Update

This holiday is flying by. In a good way. Lots of eating and playing and sleeping. Kids are a bit confused as to why they aren't going to school. They are missing it actually. Nice. And strange. I'm a bit sluggish. We're off to C & S's farm today for lunch and to frolic with the horses. Tomorrow we're off to the North land. I booked a sleigh ride for the kids on Friday. Watching Blue's Clues as I write this. 'Why did the sock puppet cross the road? Because the chicken was wearing it.' Yes. My sense of humour is preschool. I dig it. At times, I feel as if I can live this way for a very long time. Holed up in this house. Not venturing very far away. Focusing on the little things. Little and paramount.

How Dry I Am

Our tree is up. Real, of course. Prettiest one ever. Our house is decorated. The cookies have been baked. 7 varieties. The turkey is in the fridge. The presents have pretty much all been obtained and are waiting to be wrapped. The house is clean. Top to bottom. Kids are excited. I am ready. Bring it on.

Last week was my last one at work. I took this week off. I needed it. A lot to do. And, at the same time, I needed a rest away from 'the office.' Yes. Working in a theatre is fun. I love it. It's great. It is also, at times, a soul stealing, mind numbing bureaucratic nightmare that only those in charge of academics could possibly dream up. My staff is made up of lovely people. People who are all certifiable. I was getting through shows by the skin of my teeth. My game hasn't been sharp. I've almost dropped the ball on a number of occasions. I hope the time away can clear up some of the cobwebs that seem to have become entrenched inside my skull. Last Friday I filled the humidifier for the Steinway. I turned off the water and went home. At least I thought I turned off the water. I went in on Sunday. The stairwell seemed to be a bit water stained. I went into the office. Chaos. The place had flooded. Big time. The main damage? On my boss's desk. You see, the Steinway is housed in a room directly over his desk. Seems that there was so much water that his office and the workshop were under about 6" of water. Soggy. I called him on Monday. Although officially on vacation, I thought I should go in to help clean up. No need. He was practically giggling. The main computer was unscathed. Business could continue. Albeit on a stool set up in the middle of the workshop as his office was being dried out. As I mentioned before, hope my holiday will give me time to clear out some cobwebs or next year will be a bumpy one indeed.

My Mother's Hands

There are times, when I am driving, that I see my mother's hands on the steering wheel. The way my fingers touch lightly on the beige vinyl and the way they skim over the surface when turning. It is during these times that I am conscious of sitting up straighter and imagine that I carry the same expression as she. I am my mother's daughter. The same but different. My hands have noticibly thicker skin. As do I. Her skin is soft and fair. Mine is rough and ruddy. Her fingers are long and delicately tapered. Delicate is not a good adjective to describe my digits. My fingers are short although, to their credit, not quite squat. My thumbs, however, are stumpy. Always have been. I've made up stories over the years to explain them to others. Things like 'my dad used to tie me up outside by my thumbs and one night he tied too tightly and I lost circulation and had to have the tips removed.' Sometimes these stories were believed. A psychic once told me that stumpy thumbs were a sign of a quick temper. I never really noticed having a temper until I was told this. When I was younger, I thought that my thumbs would grow as I did. I would wake up one morning with boobs and grown up thumbs. One day I would have my mother's thumbs. This didn't happen. When I played guitar (I used to play a lot...not so much if at all anymore...although I think about it occasionally...like chelsea hotel) I used to love watching my hands. When I played, my hands were mine. No one elses. I would be amazed while watching them that they seemed to know so much that I didn't--where the notes were, how strong or how lightly to pluck to achieve that 'just right' nuance, the minimum amount of pressure necessary to hold down a string before buzzing would occur. I wonder if my hands still hold this memory? This memory along with the memory of my mother's hands.

And NO, I Don't Want to "Get Over It"

I passed by flags at half-mast the other day. 'who died?', I asked. I asked J. He shrugged his shoulders. I had forgotten. Then I remembered. Then I read this: take-minute-and-remember and I was sad. Sad because it happened. Sad because it still happens. Sad because I had forgotten to remember. Sad because a part of me wanted to forget. Sad because change doesn't seem to happen fast enough. Sad because some things change too quickly. Sad because I have a daughter. Sad because I have a son. Sad because December should mean "peace." Sad because some things are still not called hate crimes. Sad because I have inside me the capacity to hate. Then I smiled. The flags were at half-mast the other day. Everywhere! Someone remembered. And would continue to do so.

My Humpy Lumps Aren't Beige

And just what have I been up to? Life, I guess. I've sunk into a novel which is always a sweet sweet and mildly obsessive venture. The way the Crow Flies by Ann-Marie Macdonald. I'm enjoying it. I'm in it and outside of it and around it and beyond it. I joined a gym. Am actually enjoying the cardio machines. My trainer is giving me good support. I'm not as out of shape as I thought. I need work but, thankfully, it's not a hopeless cause. I watched the Grey Cup the other weekend. Good Game!!! One of those 'I don't care who wins...they are playing well and it's exciting' games. Well...Edmonton was actually walking all over Montreal for the first half but...then the game picked up! Things I've never seen in the CFL (or football in general). At one point, the Montreal quarter back fired off a shot and it bounced off of someone's helmut back into his hands and he fired it off into the end zone just slipping off the finger tips of the receiver. Turns out that even if it had been caught, it wouldn't have counted. You can't throw twice. I did not know that. The game ended up in OT. First time since the 60's. It was a nail biter. Montreal QB threw a gorgeous TD and thought they had the game wrapped up. Edmonton followed with pretty much the same play. Very cool. Interesting to see the different coaches. Montreal headed up by an old veteran with a walrus moustache and close to zero facial expression. Edmonton led by a rookie who had a difficult time controlling his emotions. Edmonton ended up taking it. Good on em. I made a huge pot of chili. J supplied the munchies. Half-time performance featured the Black Eyed Peas. Hmmm.. I like them. It's just...well...no one sounds good at half-time. It just doesn't work. The audio sucks. Performers can't hear themselves.
Sigh. At least the female singer did her 'job' in providing young adolescents with wet dream fodder for the next little while.
I'm looking forward to the vacation. Christmas vacation. Christmas. Yup. I like Christmas. Our department is having a "holiday luncheon." I'm setting it up (it's on my stage) but I fear I must boycott. The logic/reasoning behind not calling it a Christmas party is weak. I come from Sault Ste. Marie. In the 80's, my fair city declared itself to be unilingual. A wrong headed decision but, it arose out from a grass roots frustration with how things were being done in the name of equality. Back lash is always quick to rear it's ugly head. Our supervisor want to avoid any possible problems and avoid the use of the term christmas. Except that we can have a christmas tree. And play christmas carols. Already, I hear rumblings and murmerings about how the 'we' are being dictated to by the 'they.' Sigh. My protest is with the drive to make all things bland. Uncolourful. Beige. Beige, I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.