damn good times
So, yeah. It's been a long time. It's been hard to find things I can write about, preoccupied as I am with the dual battle of keeping my marriage and my dangerously depressed friend afloat. The few other things have been brief in nature: Blake reading and counting independently, my dad and uncle tiling the laundry room so that little bits of concrete no longer stick to my feet when I bring in the wash, the latest Strongbad cartoon (yes, I'm a bit shallow at times). I suppose that I could have gone on at great length about Blake's literacy and numeracy, but like most momentous things it seems utterly prosaic. One day we were sitting in the kitchen and I realized that he was sounding out words. This morning he was sitting on the bedroom floor as I got dressed, using his fingers to add up single-digit numbers. Last week he tried to help us to remember to visit the comic book store by writing it on our list pad (he laboriously printed "KAH" before losing interest). God help us all, there is another real human in this house, and he can decode the basic language of our culture. Be afraid.
What finally made me break the long silence, though, was something entirely old school: this weekend I found myself partying like it was 1997, and what better place to recount it than here?
Friday was a weird day. First, a field trip to a bloody-sexy version of Macbeth, complete with half-naked cast, seducing witches and a whole new understanding of the line "look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it" that is granted when Lady M is grinding on top of her husband). When I got back, I grabbed Mason and we did errands for awhile before going to Commencement. I have to say, there's nothing about "Pomp & Circumstance" that gets better the seventh time around. We spent the time knitting, of course. And then there was the staff holiday party, where I got to stand around and be melancholy with people who were laid off last year and who took with them the life of the building. I probably had a bit too much to drink in compensation.
Saturday was sunny & busy. I cleaned, tidied, knit, laundered and in other ways made myself useful. Then the Rocketfamily went to the local Santa Claus parade. I have to say, I find parades kind of boring at the best of times; when accompanied by freezing temperatures they become excruciating. Still, Blake & the Boy had an awesome time, and there were many shiny things to distract me from my growing misery. I was tempted to pack it in afterwards, but I had a chance to see some Toronto people and I was determined to get out of my rut for at least a few hours.
This worked perhaps too well; not only did I have an excellent time palling around with the old Larp crowd, I managed to unburden myself repeatedly and achieve a catharsis of sorts. It's much much better trying to bear the stresses of my life this week than it was before I made all those nice people listen to my problems. (And a special thanks goes out to Acidic Jew, who listened to all of my problems, let me drink half of his pint, and refused to give me anything but the unvarnished truth in return.) Of course, with relief came a lowered alertness, and I drank waaaaay too much for a girl who had to drive herself home. Somehow during the evening I managed to get JimZed to keep an eye on me, and when he and Jesse concurred that 3 pints of water didn't counteract 2 1/2 pints of beer, JimZed made the call to keep me in Toronto for the night. Thus, I was driven to the Zübhaus, the first official out of town guest, and made welcome.
It follows that on Sunday morning before church, I was ushered out of the Zübhaus and, with the aching eyes of one who has worn contacts all night, began the Drive of Shame. Hungover? Check. Exhausted after fewer than 5 hours asleep? You bet. Full of enthusiasm for my slightly scandalous experience? Oh Yeah.
Especially when, 4 hours later, I drove back into the city with Blake for Mason's baby shower, about which there is only scattered moments available to my over-tired memory: giving architecture lectures to my oblivious son who insisted that he used to live here, too; taking Blake & baby Olivia to Hart House library to drowse in the sunshine; Blake recognizing Mason in the room and lighting up like a firecracker; Blake stealing cupcakes; and Blake losing control almost the moment we left and forcing me to search all through campus for a bathroom in which to scrub him down. (Aside: if I never again have to take Blake to the basement of Sid Smith on a Sunday so that I may strip him naked and scrub him while he stands in a sink…well, it will be too damn soon. This is not fun stuff for Hangover Girl.)
Yes, a damn good time. Now if I could only shake the opportunistic throat infection that has negated my recovery.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*