Dad 2.0

On February 3rd, my dad would have turned 60. I would have taken him to New York. We would have had a massive celebration that he had, as planned, “made it”. Now with new and improved hip and heart. That is not what happened, as he died suddenly at the end of May last year.

I last saw him a few days before he died, when he told me that while he loved the clients he was going to see, he really didn’t want to go on the trip, and was tired of travelling so much. He hardly ever said things like this — he was pretty die-hard about putting a positive face on things — and it struck me as such an unusual thing for him to say. He was pretty grumpy about it : )

I used to speak with him nearly every day, and he was easily one of my best friends. The abruptness of losing him, and the ongoing pain about what he lost are difficult things to find places for.

On his 60th, I was in South Africa. It occurred to me that, though it was not a planned “escape”, perhaps it would be an accidental perfect solution. That I would inadvertently end up ten thousand kilometers away from reminders and habits and sadness.

The twist was that, on his 60th, I ended up in a facilitated strategic planning session. With all of his favourite work words thick in the air. For tea, they served carrot cake. The old man’s favourite food of all time, double stamped-it.

My brother (whose birthday is on Sunday, so if you see him, give him a big birthday hug) wrote the post below. He nailed it, so I’m just going to repost it wholesale here.

Happy Birthday Dad, big love.

From Pample the Moose

Remembering My Dad, Bryan Hayday

Today would have been my Dad’s 60th birthday. We had been planning to hold a huge celebration, because making it to sixty years old was going to be a really big deal. His father (Ron), my Grandpa, had died at age 54, and his younger brother, my Uncle Wayne, had also passed away quite young, at 51. Dad used to joke that with every day he lived, he was setting records as the longest-lived Hayday male in Canada (our British relatives, it seems, fare better in the longevity department). The significance of this birthday was going to be even greater after he made it through a very difficult (and out-of-the-blue) heart surgery in the summer of 2010.

Instead, Dad passed away suddenly at the end of last May while away on a business trip in northern Ontario. We had no warning signs. In fact, he had breezed through hip surgery in early April, and at Easter we were referring to him as Bryan 2.0 (“now with titanium hip!”). Easter was the last time that I saw Dad in person, and he was looking relaxed and happy. He was less happy when we spoke on the phone on election night, but that was political, not anything to do with his personal life or health. In the last months of his life, I always got the impression that he was feeling calmer, less overwhelmed with work, and more serene about his life and his future, and looking forward to future adventures. I suppose that if anything, I can be thankful that he was in a good place in his life when he passed away.

But that being said, I still feel robbed of the time that I won’t get to have with my father. For all that he travelled a lot, he had never been to New York City, one of my favourite places to vacation, and frequently mentioned his desire to go there some day. My sister and I had planned to take him this year, once his hip was fully recovered and he was up to long walks around the city. And over the past 8 months, I have constantly been reminded of how Dad was my “go-to” guy to get excited about accomplishments in my life. When I was a teenager, I used to get a bit irritated about how Dad would “brag” about us kids to his colleagues and friends. But when I got older, I appreciated his excitement. He was almost giddy with pride at graduations, and eager to share in our personal and professional achievements. I knew that I could count on him to buy up copies of my books to send to his friends. And after his cheeky comments about my first book, I was certainly going to find a way to “include an exciting car chase” to add a bit more action and zip to my next book (I’m still wrestling with how to work that into a discussion of Canadian bilingualism, but I’ll find a way!)

February was (and remains) “birthday month” in my family. My Dad’s birthday is today, and my own and my sister Catherine’s fall later in the month. So one big joint birthday party was often how we celebrated. It’s not going to be the same from now on. I miss you Dad. Happy 60th birthday! I wish you were still here so we could celebrate it with you.

Some problems with LoTR: Elf Edition

(“It’s pronounced KEL-eh-born, not SEL-eh-born“. Oh Cats, that is never getting old.)

A couple of nights ago, I was having trouble sleeping. So I did what anyone would do, and popped in some of the DVDs from the Lord of the Rings: Elf Edition.

You may not be familiar with the “Elf Editions”. You may know them by their more formal name “The Special Extended Editions”.

But when my husband put them on his Christmas list back when they were released, he referred to them as the Elf Editions (on account of how almost all the extra footage is elfs walking around Being Tall). So that’s what I thought they were called. And that’s what I asked for. In store after store. Getting confused looks. Over and over. Never in stock. Where could it be. Why didn’t anyone have the Elf Edition? (“No, not the one that comes with the elf action figure. The Elf Edition, THE ELF EDITION!”)

Ahem.

So anyways, I was watching LoTR: Elf Edition. And a couple of things were bugging me. It turns out that yelling them at the screen wasn’t sufficiently cathartic, so here they are again. You’re welcome nerds.

1. Sam: Everything dampens his spirits.

“Nothing ever dampens your spirits, does it Sam?”

What? Seriously Frodo, what epic trip are you on? Because in the one I’m watching everything bothers Sam. Sam is scowling or moping throughout this entire movie. He’s never been so far away from The Shire, Merry and Pippin can’t take a coupla carrots from Farmer Maggot. He’s sick of lembas bread. He wants a potato. He thinks Gollum is trying to kill him. I could go on.

Even if Frodo hadn’t noticed before, how about five seconds after Frodo makes this comment, when Sam is a pussy about it raining. For frack’s sake hobbit. You’re like this -> <- close to Mordor. And you’re sad cuz it’s raining? Just thank your hobbit god for every second you’re not being gutted by an orc. More like Samwise the Mopey.

2. Everyone seems to know about the one ring, except for the ancient and powerful all-knowing wizard.

When Bilbo goes all uncut-cocaine over a ring, Gandalf has to look that shit up. The superduper powerful smart wizard has to get his ass to the library. He has to go all the way to Gondor’s sub-basement level 4, and leaf through moldy papers for daaaaays to find out what it is.

Everyone else? They just know. Boromir. He knows. Faramir. The foot soldiers. That kid who throws a rock at the Uruk-hai? I bet he knows too. They’re all “oh, you mean, he has The One Ring? Yeah. Y’know. The One Ring. The weapon of the enemy. Doy. Do you have any more Mithril? Because I’m about to get smote bitches.”

Even fucking Galadriel is all “and some things that should not have been forgotten were lost”. Were they? Were they Galadriel? Cuz for a secret lost forgotten thing, everyone is talking about it a lot. The One Ring is everybody’s virginity in the locker room of Middle Earth.

Y’know what. Forget that second one. Frodo has a big mouth. He probably just didn’t keep it secret or safe enough. He can’t stop telling people about his burden. It’s mine. I alone have to do it. No giant strapping men, I don’t want you — who know the way and are fucking burly — to defend me from countless baddies. Wah wah. It burns. It’s heavy. That guy’s looking at me. It’s all on me, even though Sam literally carries him to the finish line.

…

Hmmm. Okay. Forget the first one too. I forgive Sam for being Sammopey the Jowly. If you carry someone over hot lava, you get a pass. But fuck you Frodo. Fuck you.

p.s. Frodes, after all that, you didn’t even finish your mission. Did you cast the ring into the fire? Like you were supposed to? This whole time? NO. Gollum had to bite your finger off to finish the job. So really, Gollum got it done. All you did was have fingers. A monkey could have done that. A monkey. What you “did” didn’t even require opposable thumbs. Slow clap buddy, slow chewed off finger clap.

*LoTR Easter Egg: Look for the scene where Pippin is showing way too much chest hair for an innocent little hobbit. I have ruined this movie for more than one friend by pointing this out. You can’t unsee it people, you can’t unsee it.

Scenes from a (good) marriage

-1-

[About 5 minutes into his side of the conversation...]

Husband: “… so I really love my $1000 amp, but the one thing I’d change is to have the split head and cab version. And this would be about $500, but if I could get $700 for the one I have, then it would only be a few hundred to upgrade and…”

[Few more minutes of discussing ups and downs of a few hundred here and there...]

Husband: “So what do you think I should do?”

Me: “I bought gloves for running today. They were $29.99.”

Him: “…”

Me: “I was looking at the $35 ones, but then I was like ‘dude, let’s not go crazy with this’. I mean, $35. So I went with the $29.99 ones, because they also come with a hat, and I had been waiting to buy a hat too, so this way I could get both for $29.99.”

Him: “…”

Me: “I also stopped in to see if I could pick up another pack of those cloth napkins while they’re on sale for $12.99. Because that’s $4 less than usual.”

Him: “…”

Me: “Sorry, what was your question again?”

Him: “Yes, you’re very clever and funny.”

-2-

I’m working in my office, and hear Husband waking up in the other room. Mumbley mumbley waking up noises. Something that sounds like a sentence directed at me. I can only assume it’s about the cow sock I put on his foot while it was sticking out from under the covers…

-3-

Husband came through to ask that when I turn on the heat in the morning (broken furnace shmoken furnace), could I please also take the big duvet off of him, because he gets stuck under it (it’s true, he does).

Me: [shmooshing his face between my hands] “Sure thing baby. Do you get twapped under da big heavy bwankie? Is it hard cuz you get all stucksy wucksy in your bedsie? Poor widdle munchiekins!”

Him: [hands on hips] “Make. Me. Oatmeal.” [turns on heel and leaves my office].

And I did.

The End.

Girly.

This is my foot right now. The other one’s damage doesn’t photograph as well, because he’s mostly just poofy. This one is also pretty poofy, but not as noticeably.

I was working on kicks. Some of this poofing and purpling is because I don’t do it often enough, so my feet are extra soft and peachlike (the tops, not the bottoms. You could sand wood with those bad boys.)

But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the awesomeness of these bruises.

Glory shot:

My nails were already painted, not for the pic. I keep ending up with pink nails on Muay Thai day.

There are actually about 9 layers of colour on there. Because I can’t be assed to take it off properly. So my nail polish is cumulative. As my good – and similar – buddy said:

“I love when sometimes I get my nails done and they’re removing polish and they remove the layer of, say, green and then they find pink
so they blink and remove that
and there’s some gold
and I’m like “what?”

Yup.

Current layers (if memory serves): pink, white, grey, turquoise, other grey, other pink, other other pink.

This is what girly looks like.

Best. Kitty. Ever.

Chelsea
1996(?)-2011

The greatest kitty that ever was. We don’t know how to not have you here. We’ll keep your fuzzy little face in our hearts and will miss you forever.

Y’know what Universe? Fuck. You.

My dad died suddenly at the end of May. A month later, my husband’s granny died. A few months later, today, my cat is at the vet, with lungs full of fluid, and a very bad prognosis. If we hadn’t got her in, we would have lost her inside of 24 hours. We’ve been warned we may very well still lose her today, or within a few days. After 15 years of being our perfect pet.

So I reiterate:

Dear Universe – FUCK. YOU.

That is all.

Dinner at Boehmer

Dear Restaurants:

I am a good cook. I make food that I enjoy eating. So when I go out for dinner, what I’m looking for and paying for is good food and a good experience. Please don’t ask me to be an enforcer to make those things happen. The bar? It’s not that high. Don’t rip me off, don’t upsell me, and don’t act like we’re in your way by dining at your restaurant. I’ll tip well, appreciate all of your effort and expertise, I will tell friends about your place, and I will come back.

Assume I will want tap water, and have sparkling as the option. Toronto’s tap water is very good. Collectively, we’re very lucky to have it. I enjoy drinking it. Don’t hairy eyeball us over our choice to support it.

When you bring us the menu, please say something about it. Don’t dump a pile of papers on the table and then run away.

Don’t upsell me on bread. Especially without making it clear that you are selling me bread ($3). And if I say yes to bread, and then discover that the dish already comes with bread, I will be very unhappy.

Don’t assume I am stupid. I have probably seen prosciutto before. That is probably why I ordered it. So if you serve me thickly cut prosciutto, like, rashes of streaky bacon thick, and it’s intentional, it’s probably best to say something about it. Otherwise, I will probably assume that someone, somewhere doesn’t know what they’re doing.

I know. If I am served food which is not prepared properly, like freakishly thick prosciutto or grey boar chops, I should point it out, and I should send it back. But please understand that I hate doing this. Many people hate doing this. Many people (like me) will just never come back.

Though. Even those of us who are loathe to send our plates of ill-prepared food back to the kitchen, even we will tip you off. If you come to collect a plate, and there is a sizeable amount of meat left on it — you really should ask why. Ditto a sizeable amount of cheesecake. And we don’t mistake avoidance for efficiency. Whisking away a plate on the sly without asking how it was denies the diner the chance to either ask you to make it right, or to give you feedback on how you might make it right for someone else.

And, finally, failing everything else, please, please do not drop off our desserts and then abandon our table. There is nothing that sours an evening more quickly than being abandoned. I literally cannot leave until you return. No one likes not being able to leave. By the time the table is at the point of joking that they’re being forced into a dine-and-dash, the server’s tip percentage has been severely compromised.

And speaking of being unable to leave. It’s Toronto. In October. I’d like my coat back. If you took it, please be ready to return it. If I’m standing at the front and standing at the front and standing at the front for long enough that I give up and go rummaging through the coatrack myself, it’s a cold itchy scarf of bitterness on a jacket of disappointment.

I’ve been wanting to try this restaurant for a while. And, yes, it was a group buy coupon that finally motivated me to get around to going.

But it was the letdowns from every station that left me tipping only on the post-coupon bill. And that, for me, is terrible. I am a good tipper. I am an overtipper. It’s a perverse expression of some remnant of Catholic guilt, and I can’t shake it. So it has to be a truly bad experience to show up in my tip. The kind of experience that ensured I won’t be back, and that I’ll tell others why.

How do you take your granola?

Y’know, we know you get to know how your spouse likes their coffee. But most people have preferences for how they prefer most of their foods, most of the time. Valuable memory space in my head is currently allocated to lyrics of shit 80s music, and how my husband likes his tortillas folded (tucked in at the bottom and holdable in one hand).

11 years in, and the only thing I know is that I don’t know all of his food quirks. I mean, I’m good but I’m not perfect.

A few of the ones I do know:
* Granola (and most other cereals): Milk just barely cresting the lowest point on the cereal. NOT TOO MUCH MILK. Where how much milk I like == too much milk. Err on too little.
* Coffee: Americanos black. Drip coffee sometimes with a bit of milk. Err on too little milk.
* All baked goods: With raisins. Err on too many raisins. There are never too many raisins. Fact: All boys everywhere fucking love raisins.
* Scones: Buttered. Freshly out of the oven? Made with 2 lbs of butter? Fuckit. It still needs moar butter.
* Pancakes: Special ingredients facing down. If there are bananas/blueberries/chocolate chips present in the pancakes, they should be kissing the plate. Or They Are Wrong.
* Broccoli: Absent. (Unless in dish of General Tso Chicken.)
* Eggs: Yolk firm but not hard, soft but not runny. Will both make relentless fun of me for ordering eggs scrambled (“kiddie eggs!”) and occasionally have them that way himself.
* SC Festive Special: Substitute white meat, fries, whole wheat roll (to be healthy). Lindor priority ranking changes year to year. Hazards: Will steal my dipping sauce.
* “I want something dry”: This translates into either instant oatmeal (IN WHAT WAY IS THAT DRY) or a blueberry waffle or … or… I don’t know, chili. Cravings for “something dry” usually appear approximately 3-4 hours after dinner and 4-5 minutes before videogames.

…

What I still don’t quiiiiite have down? When it is time for the forks he thinks are “stabby” versus the forks he thinks are “scoopy”. I cannot for the life of me get this “right”. So 1 in 3 meals start with him quietly standing up and swapping out a utensil. The echoing clank of metal on metal as a fork is returned to the drawer is the sound of a marriage failing and he will eventually leave me to marry another and she will always know the right fork and will bear him many fat children that they’ll cram into a “mini” SUV and drive to Kindermusik while I ride off on my motorcycle and console myself in a vagrant wandering forkless life filled with endless nights of meaningless sex with attractive strangers and… wait.

The Stabby Scoopy Problem is not helped by that I consider the “scoopy” fork better for stabbing, and vice versa. And I think it’s that … fish is… scoopy if there’s rice and sauce… and…. pasta is stabby if it doesn’t have … a meat with it… unless it is… a… “chunky” pasta? Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah…

“Juuungle life, I’m faar away from nowhere, on my ooooown like Taaarzan Booy…”

p.s. Post title answer: Orally, you perverts.

The five things Desert Island Discs taught me about British actors.

1. Most British actresses are very, very fond of Elvis.
2. Everyone, everyone, loves Sir Laurence Olivier.
3. Many British men are desperate to dance, but think they can only do so alone on a desert island.
4. The diversity of Lady Gaga, Kanye West, & Missy Elliott’s fanbases are astonishing.
5. The MOST important event in the year for ALL British people is some Christmas do called a “pantomime” (“panto”). They are obsessed with it. Whoever can crack the success of the “panto” will have all British people in the palm of their hand. Forever.*

* Sometimes hyperboles are just damn accurate.

Source: (Desert Island Discs)

Little hands

Today I went through what there was of my dad’s stuff. There was not much to take, and I did not take very much.

But I do have this:

On the back it reads:
“FATHER’S DAY
This little gift to you I give,
To keep as long as you may live.”

Holding the print of your little 5-year old hand, when the reason you’re holding it is because the mass-produced kindergarten gift sentiment on the back has been fulfilled. He no longer lives, so it has come back to me.

I don’t know what you do with that. I don’t know where you put it.

So for now, I’m just listening to “Here Comes The Sun” and setting it on my desk.