Thursday, August 05, 2004
Weekends
So, Thursday is sort of a stupid time to be writing about last weekend, but it’s been a busy time. As a result of this monotonous project I’ve been doing for work I’ve now convinced myself that I have bipolar disorder. However, also because of the project I now know which drug would be best to take for that problem. Don’t bother asking, there are confidentiality agreements involved.
My family recently came to spend the weekend and celebrate B’s (my sister-in-law’s) birthday. It was a great weekend and I didn’t spend a cent. We sit around telling old stories, accusing each other of being angry, and watching the baby walk three steps and topple.
Maybe it’s because the stories are about us, and that my parents tell them together and laugh, or maybe it’s just all of us in the same room at the same time, which doesn’t happen as often as one would like anymore, but I eat these stories up. It feels like being a little kid before bed, I want to hear the same stories over and over again and I’m still as delighted by them as I once was. My mother spins a good yarn and she has a good memory for the finer details. The character names are always outrageous. Here are some examples of my father’s old girlfriends: Shirley Brimsicle, and Felicity Pickup.
They told the story of Matthew and the ice skates again. There was going to be a skating trip at Matthew’s elementary school and the teacher was asking if everyone had ice skates. Matthew, lacking any sort of shame, said that he did not have ice skates because our family couldn’t afford them. That night my mother received a phone call from the mother of one of Matthew’s classmates. She felt badly that we were so poor and wanted to help out. This may be the only time my mother regretted telling us we were poor so often. Her stock response to us whenever we asked for anything in stores was that we couldn’t have it because we were too poor. This wasn’t a complete lie, we didn’t have a lot of money, but the actual reasons were likely a little more complex. Matthew, for all his gifts, was never a natural athlete, nor did he show a great deal of interest in participating in sports. As such buying him a new pair of skates when he was growing like a weed made about as much sense as…um…something that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Low-carb beer? Decaf coffee? They don't make sense to me, but other people might understand them.
She decided to buy him a pair of used skates and he went on the trip. At this time we lived in a town house complex with many colourful characters. On set were Burf and Ernie (I’m serious), who were a couple, and openly so (so, clearly the most colourful). They made a skating rink in the courtyard for the tots every winter, and this winter Matthew had new (to him) skates. He went out with some of the other kids, but skating is hard, and he wasn’t good at it, so he lay down on the ice and the kids dragged him around by his feet. My mother was watching from the window and reports having felt a strong and poignant shame at Matthew’s behaviour. Finally Matthew was ready to come back in, but he couldn’t make it to the door because he couldn’t skate. Our dear mother said, and I believe that this is an exact quote, “Tough.” If he wanted to get back home he’d either have to be dragged back, or he’d have to walk over on his skates.
Aside from the stories and the teasing our time together is now largely occupied by watching Matthew and B’s son, Rage (who just turned one), wander around the room with arms sticking straight out in front of him like Frankenstein. Rage can’t speak yet, instead he has a wide variety of “busy noises” they go a little something like this: ducka ducka ducka or dooda dooooodaaaa dooda. He is very funny and keeps us all in stitches. He has this great fake laugh he produces when everyone else is laughing or speaking to him and he wants to be in on the joke. It’s kind of like how dogs will politely wag their tails when you are speaking to them.
Recently Rage has taken an exceptional liking to Goodnight Moon, which – while a classic – is one of the creepiest kids’ books ever. “Good-night no one.” AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH. Plus, the old lady rabbit sitting in the rocker, I don’t know…It just seems like the narrator is fixing everything in his/her mind and saying good byes because this is the last night he/she will ever see. The whole family is of the same mind about the book, so every time Rage lurches over with it we play “can’t see the baby.” Which is a new variation of a former favourite game I developed when I worked in a food court during high school, “can’t see the customer.”
This is a total cop out, but I’m finished work now, I want to go home, and I can’t think of a good way to tie all of this in but I want to post because it’s been so long. So, sorry about the lack of finesse, but it’s my blog and I’ll half-ass it if I want to.
So, Thursday is sort of a stupid time to be writing about last weekend, but it’s been a busy time. As a result of this monotonous project I’ve been doing for work I’ve now convinced myself that I have bipolar disorder. However, also because of the project I now know which drug would be best to take for that problem. Don’t bother asking, there are confidentiality agreements involved.
My family recently came to spend the weekend and celebrate B’s (my sister-in-law’s) birthday. It was a great weekend and I didn’t spend a cent. We sit around telling old stories, accusing each other of being angry, and watching the baby walk three steps and topple.
Maybe it’s because the stories are about us, and that my parents tell them together and laugh, or maybe it’s just all of us in the same room at the same time, which doesn’t happen as often as one would like anymore, but I eat these stories up. It feels like being a little kid before bed, I want to hear the same stories over and over again and I’m still as delighted by them as I once was. My mother spins a good yarn and she has a good memory for the finer details. The character names are always outrageous. Here are some examples of my father’s old girlfriends: Shirley Brimsicle, and Felicity Pickup.
They told the story of Matthew and the ice skates again. There was going to be a skating trip at Matthew’s elementary school and the teacher was asking if everyone had ice skates. Matthew, lacking any sort of shame, said that he did not have ice skates because our family couldn’t afford them. That night my mother received a phone call from the mother of one of Matthew’s classmates. She felt badly that we were so poor and wanted to help out. This may be the only time my mother regretted telling us we were poor so often. Her stock response to us whenever we asked for anything in stores was that we couldn’t have it because we were too poor. This wasn’t a complete lie, we didn’t have a lot of money, but the actual reasons were likely a little more complex. Matthew, for all his gifts, was never a natural athlete, nor did he show a great deal of interest in participating in sports. As such buying him a new pair of skates when he was growing like a weed made about as much sense as…um…something that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Low-carb beer? Decaf coffee? They don't make sense to me, but other people might understand them.
She decided to buy him a pair of used skates and he went on the trip. At this time we lived in a town house complex with many colourful characters. On set were Burf and Ernie (I’m serious), who were a couple, and openly so (so, clearly the most colourful). They made a skating rink in the courtyard for the tots every winter, and this winter Matthew had new (to him) skates. He went out with some of the other kids, but skating is hard, and he wasn’t good at it, so he lay down on the ice and the kids dragged him around by his feet. My mother was watching from the window and reports having felt a strong and poignant shame at Matthew’s behaviour. Finally Matthew was ready to come back in, but he couldn’t make it to the door because he couldn’t skate. Our dear mother said, and I believe that this is an exact quote, “Tough.” If he wanted to get back home he’d either have to be dragged back, or he’d have to walk over on his skates.
Aside from the stories and the teasing our time together is now largely occupied by watching Matthew and B’s son, Rage (who just turned one), wander around the room with arms sticking straight out in front of him like Frankenstein. Rage can’t speak yet, instead he has a wide variety of “busy noises” they go a little something like this: ducka ducka ducka or dooda dooooodaaaa dooda. He is very funny and keeps us all in stitches. He has this great fake laugh he produces when everyone else is laughing or speaking to him and he wants to be in on the joke. It’s kind of like how dogs will politely wag their tails when you are speaking to them.
Recently Rage has taken an exceptional liking to Goodnight Moon, which – while a classic – is one of the creepiest kids’ books ever. “Good-night no one.” AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH. Plus, the old lady rabbit sitting in the rocker, I don’t know…It just seems like the narrator is fixing everything in his/her mind and saying good byes because this is the last night he/she will ever see. The whole family is of the same mind about the book, so every time Rage lurches over with it we play “can’t see the baby.” Which is a new variation of a former favourite game I developed when I worked in a food court during high school, “can’t see the customer.”
This is a total cop out, but I’m finished work now, I want to go home, and I can’t think of a good way to tie all of this in but I want to post because it’s been so long. So, sorry about the lack of finesse, but it’s my blog and I’ll half-ass it if I want to.
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