Sunday, December 25, 2005

quick, take a picture. It was a good day. I love my family. I got some really nice stuff, but I'm not going to divulge details here. All I'm going to say is that my parents are absolute sweethearts and my grandfather is indulgent and I am a lucky, lucky girl. None of us can remember just exactly how we made it through the last year with two pennies to rub together, but rub them we did -- and the results were lovely in the end. If not hard-won. Our Christmas Dinner was in a small city about 50 miles outside of Vancouver where most of my mother's relatives live (it was their year to have us at their celebration). The cousins that were there (my mom's sisters' daughters) were as nutty as usual, using a new digital camera to record videos of themselves lipsyncing to a plethora of horrible pop songs (let's not talk about the fact that I knew the words better than they did). They range in age from 14 to 17, and they are as gushy and goofy and spastic and gorgeous as any teenage girls you ever knew. Here's a photo op (thanks, Dad) of Maren (the youngest) stealing my sunglasses: The scowl is not for Maren (who is one of the funniest people I know). It's for my dad and his need to capture every moment for posterity. Digitally, no less. Which is better, I admit, because I can sneak the camera away from him and delete things. But I always miss some regrettable shots, like this one. Hence the face... it's like I knew. I made it up to him in the end, though: Ain't he cute? Don't we look fun? Yeah. My mom would be in the picture, too (she is there, somewhere in the background...), but she avoids any and all picture-taking moments. I must learn from her wisdom, yet again. The turkey was delicious, my mom's pumpkin pie was fabulous, and Maren and I kicked butt at Scene It, a movie trivia game. The girls kept asking me if I'd "like, seen every movie ever made or something! Oh my gosh!" To which I replied, "No, honeybees... I'm 31. All I needed to do was live through the last twenty or so years." This was greeted with awestruck silence as each one mentally doubled her age and cringed. Yep. I used to babysit all of them. When we got home tonight, my dad kicked my butt at Scrabble (even though I spelled the word semen. I should get extra 'horrify your father' points on that one... ) Now I'm getting ready to curl up on the couch with a quilt and catch another slightly lumpy night of sleep. Merry Christmas, everyone. Thank you for your well wishes and words of love and joyful thoughts. I thought of many of you throughout the day and grinned. May you have all the hope and peace your hearts desire. I love you all! 11:47:42 PM    well, yes, but...  [] visions of sugarplums. A quiet couch in my parents' home early Christmas morning, a small white laptop, a crazy gray cat stalking me, and a heartful of things to say. But where to begin? I tried to think of something novel to post... a poem, perhaps? A series of cute Christmas-theme animal jpegs? A scathing indictment of holiday-theme sweaters? A near-Biblical lament of the rain pelting our roof in typically gloomy West Coast style? A wildly satirical take on some obscure aspect of the holidays? An ambitious mockery of Bill O'Reilly and his War on Things and Stuff? But I'm like a kid in a candy store without a sweet tooth. I'm sure something will come to me at some point, but for now? Nada. I could tell the story of when I was sick in bed during one of my parents' annual Christmas Open House events. All my small cousins were leaping and bouncing about on and under my quilt while I lay languishing in dramatically feverish distress. Someone gave little Kelly, who is rather allergic to Red Dye #5, a small cube of cherry Jell-O. Moments later, that cherry Jell-O was splattered across my bed (and I) with a wound-spray akin to a CSI outtake. I'd never seen anyone projectile vomit before. Especially not something ruby-red, globular, and slippery. I suppose the colour was right for the season, but it was wrong for my nightgown. A change of sheets, and all was well again -- until my eardrum popped and started to leak a sort of cherry Jell-O of its own. But I don't think I'll tell that one. I could tell the story of how my grandfather used to hook up large refrigerator box-sized pieces of cardboard with luggage cables to the bumper of his car and drag my brother and I down snowy country roads. I can still remember the sight of my mother's ashen face pressed against the front window of their farmhouse, palms raised to the glass when he would take a bend too quickly for her comfort. Eventually she'd have to walk away. Her heart couldn't handle the stress. I think the final straw was watching six year-old me tumble off the cardboard into a bracken-filled ditch after a particularly severe fishtail. Before she could get out the door to come to my rescue, she spotted something emerging from the snowy-muddy darkness. It was a small girl, running at full tilt. The car slowed, I hopped back onto the box. My grandfather was so proud. Everything seemed fine until I came into the house with Grumps and the warm country kitchen air hit my face. The cuts and scrapes that had frozen bloodlessly in the cold suddenly gushed bright red, leaving me looking like Stephen King's Carrie: The Road Not Taken. But I don't think I'll tell that one. I could tell the story of hanging Christmas ornaments -- glass balls I snuck off the tree on my way out the door in the morning, last day of school before Winter vacation -- from my ears in Junior High, thinking it would be a cute 'n wacky thing to do. I was the object of much curiosity until I shut one of my earrings in my locker and shards of glass sprayed onto my fellow students. I went around with mini shivs dangling from my ears until Mr. Gauthier made me take them out. But I don't think I'll tell that one. I could tell the story of the time we gathered around the tree as a family to take one last look at our gifts before we left for Christmas dinner one year. As we smiled and felt abundantly blessed, our cat Jessica leapt forward and peed on my dad's new ties, still draped elegantly in their box. My mother snatched up the fragrant garments to try and rinse out the silk while my father tossed Jess (underhand) into the snowy backyard. This would have been fine, had the snow not been three feet deep and Jessica only about half a foot tall. I can still remember staring in horror at the small cat-shaped hole in the white expanse until my dad got his boots on to go pull her out of the Insta-Igloo she'd formed upon impact. But I don't think I'll tell that one, either. It seems like all I really want to do is say thank you. So maybe that's just what I'll do. My family knows I love them; I think I tell them pretty often. My friends know I adore them, too; they hear it from me as often as I can say it without sounding a little nutty and stalkerish. But do you guys know I love you? When I say you, I mean my fellow bloggers. Yeah, you. I'm so thrilled by this wacky community. I love how we buoy one another up in times of stress, how we encourage one another in the direction of brilliance and good humour, and how we show up every single day to say, "Hey, I read that. That was good. You should write more." Nothing is better for a writer than to be read, I think. Especially by fellow writers who display such a profound level of excellence in their own work. How can I help but strive? Thank you. Really. I wish you every good thing, a million times over. So: To Mark B., who makes me feel like my words have meaning to someone other than me. Thank you for your wildly affectionate affirmations and kindred-silly moments of inspiration. I'd send you sushi and martinis and perfect glazes galore. And a few imperfect ones to send me, since those are the ones I like the best. To Karen M., who comes with wisdom and a wonderful laugh (I've not heard it, but I imagine it well). Thank you for taking the time to see what I'm really saying, and for offering back incredible insight and clarity with your own work. I'd send you a month of time at a Walden-esque retreat to allow you the space and silence to release all the words in your soul. To Sam, who is a brilliant wordsmith and earth mother, as well as a mentor and friend. Thank you for what you give to so, so many people, and so selflessly and creatively at that. I'd send you cashmere blankets, shelving slaves, and a Bewitched-esque nose twinkle to make your moving a cosmic snap. To Nancy, my barely-older big sister, who makes me laugh, makes me cry, and makes me feel heard and accepted. Thank you for being so real about your life, your joys, your fears, and your hopes. I'd send you a guy named Rocco to rough up your big-mouth co-workers and all the best, neatest, coolest baby stuff on the planet. And me, for two weeks, to hold the Alienette so you can take naps. To Bonnie, our resident lover of all and HTML guru. Thank you for being effusive and lavishly, lovingly silly in your comments everywhere you go. And for speaking in sweet poems in your own writing -- it's so easy to picture what you write. I'd send you frequent flier miles to see Ethan whenever, and a whole backyard full of bunnies to name and cuddle close. To Dick and Emma, our thrice-expectant couple. Thank you for your beautiful babies and for the charming life you share with us. Thank you, Dick, for your excellent gifts in verse and for the word pictures you create that send shivers up and down my spine. I'd send you MegNanny and many, many hours of rest and playful times as a beautiful young family. Oh -- and a baby sweater my mom can knit. To Mark H., who makes me laugh like an idiot at work (which is making my co-workers wonder about me about as much as they should, anyhow). Thank you for your endlessly creative satire and your effortless writing, AND for being a big part of what keeps this community intact. I'd send you gobs of Radio Cloud space and every cool bit of hardware or software you needed to keep pursuing your unique artistic path. To Mike, who makes me want to bat him around like a kitten and hug him at the same time. Thanks for having the integrity to keep on sharing your truth and your heart, no matter how rough it gets. I'd send you a lovely trip to all the parts of Canada you dream of seeing -- with stops at a few microbreweries along the way. To Liz G, who is a shining example of pure, raw transparency and openness. Thank you for including us on your path -- even when it gets nearly too bumpy to move another step forward, you show a strength that inspires and touches us. I'd send you a million California moments with Kyle and the blessing of health and peace for your family. To Liz E, who is a beautiful writer and a beautiful soul. Thank you for showing me every damn day how to create a delicate balance between emotion and raised-eyebrow irony in my work. I'd send you weeks and weeks to play in Chicago, and more cookie recipes than you knew what to do with. To Kurt, who isn't afraid to show that he cares. Thank you for re-emerging from the hard moments with a smile and a lesson to share. I'd send you times of closeness and peace with your kids, and all the true love you are looking for in life. To Patia, who is one of the most fierce, lovely women in the blogosphere. Thank you for the gorgeous pictures you take, for the truth-filled words you share, and for all your efforts to celebrate both simplicity and complexity in femininity... and life in general. I'd send you...well, we know what I'd send you. And he'd be about six feet tall, a cat lover, and good at chopping wood. To Birdie, who has earned a place in the hearts of so many, many people with her gorgeous prose and passionate way of approaching life. Thank you for coming back again and again to shock me into silence with your incredible spirit and amazing gift of expression. I'd send you a healed back, a filled-up soul, tons of playtime with your family, and unlimited beachwalks and coastdrives and marketwanders and stargazes. To Karen A, who ponders stuff that I idiotically take for granted on a daily basis. Thank you for being thought-provoking, searching, and creative in how you work out the world around you. I'd send you good blogging software, new windows, and a rowboat complete with a shimmering lake. To Chuck, who keeps me doing this much more than he'll ever know, if only because I want to grow up to be just like you. Thank you for being my first true blogfriend and for keeping me in line in the most loving way possible. I'd send you time with your lovely wife somewhere romantic, a million book sales, a Seahawks SuperBowl, and endless supplies of guac (the fixins, really, since you make it properly) to share at halftime. To Dr. O, who sees the world in terms of colour and light and darkness and images and shock and delight. Thank you for being you, simply put. You shock me out of my complacency more often than you realize. I'd send you heaps of art supplies and fabulous walkabouts in beautiful surroundings for you and Els and Annie. To Phil, who is close enough that if he really made fun of me too much in my comments, I could drive down and kick his ass. Thank you for perceiving the world in a way that speaks to me, and for expressing the things you think and see so beautifully through both words and images. I'd send you and Mrs. P. a few rollicking vacations to places with lots of mountains, places to explore, places to run, and food so good it would make your eyes roll back in your head. To Erin and Rob, who are two of the best co-workers (alternating) that a girl could hope for -- not to mention two, witty, crack-me-up bloggers. Thank you for sharing your son with me in words AND in person (seriously, the Santa suit! CUTE!). I'd send you all the Apple. com techno-crack you could handle. Mac users unite! To James C., who writes honest things with the shadings and nuance of one who paints with words. Thank you for your perseverance in seeking to know yourself and others better through the vessel of art. I'd send you a million hours of jamming in perfect tune, and all the love your heart could possibly seek. To Eric, who honestly is one of the funniest, most creative, most unabashedly quirky writers I have ever had the pleasure to read -- and who seems to do it all without breaking a sweat. Thank you for writing, period. I just feel damn lucky to end up doubled over in laughter at your latest take on pretty much anything. I'd send you a small blip in the time-space continuum so that you could take a trip around the world to all the places you dream of, without having to miss a single career opportunity. Oh, and some good java. And finally: Scott, you have such a beautiful family and a beautiful faith; thanks for being willing to laugh and cry at all of it. Morgan, thank you for putting thought, effort, and resonance into your words, from haiku to blog and back again. Matt, I love how you love the world around you. Lauralea, keep loving that wacky family of yours. Tim, you make me blush! Jan, thank you for being so diligent and passionate about pursuing the truth. And for encouraging me at blogging from the beginning. Jill and Melanie! Start writing where I can find you RIGHT NOW, or I will stalk you to the ends of the earth and force you back onto Salon. Mackenzie, girl, write so that the world can see how talented I already know you are. Monty, keep on making people giggle and believe in you. Vici, keep at it, honey -- you have a gift that you need to let flourish. Rayne, keep trying to make sense of Radio -- we'd miss you otherwise. Troy, never give up believing in the love you desire -- I really do think it exists. Pierre, keep sharing the Peanut with us. Sheryl, keep making me laugh. Anne P, thank you for reminding me of the beauty of my homeland over and over again. Case, keep Belacquaing me into convulsive cringing as often as you can. Dave P, I am in awe of your incredible perspective on the world we live in. Keep sharing your take on all of it -- I learn so much from you. Frances -- your generosity of spirit blesses me. In the end, all of you inspire me. Every last one. May this season and ANY season bring you warmth, nurturing community, belly laughs, time with family and friends, and every last damn thing you dream of and hope for. I couldn't do this without you. Really. Merry Christmas and much love. 2:52:13 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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