We celebrate Thanksgiving in October. When ya know, the harvest is being harvested and stuff. However, I’m aware that my American friends are celebrating Thanksgiving today so I thought I’d write a little “What I’m thankful for post”.
I want to note that I’m not trying to offend anyone. You are completely entitled to your own opinions. I’m entitled to mine.
I’m thankful that I’m Canadian.
I’m thankful that when CJ broke his foot it cost us $95. And that was because we got the expensive boot-cast ($50), forgot to put the crutches through the insurance plan ($40), and his pain pills (3 month supply) was $5.
I’m thankful that there is no threat of anyone taking away my right to choose. Not that I have to worry about that because my birth control costs $5 every three months and I can have any pharmacy fill my prescription.
I’m thankful that every single one of my friends can get married at anytime they want to anyone they want. Sexual preference doesn’t matter.
I’m thankful that 59% of Canadians firmly believes in evolution.
I’m thankful that this country believes in multiculturalism and not a melting pot.
I’m thankful that if I were to choose to smoke pot (not that I ever would, ahem) no one cares including the police (ok, they care a little but not really).
I’m thankful that our most extreme weather is snowstorms – even if global warming (of which 91% Canadians believe in) has been making it snow less.
I’m thankful for being able to travel to Cuba for really cheap every winter to escape said snow.
I’m mostly thankful that after years of igloo, hockey, kraft dinner and funny accent jokes I, as a Canadian, can point at all of my liberal American friends and yell “Who’s laughing now, eh?”
I walked by a homeless woman today.
She asked for spare change, I shook my head. I judged her immediately as a drug addict. I pitied her for needing a fix at 7:30am; what type of sad life does she have?
I then walked into the coffee shop and got an extra large because my head was pounding and I knew it was going to be a long day.
On the way back I gave her a dollar.
Perhaps we aren’t so different after all.
Cleaning up after having the girls over for dinner.
Me: I love how our new dishwasher has a special place for wine glasses on the top rack! I never liked having to put them down below with the gross pots and pans.
CJ: I think that section is for bowls.
Me: (looking at the rack again and realizing the section is clearly for bowls) … yah, I suppose you could use it for bowls.
CJ: You have a drinking problem.
My mother never had a wedding.
My father proposed to her on Christmas Eve and they got married on New Year’s Eve. There was no engagement ring, wedding dress, wedding guests, etc. They went a party after and announced their marriage.
My sister sort-of had a wedding.
She chose to go to the Dominican Republic with a modest 22 people. When she came home, they had a reception for her – thrown together in less than a month at a fancy downtown restaurant – it was simple, quick and elegant.
For these reasons you’d think my mother would be all for my rather non-traditional approach to things.
“It’s not like this day is just about you”
That is what she said to me when I first started planning my wedding. In the months that have followed she has tried to prove this point again and again. Case in point: Tonight we are going wedding dress shopping.
No, I have my wedding dress picked out already. I’m suppose to order it this weekend so it arrives at the perfect time in order to get the alterations done (apparently there is some secret science involving the Aztec calendar as far as ordering wedding dresses is concerned). My mother has seen me in this wedding dress and agreed that is was indeed beautiful. When I reminded her we needed to order this weekend she said:
“Not until I see you in other dresses. I want to see some options”
Options? I’ve been in options! I’ve been near tears surrounded in options. I have no interest in putting on another white frilly option that makes me look fat. At this point of the conversation I looked to my father with the best pleading eyes I had, he simply shrugged. So I argued with the woman – made the point that when a girl finds her wedding dress she knows it’s the one and shouldn’t shop around anymore. It was useless. I still have to go wedding dress shopping again.
Why, you ask? Well that is simple – my mother just wants to be part of the process of me picking out my wedding dress. She wants to feel as though it was her final decision to get my dress. Twisted? Completely.
I don’t know how to describe my mother fairly. I don’t even know if I want to try. I just know that I am the least like her of her children. I get frustrated at her opinions and she doesn’t understand mine. Things that are important to her don’t matter to me. With regards to this wedding – her family and friends will be there and she feels that it will be a direct reflection of her. It’s not but this is why she has been demanding to be an intricate part of every decision made and she gets very upset when she’s not.
Unfortunately, I’m not a big enough person to just give in and let her get away with it. So I booked tonight’s wedding dress appointment at the most expensive boutique. It’s going to cost her to find me a new dress.
On the sofa with our wine and crackers; watching some bad movie.
At some point I hear a wailing from outside. Being nosy, I peek through the curtains. Instead of seeing some drunk singing the blues I see a woman lying on the road. There is a car pulled over and a man on a cell phone. Not thinking, I run outside with a blanket and throw it over the woman. My neighbour, with the same idea, comes out of her house with a winter jacket and puts it on my blanket. It’s cold tonight. Not a night for something like this.
Her face hit the pavement when she fell – nose broken, hair matted with blood. The man in the car is still on the phone talking to the 911 operator. He doesn’t know what happened. No one does. We had all just heard her and gone to help.
The ambulance arrives. She’s in a lot of pain but does remember what happened. She lives down the street and was running to the corner store – a car drove by her and they threw a snowball at her. The shock made her slip on the icy ground and she fell from the sidewalk to the road.
No, she doesn’t remember what the car looked like.
No, there are no witnesses.
The paramedics load her into the ambulance. They drive away. The cop tells us to go home – we can’t do anything if we haven’t seen anything.
It had been less than 15 minutes since I heard the woman cry out. I take my blood stained blanket inside, back to my warm safe house with my wine and crackers. It’s over now, nothing else to be done. So I sit down on the sofa and begin to cry.
We crawl out of bed and stumble around, sleep drunk, pulling on clothing, brushing teeth and the such. We walk to the door and look outside.
Growing up in a winter climate you forget how awe-inspiring the first snow really is. Even though the sun hasn’t risen yet, everything is illuminated. The big fluffy flakes come from the sky and dust everything, giving trees, decks, and even cars an artificial highlighted look. When laundry makers are scenting and naming their products it’s this smell they are trying to capture. They fail, of course, but the cold can only be described as “crisp” and “fresh”. In that first silent moment of taking in the winter scene everything is perfect and beautiful.
It’s in that second moment that every curse word you’ve ever learned floods into your head. If you are truly modest (and I’m not) you manage to keep those words within. CJ and I trot back into the house and put on another layer of clothing. Hats, gloves, boots.
Winter, who had been threatening to come for the past month, arrived this morning.
I have no qualms about going naked… well, no qualms about it in the privacy of my own home. I often come home after a hard day of work, strip off my work clothes and toss on boy shorts and a tank top. If that. Clothing seems to be a bother when you are home alone*.
*This dear friends, is why you must call before you come over. And never, ever just walk into my place without knocking first.
This naked business actually spawns a wider debate I often have with my girlfriends about their comfortable level of naked with their significant others. I don’t understand women who refuse to have sex unless the lights are turned off. (I actually can’t remember the last time I had sex in the dark because I’m clumsy and if I don’t have a light on someone is getting hit in the face with my foot – that someone is always CJ and he really doesn’t appreciate it). I recoil in horror when I find out about a friend who has NEVER seen his girlfriend’s boobs (and they live together). And while I’m not that girl who will whip off her shirt after a few drinks in a crowded bar (anymore, heh) but I will change in front of my friends and don’t really care. My body is my body – I can’t change it, I can’t really hide it; so I might as well embrace it and enjoy it. This philosophy has always served me well and I’ve never had a partner who didn’t enjoy my willingness to be free, open and naked at anytime. Consider this a Wednesday morning lesson –no loving man would ever, ever, ever think that your love handles, saggy boobs, dimpled bottom or whatnot is anything except perfect because he gets to have sex with it. If you have a boyfriend who says anything about your body in anything except a “oh my god isn’t it awesome!” way you should leave him. There is someone out there who will only pay you compliments and be happy that you have boobs (regardless of size they are all awesome) and a vagina.
On a seemingly unrelated note – we are finally moved into the new place. A home with older charm located in central Halifax it has eleven beautiful large windows on all sides of the house. It also has neighbours on all sides with lots of walker-bys since we live on a busy street. We came from an apartment building that had three windows (albeit, also large windows but still only three) with a view of the water – so we had window treatments but they weren’t really a priority, they were more of a decoration. On our first walkthrough of the house, I carefully measured all of the windows and set out to make sure I would have window treatments for all of them before we moved in. I then spent a week carefully running between stores and considering the various options – shades, curtains, blinds – in various colour options – muted tones, designs, etc.
And then life happened. I got busy. I forgot about all the windows until last Thursday, when we were finally able to move into our flat. We looked around the empty space and realized that we didn’t have nearly enough things to cover the windows. We got the bedroom curtains hung up, the bathroom, and two out of the five windows in the front done. The rest would have to wait until we had more energy and money. I told CJ that I wanted time to think about what to do with each room – and this thinking has overwhelmed me for the past couple of days.
But I had forgotten about my naked thing. Upon moving, I became a girl who likes her naked in a house with a lot of windows.
I’m sorry to my neighbours who are prudes and prefer not to see.
You’re welcome to my neighbours who are voyeurs and enjoy the show.
I don’t really care either way. I kinda sorta pretend to care a little bit – I’ll throw a bra on or something if I’m walking around; but for the most part I don’t care. CJ on the other hand – CJ is a man who cares. He cares about people seeing him in just his boxers. He cares about people seeing me waltz around fancy free, he also really doesn’t want the new neighbours to hate us as much as our last … um … five have. So, without even consulting me, he went out yesterday and spent about $200 on window stuff. If only I had known a month ago it would be that easy to get everything picked out and hung up.
I’ve become OBSESSED with this song.
KF, charming and witty but quick to remember all the details of my sordid past, told me that the only reason she thinks I like this song is because in the video the girl starts off and ends up in a bathtub with one boot on. There may or may not be a story involving my youth and waking up in a bathtub in a strange house with just my boots on.
Look, we live in a cold climate – walking home barefoot isn’t an option in the winter because you’ll get frost bite.
Errr, ahhh, don’t judge, I was young and stupid and basically an alcoholic.
HEY! You in the back! Stop snickering! I’m totally not like that now…. but I do have unusual attachment issues with my shoes at parties. Alright! Enough, judgy mcjudgerson, I’m totally not listening to what you think of me or my musical tastes anymore.
(Happy Monday kids)