Merry Christmas

I wish I had been more serious about all those piano lessons I had as a child. At the time though, I felt like an inmate forced to attend musical workshops as part of my incarceration. My mother would drag me over each week, my fingers in the same fuddle as the week before since I never bothered practicing. Mrs. Best would walk an endless circuit – living room, kitchen, dining room, living room – humming the tune, swinging the bologna sandwich in her hand back and forth like an edible metronome. I have no natural talent for music, but if I had stuck at it these past 40 years it’s possible I may have been able to play something like this by now. What a blockhead I was to have wasted that opportunity. But if Snoopy can be taught new tricks, I’m sure I can too. That’s my New Year’s resolution: to learn how to play a musical instrument.

Merry Christmas Charlie Brown, and Indigo, Deloney, Mrs. Slocombe, mm, Mali, Susan, Bridgett, and anyone else lurking out there…

Room for Rent

Most years I rent a room to a student from September to April. This year I decided not to, but now realize that the bathroom was way over-budget (I didn’t actually have a budget, which may have been part of the problem). So last week I placed an ad on the university’s accommodation listing service.

Two people were interested, but they wanted it for longer than April. Some mother called, looking for a place for her son. Hmmm. Next time I must remember to put “no apron strings attached” in the description. Then yesterday I got an email from someone asking about the room. She ended her email with “God Bless.” This isn’t so alarming, except that God and I have been on uneasy terms ever since Sunday school. So I wrote back and said I really only wanted to rent the room until April. This was the reply:

Helen,

Thanks for the timely response. I am still interested in renting your unit and I will like to know more about the facilities that are available in the home. I will be coming by January and I will be staying for five months.

I am a Briton and I reside in the United Kingdom. I am a graduate student from the University of Liverpool, England, UK.

I am a christian and I am a down to earth lady. I also get along with people easily. I don't smoke and I drink socially.

My hobbies are traveling, cooking, nascar, arts, painting, listening to music, dancing, swimming, badmiton, tennis and reading. I love meeting people and hanging out with friends.

I also love going to the movies once in a while. I like been neat and clean cos cleanliness is part of holiness.

I will like you to tell me about yourself as well. You can contact my references for more information:
Prince Richard
447031954176

Mrs. Shari Dixon
447024084935

I hope to read from you soon. Thanks and God Bless.
Diana.

Now the alarm bells sounded. I don’t want someone living in the house and nagging me about my unholiness because the kitchen is perpetually messy. NASCAR??? Prince Richard as a reference? And the spelling and grammatical errors reminded me of those emails I get telling me that so-and-so’s beloved husband of 35 years has just died but the money has to be transferred to a foreign account and could I please provide a bank number in exchange for 50% of $25 million dollars and thank you and God Bless. So I sent back an email asking who she would be working with at Queen’s, and what department they are in. Another email came back stating that it was the Department of Biology, but no name was provided. She asked for some details about the house. Before replying, I typed Prince Richard’s number in a UK reverse phone number search. A web page pops up warning me that phone numbers that begin with 44-70 are usually directed to a Nigerian mobile phone service. This helped me formulate my reply to Diana:

Dear Diana:

My house is a 20-minute walk from campus and the nearest grocery store is 2 blocks away. The room I rent is on the main floor of the house, and it has its own thermostat so you can control the temperature. The phone is included, but if you want internet or cable you will have to arrange that yourself. I have a washer and dryer, and you’re free to use the living room, kitchen, etc. I mentioned in the ad that I have 3 cats, so I assume you’re not allergic to them? If you would like more information please let me know. I would also be happy to send you some pictures of the room, the house, the cats, and my prized collection of shrunken heads that were lopped off of scam artists.

Helen

I hope to god (bless) that Diana isn’t just a poor speller with a peculiar assortment of hobbies…

A Christmas Tradition

One of my favourite traditions took place on Friday night – Christmas dinner at my house with the former Cake Mix group. We all worked at Case Mix Research, which was, with the exception of the director, an all-woman research group. We used to have so many celebrations at work involving various desserts that the leaner, phallocratic research group down the hall nicknamed us Cake Mix Research. Eventually the unit folded. It wasn’t only because we spent the bulk of our time eating instead of researching; the director died and his next-in-command didn’t hold a faculty position, so the university forced the closure of our delicious group. We all waddled to different jobs, but most of us remain friends, and we get together often.

This year I was on dessert duty. I had originally planned to make a boozy bourbon chocolate cake, but on Wednesday I heard “figgy pudding” mentioned twice. I had never heard of figgy pudding, so I took it as some sort of sign that there was a second coming of the term in the same day. Curious, I looked it up on the internet. Apparently, figgy pudding is “often thought about at Christmas time, but is not very popular.” I asked people at work if they had ever had figgy pudding. No one had. But that led to talk of sticky toffee pudding, and how President’s Choice now sells it at Loblaws, and if you didn’t see the box you would never know the pudding had been made in a factory. It is so divinely sweet that my co-worker advises drenching it in whipping cream to cut the sweetness. One pudding, which is the size of a modest cupcake, has 500 calories. Add an extra 200 for the whipping cream, and you can get one-third of your required daily caloric intake in a most efficient manner. We need fat to protect our vital organs in winter, so it's natural to crave high-calorie foods at this time of year. I don’t think we should resist these sorts of biological urges; it might lead to dire side effects, like blindness. So I decide to serve sticky toffee pudding for dessert. I’m running out of time, and I’m a little worried after reading the warning about the bourbon-sugar mixture igniting (I’ve been involved in two kitchen incendiary incidents, and realize I don’t react calmly in a crisis).

Tiny Christmas lights festoon the fig trees, and candles provide the ambient lighting for a leisurely dinner. Afterwards, we gather round the fireplace for the gift grab. Everyone has brought a present, and we pick numbers from a hat. Whoever has #1 gets to open a present first, and the person with #2 gets to steal #1’s present, or open one of the remaining ones. Usually we are civilized and don’t steal, but this year I can’t resist the alpaca scarf Betty just opened, and there is much cursing on Betty’s part and lively discussion about whether a present can be stolen twice, and whether a person can steal back what was just stolen from them. Holding the all-powerful position of hostess, I overrule both these rule wannabes. Then we settle back in our chairs, full of heat and food and friendship. (But I keep the alpaca scarf securely tucked under one arm, lest Betty be led into temptation).

The End is Nigh!

Oh, not the Apocalypse. Although maybe that’s nigh as well, but hopefully not too nigh; I want time to enjoy my bathroom, which I started renovating on August 3, 2006 and am finally finishing. The room is only about 50 square feet. So why did it take so long? Well, it’s been the main focus of my procrastinatory efforts, so perhaps I should be proud of my achievement in taking 16 months to finish it. There were some holes in the drywall that I stared at for months, pondering what to do about them. Someone told me about drywallschool.com, so I spent a lot of time looking at that website. When I finally got around to actually doing something, I discovered that I liked using a drywall saw so much that I had to make an immense effort not to cut more holes just for the sheer pleasure of it. I was also somewhat loathe to cover up the artwork under the wallpaper. Someone had sketched caricature-like portraits of themself and their partner, and I grew fond of the artist’s statements (“Fuck you Wanda!” and “Fuck you Wanda?”).

I used olive chartreuse on the walls and lemon yellow for the trim. I really love the combination, but I can see where some people wouldn't, and if you were (water) closeted in there for too long it might bring on some sort of mental illness, like in The Yellow Wallpaper. So far only two other people have seen the room, the carpenter and the plumber. I asked whether they like it. One answered: "They're quite the colours. I can't tell if that's green or yellow on the wall," and the other one replied, "It's whether you like it that's important." I suspect they think that my vision and taste are both on the decline, and soon I will be wearing an orange puffy polyester shirt tucked into the elastic waistband of fluorescent pink pants.

The room is funky and functional. Funktional. And it’s got my signature touch, which appears on all my bathroom designs – the door can’t open very wide, since the vanity sticks out too far. So no one very large can use the bathroom, unless they sidle in sideways. Perhaps I should start a WeightWatchers chapter at my house and instead of having a weigh-in each week, people can check whether they fit through the bathroom door.

It’s been a long haul, but I’ve learned a lot. For example, I had never heard the term “rough-in” before. Now if I feel I’m not being taken seriously enough I throw it into the conversation, and the other parties look suitably impressed (unless we’re talking about something other than toilets, in which case they look unsuitably flummoxed). On more than one occasion tears of frustration and exhaustion mixed with the olive chartreuse, while at other times I wielded the brush with anger or exhilaration. If a Like Water for Chocolate magic was present, it’s quite possible that a myriad of emotions will sweep over you when you’re in the bathroom, but don’t worry; the final one will be euphoria.

?

I was reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory, which I got to via Sewa Yoleme’s comment on Deloney’s blog. It got me thinking about abandonment issues; not the kind that flare when lovers leave – that seems like it’s part of life’s script. (Or maybe it’s just that I need a new scriptwriter. Who writes the screenplays for Walt Disney films?) And at least when a lover deserts there’s usually some explanation provided, even if the other person doesn’t want to accept it. It’s when friends desert that it seems so incomprehensible, and hence so difficult to come to terms with. I know there’s no until-death-do-us-part covenant, but aren’t friends supposed to be forever? Or did I just get that from a Hallmark card?

The last time I talked with a certain someone was three years ago. Prior to that we had been what I thought were close friends for almost nine years. It wasn’t like one day he suddenly withdrew; it was a devolvement that took place over a period of almost a year. He had met a woman who he obviously was developing a close connection with. This didn’t bother me at all, and from what he said, it didn’t sound like she would have minded if he maintained a friendship with me. So why was it a problem for him? The last conversation we had was not our last communication. I emailed three months later asking him what he wanted to do about Nwitha, a child in Kenya who we were co-sponsoring. He said he would like to continue with that, and that he was dealing with some personal issues but would be in touch soon. I haven’t heard from him since, and have taken over all the payments for Nwitha. I met a mutual acquaintance last week and she told me that he married, and when she spotted the couple one day they looked very happy. This confuses me even more. His silence can’t be explained by alien abduction, depression, or death. He just chose not to explain it.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we found ourselves in the same place at the same time. This is an unlikely scenario, as we live in different cities. Even though I go quite frequently to the one he lives in, it has a population of over 3 million, so what are the chances? Still, if it did happen, I imagine we would both do a double-take, thinking that maybe we know the other person, and then we would realize our mistake and turn away.

The medium is the message I

The train glides past snow falling on cedars, taking me to a place where anything can happen, where I will wait for someone magically unexpected to appear. Alas, a stoic Macedonian is the only one I will meet, but never mind. Maybe the glass slipper has been lost at the back of a closet or shattered in last year’s move, but anticipation endures far longer than footwear. The day is icy, invigorating, and the streets are full of happy bustle.

Fast forward to shortly after midnight, and the enchanted wonderland has vanished. Now it’s the winter of our discontent. Misery huddles in doorways or over subway grates. The bus station has an unhealthy pallor: gray floors, gray walls, gray faces. It’s the night of the living dead, except we’ve lost our interest in human flesh. Bodies slump, until a mechanical voice announces it’s time to board the bus to who cares where.