Stepping Into Christmas

On November 22nd, Ter lamented, “Christmas is five weeks away and I’m not ready!”

I just looked at her.

Maybe she meant she wasn’t mentally ready. I certainly wasn’t. Steamed eggnogs aside, there wasn’t much to feel Christmassy about ... but why would there be, when it was only November 22nd? Even when you know it’s coming, you can’t be ready for anything five weeks in advance. If you are, you mustn’t have much of a life.

The big eastern syndicate has us programmed to freak out if we’re not wrapped and ready to go by December 1st. What we forget is the length of time between December 1st and 25th—and there’s a lot of it. There is also a real danger of peaking too early. Being Christmassed-out before Christmas Day kills the holiday buzz. Prepping is the fun part! Steps toward it can certainly start in late November, but you’d better pace yourself if you want to experience the holly jollies in full.

A week after Ter’s lamentation, the house was mostly decorated. Part of our shopping was done. Collecting for our festive feast was underway. Holiday tuneage was in light rotation. Miraculously, we were both feeling the cheer a tad more than we had been a week earlier.

Another week passed. We completed shopping for our December birthday girls. My annual anxiety over devising pictures and poetry for the cards was stirring. No drafts had begun, though. My anxiety has to become a grand mal panic before I get to work; part of the routine involves reassuring myself that the magic happens over a weekend, and that weekend hadn’t arrived yet.

Last week, I arrived home to the tantalizing perfume of Ter’s orange and almond Christmas cake, fresh from the oven. We helped the neighbours trick out the building lobby with holiday sparkle. Christmas music went into heavy rotation. We snacked on eggnog creams and fruitcake truffles. I got more loot, both to give and to get, as Ter checks off my Christmas list. And I finished the cards this weekend.

Next week, present wrapping, cookie baking, perhaps some visiting, ritual viewings of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and Mr Popper’s Penguins—oh, and the rekindling of my annual fling with a dark and spicy Captain Morgan, yowowowrrr.

We’re not done yet, but little by little, we’re getting there.

That’s what the five weeks are for, silly.

Merry Christmas.

“The Christmas Party”

Their eyes met across the room, and for the space of a heartbeat, time stood still.

He wasn’t the most handsome man in the crowd, but his laugh lines and silvered temples struck her as wildly attractive. From his vantage point, she was beautiful without trying, soft in hair and form, and when she smiled, it too was soft, alluring in the manner of good Scotch or a warm sweater on a cold day.

Most of the women at the party would be offended at comparisons to alcohol and comfortable clothes. Somehow, he thought she wouldn’t mind.

They circled the room like moons in orbit, moving but drawing no closer. Conversation foiled them from approaching each other, idle chitchat about plans for the holidays and inevitable griping about office politics, some of which were in evident play over finger food and wine. Her smile only deepened at the catty commentary, her eyes revealing nothing. Intrigued at a distance, he forgot himself and changed the subject from his golfing handicap to getting out of town for Christmas. His colleagues traded wry glances and discreetly let it go.

Corporately funded, it was a semi-formal gathering, a show of appreciation from the executive members who mingled with the worker bees. The drinks were paid for and appetizers unlimited. The men wore ties and the women wore heels. Music was meant to encourage conversation rather than make it impossible. Dinner was a natural follow up, since everyone was already in their party clothes, and people who had arrived with a partner began joining other couples to form a larger group.

He finally made it to her side. “Would you be offended if I said that dress looks wonderful on you?”

She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering thoughtfully on the sapphire silk knotted at his throat. “How could I be, when it matches your tie so well it almost looks planned?”

“In that case, will you join me for dinner?”

She laughed. “You don’t fool around.”

“I assure you, I’m completely serious.”

One of the sales staff called to them. “Are you two coming?”

Their eyes met again, this time at close range. “What do you think?” he asked in a low voice.

“Mm,” she replied lazily, her gaze wandering over him once more. “I guess it would be a shame to waste this dress.”

“Especially since it matches my tie,” he observed.

“Guys! Are you coming?”

Her head moved minutely and he nodded once. “Not this time, Jim,” he said over his shoulder. He turned back to find her still smiling. “I’m all yours,” he told her.

“Good,” she answered. “Let’s go home.”

“What about dinner?”

“I’ll scramble some eggs.”

“We paid the sitter to midnight.”

“Oh, so what? The kids will be in bed, that’s what matters.”

They passed Jim and the gang on their way to collect their coats. The faces were hilarious as he helped her into her cream wool then took her hand to walk her out. “ ’Night, all,” she said brightly on the way by. “See you next year.”

“Merry Christmas, you two,” Jim replied, dryly. “And happy anniversary!” he added before the doors closed behind them.

Parking Karma

The dumbest place to be midday is at a shopping mall the week after Black Friday. Four weeks before Christmas and you’ll be lucky to escape with your life, let alone score a parking space. There was even a cautionary blurb on the news one night, stating stats around parking lot crashes at this time of year. There is no good will toward anyone when parking is at a premium. I do most of my shopping on weekday breaks; fortunately, I work downtown. I don’t have to go anywhere near a mall to get it done in December.

So why was I sitting in the Tiguan at noon on the last Friday in November? Going to the mall, of course. Aside from the annual holiday hubbub, Ter and I have December birthdays to contend with, which makes errant trips at inconvenient times something of a necessity.

Ter, who was at the wheel, rubbed her hands together and murmured, “Parking karma, parking karma,” beneath her breath. The traffic light turned green. We had to wait while four other cars turned ahead of us, but we cleared the intersection as the light changed to amber. We landed in another turn lane, this one leading onto the rooftop parking at the mall. I observed that people were leaving (good sign) and people were streaming in (bad sign). “No problem,” Ter said, undaunted.

Having surrendered any sort of control over my life the day before—but that’s another story—I took her at her word.

We almost always park on the roof of Toys R Us, but this time that was likely to be impossible. Glancing over the sea of shimmering cartops as we drove into the fray, there seemed little point in going the other way, though I reckoned our chances were better in that direction. Still, Ter followed her usual course, pausing at the end of one aisle to watch a silver Chevy slowly reversing from a space. My burgeoning astonishment at this unforeseen opening was abruptly dashed when Ter serenely drove on. Perhaps she’d spied the grille of a gargantuan SUV aiming for the same space from the far end of the aisle, or maybe imagined the space too tricky to navigate, else she would have gone for it.

She turned down the next aisle instead—a route we never take, incidentally; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve driven along that short stretch. I looked to the left at a solid line of bumpers. Not much hope here, I thought.

Ter suddenly blurted, “Is that a parking space?”

I was still looking to the left, where a set of hash marks along the food court’s skylight could maybe sorta kinda have been considered a parking space if we didn’t get caught, and was about to say, “I don’t think so,” when I realized Ter was looking past me to the right. There, next to a mall service entrance and practically bathed in celestial sunbeams, was a space big enough to hold a Hummer. And it was empty.

I couldn’t even speak. I just sat with my jaw hanging loose as she nosed the Tiguan into place and cut the engine. “How do you do that?” I finally demanded.

She grinned at me. “Someone just said to me, ‘turn right down here’, so I did.”

“Praise your guy Jesus!” I exclaimed.

This is an exceptional example, but in truth, parking spots happen to Ter all the time. She simply accepts that she’ll find one where and when she needs it—and I rather suspect when she can’t find one, it’s because I’m with her.

Honestly, for someone who steadfastly believes in magic, I’m perennially surprised when it occurs in front of me. Yet miracles happen everywhere and every day; they exist whether or not we see them. We naturally expect to see them more at this time of year than at any other, however, and this one was most definitely a Christmas miracle. The first of many, I hope.

Season’s greetings,

Taste Buds

Ter and I are standing at the market deli counter. I’m holding an eggnog tart in a plastic clamshell from the bakery department. She is studying the variety of salads—and I mean variety. It’s not just coleslaw and potato salad anymore. Now there’s Mediterranean chick pea, curried carrot, twice backed potato, Asian slaw, three bean, Persian lentil, pesto pasta, you name it, there’s a bowl of it behind the glass.

“I love their beet salad,” Ter says to me.

I frown, unsure that I’ve heard her correctly. “Beet?”

She nods. I glance at the selection and, yes, there is indeed a beet salad. Heaven knows what’s in it besides beets, but I don’t ask.

“I got some the other day,” Ter continues. “It was so good, I ate it all for breakfast.”

I know. Beets for breakfast? Ewwww. Except for two things: one, Ter loves beets and two, she’s not a fan of conventional breakfast food. I’m the oatmeal/waffle/ granola-and-yogurt/eggs-and-toast half of the unit. During the thirty-plus years I’ve known her, Ter has preferred cold pizza to pancakes and leftover Chinese to Cheerios before nine in the morning. In fact, though we share the same passion for Italian food (who doesn’t like Italian food?), her culinary taste generally runs in the opposite direction to mine. She doesn’t enjoy cereal.  She’ll down a bowl of popcorn while I’m chomping cookies. Sweets are not her thing. Carbs used to be, but not so much now unless you count the chilli rice chips she snacks on while I’m snarfing a brownie or a butter tart with my afternoon cup of sweet creamy black tea. And let’s not even talk tea. Okay, let’s. Stash’s Earl Grey with double bergamot is her morning starter; after that, she might have a second cup of the same flavour at elevenses, though she occasionally deviates to a rogue Red Rose instead – and that’s it. She’s toyed with mint herbals in the past, but nothing has ever stuck. So the tea cupboard overflows with my addle-minded collection. The freezer is jammed with cake, cookies and tarts on my behalf. I tend the chocolate bin and Ter keeps the dishwasher stocked with a selection of corn, potato and rice chips. She likes wine, I drink liqueur. I can do breakfast for dinner, she does dinner for breakfast. Neither one of us can eat like vegetarian for more than a couple of days before we must have meat. Our tastes complement each other perfectly.

Back at the market, we get to the counter. Ter puts in the order, and the clerk starts loading a bin of bean salad. That’s when I realize I’d misheard. She’d said “beans”, not “beets.” Still, you can see why I wasn’t surprised even if I was wrong.

She makes a killer curried lentil/rice salad. It’s loaded with raisins and slivered almonds and carrot and green onion and it tastes like middle eastern heaven. I eat it warm or cold for lunch, with chicken or without, and it’s a kickass side with grilled salmon for dinner. Last time she made it, Ter told me that it’s awesome with a fried egg on top, too. “I had it like that for breakfast, today,” she said.

Of course she did.

“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Piercing

Wee Sis holding me together - I couldn't stop laughing

The hardest part of dressing for work is figuring out what earrings to wear, then allowing for time to separate the winners from their fellows. When I was a kid, I had no inclination whatsoever to get my ears pierced; neither my mother nor my older sister had theirs done ... but my wee sister was different.

She had hers done at sixteen. I think it gave her something of her own, something that wasn’t emulating either of her older sisters. Of Dad’s three girls, she played more with makeup and was constantly rearranging her room—if anyone in the clan could have been an artist or an interior designer, it’s my little sister. She has the eye for it. She’s also responsible for my daily bling dilemma. She’s the reason why I got my ears pierced.

She won’t remember it this way, but here’s my story and I’m sticking to it:

I was nineteen and had a summer job with the CNIB, so it must have been 1981. One day wee sis met me at noon and we went somewhere for eats. I don’t remember where or what, but it was fast enough that we were left with a half hour before I had to get back to the office. She looked at me and asked, “What do we want to do until then?”

“Let’s get my ears pierced,” I replied.

I was joking, but when she lit up and said, “Okay!” I was—gak!—committed. We have always loved each other, but we could be brutal when we were younger, and if I chickened out, I’d never hear the end of it. Actually, that may yet be the case in some circumstances. Anyway, we got into the car (she was already driving; I had yet to get my license) and headed to the shop where her ears had been pierced a year or so earlier.

The place was empty. No customers and, better yet, no staff. To impress wee sis with my pseudo-sincerity, I made a point of perusing the merchandise as if contemplating my first purchase. In truth, I was counting the seconds in hope of escaping with my lobes intact. I almost made it, too. I was about to suggest that time was running short when the clerk appeared like a phantom menace and asked if we needed help.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, thanks.”

The words never left my lips. Wee sister took me by the shoulders, turned me to face the salesperson, and said, “My sister wants to get her ears pierced.” She gave me a little shove for emphasis and I was officially doomed.

I vaguely remember hyperventilating in front of a mirror while the clerk drew dots on my earlobes and my sister watched from a strategic spot near the door, no doubt in case I decided to make a run for it. Make a run for it? I could barely breathe, let alone make my limbs work. I closed my eyes as the loaded stapler hovered near my right ear. A sharp pop!, and warming blood rushed to the offended lobe. A few seconds later, the entire deed was done. As we walked back to the car, my little sister put her arm around my shoulders and declared, “I’m so proud of you!”

So tomorrow morning, when I’m pawing through my tangled box of studs and snarled hoops, I will remind myself of those precious words and how good it made me feel to hear them.

Impressing your older sister can be tricky enough. Impressing your younger sister? Now that’s a coup!

Love you, wee ’un.

Duty Calls

People love to complain about things, but in a democracy the responsibility for change sits squarely on our shoulders. You may not get the candidate you vote for, but the act of voting itself is a show of respect for those who fought (and died) to ensure you have a say at all. On this Remembrance Day weekend, it’s more important than ever to honour their sacrifice at every opportunity.

BC is currently conducting a mail-in referendum on electoral reform. We have been given a chance to change a system that many of us have griped about for-seeming-ever. I won’t try to describe the options here because the details are irrelevant for anyone outside of BC, and anyone inside BC has until November 30 to mail your ballot to Elections BC—only you’d better mail it in well before the 30^th because postal service is hiccupping on Canada Post’s rotating strike. And it’s important that your ballot is counted. This is what democracy is all about, Charlie Brown.

There’s been a buzz about something in the wind for the past few weeks, but not much in the media besides advertisements for and against electoral reform, neither of which did much to unravel the mystery of the alternatives to the system we have now.

The system that’s literally been in place for centuries. The system that, with some alteration, is why Hillary Clinton won the popular vote in the States, but lost the presidential election. That’s why I’ve paid attention to this referendum. I don’t want something similar to happen here.

I know, I know. It’s confusing. I dislike recommendations to visit anyone’s website for more information because I don’t spend a lot of time on the Internet. Government websites aren’t always easy to navigate, and the 1-800 toll free phone number generally advises me that “our call volume has exceeded our capacity, so please try again later.” Information can been spotty and not very well explained. In truth, I was so befuddled by the options to “first past the post” that I almost declined to vote at all. Then I thought, No, I have to vote; it’s a privilege and my responsibility, but figured I’d stay with the status quo. But then I realized I’m unhappy with the status quo, and maybe I should consider the options—or at least watch the news blurb wherein the options were, as it turned out, sorta kinda outlined and didn’t impress me into changing my mind.

Ter and I watched the televised debate between the Premier and the Leader of the Opposition a couple of days ago. That was where the three alternatives being offered were explained in a way that chimed. It helped me make up my mind not only to vote at all, but to think about the choices and consciously decide which one aligns with my sense of how government should look.

It didn’t take that long. Sure, it took some effort because I had to use my brain, but when I gave myself five minutes to focus, some things became clear. Better yet, when I finally opened the referendum package that came in the mail, I understood what I was reading. I almost messed up the ballot, but I caught myself and got it safely in the mail this afternoon. “Look at us,” I said to Ter, “participating in the democratic process!” Considering that women weren’t allowed to vote a hundred years ago, it’s more precious to me than ever.

Truly, BC reader, you didn’t have to have watched the debate to comprehend the write up in the package you received; just give yourself five minutes to focus. Think about whether or not you’re okay with where we’re at. If you are, say so. If you’re not, do the work, then make it count.

From now on, complaining is not an option.