Loftus Family Christmas

Yesterday was the Loftus Family Christmas. It used to be four sets of aunts and uncles, my grandma and grandpa, great grandma and ten cousins, all huddled around a dining room table or the “little kids” card table, eating turkey. We’ve grown and things have changed and I’m starting to think that the way you remember it, isn’t always exactly how it was. So I’m going to record yesterday’s Loftus Christmas so it will go down in history for its true high points. Also, so those who couldn’t make it can pretend they were there.

We started the day off at Princess Gardens. Loftii arrived by the carfuls, with cousins and relative mates and hesitant have-we-met-before introductions. Aunt Jo and I prettied up my grandma and tried to keep her from nodding off during the reunion. Grandma looks up at the new arrivals and though she can’t get the words out, her mouth moves as if to try to form words, a smile breaks across her face and her arms come up for a hug. She cries too, from joy I think. From relief of seeing a familiar face, even if the name won’t come to her. She doesn’t know exactly how she knows me or my brother or my cousin or my uncle, but she knows she is loved, so she weeps.

We eat hors d’oeuvres, which Uncle Kevin and Aunt Liz and Sara have prepared, likely over the past few days, but which they always down-play in effort. Connor starts the day off upset, with some tears. He’s a six foot three enigma in the corner for a few minutes, and then he’s happy again and eating cookies and laughing so hard he’s choking on his food. It also wouldn’t be a Loftus gathering if he wasn’t trying to touch his sister’s eyelashes.

We end our afternoon at Princess Gardens when the nursing home has a fire drill. Ashley and Kaitlin (who is in a Comedy Program at Humber College ) find it a hilarious and sadly pointless exercise.

We head over to Aunt Liz and Uncle Kevin’s for more food. Ashley is a bartender and immediately sets up a martini bar. Melissa makes mocktails in the blender for her and her littlest sixteen year old cousin – the pink tutu (the name of the mocktail, not the cousin). However, the blender has no lid, so she and David’s girlfriend, Katie, decide saran wrap will do. Jay objects in a voice that says, you can’t SERIOUSLY think that’s safe. So, we cave, and add an inverted plastic bowl to the top of the blender. That’s Loftus’ for you – safety first.

Sara has to take two calculus courses this year and so Jay and his girlfriend, Michelle, are trying to convince her that calculus is easy. I may have been in that conversation as well. To hear Michelle emphatically pointing out how much she LOVES parabolas and max-min questions, you’d think we were a bunch of nerds….hmmm…you be the judge.

At dinner, we discuss, at length, the best way to eat a pomegranate (what to do with the fleshy part and what to do with the soft, juicy, red bits) while David and Kaitlin are laughing so hard they’re in tears in the corner because they are pretending we are talking about something dirty.

Uncle Kevin got Aunt Liz a new camera, so he’s taking lots of pictures. As we pose, I quickly swallow my food and pray the cracks between my teeth are free of debris. Then I incorrectly think the picture-taking is done, so I put a carrot in my mouth, only to discover that Kevin is saying, “Another one!” It happens so fast, I actually reach into my mouth to retrieve the carrot and hopefully inconspicuously hide it under the edge of my plate.

We also have to take some of the entire family, crowded by the fireplace, with David and Katie holding the dogs and Kevin setting the timer and trying to squeeze in. For the first one, he is too non-chalant, and doesn’t make it on time to his spot at the very back of the crowd. As an added time crunch, Aunt Jo’s car is warming up on the street with the keys in it.

David’s girlfriend, Katie, is a gift registry representative for The Bay and is surprisingly passionate about her job. I am engaged to be married in July. She is very informative and I suspect she works on commission.

Though there are many Loftus dogs, only little Ollie (the horny and non-gender-selective Bichon Frisé) and Luke (a tired golden retriever) are there at the party. All night, Luke looks up at you with his painfully patient brown eyes while Ollie pumps furiously at his back side.

We, the cousins, cleverly turn the card game Spoons into a drinking game and then play a few rounds of Kings (which IS a drinking game) but we unanimously decide to take out rule #6 (Chicks Show Your Tits) since most of us playing are blood relatives.

Yes, Loftus Family Christmases have evolved and changed. I’d like to think it’s because we’ve matured so much.

The Gift

I am a worrier.
Or at least, that’s how the rest of society perceives my very special gift.

They think I unnecessarily fret about circumstances which rarely come about. I’ll tell you what these fortunate people don’t know (and it’s not their fault). I PREVENT these unpleasant circumstances from happening around them because of my gift. I protect them.

For instance, Mark can’t know that if I didn’t make an anxious noise when he drove too close to the car in front of us that we would surely be in an accident. I am saving his life.

Today, my cell phone was in the coffee cup holder of my car. I like to put it there so I can hear it and answer it without turning my head too much if it rings. Mark set his very full cup of coffee next to it. My GIFT allowed me to foresee the unpleasant repercussions of this action, so I intervened by removing my cell phone from the cup holder next to the precariously full coffee cup.

He said, “You’re such a worrier.”
I smiled.
Special gifts like this are seldom understood by muggles.

Conspiracy Theory #1

My friend Carolyn has a puppy (Roxy) who gets very anxious when she’s left alone in the house. She cries and she whines and sometimes she shreds towels into confetti. She also tinkles with excitement whenever she greets a man. One of Carolyn’s attempts to ease Roxy’s anxiety came in the form of a small bottle of calming pheromone. You screw this little bottle of magical liquid into a dispenser, which gets plugged into the wall outlet and it radiates wonderous fumes of zen for the surrounding puppies. Curious, I read the information on the back of the box. This magical pheromone originates from mammary glands of lactating mummy dogs. Interesting. Boob sweat calms animals.

I drove Mark to the airport today. As he was getting his suitcase out of the back seat, I was holding his Tim Horton’s coffee. While driving away, I found I could still smell the Tim Horton’s coffee smell on my fingers, even though I hadn’t touched the coffee, only the cup. This got me thinking about whether Tim Horton’s coffee’s addictive properties are in the coffee itself or in the container in which it is served.

Then it came to me.
Tim Horton’s laces its coffee cups with human mammary gland pheromone.
You know I’m right.

Life is Great Moment (LIG)

I have these moments…epiphanies if you will… when it hits me just how incredibly fortunate I am. They are moments where I just pause and relish.

Today was our Christmas. Mark and mine. And even before I was showered with beautiful cards and wonderful, thoughtful gifts, I had an LIG moment.
Mark and I woke up fairly early, a bit out of habit and a bit because it’s an exciting day. And he got up out of bed around 7:30 and I slept for a bit longer. I heard him wrestling with keys and then the door shut. When he came back, I heard him looking through closets, and then he came in with a Tim Horton’s tea and breakfast sandwich on a serving tray. So, breakfast in bed with my baby. No rushing, no appointments, nowhere to be. It was beautiful. I don’t know if life gets much better than that.

Christmas Prezzies

I get some really nice things from my students for Christmas. Their generosity astounds me every year. Please don’t think I’m too insensitive, but today I had to chuckle when I opened a card from a student and found a single $1 gift certificate to Tim Horton’s. At first I thought it was just amusing that it was just one single $1. Then I realized that Tim Horton’s sells their currency in packs of $5 – containing two $2 leaflets and one $1. There are at least two teachers higher than me in this hierarchy, and they’re getting their whole coffee for free.

I'm a big fan of the "What If..."
I don't mean that I like to live with regret.... no, I prefer to think of all the possible uncomfortable situations so I can prepare for them, be they likely or not.

For instance, when I started driving, I developed a habit of unlocking the doors of the van when driving past the "long swamp". This was in case I hit an icy patch and lost control and the car flipped and someone had to help me get out of the car. Wouldn't this be easier for them if the doors were unlocked?

And yesterday, I was walking around in my winter coat when I felt a small pen in my left pocket. I am right-handed, so of course, I had to switch it to my right pocket... in case I ever needed to quickly use it as a weapon.

The White Flag

Part of being a sane teacher is knowing when to surrender.

The dynamic in a regular classroom is always an equilibrium of power between two parties: the teacher and about 30 odd children. Generally, the teacher struggles to varying degrees for the control over the activities of the classroom. Some might argue this is undiplomatic, however, I would argue that the alternative is anarchy. And a good teacher fights the good fight to defeat anarchy each and every day. Some days it’s not a hard fight, other days she may come out in the end with muddied hands and soiled hair and a beaten heart. Some days she goes at it with fresh energy and other days she begins the journey destined to fail.

This afternoon, I was standing next to a colleague, observing some of my star students behaving badly. She laughed at my puzzled expression and reminded me, “It’s the week before Christmas, Melissa.” That’s all the explanation I need. The equilibrium has tipped in the other direction for these last five days of school before the holidays. The monster has stirred and I can, as a teacher, grab on to its thrashing head and dig my heels in, or I can stand back and watch and just keep out of its way.

The white flag goes up.
The movie goes in the VCR.
No sudden moves and no one gets hurt.

Pre-Christmas Couple Pictures

Mark and I had great aspirations for making family calendars this year. We then realized we didn't have many pictures of us as a couple to include in the calendars (not to mention how much ink these things require). Below are some of the reasons why we won't be making a family calendar this year.

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Building a Gingerbread House

I had high expectations for building my gingerbread house.
I told people about it all week, that’s how excited I was. I drew up the plans and cut the template out of cardboard. After it was over…. all over… and I recounted the story to my sister with dismay, she said, “Don’t you remember how awful it was building gingerbread houses when we were kids?”

I guess I remember it being tough. And I remember having an ugly house when it was over. But I don’t remember it being stressful like last night turned out to be.

Anyway, here is the finished product. Don’t smash it the way you’re supposed to break a gingerbead house, as there are load-bearing drinking glasses inside holding up walls. If you look carefully, on the steeple of the roof, there is a gummy bear with a huge glob of icing on his chest – he is Santa and that is his beard. The chimney was supposed to be 3D, but I got pissed off and ate one of the pieces in anger. Then I put a single representative chimney piece on the roof and it slid right down the side. The walls all look like they’re going to cave in (indeed they did many times last night), but I assure you they are now completely gooped with icing and stuck firmly. They’re not exactly square, but I think it’s ridiculous to hope a piece of baked cookie will retain its right angles when baked. It should only be a problem if the gingerbread house residents try to hang pictures. That thing out front is a mailbox. And who would have thought that gummy worms wouldn’t make good door frames?

Things Kids Do

You really can’t imagine the multitude of stupid things kids can think of doing. It’s impossible to foresee. I know my instructions before a class activity have become a bit silly. Kids laugh when I say, “Now don’t take this flat piece of plastic and lay it horizontally across the top of the sink and turn on the water.” They say, “Miss Loftus, has anyone ever DONE that?”

In fact, today, I forgot to mention that to a class. And you know what my friend Stephen did? Yes….only instead of laying the flat piece of plastic across the sink so the water poured out all over the counter and onto the floor…. He held the flat plastic slide on a downward angle from the sink basin towards his crotch, then turned on the top.

But that’s not even the incident that inspired this blog. Mark and I both do a very simple experiment using syringes (of course, without needles in them). Kids are supposed to see if they can compress water and air by firmly pressing their thumb over the tiny opening and pushing the stopper as hard as they can. Very quickly, kids notice how fun it is to squirt all the air out of the syringe, then put their thumb over the tiny opening and then suck the syringe stopper out quickly. This pullllllllllllllllllllllllls their thumb skin into the stopper, if only for an exhilarating second, and makes everyone exclaim and laugh.
Ha ha ha.
It’s genius. Original.
I see it every goddam period!

So today, a really smart kid in Mark’s class did something even better.
He put the syringe’s tiny end against his forehead and did the stopper-sucking thing….twice. Apparently that’s just too much pressure for a brow. He actually created a bloody geiser smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

So next time Mark hands kids this equipment, he will have to say, “And when you’re using these syringes, please don’t put them in your mouth, squirt other people with water, or suck various parts of your body into the tiny end.”

All You Need
Abby has a cute little Christmas purse.
She’s two.
I asked her what was in it.
She showed me her Dora the explorer candy snacks, her blanky and her deck of Santa cards.
Really, how much more does a girl need?

Roast Beef

Tonight, Mark and I had a delicious roast beef. It was infused with whole cloves of garlic, as little surprising pockets of flavour.
This was because Mark shoved whole cloves into the meat with his thumb.
He did this because there were holes all over the roast.
The holes were there because the flavour injector didn’t work.
We have a flavour injector because it was a free gift that came with our 20 piece Ronco Knife set.
We have the knife set because Mark drank too much one night and watched the Shopping Channel.

I had an epiphany today when I was out on my two and a half hour long run.
I was running very slowly and I coverd 20.6 km. That is nearly a half marathon.
While I was shuffling away, thinking about how I'd get my wits about me to run an additional ten during the Around the Bay Race, my mind wandered forward in time to my first attempt at a full marathon (maybe in May at the Mississauga Marathon).

I realized that a half marathon (the furthest distance I've ever run) is only HALF a marathon.

I know. It seems obvious. Logical even. But somehow, I didn't get it until today.

I blame it on Delia. Or all those other accomplished runners who tell you as soon as you've done a 5k race that a 10k is hardly any more work. And once you've done a 10k, they say you might as well do a half because you're almost there anyway. And if you follow this logic, when you've done a half, you're pretty much doing a full, only with a few fewer blisters and a few more healthy toe nails.

So it seemed logical to aim for a full marathon - that lifelong triumph that I want to taste at least once.

And today, when I was half limping the last kilometre with sore knees and hips and iliotibial bands, I realized that in a full marathon I'd only be HALF done.
That's not even a little bit comforting to someone who is dragging themselves those last few steps. HALF is NOTHING! That's like finishing a half marathon and turning around and going back.

What madness have I gotten myself into.

The Man in the Big Red Suit

How did you feel about Santa Clause as a kid?
The guy scared the crap out of me.

Mostly, I was scared I’d accidentally stumble across him doing his Santa Claus-y things on Christmas Eve and I’d piss him off (he’s a fairly introverted guy) and he wouldn’t leave me any presents from there on in. Being left present-less on Christmas is about the worst thing that can happen to a seven year old.

Every Christmas eve, we’d go to church. Sometimes, we’d go visit at a neighbour’s house. This stressed me out. It was already dark, I’d notice. What if Santa had already begun his route. What if he mistakened our quiet house for a sleeping house? What if he started to set out presents and we got home and he was found out! That would really tick him off, I bet.

The clock would tick by slowly as my father visited with Mr. Steffler and I’d wait impatiently for him to be done so we could go home. When coming inside the house, I’d sneak a glance at the roof for hoof prints. Inside, I’d rush up the stairs, being careful to avert my eyes from the living room (where the Christmas tree was) so I wouldn’t prematurely see my presents, in case Santa had made a mistake and come while we were away.

Santa sometimes set our stockings in our bedrooms by our beds. So I’d squint my eyes just enough so I could see my way around the room, but also so I wouldn’t see whether my Christmas stocking was filled with gifts yet. I’d get ready for bed, changing into my pj’s and brushing my teeth, in this semi-blind state. Then I’d hurriedly crawl into bed, a ball of nerves, and throw the blanket over my head and wait.

I’d plug my ears so I couldn’t hear Santa. Even though I was hot and couldn’t breathe very well, I’d keep the blanket over my face, so if Santa came into my room, he wouldn’t see me seeing him.

Not only was I worried about the ramifications of seeing Santa and the resultant lack of prezzies, but I was fearful of the fact that an unfamiliar middle-aged man with an affinity for youth was going to be sneaking around in the dark of my room while I was sleeping. Forgive me, but I’ve always been wary of strangers. And let’s be honest, how much does any of us REALLY know about Santa?

I have to say, it’s almost a relief to be grown up.

Stink, Stinkier, Stunk

Today I was outside at the end of the day for DPA (Daily Physical Activity) with my students. I was inside again before I realized that my shoe wasn’t hugging the tile floor in the flat way that it normally does. I looked down and to my dismay discovered that I had tread upon a whopping pile of shit….apparently with both feet.

At first I thought it would not be an ordeal, I calmly went back outside and scraped my feet on the side of the building (I know, not too lady-like of me), but that only scraped off the safe oxidized outer layer, leaving a much stinkier and more urgent situation in its place. Upstairs, the smell became unbearable, so I went into the small storage room in which I keep science supplies and my coat and purse, and I took my shoes off and left them in there, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I was fine to walk around my classroom in my shoeless feet, helping some students who had stayed behind, until I realized that I couldn’t get home in sock feet. This was the one night when Mark had a staff meeting and I’d said I could just walk home, so he needn’t bother coming by the school to get me. Okay. That’s fine. I’d just have to tackle the shoe disgrace in a hands-on fashion.

So I opened the storage room door quickly, reached around the corner and grabbed my scarf off the hook where it was hanging. I wrapped it tightly around my nose and mouth and then grabbed those shoes and ran to a sink at the back of my room. The smell was unbearable. I faintly remember thinking that it would be a real shame to asphyxiate on my own vomit in such a telling state – prying dog shit off an orange running shoe using a piece of wooden doweling at the back of my science classroom.

I used hot water because I thought hot water is more powerful. However, it also made the dog shit particles more volatile and hence more stinky. So I eventually decided I had made the problem irreversible. Time to cut my losses. I found a garbage bag and dumped the shoes in it and tied it tightly closed. Then I found another bag (I dumped whomever’s gym clothes those were on a desk – serves them right for not bringing them home) and put the first bag in that.

So I’m carrying a double-bagged sack of shitty shoes and I’ve got a fuscia scarf wrapped like a noose around my neck, and I’m wandering the halls looking for someone to give me: a) shoes, so I can walk home or b) a ride home.

Needless to say, I am now safe and sound in my cute little basement apartment. I debated tossing the shoes out. However, I opted for washing them. I can’t be bothered to fish the insoles out of them like you’re supposed to, but at this point, as long as I don’t permanently coat the inside of the washing machine with crap, the worse that can happen is the shoes will be irreversibly deformed and I’ll throw them out anyway.

This is the kind of drama that I live each and every day.

Jay is my little brother.
He is 50% chinese (like me).
He looks more chinese than Mary and I, but less so when he's standing next to his 100% chinese girlfriend, Michelle.

Jay is a rocket-scientist. He is also a self-proclaimed, slightly satirical frantic boy (see link to blog on right side of this page).

My sister is living in Wales right now with her husband, Ben.
She's going to come and visit me soon, so I'm feeling very excited. She has innocently sent me some pictures, some of which I wish to share with all my loyal readers. (All of the multitude of them - a far-reaching scope to be sure)

Some say Mary and I look alike. Some also say that Ben looks Jewish, although he is not.

They can sometimes be silly.

Misunderstanding

Today I was making a purchase.
I won’t reveal the name of the store simply because I bought someone’s Christmas present there and I can’t divulge any of my secrets.

As I pulled out my visa card to pay, the man behind the counter smiled at me and said, “How are things at the bank?”
I’m not sure why, but I said, “Fine.” It seems like the neutral response that can never be wrong, even if I wasn’t sure why this man thought I knew how things were at the bank. It occurred to me that he had asked as I’d pulled my credit card from my wallet; maybe he had noticed that it was a TD bank Visa and maybe he went to TD as well. Or maybe he just meant to ask if my finances were good enough to be making such a big purchase? No matter the reason behind his question, FINE seemed like a very ambiguous and yet satisfying answer.

Then, as he was punching away at numbers on the cash register, he said quietly and deliberately, “ten percent discount for a mall employee…”
And I thought, “That’s odd. I don’t work at the mall.”
Then I thought, perhaps he and I were sharing a secret moment in which he just thought I seemed like a nice person and he wanted to give me a discount and this was how he’d do it. (You know like when a former student is working at Subway and they give you a free cookie on Student Discount day as a kind of ironic but sweet gesture because you were their teacher.) It did seem a bit over-played, actually saying the words out loud. Maybe at any moment, he’d wink and I’d know we were sharing a secret joke just-between-us.

A woman in line behind me started up a conversation with me and the man behind the counter. I felt dragged in. And all the while I thought, “In the course of this conversation, I’m going to accidentally give my true identity away and if this man is really convinced I work at the mall, he’ll be embarrassed and feel deceived and I will be REVEALED!” I began to feel panicky and guilty. I had to escape.
I fled.

And when I’d found my shopping partner, Delia, I told her the story. “Why on EARTH would he think you work at the bank?” she asked me. Then suddenly I looked down at the shirt I was wearing. It was a shirt I’d received free for running a half marathon two Septembers ago... the Scotiabank Waterfront Marathon.

It all became clear.

The man and I were not sharing a moment.

He’d misunderstood the logo on my shirt. I felt ashamed. Delia picked up my receipt for $87 and examined it while I mulled over the fate of my wicked soul.
“Melissa,” she said, “He only gave you the discount on part of your purchases.”
I leaned over her shoulder, “How much did I save?”

“$1.80”

I think I’ll still be able to sleep tonight.