december 30, 2001.
Ohhhh man. I despair of ever getting it all down, this week where I have lived more than thought about living. So you know, whatever. Let's make up style as we go along.
We got to Union Station behind schedule and found Stacy, Q & Palaver waiting for us, which was, of course, very joyous. Although I must admit that in terms of pure physical joy it didn't compare to the hot shower waiting for me at the apartment. I walked out of the shower more mellow than I've been since yoga class, only to be pulled back to earth by the series of crude jokes that centred around the 'L' sticker on my sweater. Q has begun calling my Lefty. This is not funny. (But it does make me smirk.)
Our "family plus assorted others" dinner took place at Barbarian's, a place I have longed to go to ever since the lush, sick January of 1997. In lieu of Ophelia & Poet, we ate with Q, Scout, Palaver, Stacy & Scherezade. In lieu of tortured doomed romance, I had a delicious steak. As did the Boy, who, as he is wont to remind everyone, ordered and consumed a 24 oz. steak - one that was in fact bigger than his face. Afterwards we staggered home through whipping cold rain and tumbled around on the floor in a steak coma. Of particular interest to my memory was the kitten tumble of Palaver, Stacy & myself - although since I cannot demonstrate the head petting but only describe it, I'm sure this will fall short of your particular interest. We played a couple of rounds of the Name Game, a quick game of Fluxx, and then, driven to the clubs by a conspicuous lack of booze in the house (except for sickly sweet absinthe), tried to have a good time at Velvet. We were too tired, so there was no good time. Still, I appreciated the effort.
The next day we went out for a long, delicious & informative breakfast with Q & headed home for the traditional Christmas Eve slack fest. Interesting service - not half as good as Rev. Robyn on one of her off days, of course, but interesting in a comparative way. The basses in the choir were, on average, about a half-step flat during every anthem - which for some reason made me incredibly cranky, like they were doing it to taunt me. I opted out of communion, as I felt that my heart was far too full of crankiness to admit anything mystical, and hung on in grim silence until the rising opera star sung O Holy Night. She's the younger sister of a girl I know quite well, and I've always thought that she wasn't half as good a singer as she thought herself - but her performance on Christmas Eve made my skin crawl, my stomach shiver and my skin ripple. It was that good; that visceral. Of course I couldn't tell her that, so I muttered praise to her sister instead.
Christmas Day was a lot more fun than usual. My uncles were in fine form, Uncle Gre using pig-ignorant language he described as "not PC" and Uncle Bru making me laugh enduringly for describing the pressure he feels at Church & Wellesley. ("It's like there's a big neon sign, blinking GAY-GAY-GAY. I just can't handle the pressure.") At my aunt's we dug up an old copy of Sorry and spent an amusing 2 hours viciously manipulating the tiny markers. Too much food, of course, but we were still close enough to the beginning of the vacation to remember life on a student budget, so it was just enough.
On Boxing Day we headed over to the Boy's side of the family for the traditional X-mas free-for-all. Again, much more fun than usual, despite the Pixie-less nature of the gathering. The Boy's mother was gratifyingly angry with my education supervisors for threatening me with failure, and used much saltier language than I usually associate with her. She suggested that my best strategy for discipline would be to remain calm and mean every single word I say. Emphasis on 'mean,' of course.
We spent that night in Scout's ridiculously large house, spread out in the cold basement. And the next day we headed out to the Boy's father's new house. It is verra verra coooool...a hill house, three stories on a slope with a fantastic backyard that is basically all garden. We were told that it was built from the ground up over decades, and you can tell because of the eccentricities of designs (i.e. a closet with - ta da! - a closet inside). It is very obviously a house built for human beings to live in, not just a megaclonehome full of gadgets that we're all supposed to want - and best of all, it was purchased by people who filled the place with happy useful things and many beds to fit many guests. I'm ashamed to say that I coveted the house from very early on, and had to remind myself repeatedly that I didn't want to be that kind of daughter-in-law.
As is usual when we visit the Boy's father, most of our time was marked by copious quantities of food. Dinner that night was an elaborate affair at a surprisingly excellent Chinese restaurant, followed by tepid AHL hockey at the local arena. And the next morning (i.e. Friday) we feasted on 3 kinds of pork. I'm not kidding: we all ate bacon, sausage and fried peameal bacon, in addition to eggs, toast & home fries (defibrillator paddles were conveniently installed in the next room). Lucky Pixie wasn't there; this was as far from vegetarian as it is possible to get.
Last night was on the strange side. Palaver & Stacy have just come out as a couple, and there was a whole bunch of paradigm shifting with which to occupy one's head.
(And, as a couple in love, they are the slowest companions in Christendom. Also, they are easily distracted from the task at hand. We were trying to do too many things on a Boxing Week Saturday and all my Toronto impatience came flooding back, at possibly the worst possible moment. (Oh well, it'll all get done. That's the great thing about a train ticket: when the train leaves, everything is done.) )
Dirk decided to break the news in an extremely weird way - I called him on Friday night to check in and explain that we would be doing laundry instead of coming into the city, and he told me to call him at Stacy's the next morning. I said, 'oh.' Trying to get a dialogue going, he responded that he had been spending several nights at Stacy's house. I think I said, 'oh,' at this point as well.
"That's it?" he prodded. "Don't you want to ask me something?"
"Um." I thought for a minute and looked at my parents, who were carrying on oblivious on either side of me. "Is your plumbing broken? Do you need to take showers somewhere else?" He laughed and gave up.
As soon as the call ended, I raced upstairs to bother the Boy (who was enjoying a soothing bubble bath). "I think Dirk & Stacy are going out!" I babbled, too freaked to decide on an emotion other than excited. His response was just as intelligent as mine, bless him: "whaaa?" We decided not to talk about it until we had more information.
The next afternoon we showed up at Palaver's with a tonne of luggage and a good bit of uneasiness. Had I interpreted Palaver's cryptic remarks correctly? Was there a perfectly good non-relationship reason behind his vacation at Stacy's? We compounded the confusion by not making any reference to it for a good half-hour. I began seriously wondering if I had jumped to conclusions, as they seemed to be no more affectionate than usual (granted, we all tend to be pretty affectionate towards each other at most times which can be a smoke screen to the nosy). Suddenly the Boy & Tymothi:J were smoking by the garden shed and I was alone in the kitchen with Dirk & Stacy. We all smiled nervously.
I decide to open. "So, are we going to talk about what we're carefully not talking about?" Vague gestures that told me to proceed. "Perhaps you could clear up my confusion," I continued. They kissed. "Okay. So you're dating." I expressed cautious approval of the whole thing, as I was still largely in culture shock. During this period of transition, Stacy told me that she was worried that I was going to kick her ass - which is unlikely as well as impossible; the girl knows karate & voodoo for pete's. I can't even do one chin-up. It took a good five minutes before I realized how I difficult was being - they were nervous about upsetting me and I was acting all stiff & lawyerish & beastly. When I finally got over myself, I hugged Stacy in the hallway and whispered how happy I was for them. It was then that I realized that I was actually happy for them. Go figure.
Other than that rather compelling bit of positive emotional adjustment, it was a perfect day in the city. I almost got the lil' nubbin in my ear pierced, but the prospective hole in my head fell victim to our lazy meandering. We did manage to get a custom t-shirt for dj shannon that reads "[silver star] D J" - and although getting it was coal mining hard, it's a nice thing to end up with. I bought myself a nice little pink-on-pink t with a red sparkly heart and the word 'ME' inside it. It was a handy visual reference for my night at the Garden - whenever I got bored, I could remind everyone (or myself) that the night was about ME and only ME.
Oh right, they all are.
But especially this one. Stacy lent me her pink PVC skirt with the bunny tail and a fetching pair of white ears to go with the shirt. It was easily the most successful costume I've ever run around in; the amount of attention from friends & strangers was staggering. I was pawed by: Mikey, the bouncer (which I permitted because he let me in without ID), the Boy (or my Hus-bunny of course), Stacy, Jesse (well, duh), the newly-fuchsia-haired Little Spider (I think) & a couple of random drunkards.
One charming fellow on the dance floor went so far as to grab me around the waist and begin rubbing his crotch against my - um - bunny-tail-clad ass. I spun away immediately, and showed him the Ring.
"I am a married bunny," I said.
"Why're you at a club?" he responded truculently.
"My husband is in the club with me."
He turned to Little Spider at this point. "Are you married too?" I grabbed her around the waist & yelled affirmatives until he went away. Later we had difficulty figuring out what was more humiliating: to be groped by such a man, or to be sloppy seconds for such a man. But at the time we thought it was funny.
Scherezade was there as well, although she does not figure into the dancefloor stories as she never danced. She did, however deliver a very fabulous Christmas present to me: a vial of chocolate-scented perfume. I sprayed it on myself & immediately began to hector my guests into smelling me. "Smell me! Smell me!!" I shouted, "I'm a CHOCOLATE BUNNY!!"
Well, I think I'm funny.
Five bottles of Canadian and a busted set of bunny ears later (thanks to a high stepping gothbitch), I found myself whirling to "Ashes to Ashes," the last song of the night. We made a necessary stop at Amato's for the Boy's first decent pizza in a year, then headed on up to Palaver's house for sleepies. Now, the original plan had been that Palaver would sleep in St. Pete's bed & we would take his bed. But now there was the coupley thing going on, and the plan needed work. I ignored this pressing need & went to bed anyway, determined to get my 4 hours by hook or by crook. As a result of this lack of foresight, the next morning I left for my shower amid Palaver's negotiations for his bed. (The Boy was a little slow in vacating, and Palaver & Stacy sought permission to come aboard as I took off for the bathroom.) Later I would claim that I would've wished Stacy a happy birthday face-to-face, yet I was distracted by the sight of her trying to get into bed with my husband.
Which is true. Although it's also kinda not true. True or not, 'tis fun.
Today has been a recovery day. You just don't snap back from a cheap beer buzz on 4 hours of sleep - not at my age anyway. My parents have been remarkably sympathetic, which makes me wonder if they would've been so understanding of this kind of thing when I was 18. No, probably not.
this time 3 years ago: a very pleasant fog.
