Five Days In December

Five days off is the perfect amount. Could every weekend be five days? That would be so great. Because it takes one day to freak out about routines changing. The kids freak out, I freak out, SA freaks out. Then the next day is less freaked out. Usually that day is Sunday and then the next day, DIFFERENT again. But this time, the next day is another day off. In this case, yesterday. A relaxed, chill day. Like we were synchronized swimmers. Here, I’ll take the kids to a different room while you cook dinner. Here, I’ll wash their hair while you go take some deep breaths. Here, who cares, I’m going to bed early because there are still two more nights to stay up late! I’m going to get into bed and read Dog the Bounty Hunter’s autobiography.

(Incidentally, I ADORE being married to someone who has a younger brother with whom he exchanges crazy-ass Christmas gifts. This year, from SA’s brother [and, presumably, his wife, though I don’t believe she had much to do with it], we got the above-mentioned autobiography [which, so far, is not bad at all] and 906 minutes on DVD of “The Price is Right.” Come on down!)

Like right now? Day four of five? I’m starting to feel slightly regretful that it is almost 9 pm and I am still up, but then I remember that tomorrow is yet another day off. Bliss.

(I’m sorry if you did not have five days off this holiday. I hope you had at least one good day off.)

Five days is long enough to feel all the feelings: sad, wistful, tired, hopeful, happy, cranky. There is time to feel all those things and not feel the worst thing: desperate. There is still tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. For it to get better, or tolerable, or at least different.


Saint Aardvark gave me a gift card for the liquor store as a Christmas gift. What a man. Seriously, there might be people out there who need special jewelery or Just the Right DVD for Christmas but if someone can live with me and not know that the only things I need are a good pair of jeans and more wine, well, that person is probably not Saint Aardvark.

(Sentence Letdown! Bwah! You thought it was really going somewhere and then – it just ended!)

So today during nap time I took my gift card and I went to the liquor store. It’s Sunday so I went to the Signature Liquor Store, the kind that is open on Sundays and holidays. It is a short drive from our house, just around the corner from the Value Village. There I spent a very comfortable half hour looking for things to buy. Wine? Beer? Gin? Campari? Oh, how I love you, Campari, but you are $26.99 a bottle and I only want a little bit of you. I want a stocking stuffer sized bottle of you.

During my travels through the Signature Liquor Store I encountered:

– this dude who wanted advice on what kind of wine to get because he’d tried all those ones (dismissive hand gesture) and they were overrated. The women whose job it is to recommend things to people was so very gracious in her reply, ie she did not say anything like, “You are insufferable. Get out of my sight.”
– a fight between one of the store employees and one of the store security guards, re: whether or not the security guard was any good at catching shoplifters,
– an interruption of said fight by a regular customer who looked like he ought to be scaling an Alp, ie: wearing shorts and socks and sandals and a brimmed hat and a long beard. He told them they shouldn’t be fighting in the middle of the store,
– and also, this conversation: “Should we get more Budweiser?”
“Nah, we have three cases.”
“But what will so-n-so and the other folks drink?”
“They’ll drink whatever we tell them to drink.”
“Damn right.”

Oh! Can I come to YOUR party? PLEASE?

I bought some wine. Some BC wine and some Spain wine. Yum! Then I went downstairs to Reitmans, which is a store that sells Middle to Down Market Clothing for Ladies. I thought perhaps they would have some Deep Discounts on Pants. They did, they had pants on sale but the pants were all elastic waistband pants. Have you heard of these pants? They are called Comfort Fit. I bought a pair in the summer, short pants in a stretchy kind of denim and they were (are) comfortable but they are very like maternity pants in that they have no zipper, no button and no pockets. Argh! I need to carry lip balm, three tissues and all Trombone’s lost bitty Lego pieces! Where, down my bra?

– DEAR WORLD: Everyone needs pockets. Pregnant, not pregnant, fat, not fat. Pockets are important. –

So yes, in the summer I bought these short pants with an elastic waistband and I liked them enough but I don’t want to make my whole wardrobe elastically waistbanded. That seems kind of premature. I still have the use of my fingers, so shouldn’t I use them to do up zippers and buttons? I found 8 pairs of pants at Reitmans. 2 of them had zippers and buttons.

I didn’t buy any pants.

Which is fine, because I have wine and also I have developed a new personal style which involves me layering former dresses over pants whose waists I hate. (Count of such pants in my closet is currently 6, I think. One pair too low, one too high, one no pockets, etc.) Currently I am wearing the short pants with elastic waistband and no pockets under a very cute used-to-be dress, which is, in turn, over a long sleeved shirt that is too sheer to wear on its own. Also very tall striped socks. I call my new personal style “The Crazy.”

Some of you might argue this is not new. It is new. I never called it that before. I just hoped no one would notice.


Me: I would take this Strombo radio show* (on the CBC radio2)more seriously if it wasn’t for the wailing background saxophone while he talks…
SA: Yeah, I keep thinking of the Red Shoe Diaries
Me: Yes! Totally!
SA: Uh oh, is that messing up your blog entry?
Me: Nothing can mess up my blog entries. Nothing.

In sum: Great hols. And best husband EVAR.


* (But he’s playing a double shot of Nina Simone, so all is forgiven.)

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