A week's vacation has come and gone. Sigh. I know that quite often people are actually kind of eager to get back to work after a week away. Feel rested and ready to get back at it etc. For me, not so much.
On a brighter note, my life won't be completely devoid of meaning as long as I can keep drinking for one and a half. The twins are now nearly two weeks old and their slug-like, squirming and leaking phase is in full swing. What's so cute about babies? Really, someone explain.
However, also feeling rather depressed. With life, as usual, comes death.
First, Hazel, Chris' grandmother, died during my hiatus, leaving some to wonder (with perhaps some fear) whether either of the twins will grow up possessed by the spirit of an eccentric and sometimes surly old lady (RIP). Newborns seem like such easy targets for a soul on the hunt for reincarnation.
Next assignment, therefore, is for me to enjoy a Tom Collins or two (Hazel's drink of choice in younger years), and perhaps progress to Freixenet (sparkling wine being her favourite in latter years). I may also play Jingle Bells on a Casio keyboard (an accomplishment she took particular pride in after a couple of glasses of Freixenet). And when I say Casio, I probably mean Yamaha, because that is the brand of keyboard actually in my possession. Perhaps I can play Jingle Bells once through after each drink? We'll see how it goes. Would first have to pull some sheet music for Jingle Bells, and then learn to play it. Reading sheet music and transferring it on sight to sweet melodies on an 80's era keyboard is not one of my skills.
All this in the hope that if I allow the spirit of our dearly departed to inhabit my body for an evening, perhaps I can release it somewhere appropriate rather than anywhere near the bodies of innocent babies. I'm not really sure of an appropriate place to release the restless spirit of a woman who kept her underwear in the freezer to keep spiders out, but hopefully her loving grandson can offer up suggestions.
Hazel's death, however, has been somewhat trumped - at least for me - by Jack Layton's very sad passing. In with one Jack, out with another. Earlier today I read his final letter to Canadians*, literally weeping. Not uncontrollably or anything, but there were definitely tears. A grocery store clerk announced to me as I was buying some cereal that she didn't know much about politics but she sort of wished he would come back to life for a minute just so she could give him a thumbs up and say "Good job!" - which I thought was nice. He was an inspirational leader and the embodiment of the possibility of positive change - and I won't say anymore because if you want to depress yourselves with detail there's plenty of newsfeed for that. There are leftist hearts breaking a little all over.
I'm going to find some time over the next few days to hoist a drink or two in honour of the politician Canadians voted as the one they would most like to have a beer with. I won't do anything to protect the twins from the possible proximity of his restless soul, either, because if a little of his spirit finds its way into either of them, it probably wouldn't be such a bad thing. Which isn't meant as a shot at Hazel, but I'm not sure that she's the stuff that folk heroes are made of.
Anyway, his constituency office is only half a block from my apartment, so I'm off to sign the condolences book, and likely get choked up all over again.
*http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/story/2011/08/22/pol-layton-last-letter.html
Monday, August 22, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Drinking for .... one and a half.
So.
The twins were extracted at about 10 after 7 p.m., EST. I understand all went well, and they are both healthy and free of any visible deformities. I won't have first-hand knowledge of this until I visit the hospital tomorrow. I hear that one of them came into the world very relaxed and laid back, and the other one screaming its fool head off. I'll leave you to guess which is which.
I say "drinking for one and a half" because Sara plans to breast feed, at least a little, and so I'll still be doing about half of her drinking for the time being.
You'd think that I might have devoted some time over the last 9 months to thinking about something to say on this monumental occasion. But I didn't. I figured something would come to me. It hasn't.
You'd also think that I'd be a little freaked out right now. But I'm not. Feeling strangely calm. Perhaps once I actually see them I'll be a little more in touch (and by "in touch", I mean anxious and uncomfortable). Right now it's still kind of like they're not real.
Ever since we annointed Sara's belly with vodka last Saturday and expressed our wishes for the little demons in years to come, I've been giving a little thought to how their parents may have sealed their fates just by choice of names. There are some who believe that a person's first name plays a big role in personality development. I can only assume that it's not magic at work, but connotation. I have not made a study of the workings of the brain, but it makes sense to me that one's personality could be the result, in part, of how he or she is treated, and that treatment could have a lot to do with subtle word associations.
So, let's consider the various ways that Jack captures the imagination: Jack Kerouac, Jack Kevorkian, Jack the Ripper, Captain Jack Sparrow, Jack Bauer, Jack Tripper, Jack Layton, Jack Nicholson, Jack Lalanne, Jack Black, Jack White, Jack Sprat, Jack Rabbit Slim (and his Twist Contest). Jackknife, jackhammer, jackpot, hijack, lumberjack, jack-in-the-box, jack o' lantern, jack off, jack-off.
Jack originated as a diminutive for the biblical "John" and as a Middle English slang for "man". Its meanings include "god is gracious" and "he who supplants".
The Scottish form of Jack is "Jock", which, in addition to being an athletically inclined and possibly dim-witted high school student, is also a slang word for masturbation, in the Caribbean.
The associations one might make in their mind regarding Jack are fairly obvious, I think. Molly requires a bit more explanation. Since there aren't that many Mollys to choose from, I expanded to include the short form, Moll. Here goes:
Molly is another name for pure MDMA/ecstasy. It is also a word for a female mule. Gun moll is slang for a female companion of an American gangster. Moll is also Victorian slang for prostitute, and is still used as slang for "a woman of loose sexual morals" in Australia and New Zealand. Genetically engineered sheep. Molly Hatchet, Molly Ringwald, Molly Shannon, Flogging Molly. Albert Moll is the founder of modern sexology.
Moll Flanders, the character created by Daniel Dafoe, is born illegitimately to a woman on death row in London, and grows up to become a servant in a household of two brothers, the eldest of which convinces her to "act like they are married" in bed, and later to marry his younger brother, who leaves her widowed. She becomes a con artist, tricking various men into marrying her, and goes on to have multiple children with different fathers. Molly Bloom, of James Joyce's Ulysses, is known mainly for her soliloquy and the fact that she has an extra-marital affair.
Molly Grue is a character from The Last Unicorn, who is originally introduced as living in sin in the woods with a bandit named Captain Cully. She leaves the gang of bandits to follow a unicorn, and eventually becomes a protector of unicorns, in her way.
Molly is a diminutive of "Mary", meaning, the "virgin Mary" - as irony goes I'm sure it was intentional in 14th century Britain. The name also means "star of the sea" (aka - the Kraken).
So. It appears that Jack is destined to grow up as a bit of a maverick, a creative and innovative thinker. Possibly even an iconic figure. Or an iconoclast. And also, perhaps, a malnourished murderer of prostitutes. Which doesn't bode well for Molly, who is destined to grow up to be kind of a whore. If names mean anything.
Welcome to the world, childrens.
The twins were extracted at about 10 after 7 p.m., EST. I understand all went well, and they are both healthy and free of any visible deformities. I won't have first-hand knowledge of this until I visit the hospital tomorrow. I hear that one of them came into the world very relaxed and laid back, and the other one screaming its fool head off. I'll leave you to guess which is which.
I say "drinking for one and a half" because Sara plans to breast feed, at least a little, and so I'll still be doing about half of her drinking for the time being.
You'd think that I might have devoted some time over the last 9 months to thinking about something to say on this monumental occasion. But I didn't. I figured something would come to me. It hasn't.
You'd also think that I'd be a little freaked out right now. But I'm not. Feeling strangely calm. Perhaps once I actually see them I'll be a little more in touch (and by "in touch", I mean anxious and uncomfortable). Right now it's still kind of like they're not real.
Ever since we annointed Sara's belly with vodka last Saturday and expressed our wishes for the little demons in years to come, I've been giving a little thought to how their parents may have sealed their fates just by choice of names. There are some who believe that a person's first name plays a big role in personality development. I can only assume that it's not magic at work, but connotation. I have not made a study of the workings of the brain, but it makes sense to me that one's personality could be the result, in part, of how he or she is treated, and that treatment could have a lot to do with subtle word associations.
So, let's consider the various ways that Jack captures the imagination: Jack Kerouac, Jack Kevorkian, Jack the Ripper, Captain Jack Sparrow, Jack Bauer, Jack Tripper, Jack Layton, Jack Nicholson, Jack Lalanne, Jack Black, Jack White, Jack Sprat, Jack Rabbit Slim (and his Twist Contest). Jackknife, jackhammer, jackpot, hijack, lumberjack, jack-in-the-box, jack o' lantern, jack off, jack-off.
Jack originated as a diminutive for the biblical "John" and as a Middle English slang for "man". Its meanings include "god is gracious" and "he who supplants".
The Scottish form of Jack is "Jock", which, in addition to being an athletically inclined and possibly dim-witted high school student, is also a slang word for masturbation, in the Caribbean.
The associations one might make in their mind regarding Jack are fairly obvious, I think. Molly requires a bit more explanation. Since there aren't that many Mollys to choose from, I expanded to include the short form, Moll. Here goes:
Molly is another name for pure MDMA/ecstasy. It is also a word for a female mule. Gun moll is slang for a female companion of an American gangster. Moll is also Victorian slang for prostitute, and is still used as slang for "a woman of loose sexual morals" in Australia and New Zealand. Genetically engineered sheep. Molly Hatchet, Molly Ringwald, Molly Shannon, Flogging Molly. Albert Moll is the founder of modern sexology.
Moll Flanders, the character created by Daniel Dafoe, is born illegitimately to a woman on death row in London, and grows up to become a servant in a household of two brothers, the eldest of which convinces her to "act like they are married" in bed, and later to marry his younger brother, who leaves her widowed. She becomes a con artist, tricking various men into marrying her, and goes on to have multiple children with different fathers. Molly Bloom, of James Joyce's Ulysses, is known mainly for her soliloquy and the fact that she has an extra-marital affair.
Molly Grue is a character from The Last Unicorn, who is originally introduced as living in sin in the woods with a bandit named Captain Cully. She leaves the gang of bandits to follow a unicorn, and eventually becomes a protector of unicorns, in her way.
Molly is a diminutive of "Mary", meaning, the "virgin Mary" - as irony goes I'm sure it was intentional in 14th century Britain. The name also means "star of the sea" (aka - the Kraken).
So. It appears that Jack is destined to grow up as a bit of a maverick, a creative and innovative thinker. Possibly even an iconic figure. Or an iconoclast. And also, perhaps, a malnourished murderer of prostitutes. Which doesn't bode well for Molly, who is destined to grow up to be kind of a whore. If names mean anything.
Welcome to the world, childrens.
Monday, August 8, 2011
as ready as I'll ever be. i guess.
I will begin with Tito's Handmade Vodka because it's kind of amazing stuff. The idea for possibly the last drinking challenge was to make good on the plan to pour vodka on my head to test it as a body coolant. The idea was also for me to get Dan Aykroyd's skull vodka since some of it was destined to land on my head anyway. Imagine my chagrin upon learning that skull vodka had been pulled from the liquor store because the skull shaped bottle was too much temptation for teenagers who thought it looked cool. I substituted with Tito's Handmade Vodka only because the name Tito didn't exactly say vodka to me. The individual who accompanied me to the liquor store was very enthusiastic, because apparently Tito's is an award winner that he'd been dying to try (I left him with a few ounces in a juice glass).
Tito's story is rather interesting. He began his career running a dynamite seismic exploration crew for an oil company, before moving on to become a garbage man and then a realtor. He was just some guy who, as a hobby, enjoyed making his own liquor. When he decided to try his hand at vodka, he tirelessly researched by drinking some of every kind that he could find. He is now so skilled that he can not only identify each brand of vodka by taste, but if you hand him a glass of several different vodkas mixed together, he can tell you which brands have been included, and in what proportions. His friends assured him that his product was so good that he should try actually selling it. He financed his distillery - which is across the way from an abandoned rodeo stadium - with 14 different credit cards. His goal was to produce the cleanest and purest vodka ever tasted. He designed it not only to be delicious - as delicious as vodka can be - but also to control what kind of drunk you would have and experience no hangover. He won the Double Gold Medal at the 2001 World Spirit Competition in San Francisco, which means that every judge deemed his vodka the best, beating out the likes of Grey Goose and Belvedere.
But enough about Tito and more about Saturday night. The weather wasn't quite warm enough for the vodka test to be very telling, so I improvised body heat by donning an emergency rain poncho and doing 50 jumping jacks in front of a samurai who was made very uncomfortable. Then the dousing. I experienced an immediate cooling sensation which lasted for a good 45 minutes. I recommend it to anyone who lacks air-conditioning and isn't troubled by the idea of smelling like a distillery. Just for fun, we annointed Sara's belly with a couple of ounces also, each of us saying aloud something that we wished for the twins in life. I wished that Chris and Sara manage to make it past age 45 without becoming grandparents. I don't know that that's even physically possible (at least for Chris), but my sentiment was well-meant.
Tito, for the most part, bestowed me with a slowly evolving and controlled drunk, right up until the emotional meltdown I suffered at the end of the night when it was time to go home. It occurs to me that I maybe haven't been handling this pregnancy in the best or healthiest of ways. The truth is that I don't deal very well with change and the last Saturday night before the births really marked the end of an era. Also I'm a bit of a disaster of a human being, and I've come to rely on Chris and Sara to take care of me in a multitude of ways.* Who's going to take care of me now?
My cab driver cheered me up slightly by putting 80's dance music on the radio and teaching me some conversational Swahili of which I remember none. It's too bad, because being able to say "I really like this song" and "I expect I'm rather intoxicated", and then giving directions to where I live could have come in handy when visiting Nairobi. On second thought...
I woke up after 6 hours sleep feeling very refreshed and hangover-free. Still emotional, but cleansed, in a strange way. Bring on the babies.
*Friendship with me has likely prepared Chris and Sara somewhat for the adolescent years, since I seem to be on a maturation loop, auto-resetting every 3 or 4 years and experiencing the mistakes of my late teens and early 20's all over again.
Tito's story is rather interesting. He began his career running a dynamite seismic exploration crew for an oil company, before moving on to become a garbage man and then a realtor. He was just some guy who, as a hobby, enjoyed making his own liquor. When he decided to try his hand at vodka, he tirelessly researched by drinking some of every kind that he could find. He is now so skilled that he can not only identify each brand of vodka by taste, but if you hand him a glass of several different vodkas mixed together, he can tell you which brands have been included, and in what proportions. His friends assured him that his product was so good that he should try actually selling it. He financed his distillery - which is across the way from an abandoned rodeo stadium - with 14 different credit cards. His goal was to produce the cleanest and purest vodka ever tasted. He designed it not only to be delicious - as delicious as vodka can be - but also to control what kind of drunk you would have and experience no hangover. He won the Double Gold Medal at the 2001 World Spirit Competition in San Francisco, which means that every judge deemed his vodka the best, beating out the likes of Grey Goose and Belvedere.
But enough about Tito and more about Saturday night. The weather wasn't quite warm enough for the vodka test to be very telling, so I improvised body heat by donning an emergency rain poncho and doing 50 jumping jacks in front of a samurai who was made very uncomfortable. Then the dousing. I experienced an immediate cooling sensation which lasted for a good 45 minutes. I recommend it to anyone who lacks air-conditioning and isn't troubled by the idea of smelling like a distillery. Just for fun, we annointed Sara's belly with a couple of ounces also, each of us saying aloud something that we wished for the twins in life. I wished that Chris and Sara manage to make it past age 45 without becoming grandparents. I don't know that that's even physically possible (at least for Chris), but my sentiment was well-meant.
Tito, for the most part, bestowed me with a slowly evolving and controlled drunk, right up until the emotional meltdown I suffered at the end of the night when it was time to go home. It occurs to me that I maybe haven't been handling this pregnancy in the best or healthiest of ways. The truth is that I don't deal very well with change and the last Saturday night before the births really marked the end of an era. Also I'm a bit of a disaster of a human being, and I've come to rely on Chris and Sara to take care of me in a multitude of ways.* Who's going to take care of me now?
My cab driver cheered me up slightly by putting 80's dance music on the radio and teaching me some conversational Swahili of which I remember none. It's too bad, because being able to say "I really like this song" and "I expect I'm rather intoxicated", and then giving directions to where I live could have come in handy when visiting Nairobi. On second thought...
I woke up after 6 hours sleep feeling very refreshed and hangover-free. Still emotional, but cleansed, in a strange way. Bring on the babies.
*Friendship with me has likely prepared Chris and Sara somewhat for the adolescent years, since I seem to be on a maturation loop, auto-resetting every 3 or 4 years and experiencing the mistakes of my late teens and early 20's all over again.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
countdown: 3
still not including today or birth day. quite distressed. so distressed, in fact, that last night's cab driver felt bad for me and allowed me to smoke in the car.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Countdown: 6
A few days ago I sent Sara a text at 5:30ish in the afternoon. When I hadn't heard from her by 7:15, I was in full panic and assumed that she was giving birth. Which she assured me was not the case. Although, it really could happen any time. She tells me that she was in such severe pain on Saturday that she was convinced she was going into labour. The truth is that Molly, who formerly was standing straight up, turned herself upside down. Getting into position.
Jack is still standing straight up, so the two are positioned head to toe. Not 69ing, sadly. Jack has his back to Molly, so it's more like they're 19ing. Or 61ing.
But 6 more days. If everything goes according to plan. Tension is mounting. At least, it is for me. I have had some people express surprise that I'm so anxious about it. Not to make light of the life change that my friends are about to undergo - but it's going to change my life, too. And I'm so not ready. Clearly, they should have considered how it would impact me when they decided to throw caution to the wind and stop trying to avoid having children.
I spent a good portion of last weekend drinking mojitos for two reasons.
First, because of Caribana. I have an annual tradition of getting as far away from downtown as possible on Caribana weekend. Which I guiltily think might make me racist. Or just agoraphobic. At any rate, I opted for something tropicalish to mark the occasion.
Second, to try and forget about current circumstances. Delicious lime and mint denial. Compliments to the bartender, but it seems things have progressed to a point where all-in-good-fun oblivion is no longer possible.
Jack is still standing straight up, so the two are positioned head to toe. Not 69ing, sadly. Jack has his back to Molly, so it's more like they're 19ing. Or 61ing.
But 6 more days. If everything goes according to plan. Tension is mounting. At least, it is for me. I have had some people express surprise that I'm so anxious about it. Not to make light of the life change that my friends are about to undergo - but it's going to change my life, too. And I'm so not ready. Clearly, they should have considered how it would impact me when they decided to throw caution to the wind and stop trying to avoid having children.
I spent a good portion of last weekend drinking mojitos for two reasons.
First, because of Caribana. I have an annual tradition of getting as far away from downtown as possible on Caribana weekend. Which I guiltily think might make me racist. Or just agoraphobic. At any rate, I opted for something tropicalish to mark the occasion.
Second, to try and forget about current circumstances. Delicious lime and mint denial. Compliments to the bartender, but it seems things have progressed to a point where all-in-good-fun oblivion is no longer possible.
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