Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Thanksgiving Holiday Gobbledy-Gook

So here’s my weekend:


Friday night

The menu:
Pork chops seasoned overnight
Grilled eggplant with rosemary
Steve-o’s vegetable salad with Paul Newman’s spicy Tai dressing
A barely workable Riesling Gewürztraminer from one of the shittier Ontario wineries
Half-caf coffee
A very decent cigar
A snort of Three grain whisky from Forty Creek
Premium balcony weather
The climactic chapters from an early 1900’s French novel by Georges Bernanos

Splendid!


Saturday

The wedding day of my very excellent cousin, Lisa. I discover that an older but hardly worn dress shirt and jacket, each previously outgrown both fit me once again. Much cause for celebration! I pack my dress clothes and a travel bag and depart, stealing a slice of Steve-o’s blueberry French toast for a quick breakky while he’s not looking.

The ex is away on vacation yet again (an almost bi-monthly event) so of course the illicit sweetheart and I are looking after the fishpond and cats and making ourselves very much at home. I stop in on the way to the ceremony and my heart skips a beat upon entry. It’s a continual amazement that after three years I’m still prone to butterflies just walking into the same room as the I.S. I thought physical attraction is supposed to fade with time?

The visit is too short. So is my necktie after the second attempt. The third attempt suffices as I can’t be bothered to go on. I.S. fixes my collar for me and I’m off to the very humble little Lutheran church in Grimsby.

My tiny little grandma spots me immediately and beckons me over for the obligatory kiss. She praises my appearance of course. Strictly mandatory grandma-grandson behavior.

“Yeah, I clean up pretty good, eh?”

The groom is a charming young gentleman with son, Tyler, perhaps four years old. He’s decked out in miniature tux and leads an equally resplendent flower girl down the aisle. She is Emily, perhaps two years old, the daughter of the bride’s sister (and bridesmaid) who is a month a way from bringing her second bun out of the oven and is dressed in the wedding party theme burnt-orange and fearing for all the world that she looks precisely like a pumpkin.

And she did. I can’t tell a lie. I’m committed to honest reporting.

So the kidlets proceed down the aisle with Emily’s head unwaveringly turned to the bride-side of the congregation. All eyes are upon hers and hers are as wide as the cosmos. Her smile is one of dazzled wonderment. She’s as hypnotized by the crowd as we are by her. The cute-barrier has been broken wide open. A collective groan escapes us with a burst of camera flashes.

And another escapes us upon Tyler’s response to his inclusion in the marriage ceremony. After the usual vows a second pair is spoken in recognition of the family unit and the child who will live primarily with Dad and the new mom who he already adores. The priest recites it all and the new couple says in chorus, “We will.”

Ditto the child-version. And in a high-pitched earnest little voice; “I will!”

A cute-bomb, as crazy Doctor Lock would say. And the casualties are severe. A hundred and fifty hearts broken, minimum.

Oh wait. I forgot I don’t much like kids. Okay, scrap the last few paragraphs! I’ll deny it all.

The reception begins immediately which seems odd. Apparently the pictures are to be taken at the hall.

What? The hall? What, with the coffee maker and bathroom-arrow signs in the background?

Upon arrival at the hall I immediately understand. It looks like a Mafia stronghold with Italian flag flying and a vast yard stretching out to the lakefront, packed with geometric gardens and old-world style statues, columns and fountain. I shall leave the place unnamed to ensure I’m neither sued nor killed depending on whether my suggestion is false or true!

Post picture-taking we’re all asked to leave the hall so that we may re-enter upon the formation of the receiving line.

“Is that the fire trucks I hear?” I ask, but this garners not a laugh. Not a chortle, giggle or guffaw. Not even a titter or a snort. Nobody likes my fire drill humor. I shall have to yank my fire drill humor from the repertoire.

An excellent time is had.

Dads of each of the betrothed blubber their way through their speeches as their wives stand close for support. The bride’s maid and older sister offers perhaps the best wedding speech I’ve yet heard and both sisters lose it as she speaks of the role of guide and protector being given away to her new love. Great teary stuff!

The young ones dance, the old ones bitch about the music and those of us between drink and drink and smoke (cigars for me) and escape to the gardens for peaceful conversation and a view of the great dark lake and the fabulous distant light show as clouds pulse with illumination from the constant lightning above.

One of the three bartenders is cute and serves all my drinks, trading winning smiles for exorbitant tips. I’m such a sucker for a pretty face it’s sick.

My biological father and his wife offer me a ride back to their place later which is great since it’s only a short walk from their place to the ex’s house where the I.S. hopefully awaits. But the offer is apparently forgotten as they mysteriously disappear a while later. Maybe they got in a fight or something. Oh well. Easy come, easy go.

I do make it back though, sodden with the fallout of the days heavy emotions, to discover, tragically, the absence of the I.S. who also has major wedding commitments for the weekend so I’m not surprised. What surprises me though, is the extent of my affection and the rare yearning as I recline in the hot tub alone, gazing at the few sad available stars and then go quietly to bed alone.

I don’t want to be in love right now. This is not a good time for that crap.


Sunday

Off to Caledon for the family thanksgiving celebration. There are just four of us. Me, Mom, Dad (step-dad, the real dad) and brother.

We spend the first couple hours watching mom feed peanuts to their hoard of chipmunks, namely Shorty, Tiogi, Timmy and some new guy as yet unnamed. These critters are not shy. They’ll climb right into your pocket to retrieve a nut. They’ll climb right up onto your chest and glare at you eye to eye, a reprimand for not having a nut available.

Mom, Dad and Brother watch TV while my fragile attention rotates between them, their occasional conversation, my book and the TV which is showing mostly baseball games and some unreality show called Kid Nation that strikes me as fascinating for its astounding lack of substance.

Folks, In all sincerity, my family desperately needs to be rescued from our descent into holiday doldrums. Any advice would be wildly appreciated!


Monday

Back to the ex’s house for an extended romp with the I.S. An afternoon of pure bliss. I’ll spare you the recreational details but I must confess, it’s the cuddling I cherish most. I realize that’s not a traditionally masculine value but it’s true. I’m a big sissy that way.

Apologies for being lazy and not taking pictures. Oh – of the wedding and chipmunks I mean. Yikes.

So how was your weekend?

2 comments:

Babs said...

Your weekend sounded lovely. And, is it ever a good time to be in love? On the other hand, is it ever a good time to not be in love?

And as for after three years I’m still prone to butterflies just walking into the same room as the I.S. well, that warmed the cockles of my cold little heart. Seriously. That's good stuff.

One more thing and then I promise I'll shut up. Who the hell wants to be traditionally masculine? And admitting you like cuddling certainly does not make you a big sissy. It only makes you human. A very sweet human, at that.

Fantasy Writer Guy said...

Thank you for these comments, Babs.

They make me feel -- I don't know -- good. Blessed even.