the newest in bubble homes, not hanging out at kindergym. (The Moops! The Moops!). When the university I worked for banned perfume, I sulked for a month. Although I had suffered plenty over-Polo-infused elevator rides in my time, legislating smell seemed crazy. Eventually, though, and dutifully, my perfume found its dusty way to the back of my vanity drawer.
I had the same basic attitude towards colds, superbugs, germy germs. Nile Virus, Avian Flu, even SARS…ha and double ha. As with allergy epidemics, I couldn’t quite swallow that bugs are bigger and badder than they use to be; after all, human history is plagued, well, with plagues. Of course I have had intelligent, semi-informed conversations about modern society’s overuse of chemicals, cleaners, and antibiotics and concede that there are reasonable grounds to conclude that times they are a changin’, but I never really believed.
Norwalk made a believer out of me. Because last Sunday I learned what “The Norwalk” is: it’s the pathetic, bile-laden crawl you do across your bathroom tiles to the foot of your bed, where you lie for awhile until you need to make the return journey, back through bile, back to the basin. When the final count came through, our rousing St. Paddy’s party on Saturday night had resulted in 9 casualties, otherwise healthy adults hugging porcelain for several hours and bed-ridden for at least a couple of days. A fellow Walker laughed when I marveled aloud about how a human can choke on something as small as a peanut and die but when our bodies sense a teeny-tiny foreign molecule, our esophagus opens up like Old Faithful. 1-2 days after we had toasted each other, dug our fists into chip bowls and slopped Irish stew, we were, to use the vernacular, slayed. We were slayed by one of the most effective viruses I have ever had the displeasure of knowing, a “noro-virus”.
5 days into doctor-suggested but self-imposed quarantine later, I found myself carrying disinfectant wipes to the park so that I could wipe down the swings and merry-go-round after my toddler was finished. That same day, my husband rushed in and out of the store for food, touching only what was necessary, while the three of us waited on the sidewalk like wee waifs waiting for a handout. I went to bed the other night worrying about how I pay for a movie: which method would expose me and others the least? Swiping at a terminal would be best, then I could clean my card and the keypad afterwards. Real money? Oh God! Granny, now I know where it’s been; I’ve seen its travels; they resemble a red-water river ride through chunky canyon. How will I touch coins or paper money again? I covet the sanitation station outside the grocery store and wonder how I can make one at my front door look attractive. Perhaps top it with a flower basket.
When I think back to that fateful night, I’m shocked by my slack approach to hygiene. My son chewed some olives, then slopped them back into the bowl. I scooped the chewed ones out and went about my business. The two toddlers licked chips and double-dipped. The adults shared a bottle of Bushmill’s, the lazy man’s way, the rummy way. We dipped our potato cakes in communal gravy. One of the kids had diarrhea; we didn’t think anything of it. Cleaned her up, chucked the pants in the wash and cracked a Guinness. Did we wash our hands? I can’t remember. We kissed and hugged and wiped runny noses with our fingers, then onto our jeans. We walked on the beach and strange wet dogs licked our fingers; we had some more chips and veggies and dip. Norwalk was laughing its pants off and rubbing its nasty hands together with glee.
I now experiment with different measurements of bleach solutions. I do this because in my mind’s eye I can still see my throat wide as a fire hose spewing semi-digested Sunday dinner and gallons of reddish liquid. I can still feel my eyes bursting from my head and the uncertainty of which orifice my organs will get sucked through. I still have the pathetic image burned in my memory of my two-year old dry-heaving while I lay curled around his feet. 4 parts bleach, 10 parts water. Hot, hot water. Yes, that seems strong enough.
Disease control thanked me for calling and the emergency room (where you are NOT supposed to go if you think you have a noro-virus) was very accommodating. Bless IV Gravol. I learned some new medical terminology and that my husband, while he looks kind of cute in rubber gloves, brings new definition to the word “hurl”, as in all over the bathroom door, floor, and walls. Most importantly though, besides no longer mocking peanut-paranoid moms, I have learned that those big, bad bugs truly are everywhere and love normal, but sloppy families and party-goers just like us, and you. See you at the movies tonight.
(As published in Monday Magazine, July 2007)
I had the same basic attitude towards colds, superbugs, germy germs. Nile Virus, Avian Flu, even SARS…ha and double ha. As with allergy epidemics, I couldn’t quite swallow that bugs are bigger and badder than they use to be; after all, human history is plagued, well, with plagues. Of course I have had intelligent, semi-informed conversations about modern society’s overuse of chemicals, cleaners, and antibiotics and concede that there are reasonable grounds to conclude that times they are a changin’, but I never really believed.
Norwalk made a believer out of me. Because last Sunday I learned what “The Norwalk” is: it’s the pathetic, bile-laden crawl you do across your bathroom tiles to the foot of your bed, where you lie for awhile until you need to make the return journey, back through bile, back to the basin. When the final count came through, our rousing St. Paddy’s party on Saturday night had resulted in 9 casualties, otherwise healthy adults hugging porcelain for several hours and bed-ridden for at least a couple of days. A fellow Walker laughed when I marveled aloud about how a human can choke on something as small as a peanut and die but when our bodies sense a teeny-tiny foreign molecule, our esophagus opens up like Old Faithful. 1-2 days after we had toasted each other, dug our fists into chip bowls and slopped Irish stew, we were, to use the vernacular, slayed. We were slayed by one of the most effective viruses I have ever had the displeasure of knowing, a “noro-virus”.
5 days into doctor-suggested but self-imposed quarantine later, I found myself carrying disinfectant wipes to the park so that I could wipe down the swings and merry-go-round after my toddler was finished. That same day, my husband rushed in and out of the store for food, touching only what was necessary, while the three of us waited on the sidewalk like wee waifs waiting for a handout. I went to bed the other night worrying about how I pay for a movie: which method would expose me and others the least? Swiping at a terminal would be best, then I could clean my card and the keypad afterwards. Real money? Oh God! Granny, now I know where it’s been; I’ve seen its travels; they resemble a red-water river ride through chunky canyon. How will I touch coins or paper money again? I covet the sanitation station outside the grocery store and wonder how I can make one at my front door look attractive. Perhaps top it with a flower basket.
When I think back to that fateful night, I’m shocked by my slack approach to hygiene. My son chewed some olives, then slopped them back into the bowl. I scooped the chewed ones out and went about my business. The two toddlers licked chips and double-dipped. The adults shared a bottle of Bushmill’s, the lazy man’s way, the rummy way. We dipped our potato cakes in communal gravy. One of the kids had diarrhea; we didn’t think anything of it. Cleaned her up, chucked the pants in the wash and cracked a Guinness. Did we wash our hands? I can’t remember. We kissed and hugged and wiped runny noses with our fingers, then onto our jeans. We walked on the beach and strange wet dogs licked our fingers; we had some more chips and veggies and dip. Norwalk was laughing its pants off and rubbing its nasty hands together with glee.
I now experiment with different measurements of bleach solutions. I do this because in my mind’s eye I can still see my throat wide as a fire hose spewing semi-digested Sunday dinner and gallons of reddish liquid. I can still feel my eyes bursting from my head and the uncertainty of which orifice my organs will get sucked through. I still have the pathetic image burned in my memory of my two-year old dry-heaving while I lay curled around his feet. 4 parts bleach, 10 parts water. Hot, hot water. Yes, that seems strong enough.
Disease control thanked me for calling and the emergency room (where you are NOT supposed to go if you think you have a noro-virus) was very accommodating. Bless IV Gravol. I learned some new medical terminology and that my husband, while he looks kind of cute in rubber gloves, brings new definition to the word “hurl”, as in all over the bathroom door, floor, and walls. Most importantly though, besides no longer mocking peanut-paranoid moms, I have learned that those big, bad bugs truly are everywhere and love normal, but sloppy families and party-goers just like us, and you. See you at the movies tonight.
(As published in Monday Magazine, July 2007)
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tale of a Textbook
I have moved this book 8 times since university, dutifully packed and unpacked and shelved it, 8 bloody times. I’m not sure why I have done this. I’ve not even turned a single page of it since 1993. I’m not even sure what it is titled (but I’ll check if you want me to). It is a beginner’s coursebook for Russian and it is dustily taking up space on the bottom oak plank of our living room bookshelf.
This book and I spent some serious and not-so-serious face time together in the Fall of ’93, Russian 120. I’m not joking when I say that my instructor’s name was Evilina (although it may have been spelled differently), nor I am being funny when I reveal that she really was well, evil, and no better moniker could have been appointed her. She was also a truly awful teacher and it was rumoured that she had been given the position because her husband was a highly coveted oceanographer on the science side of campus. Who knew science took precedence over language? Damn salmon.
My fellow students and I took great delight in mocking while imitating Evilina from the safety of the SUB pub most afternoons. I remember 2 of my cohorts as well as can be expected, Brian and Rebecca, both smart and gorgeous and hysterically witty. One afternoon saw me with too many drinks under my skirt making a serious attempt to kiss Brian. Or Rebecca. Not sure. But, in Russian, of course.
I don’t remember why I took the course, whether it was a required credit or just to satisfy my fickle and geeky yearning to start reading Russian poetry in its mother tongue, if not uncensored, at least untranslated. Either way, I only acquired the vocabulary to say “hello”, formally and informally, “thank you”, and “goodbye”, all of which I could have surely learned by watching Saturday afternoon reruns of The Hunt for Red October.
I could still crack that book and study solo but somehow I would rather just pack and unpack and dust or not dust the book that lent me a little knowledge but reaped so many memories. Spacibo.
This book and I spent some serious and not-so-serious face time together in the Fall of ’93, Russian 120. I’m not joking when I say that my instructor’s name was Evilina (although it may have been spelled differently), nor I am being funny when I reveal that she really was well, evil, and no better moniker could have been appointed her. She was also a truly awful teacher and it was rumoured that she had been given the position because her husband was a highly coveted oceanographer on the science side of campus. Who knew science took precedence over language? Damn salmon.
My fellow students and I took great delight in mocking while imitating Evilina from the safety of the SUB pub most afternoons. I remember 2 of my cohorts as well as can be expected, Brian and Rebecca, both smart and gorgeous and hysterically witty. One afternoon saw me with too many drinks under my skirt making a serious attempt to kiss Brian. Or Rebecca. Not sure. But, in Russian, of course.
I don’t remember why I took the course, whether it was a required credit or just to satisfy my fickle and geeky yearning to start reading Russian poetry in its mother tongue, if not uncensored, at least untranslated. Either way, I only acquired the vocabulary to say “hello”, formally and informally, “thank you”, and “goodbye”, all of which I could have surely learned by watching Saturday afternoon reruns of The Hunt for Red October.
I could still crack that book and study solo but somehow I would rather just pack and unpack and dust or not dust the book that lent me a little knowledge but reaped so many memories. Spacibo.
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