The Cheeseblog

I just realized that my last post was a whine about not being able to open and use Christmas presents and now it’s Christmas Eve and I haven’t thought about the towels once. I am a bad hypocrite bloggereima.

Yesterday I opened the back door to put out the garbage because it was garbage day and found two parcels on the back deck, which is open to the back alley and the world. The parcels had been there overnight. If it was Canada Post who put them there I would like to officially state that Canada Post is a company of idiots. No wonder they’ve got issues with mail fraud. The scatter-letters-in-the-street-and-hope-for-the-best method is not as effective as it was back when there were only four houses to a street and no one had even heard of crack.

If it was our neighbours who put the parcels there, thanks very much!

One of the parcels is a present from bro-in-law. It has wrapping paper with dogs on it!!! I checked: I don’t think there’s a dog inside. Not a live one, anyway.

I have been working for the last two days and will work again today. Apparently it is a slow time of year. It reminds me of when I was 14, babysitting the kids down the street. They would go to bed at 8 and I would sit in the comfort of someone else’s living room for 4 hours, watching tv and just being there in case one of them had a nightmare or needed a drink of water (or got up, having pretended to be asleep, just in time to watch Letterman). I’d sit there and think: wow, I’m getting paid for this.

That’s my day, except no TV (and no children.) Magazines. Lots of outdated, waiting room magazines. But it’s a non-profit org. so the magazines are political in tone and/or random copies from peoples’ houses. Triathlete Magazine. Canadian Living Magazine. THIS Magazine – which I actually read cover to cover. Good stuff. Plus, I’ve got lots of time to work on my manifesto.

We got towels for Christmas. The parcel from Ontario took a little abuse and the wrapping paper is a little torn and I can touch and see the bright, soft, white towels.

I want to use them. I want to caress their stitching. I want to pull them out and polish my skin with them. Apparently there is a rule about this sort of thing. I have to stare through the torn wrapping at the towels for 7 more days before I can hang them in a place of honour in my bathroom. I doubt my bathroom has ever seen a brand new towel! I don’t remember the last time I saw a brand new towel. Except for the really nice, soft orange ones at Sears that belonged to Martha Stewart. But I wouldn’t take Martha’s towels. She has little enough comfort.

The stripey towel was brand new when I got it. It was a housewarming gift when I moved to the mint-green bachelor suite in the pink building with the cockroaches and the kitchen window view of the rear end of Denny’s. The towel was so unhappy. It thought it was moving to a nice, downtown condo where it would drape around the neck of someone on a treadmill. After the first few days as my only towel, being used for hair dying, mopping up puddles, drying between my toes, blotting my endless tears as the cockroaches mocked me from the mint-green ceiling, just out of spray-range of my bottle of Black Flag, it started running away.

Once, I found it at the pub, hiding in a corner behind a fake cactus, soaking up martinis. Another time it was at Shopper’s Drug Mart, trying to cash in my Optimum points for a plane ticket to the Seychelles.

Poor, tired, stripey towel. It has retired now, to a life of being the hair towel. I like how the stripes look when I fashion that towel turban on top of my head. I hope it really is happier and hasn’t just stopped trying to run away because it knows I will find it.

Wherever it goes. And it won’t get very far in the suburbs at Christmas. Hear that, towel?

1. Stock up on cigarettes. At midnight, the price will go up $3 a carton. As I write this, there is no journalistic proof available, however I just heard it on the CBC and the CBC doesn’t lie. Whether or not you are a smoker, this is a good idea. You’ll thank me when the revolution comes.

2. Set your VCR or TIVO thingee to tape The Christmas Shoes. It’s on on Sunday on CBS, apparently. According to the lady who posted a comment at IMDb, the movie doesn’t hold a candle to the book. But how does it compare to the song? (Props to Michael for sourcing the movie. And the song. And enough righteous indignation for everyone!)

3. Practice your “Hi! I’m Ed Broadbent!” He’s Back! bringing the collective age of our federal fathers, er, political leaders to approximately 236. I’m all for keeping it real and, admittedly, nobody has cred like Ed, but how about some new damn blood already! It’s enough to make a 29 year old girl with a penchant for puppets want to run for office. Just let me get my shoes on…

4. Wonder: is it the Onion? Nope, it’s just a great headline at the Globe & Mail.

5. Drink beer. It’s Friday.

6. Take an hour and read dooce.com. It’s funny and attractively designed and there are some cool pictures. And there’s a dog and a pregnant girl and some swear words.

7. Stay away from malls.

8. Try not to get eaten by a duck.(this is directly related to #7. Malls are full of hungry ducks.)

from fark.com via the infinite duck sourcing skills of zen render.

9. premier@gov.bc.ca That’s where Gordon Campbell is. I forward him all my harassment emails, you know, those thinly disguised morality tales with threats at the end like:

You now have two choices . You can:
1. Pass this on to your friends, or
2. Delete it and act like it didn’t touch your heart.
As you can see, I took choice No.1. Friends are like angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.

So: you can protect your investment in eternal life and annoy someone who actually deserves it.

At 0200 hrs he returned, head heavy with exhaustion and eyes burning from light deprivation. His stomach growled with displeasure at its contents, yet his legs were strong enough to carry him home, bolstered by a day of disuse.

At 0825 hrs, his bottom weary from being planted in a theatre seat for 12 hours, he sleeps. His cells regenerate and his heart heals from its assault. His blood will flow smoothly again, when it has been freshened by sweet dreams and clear oxygen.

When he wakes to this crisp, clear day, he will be a changed man. He will be a returned warrior; with the visible scars of battle to display and terrible, beautiful stories to tell.

I have mentioned it before, but it bears a reminder. Margaret Cho is so smart and funny and fearless, I squirm with joy and wilt with insufficiency when I read what she writes (almost everyday!) From today’s entry:

OK now go to Margaret’s blog and read the rest. Damn.