Yesterday was garbage day in Havenot and I am not sure who enjoys it more, me or the dog. While he loves to binge curbside, I love the purging of all things no longer needed on this voyage. Freezer burnt Pizza Pops. Gray bras. Suspicious mustards. Defunct Christmas lights. And holey socks.
The gurgling is less noticeable by day, what with the constant clicking of the keyboard and house sounds; dogs puking, washing machines churning, bills mounting. Yesterday though, I stuck a Christmas CD in the television DVD slot and Charlie Brown's Christmas tunes drowned out the water cooler. I never would have thought to play music on the TV but upon discovering my trusty ol' mini stereo had suddenly kicked the bucket conveniently before garbage day, I was about to have one of those hissy fits brought on by circumstance, when the little bastard merely glided a CD into the TV, mixed my first nog of the season, Mom, say when... Mom... say when... and without further incident, we set up the tree.
The Venetian gondolier. The Beefeater from the Tower of London. The rasta Santa. No, sadly, not global sexual conquests – Christmas ornaments. Jack and I have have been picking up ornaments on our travels since he was tiny, although he noted we haven't gone anywhere this year. Thanks for reminding me. Rising from the ashes of the Tupperware storage box came an Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, and an olive wood crèche from the Christmas Eve I spent drinking holy wine in Bethlehem, long before I gave birth my own miserable little Christmas miracle.
This year, as we were going down memory lane hanging ornaments, I told Jack that someday, when I am dead and he is married to some miserable bitch that reminded him of his mother, NOT to toss the ornaments away on garbage day. Instead, give them to Simone, my BFF.
My best friend forever and I have been exchanging ornaments since she was passing through a thankfully brief David Bowie phase, and I wore painter pants and braided pigtails. Jack isn't as sentimental about her button angel or the portly ballerina with one broken wing, but they symbolize a precious friendship that has endured time, distance, and rare differences of opinion. Simone and I spoke last night for the first time in way too long and she commented that this ridiculous blog makes her feel like she is in touch, and how it feels like our lives are somehow in synch. Poor bitch to have a life in synch with mine.
We had agreed not to exchange gifts this year for financial reasons, but after hanging up the phone I thought, fuck that. Nothing else matters more.
Damn. Had I not been so hasty tossing out that gray bra, I could have fired up the glue gun and added a little sparkle to the stray elastic. Or reconstructed the lobster with twist ties, bile, and a ribbon for hanging it on her tree.
So today, everyone who wants something done by noon can fuck off. I am heading down to Frame-it, or Thornbloom to search for this year's perfect ornament.
Simone, you look great. I got an email from Amanda. Say hi to Arielle. Go hike in Loree for me. Everything will be fine. I heard about Fred. What's with your hair. Don't forget our Mother's birthdays this week. I love you.
Our checkered past will soon be in the mail.
Thornbloom, if you haven't been this year, is like Santa's workshop full of gorgeous ornaments ranging in price from bankrupt to break the bank.
Frame-it have tartan bears, skiing beavers and glamourous fairies – all worth a trek to their 3 locations. www. halifaxframing.ca