Waiting Game

Even before I moved, I was recruiting people to visit Montreal. Any time the subject would come up, the conversation would end with an invitation. Now that I actually live here, I want visitors even more. One of the pleasures of living somewhere new is sharing it with the people in your life. When Jill came to visit in November, we picked her up from the bus station and she said something like, "Guys, I know this is sounds dumb but...all the signs are in French!" Wonderment. It's in all the little details which you take for granted but are still brand new to your house guests.

We have a substantial list of people who want to come down for visits, parents, siblings, friends. Adrian was on the list, and this past weekend he finally hopped on a bus at 1AM on a Saturday morning to see La Belle Province. He arrived here just after 9AM, which means I got my butt up at 8:15 on a Saturday to hustle to the station and pick him up. Oh, and also, I was in excruciating pain.

Flashback to Wednesday when I couldn't fall asleep due to this loud aching in my torso, waking me up a couple of times that night, not allowing me to find any shade of comfortable. Thursday, Friday, nothing. Saturday morning, getting on the metro to get to the Greyhound station, I was taking toy soldier steps to keep from aggravating this encore of agony. My thought was if I could wait until Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, after Adrian left and Rebekah was at work, neither of them would have to know or worry about me, and I wouldn't ruin the weekend.

Well, as Adrian and I wandered up Mont-Royal Avenue, stopping into a bakery for a small breakfast, it was clear there may have been some problems with this plan. I was half hunched by the window of the bakery, I could feel sweat break out across my forehead and when I picked up our tray, I think my hands were shaking. My stomach was in hardened knots, twisting and constricting. A small sliver of me thought I might pass out. When we sat down, I was able to pull myself together. That was at 10AM

By 4PM in the afternoon,  I wasn't sure I could function until Monday, and I finally fessed up. Adrian and I headed off to the nearest walk-in clinic, my hopes for a quick fix crushed when the sign on the door said it was full and taking on no more patients for the day. We headed to a Second Cup to get internet and to text Bek, who, in another scene, threw out half of a freshly bought coffee in order to her hustle her ass home to check on me. We concluded with no after hours clinics available, we ought to go to the hospital.

Cut to the waiting room of St. Mary's, the three of us sitting in a row. Waiting room is not a misnomer. I swear we sat there 2 hours before Adrian and Bek took their leave. Adrian needed to check into his hotel and Bek needed to feed the cat and check on the pork shoulder I had tossed in the slow cooker earlier, visions of an awesome dinner for all of us dancing in my head.
I had no aftershocks of pain as I sat in the waiting room alone, but with each minute that passed, I felt myself sinking into what everyone else around seemed to have caught. Hopelessness, exhaustion, the grey-washed mood of watching time march slowly on while you sit and wait and go nowhere. I remember looking at the time in the corner of the television playing French CBC and thinking, Please, hospital gods. My friends need a weekend. Please let me be okay and let us get out of here in time to have a good Saturday night. When people come to visit, my own expectation is that I show them a good time. Touristy stuff, restaurants, boutiques, live music. Pretty much the opposite of sitting in a waiting room where everything on the walls is crooked and you can hear someone horking phlegm in the bathroom every five minutes. 

I shot them a couple of texts telling them that they didn't have to come back. Even if it was just to wander around solo and get a sampling of the atmosphere, I wanted Adrian to experience Montreal. I wanted Bek to have her Saturday to herself after a long week at work. But they came back without hesitation, reclaiming their seats on either side of me. We snacked on candy canes for dinner. We tried to tag team crosswords on Bek's iPad to pass the time. We giggled over inside jokes, old and new, not only because they were funny, but to try and keep our sanity together while literal hours scraped on and on. Adrian wandered out to a convenience store to find us food since the cafeteria was closed, I got the Golden Girls theme stuck in my head, and all around, we were the people in the waiting room having the best time. Which is kind of like saying you had a somewhat-kind-of-mostly painless death.

I can't explain how hard the wait was at times, when our laughter died, we leaned on eachothers' shoulders, buried our faces in our hands. Exhausting. Boring. Grueling. When the intercom would call what seemed like everyone except me in for examination, I could feel my hope leaving, along with everyone else's in the room.

Between feeling sick and being surrounded by people who are also suffering, for an undetermined amount of time, you can be pushed to your limits. The wait was insane...but it would have been nearly impossible if those two hadn't stayed with me. At the same time, mama was texting me. She refused to go to bed until she heard answers, because her worried mom-ness had her convinced that I was going to have to have my appendix removed. I'm lucky in both that I still have my appendix and that I have an amazing support system. I'm sure if I had needed anything serious, my mother would have been on the next flight down, ready to kick ass and Florence Nightingale me.

We arrived at the hospital just after 5PM and around 1:30AM, they finally called me into one of the rooms, had me strip down, poked at me a bit and told me that it was WEIRD, but it didn't SEEM like there was anything wrong with me. It sounds funny to say but I had not waited 8+ hours to be told I was fine. Fine was not the answer I was looking for after being crippled by mysterious pain. The doctor said maybe it was sort of inflammation of the tissue in my torso, gave me some pills for the pain and signed me on up for an ultrasound, which I have at 10AM tomorrow. (I'm sure that'll be some kind of interesting blog in itself.)

The moral of this story is that having good people in your life makes intolerable things tolerable, and for that I am truly, truly grateful. Also, waiting rooms suck.

Christmas Jam

Top 5 Christmas Songs (And the preferred versions....if I have them....)

#1. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Judy Garland (from Meet Me in St. Louis). 
Garland's trembling rendition to a family coming together against all odds during the holidays always punches me right in my gingberbreads. This version is my favourite also because it uses the line, "Until then we'll have to muddle through some how" instead of "Hang a shining star..." EMOTIONAL GRIT, PEOPLE. It's what's for (Christmas) dinner.

#2. The Little Drummer Boy - The Jackson 5
Besides the Jackson 5 being awesome by default, this version is one of the few in which a little boy actually sings the role of the Little Drummer Boy.

 #3. Carol of the Bells 
Epic. And that was before the Trans-Siberian Orchestra cranked it to 11. 

#4. All I Want For Christmas 
Is you!

#5. Baby, It's Cold Outside -Any version involving Zooey Deschanel
In the version off of the Elf soundtrack, the mellow jazz saunter of her duet with Leon Redbone makes you want to abandon the outside world, stay inside, turn up the ambiance and snuggle up with something hot and alcoholic. (Like a beverage or maybe your significant other. I don't know.) 

The quicker tempo and the gender reversal in the She & Him version with M. Ward is a fun take. So there.

#6. Claire Fontaine - Hawksley Workman
Claire Fontaine isn't really a Christmas song, and it's off of a Christmas album that really isn't a Christmas album. "Almost A Full Moon" sounds like Hawksley wandering around his life during the month of December with an acoustic guitar and an accompanying band, narrating the yuletide activities he espies everywhere. (Sample lyric: "Put away the turkey to make sandwiches tomorrow!") However, somehow, he makes it quork. (Yes I just made that up right now.)

That being said, I love Claire Fontaine. Fun story, when I first heard the song, I DIDN'T know it was a brand of notebooks (like Moleskine) and I thought Hawksley was literally singing to his lover who was some quirky indie girl who made her own paper. Then, one day I was in class and the girl sitting next to me had a purple Claire Fontaine notebook and my brain exploded.

BONUS: This Gift by 98 Degrees & Never Knew the Meaning Of Christmas by N*Sync 

My least favourite Christmas song, as I ranted to Rebekah on a cold Saturday night where we bundled up and got our march on to an establishment, is Jingle Bells. Jingle Bells is mediocre. Jingle Bells sounds like a baby got eggnog instead of milk and in a nutmeg induced fury, hammered out the same three notes on a piano until it was declared 'music' by everyone else at the party, who also happened to be swamped on Christmas cheer. A one horse open sleigh does NOT sound like fun, either you're going too slow and that's boring, or you pick up velocity, and the winter air cuts into you with a vengeance. HEY.

In other news, tomorrow is my last full day of classes for first semester. What. The. Hell.

The Life Romantic

I just want to know when I turned into a romantic.

When was the day I started writing poems without a trace of angst in them, replacing the useless bitterness with hope and longing? Or, when did I start having daydreams about the little things, like laying still in the quiet with someone's heartbeat dancing on the inside of my skull, or about cooking someone else dinner from scratch? The quotidian has become the ideal!
I once sat through the Notebook without shedding a single tear, and I'm sure now if I watched it again I would turn into a quivering puddle of my own feelings and take refuge in my flannel sheets until someone coaxed me out with comfort food (preferably pizza or freshly baked cookies) or shopping (preferably vinyl or thrifting). Where did the romance COME FROM?

Speaking of romance...
Last weekend, Jill and Steve finally got engaged after 7 years of being together. Their relationship has lasted longer than most celebrity marriages, just over a third of my own life span, and a lengthy Itch.

Seems like just yesterday, it was the beginning of October, and I was getting ready for class when Steve phoned me, asking did I have a minute to talk? It was something important. "Well of course my good sir," said I, absentmindedly, half of my brain up in the buzzing atmosphere of clothes, shoes, where-is-my-book, pre-school mayhem. (Or maybe I said, "uhh sure?" This happened so long ago, I'm rather sure some of it is paraphrasing, but you get the idea.)

"I want to ask Jill to marry me."

BOOM.

My brain shut off and my focus narrowed to a pin point. I think I froze, and I don't remember what I said, but it was probably both eloquent and supportive... "Ohmygod" or "fuckyes". I was frolicking rampant at this news! Steve had placed the crown of "Being In the Know" on my head and I had fully accepted my new role as sovereign of Awesomestuff. I was revving up to gush  and bubble to my friends, with whom I've had the hypothetical Jill/Steve (or "Still" as they're called in Hollywood) wedding scenario chat manymany times. Finally, I was going to have an excuse to buy ANOTHER fancy dress for a wedding! (The first being the bridesmaid gown for my dear friend Steph's wedding in May.) I wondered who else knew this secret, who I might be able to drag into a coffee shop and gossip over expensive bevvies with.

Then he shattered my world, "You have to promise me that you won't tell anyone."
And Steve means promises the way Italian mobsters swear revenge. You make PROMISES to Steve. I waved goodbye to my hopes of being girly and signed in blood to be quiet about it. We talked about whether or not he knew how he was going to do it. Where, when, why-- was there going to be cake eventually? Would I get to try the cake? And oh yeah-- how, again?

"I don't know," said Secretive Steve, and then he said something I'll never forget, "I'd just ask her today if I could. I want to do it so badly." My heart died in my chest. I. You guys. I lost my ability to evennnnnnnnnnnn.

Thus began the two month long charade of carrying around the top-secret-future elephant sized happiness around with me inside my tiny one room heart. I had to try and hide it, from the WORLD.

Once, while I was skyping with Jill, I got a text from Steve saying he had just picked up the ring.
When she came for her visit to Montreal, I was paranoid a few too many glasses of wine might have me sneakily trying to imply that I knew something she didn't know. Conversations about baby names or the future of Jill and Steve in Australia were suddenly topics of DEATH. A minefield of, "did I give up the game?"
I was determined not to be that guy, the one who spoils everything.
When I flew home for the engagement surprise party Steve had meticulously put together (my standards of men and romance now SHATTERED, thank you Steven), and Jill texted me, "What are you doing tonight?" I all but had a conniption fit on the bus into Toronto. 

It was the most elaborate heist I've ever been involved in. And at the end of it all-- we were going to the chapel.
You should read that in a movie trailer man voice. Or don't but it's more fun that way.

The party was a smashed success, in that Jill was totally surprised, we cried all over each other, all the food was gone and ohhhh yes, 90% of the people who stayed past 2AM ended up doing keg stands and having a dance party in the living room of Steve's parent's house. I was so filled with love, riding the wave, and I'm unbelievably lucky to have been able to be there. I know not everyone gets along with their family, or is close with their family. I'm not one of them. Especially since I moved to Montréal, my blood and my love have been more important than ever.
We danced into the wee hours of the morning, stepping in time and spinning for the future, laughing and grinning about what it meant for all of us. Everyone had the same happiness. It is fantastic to have a life filled with so much love. That's gotta be the point of it all. Love your family. Your friends. The people around you. The work you do. The food you eat. The life you live. Love yourself, damnit. Lead the life romantic.

 Congratulations again, Jill and Steve.<3

Halloween Improv

Pretty much everyone I know in the city celebrated Halloween over the weekend, whether or not they were going out tonight. The Halloweekend streets were a mix of the normal Saturday night crowd, and people dressed in all sorts of different costumes. Geeky. Elaborate. Girls in sexy costumes. The "I wanted to be cool so I dressed in a suit and said I was a dude from Mad Men" guys.

Well, you know what? My plan for my costume this year was awesome. I thought of it months ago, and like so many things, I ended up leaving the actual execution until the last minute. I was GOING to be the Paper Bag Princess, from the Robert Munsch book of the same title. One of the most awesome stories of my childhood. You may have noticed that I did not say I actually executed this gem of an idea. We'll get there.

Anyhow, Saturday afternoon, I went to the hardware store JUST as it was closing and bought a pack of those big paper bags that are for yard waste. They were about $2.50, and I smugly left, basking in my own cleverness and the joys of cheap costuming. The problem was that they had slogans for saving the planet emblazoned across them. I might be concerned for the environment, but the Paper Bag princess was no damn hippie. The bag was going to have to be inverted for the sake of realism and truth to the source material. I'm an artist, damnit.

After Bek and I both had hilarious turns of trying to flip that sucker inside out, I went to google to try and help me solve all of my problems... And then after that I tried with the paper bag again, because checking WebMD was scaring me more than Are You Afraid of the Dark reruns and nightmares of a world without bacon.

It turns out the only way to flip a paper bag inside out is by disassembling it, reversing it and putting humpty back together again. This would be awesome and easy... except for the fact that I only had weak ass painters tape, all the stores were closed and time was running OUT. 

I broke out my emergency sewing kit, made like an awful surgeon and cut that thing wide open, flipped it and got to work putting it back together. The result was a hilariously huge crinkled, stitched up paper bag with uneven holes for my head and arms. It looked more like an exoskeleton for a 6 year old's robot pal than the dress I had been envisioning. The plan officially failed when Telly crawled into the bag and made it his giant paper cat palace.

PLAN B.

Something I found out about Halloween this year: it's fun to dress up as something you WANT to dress up as, but when your plan backfires and you have to scramble for a solution, the black magic dies, fast. Dressing up as something just to avoid being THAT GUY WHO CAME WITHOUT A COSTUME, it's balls. I wandered listlessly from idea to idea, dragging my feet while Bek tried to cheerfully talk me into any of the ideas I had, while giving a few of her own. 

Somehow, I had enough Neon in my closet to bring back the 80s, as a fitness instructor. 

 

 Crack cocaine not included, surprisingly.

Bek also bailed on her plan of going as a fairy (because although wings were an easy fix, she said she felt juvenile #Halloweenproblems), and decided to go as the complete opposite of my neon nightmare. She dressed all in black and then did bad ass face painting that would make your typical face paint artiste curl up in a ball and bawl for their mother.

So there.

This story ends with us hanging out in a bar, filled with fog, drinking drinks and eating free cupcakes, while sitting in awe as a really tall guy did a skeleton dance in a bowler hat. They played Thriller no less than four times while we were there. FOUR TIMES. 

Packages

AWESOME THING OF THE WEEK (and yeah, my week just started. SUE ME.)

My afternoon class was cancelled today, and I had ambitious plans for the free time, even though all I really wanted to do was curl up in bed, watch Donald Glover do standup, followed by Stranger Than Fiction, all the while spooning my body pillow for company. (I like the soft, silent type. What can I say?) Arriving home, I discovered an odd, cylindrical express post package leaning on my front door. 

Ever since the move, one of the best things in life is getting mail from home. Packages or cards or letters bring the people you love close, put their voice right in your ear. That bit of extra effort is a reminder that you might be out of sight, but you're not out of mind. Note to self, and to you, whoever you are: write more letters to people. Honestly, it's insane how good it makes you/them feel. My mom is the best example of this. I've received a blitzkrieg of packages and cards in two months since I moved, her way of telling me that I'm never far from her thoughts. (Friends: send me your addresses so I can mail you love letters and locks of my hair. Just kidding notkiddingatall.)

Of course, I was thrilled to see this package, and surprised to notice the writing on it wasn't my mom's, but Jill's. That had me all but dying of curiosity when I finally got inside. With the careful surgical technique of a rabid Rottweiler,  I set about opening the mysterious mail. 

BOOM.

She literally crammed the tin more stuff than there are people in an early morning metro game of sardines (city peeps, nawm sayin'!), with all kinds of amazing things, from stickers, to perfume samples, amazing David's Tea (Red Velvet & Banana Bread-- WHAT?!), lip balm and a really sweet letter that made me miss her. A lot. A LOT. 

Just writing this is making me more and more and MORE excited for her visit coming up in the next month! In case I wasn't enough already... Note: I was.

One of the best things about this package, (other than everything) was the little post it notes that covered a bunch of different items.

This package made my day and I'm pretty sure I broke a 20-something code of conduct by picking up the phone and calling her to a leave a hyperactive excited message on her voice mail, but hey, that lady is my blood and my exception to the rules, damnit. 

Happy Halloween, friends! (P.S. Costume posts to follow!)

NaNoWriMo 2012

NOVEL INFO?
CLICK ME!

That's right. I'm a glutton for punishment, and I can't help myself, so I've once again dragged myself back into NaNoWriMo for another non-stop year of literary pain and/or insanity. It's totally okay though, because I've recruited my roommate, part of my Brit Lit study group and maybe a couple others to join me in glorious battle.

To be honest, I'm not even playing to win this year. If I do, I'll be a shocked, appalled and y'all better declare me as your leader. November promises to be busier than Christmas with the McCallisters, only with less hilarious booby traps and heartwarming charm, and more carpal tunnel. WOOF. Not only will I have all of my schoolwork to juggle, but also the occasional assignment for school newspaper, the building of a genuine 20-something social life, plus later in the month, JILL IS COMING TO VISIT! She's going to be my first visitor and I'm already freaking out about taking her ALL-OF-THE-PLACES and we're going to eat ALL-OF-THE-FOOD.

(Aside: I like listing these things like I won't spend a large chunk of the month napping/watching TV.... Both of which MAY have to be sacrificed to the deities of writing for the sake of keeping my head above water. Sort of. Maybe I'm not kidding anyone though. Nappers gon' nap, even a little.)

I'm going to write another blog post some day SOON, because stories are cool and so are you, and you two deserve each other. For now, I have to go cut up a mango, do some midterm review and then hit the hay. 

Killer Queen

My cat is a psychotic killer.

Sunday, Bek and I drove back in Montréal after celebrating Thanksgiving in Ontario with our fam-a-lams. We spent 7 hours in the car in the midst of a cold blooded murder machine and we had NO IDEA. (To his credit, he did a good job of whining pitifully for 75% of the trip, scaling the head rests and sleeping for the remaining 25%. Crafty as.)

When we arrived safe and unscathed back in our apartment, I went to put on my moccasins. As I picked them up, I spotted something odd on the floor. My first thought was one of those tumbleweeds of hair and fluff that seems to accumulate in corners of the obsessively un-compulsive. My second was a hairball. My third was horror.

I leaned closer and realized I saw a long tail and two hind legs, as well as a dash of spinal chord. Where the head and the other half of that mouse disappeared, I don't think I'll ever know.

As I stared down at the massacre, Bek asked me what was wrong and I lightly explained to her in a voice that had been through a sugary sieve that the cat had gone rogue and caught whatever he had stalking under the fridge for the past few days, leaving some for later.

I watched my roommate grab the broom and proceed to sweep up the mouse corpse off of my floor. Except she chiseled it off-- because apparently it had been there long enough to have dried onto the wood.

Did I mention this is the roommate who (apart from odd gallant moments) has to call me into the room to handle any spiders?

P.S. HAPPY NATIONAL COMING OUT DAY FROM ME AND MY GAY KITTY. (Seriously. Everyone in my family doubted it until he tried to molest all the boys we brought home. 'Cause he's a STUPID FABULOUS BETCH.<3)

 For your viewing pleasure, me, messing with my Mama.