Les Amours Imaginaire

Translation: Heartbeats? Sigh. Quebec must think anglos are retarded. Well, Quebec: you have scabies. Translation: vous avez grossi.

Midnight Pilgrimage to Waffle Iron

My parents raised me poorly: I've been to church formally about five times. And those times I've gone I've done it all wrong. Once I even stole (on purpose) a granola bar from a church in PEI which, on the sin-o-meter I suspect negates my "approximately five" and "14 future" church visits. I'm pretty sure beside my name is a big evil frowny face. In red.

Sometimes I try. ish. Like midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I've attempted to go three years in a row, admittedly mostly out of sheer curiosity (what DO they DO and at Midnight no less?). All individually fails if the goal is to be there the entire time and pay attention and pray and give thanks. and stuff. Collectively, however, they might count for something.

1. xmas 2008. Accompaniment: German brother-in-law. Reason for fail: five minutes in, The German had to leave. Religion did not agree with him. Made his eyes burn and have 'ants in his pants.'

Portion of mass witnessed: incense, fake baby jesus, singing.

2. xmas 2009. Accompaniment: Sister # 2. Reason for fail: a) we arrived at midnight and the mass was OVER b) I was sporting the 'leper' look, being within 24 hours of having my face laser-burned off. I seriously thought I'd add to the ambiance. I was hoping for some pity. At least.

Portion of mass witnessed: everyone leaving and trying to not awkwardly stare at me for too long.

3. xmas 2010, tonight. Accompaniment: solo. Reason for fail: no intention of going. Except that at approximately 11:45 pm I remembered "shit fuck! my waffle iron at the lab, must fetch it for the morn, when thee shall make thine waffles to which thee shall top with spray whipped cream!" This is how I talk at christmas time. So I pilgrimaged. All the way across the park and into a creepy empty building. I was frightened. Of ghosts. No seriously, I'm not joking. I nearly fainted three times from my own shadow. I practically ran out of there screaming and crying like a girl. Waffle iron in hand, my holy shrine for thine waffles, and a fresh lease on life, I left the building, just as an ambulance rushed by with lights blazing. And I thought (because I'm a sick fucko): if only it was going to the church now that would make an awesome mass! I mean, maybe there is a real live re-enactment of the birth of christ. Or the christmas eve sacrifice-ee escaped just maimed instead of 100% killed! It was a sign. I was headed to mass! And sure enough, when I rounded the corner, there was the ambulance outside the church. Oh lucky day!

Portion of mass witnessed: If there is anything I do well, it's loiter and gawk. So I put my god given skills to work and watched the ambulance crew load up a sinner and take her away! I'd never seen that part of the service before. But I liked it!

I'm slowly piecing this "midnight mass service" together. But it's a tricky bastard and I need a few more tries. It's good to have goals. Especially in the name of redemption.

Nazareth

I was driving the VW two days ago and the Nazareth song "hair of the dog" came on the radio. It felt like Christmas. Mostly because in my mind Nazareth means Jesus in hebrew. If that sentence doesn't make sense to you, I'm sorry. Welcome to what being me is like: completely and unabashedly made-up.

Nazareth, and this song especially, have a special place in my history. Despite what my cousin Heather may say, I didn't listen to Nazareth by choice as a teen (ahem, GnR and others I've accidently forgotten and I swear not because I'm ashamed). Hilariously, it was the only cassette tape my bus driver had. Obviously, if you have a boom box, anything is better than radio silence. I mean, did anyone carry a stereo on their shoulders and not play music? pshh. Where I lived in the late 80's everyone was poor and no one had walkmans so people often graced us with their own double-cassette decks (fucking rich kids) and tastes of music for our trips to school. At some point our 'fancy school bus' got outfitted with a 'stereo system.' I rode the bus for two hours nearly everyday of my life until I was 18 years old. From c1989 to c1992 I did it while listening to Nazareth. That was 2 hours of Nazareth a day for three years. On repeat. Ironically the few words I can remember include "my white bycicle," "love hurts...." and "now you're messing with a Son of a Bitch." Jerks couldn't enunciate worth a damn.

So Nazareth is a Jesus band that has written a song based on my grandfather. Have you met Pop? The chorus of the "hair of the dog" song is his anthem and he doesn't even know. And while I accelerated through intersections and sang like I knew the lyrics "and now your messin' with a, son of a, now your messin' with a sonofabitch" I thought, that's right: I'm a jesus sonofabitch gonna have a killer christmas while I go to toys R us to buy Lew a school bus!

Which ties this whole nonsense together. When asked "hey Lew, what do you want to ask Santa for Christmas?" four-year-old Lewis says "A school bus!"

Jesus.

Merry Christmas, Ya son of a bitch.

Christmas Came Early

Thursday, five minutes before we were to head to school. The doorbell rang. Lewis opened up and a river of barf and runny pooh flowed into our lives.

Yes. Welcome Highly Contagious Stomach Flu Xmas 2010.

There are five of us. Each day claims a new victim. Number four just went down. I’m the only one left. I’m terrified. I’m hiding under blankies in the dark, sipping vodka and misting the air with sanitizer.

And I don’t feel well.

What will happen next?

UPDATE: I almost pooped myself to death. I bet you're glad you know that.

New beat

I'm a recovering deadbeat blogger.

A recent facebook drop-out.

An ex-cell phone user.

A woman with a fresh diagnosis of ADD and a pocket full of speed.

I've been cut up and sewn up.

Invested in an arctic parka

and a VW.

Got addicted to vitamin water.

Reading.

And baths.

Quit some stuff.

Failed some stuff.

Had some fun.

Forgot the camera.