Directionality

Christmas Day, this year, came off almost without incident. Some of the foods prepared for the feast contained nuts 'n' shit, which would otherwise put me in the morgue, but all was avoided. While slumbering on the sofa, strategically placed before the 58" plasma, I did almost go into a diabetic coma, because my sweet little two and a half year old nephew, Jake, was repeatedly shoving After Eight thin mints into (and halfway down my throat) as I slipped in and out of consciousness.

My mom was there, at my sisters house as well, coughing and hacking every few minutes, striking a sharp note that would wake the dead, and causing my brain to hurt profusely. For a woman who boasts about never getting sick, she sure gets sick a lot.

For Christmas, I gave her an electric shovel, which is actually a smaller version of a snow blower. I bought one for myself a few weeks back and though it's a little small for the amount of real estate I have, I thought the size would be perfect for doing the walkway at my mom's house. However, the incredible box the blower came in, was too big for her car to take home, so I told her I'd swing by the next day, Sunday, to deliver and put the device together, as it comes in pieces.

The next day, Boxing Day, I slept in. Deservedly so, as I was up until 3:30am on Christmas Eve, wrapping the considerable number of gifts I'd purchased for my family. I called my mom's house about eleven o'clock in the morning, and got no answer. Peculiar, I thought, but perhaps she too, was sleeping in. I called again just after lunch, without getting an answer, then again at around 3pm. Finally, she answered, but she didn't sound like herself. She sounded hoarse, like usual, but she sounded more confused and desheveled. She claimed she was unable to hear me. However, I managed to convey the message that I was coming over straight-away.

I arrived at my mother's house, which is located in one of the lesser parts of town. A place I have dubbed, "The Hood", "Alphabet City", and a few other less than flattering names. I've not liked the fact that she lives in this neighbourhood, despite her assurances that the area isn't nearly as bad as the news would make it sound. She's quick to colour over the fact that she's been assaulted by riffraff in the area more than a couple of times in the years that she's lived there.

I got up to the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked, a practice that both my sister and I have repeatedly scolded her for doing in the past. And not only was the front door unlocked, but it was ajar. The storm door was closed, keeping the warm air in, however, it does not provide much in the line of security. So I stepped through the door without any resistance, snowblower box in hand, but I dropped it when my eyes caught the horrific sight.

The light coloured carpet which runs from the living room to the bedrooms at the far end of the house, were spattered with dark crimson-like stains. Running from the kitchen, down the hall and around the corner into the bathroom midway down. It was horrific at first glance! I rushed down the hall, thinking the worst, and discovered a slumped over body on the bed in the master bedroom. "Mom!" I shouted, getting no response. I repeated the call a couple more times, then with my cell in one hand, ready to call 9-1-1, I shook her with the other, and she finally came to.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, when I discovered she had not been violently assaulted or murdered by one of the scum-suckin' vermin she calls neighbours. Although the stains in the carpet tell a completely different tale. The scene looked like something from the television show Dexter. Using my best CSI and crime drama investigation skills, I could tell the initial attack happened in the living room and the directionality of the spatter stains indicated that she had rushed to the bathroom. A likely scenario in any assualt, whether committed by an assailant or an accidental injury done upon one's self. "What the f*ck happen?!?" I asked, point-blank.

She vaguely explained in her confused state through the use of jibber-jabber and broken english. She told me that she was sitting in front of the TV, went to get up and was greeted with a dizzying spell so violent that it caused her to vomit wildly. While stumbling and falling all the way down the hall to the bathroom, a "few" drops managed to elude her hands which were pressed up against her mouth, before she was able to get to the toilet.

Even though her words were hard to understand, I asked why she was speaking so funny. She then revealed to me that in the haste of being sick, the bottom plate of her false teeth fell out into the toilet, and that she'd flushed the toilet before she'd realized that her teeth were missing. I fought hard not to laugh out loud, but that shit was just too f*ckin' funny! I asked her why she would flush before first looking at what she'd "tossed up", citing that as disgusting as it is, it was a practice I'd always done. Mostly as a way of seeing what exactly I ate that made me so ill, but in this case, for my mother, it would have been a handy way to see her teeth smiling up at her from the foaming bowl.

I got her a glass of water, and strategically placed a bucket next to her bed, which was quickly used. I put together her snow machine, all the while giving her advice on what she should have done differently and how she could have avoided be so sick. Even going so far as to discover possible culprits which may have caused the sickness.

The day before, at Christmas Dinner, she had contributed a coleslaw which disappointingly (for her) no one touched, except for her. Then today she's violently sick. "Where'd you get the recipe?" I asked. From a magazine, she told me, to which I added, "There you go! That's why you're sick! You're always experimenting with shit you read about in magazines!"

Admittedly, I was less than nice to her regarding the situation, treating my ailing mother more like a stubborn teenager. When she complained of being cold, I gave her crap for sleeping on top of the covers, rather than climbing right into bed. She never even bothered to cover herself up with a blanket on top of the bed. Reluctantly she climbed in. I placed her phone by her bed and left to go home. All the while, however, guilt started setting in on me. Guilt about treating her so poorly after being so violently ill. "What if she'd had a stroke or something? Why was she so dizzy and unable to walk? Why was she deaf in her left ear? Why the hell didn't she notice her teeth were missing before she flushed the toilet?"

I called her back at about 8:30pm, and by nine o'clock, we were registering her in at the St. Paul's Hospital. After a three hour wait (a new experience for me as I've NEVER had to wait for medical treatment in my life), we had about a three minute meeting with a doctor fella, with a thick accent about what the causes may be. Inner Ear. Like the congestion from a head cold, where phlegm and mucus builds up in your sinus's, sometimes the same happens in your ears, or more specifically, your inner ear, thus throwing off your balance, causing one to get dizzy, unable to walk in a straight line, or even projectile-vomit, depending on what that person had been eating, which in this case, my mom had confessed to getting up in the morning and eating a great big helping of the coleslaw that no one had eaten at Christmas dinner.

"What?!? Coleslaw is a side-dish!" I scolded her,"Never eat that shit by itself!"

The cure for what was ailing my mother? Two or three drops of olive oil in each ear ever three to four hours. And yes! The very same olive oil that some put on their salads. Freaky, huh? Thank god for the 24-hour Shoppers over by her house. I was able to get some organic olive oil and a dropper to apply it for her. Talk about a scary f*cking Christmas.

Reindeer Games

As if being named Rudolph wasn't bad enough. A name that sound remarkably similar to Adolph, a name forever ruined by that Nazi c*cksucker, but then the little reindeer, with the odd nasal feature, gets repeatedly picked on by his peers.

A conglomeration of reindeer who should be revered and respected by all who celebrate the Christmas season, and this nasty f*cks are picking on and bullying a little runt of a reindeer, all because his nose glows red instead of being cold and black and draining nasal fluid and snot all over everything. I mean seriously! You ever have the misfortune of eyeing up an animal of a bovine nature? Whether it be a cow, a moose, a bison or a reindeer, them bastards are forever oozing shit outta their noses. And these reindeer are celebrated in song? What...ever!

So here we are. Present day. All year long, Santa's reindeer team are keeping fit by playing games and other similar activities, all the while, shunning the poor little reindeer known to all as Rudolph. Then, with Christmas Eve finally upon them, their faced with insurmountable odds. A fog has rolled in, and NOT just locally at the North Pole. But due to global warming (I suspect), the fog has blanketed the entire Earth. Santa's annual task of delivering toys and joy to children of all ages around the world, is threatened. Until, the idea of using Rudolph and his shiny red nose as a method of guiding the sleigh and eight tiny reindeer around the world.

Oh! Well suddenly guess who's kissing Rudy's soft little brown ass? The eight reindeer and that fat bastard Santa, who despite knowing the other reindeer were shitting on the poor little guy all year long, chose not to step in, citing that the constant ribbing would help make Rudolph stronger and tougher. Now, with their livelihoods on the line, and quite possibly their very lives, Rudolph is suddenly the handiest thing since bread came sliced.

Well, it just shows that Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a better person than I, as he set aside all his hurt and disgruntled feelings and decided to help the crew out on that fateful night. I, myself, would have pointed a finger at all of them and told 'em to "go f*ck themselves", adding that if I wasn't good enough to gallup around with the team before, why the hell am I so f*cking special now? Because of my ruby red nose? F*ck that!!! But no. Rudolph set aside his greivances and set forth, guiding all onward and upward.

Alas, Christmas was saved! All the little boys and all the little girls of the world over, got to wake up early on Christmas morn, greeted by shiny new sleds, baseball gloves, dolls, and Easy-Bake ovens. Upon their return to the North Pole, all the reindeer suddenly loved the little guy, shouting out with glee, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, you'll go down in history!!!"

Yeah! Right! A worthless piece of shit yesterday, not even worth the spit draining from their noses, and today they're all riding his coat-tails. Hoping to score just a little piece of the fame that Rudolph has coming to him from that day forth. Donner and Blitzen and Goofy or whatever the f*ck the other one's names are, never had any songs written about them. They appear only as a footnote in the openning lines of Rudolph's song.

But the one thing I always hoped that would've happened after Rudolph returned from that fateful trip was: After all those fail attempts to play the reindeer games, then finally being allowed to participate, I'd always hoped that he'd play the games, then quit almost immediately, pointing out "Ya know...? These games are actually, pretty f*ckin' gay!!! I don't want to play them anymore..."

Season's Greetings, everyone!!!!
And Have a VERY Happy New Year!!!

PAL

Ironically, I once worked for a company whose initials spelled the word P.A.L. And as fun and miserable as that job could get at times, I truly believe that it was there where I met some of my greatest friends. Both life long and in passing.

It was definately the longest job I was able to keep, having stayed there a couple months shy of a nine year tour of duty. And it was during this time that I experienced some of my greatest highs and lows. Both physical and otherwise. I witnessed the passing of an era, moving the store from a cramped space to a new location with what seemed like an abundance of space, but would soon prove otherwise. I saw the three managers move in and out of power. I saw many good people move on to better places, and many useless shits never seem to move a muscle. And though I no longer work in that vocation, I do miss some of the folks. Luckily, however, the ones I truly care most about, continue to be good friends since my departure from the store. So much that we continue to get together for social occasions.

One fellow in particular though, Leon, is moving on to greener pastures. While staying with the company, he is following his heart and moving out the British Columbia, to lend a hand with the birth of a new store in a continually growing entity of a business, but also to be closer to his family who'd moved out there in the previous few months. I had the privilege of being with him for the last few weekends of his tenur here. He came out to witness my making a spectacle of myself on my birthday, two weeks ago. We went out to Warman to visit with other friends we'd both worked with, him at present, me in the distant past. I got to see him get plastered at a going away party this past Saturday, and I got to accompany him to his work's Christmas party Sunday evening at the Western Development Museum.

What was most touching about the Christmas party was seeing how beloved a person he had become over that past eight years or so. I could see some with tears of pride as they presented him with gifts of appreciation and even a grand trophy, clutching a makeshift hydraulic cylinder in it's raised fists. (Leon is a Hydraulic's Specialist with the organization, his reputation exceeding his so much that the manager of the new store hired him on the spot, without an interview. That is most impressive, me thinks!)

He was visibly over-whelmed, as he is a young man who wears his heart on his sleeve, but he maintained his composure and thanked everyone, everywhere, for all the accolades. He is incredibly humble, and this is why he is the proverbial "good guy". Good guys don't come around very often, but when they do, you want to make sure they stay in your life one way or another.

Late last night, as I dropped him at his house, and he so graciously presented me with a couple items that would not be making the trek to B.C., I told him if he ever came back to town and needed a place to crash for a couple of days, to not hesitate and give me a call. I could tell he was genuinely touched.

The dictionary defines "pal" as a very close friend, a comrade, a chum, but what this entry lacks is a picture of Leon, as he is most definately the personification of the word.

I don't usually share people's names in these blog entries, but felt I should do so for Leon, as it's been a real privilege meeting and getting to know this man. And whatever adventures you find and follow in your new mountain home, know that you are always welcome back here on the prairies too.

Have a good life Leon!