Tag Archives: Holidailies

The Shift

He asks for help cleaning his room.

He won’t call a friend on the phone, makes me arrange play-dates (and still calls them “play-dates”).

He needs to be reminded, daily, to brush his teeth and hair.

He refuses to attempt to make his own lunch, citing a lack of familiarity with the contents of our cupboards.

He`s still my little boy.

But this morning….

I was struggling with lid on a bottle of juice.

 

(Blueberry, to be specific.)

 

And without thinking, I handed him the bottle.

And without asking, he opened it.

 

I stopped, feeling more gravity than the moment, on the surface, seemed to merit.

 

I am as liberated and independent and blah blah as the next chick.  But I have  never had an issue asking the men in my life for help with a stuck-on lid.

 

The men in my life….

 

I can feel my little boy knocking on the door, on the cusp of joining their ranks.

 

 

 

 

Lions and Tigers and Bears…I’ll be Needing a Night-Light…

I originated in a time before VCRs.

Movies were in theatres in far away towns, or presented with commercial interruptions on the two (2) channels we could manage to entice with the antenna on the roof.

No repeated viewings, at my convenience.

Movies were, in short, an event.

There were a couple that I’d wait for, impatiently.  Mary Poppins.  The Sound of Music.

The biggest and best?  The Wizard of Oz.

Wizard of Oz

 

I adored it.  I’d nearly puke with anticipation in the hours before I knew it was coming on.  I could have sworn it was 5 hours long, because it seemed to cover so much more territory, had a story outsizedly bigger than anything else I’d ever seen.

And it made me feel….weird.  Unsettled.  A little scared, maybe, and definitely like my horizons had been expanded.

My scary moment?  The Lollipop Guild.

LollipopGuild

Specifically, the Munchkin on the far right.  He defied categorization.  Was he a kid with adult features?  A little person with an especially boyish face?  Why did he look so angry?  Was he going to be hiding under my bed that night?  I seriously lost sleep over that little dude.

My boyfriend says for him, it was the classic: The Wicked Witch of the West.

witch

Bitch was angry and green and always popped up at exactly the wrong god-damned moment.

 

The best man at my wedding was completely petrified of the Flying Monkeys.

monkey

To the point where he was at a sleep-over at my ex-husband’s house when they were kids, and he demanded to be driven home due to the sheer monkey-related terror. (And on the way out of the yard, my ex-father-in-law ran over the family’s dog, Shamrock.) (Whose death was conflicting for the ex: Shamrock was a notorious leg-humper, but he was still his dog, and the monkeys were forever after tied in with his pet’s death.)

 

Speaking of the aforementioned ex, the movie had a….different effect on him.

dorothy

He had it bad for Dorothy.

(He made the mistake of confessing this to me, once.  It struck me as so funny, I fell off a couch laughing.  I used the moments I caught my breath to inquire “And her little dog, too?”)  (Damn, that man put up with a lot.)

 

Piecing together all the anecdotal evidence at my disposal, I came up with a theory.  The Wizard of Oz was a little like the kid version of a trip.

 

It messed with us, but in the very best way possible.  A little frightening, leaving us all unsettled.  Years later, we’d need chemical help to replicate that feeling.

Dorothy_in_poppy_field

Well played, Mr. Baum.  Well played.

 

 

 

 

This is Happening. Again.

mommy kissing santa

So remember when I did Holidailies a couple of times, a million years ago?  Yeah, that’s happening this year.  Because what better way to resurrect a dying dead blog habit than to commit to writing daily, and extra publicly, in the busiest damn time of the year?  I think I’m wired a little weird.  Like, if I was athletic, I would be all about extreme sports: cramming as much adrenalin into as little time as possible.  But I’m not athletic. So you get the nerd-girl version of that.  Think of Holidailies as my writer chick X-Games.

Where to start?  Perhaps we go with the way I like to begin all my dealings with people, and show off the weak underside right away, so you know what you’re dealing with.  I’m not much of a crier.  That’s probably for two reasons: 1.  I am fucking terrible at it.  I try to hold back, pretend it’s not happening, and then comes the inevitable ugly cry – face contorted, snot flying, eyes immediately red and puffy.  And 2:  There’s just not a whole lot that brings me to tears.

But as a get-to-know-you gesture, I present:

THE COMPLETELY INCOMPLETE LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRY:

1.  Watching my children play sports.

I know that sounds lame.  But if you had any idea of the massive genetic deficit I passed on to them in this department, the sheer mass of what they’ve had to overcome not only to participate but to be good at a sport?  Yeah, you’d cry too.

2.  That god damned scene in Beaches

Where fucking Barbara Hershey is about to die, and stupid Bette Midler looks back at her (2:05) and then I am like “aw SHIT! I hate myself for this and I am going to cry and oh my god they were such good friends and Wind Beneath My Wings is a terrible god damn song and this whole thing leaves me conflicted and in the worst of ugly tears GAAAAAAH!”

3.  Gatherings of small children

Christmas concerts.  School assemblies.  Team pictures.  They all make me lose it.  I don’t even know why.  But small children en masse make me cry.  (I am eternally grateful to have found a friend who has a similar affliction.  You’ll always find us at the back of a gym, scrounging for slightly used kleenex in our pockets.  We’ve made peace with it.)

4.  Linus

Big ‘ol Atheist.  Crying at an animated character’s speech about God.  Yup.

 

So those are my little pieces of Kryptonite.  You’re welcome.  Use that information responsibly, won’t you?

And on the 31st Day, She Rested

So if you’re a regular here, you may have noticed an increase in volume, lately.

For the second year in a row, I took up the challenge of Holidialies.

Posted every got-dang day from December 7 until today.

It wasn’t hard.

It wasn’t easy.

It was a beautiful motivational tool, one which “made” me write at a time of year when it would be easiest to put it off.  A time of year when I probably need to write the most.

I am grateful to Jette & Chip, the people who give their own time to make Holidailies happen.

I’m very thankful and slightly a-blush that 3 of my posts were deemed  “Best of Holidailies“-worthy.

I thank everyone who came over from the site to check me out.  I am thankful for the new (to me)  writers I found there.

And now, I’m going to take a nap.

(I’m probably lying.  I’m a terrible napper.  I am, however, an incredible pisser-away of time, so I’ll probably just go with my strengths.)

Molly, The Pink-Haired Anti-Grinch

 

All I needed was a tree.

 

 

A simple, pre-lit, not completely trashy artificial tree.

 

Two different department stores let me down.

 

They didn’t just let me down, they dropped me. Hard.

 

(At one store, the person working in the seasonal department actually ran, so as to avoid helping me.)

 

But at the third store, the clouds parted, and the angels sang. A tad dramatic? Maybe. But when you’ve been driving around town with a moody 2 year old, pants that are too tight, and a hankerin’ (yeah, that’s for you Mongo!) for a diet Coke that won’t present itself, getting good service can make you think you’ve seen god.

 

I wanted to report this good service. I asked the cashier where I might find a manager. She snapped her gum, told me to get in line at customer service, fill out a form. I looked at the line-up, 7 deep, of surly shoppers with returns. I looked at my brand new tree, precariously perched in a cart about a third too small to hold it. And I looked down at the little pink toddler, lip giving a warning quiver, as she revved up for a road trip to Tantrum Town.

 

I wasn’t going to line up.

 

The store’s website has nothing for me. Calls to the store were lost in a medieval labyrinth of a switchboard. So I’ll just have to do it here.

 

Molly, you’re awesome. You came over within seconds, asked what you could do for me. My daughter was in awe of the pink and purple streaks in your blonde hair. You followed me while I ran laps of the tree display, wishing and washing. You crawled under plastic branches to plug in each tree. You answered questions from 3 customers at the same time, and managed to make each person feel like you totally understood what they needed, and then actually got them what they wanted. You even politely brushed off a co-worker who told you he was going on a coffee run (until I intervened. My god, woman, Tim Horton’s runs are your constitutional right!), so as to keep serving me. Then you charmed my daughter while I completed the transaction. You even sold me 2 small trees I had no intention of buying, because you were just that good. 

 

So if you’re at the Canadian Tire on Kingsway Avenue this festive season, stop by the Christmas section. Say Hi to Molly. Tell her that you read about her awesomeness. Her store may have no set up for kudos. But that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t get them.