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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, pussycat.
Counting Backward 01-Jan-2005 4:53 p.m.
I realized last night how very little I enjoy the one minute countdown to the new year. For some bizarre reason my body tenses up and I want to find a nice, secluded spot out of the chaos and excitement. I have no idea why. Maybe in a past life whilst counting the minute backward I fell off a cliff or something. Or spontaneously combusted.
Last night was lovely. The evening was spent with my family. We ate good food, talked, played cards, and marveled at the cuteness that is Stahnu, my nephew. It doesn't get any cuter than that, and I've checked around a whole bunch of times. Hey, I wonder who won the card game? I don't think it was ever disclosed. I'll just assume I won, mostly because it's fun to make an ass out of you and me. I honestly have assumed stuff that made asses of no one, so that theory does not always ring true. But let's be asses anyway, shall we? Just for kicks, of course.
During dinner, my mom declared, "I have a question for you." When I looked at her, she had her head bent down and was looking at her lap with her hands sort of hanging in the air in front of her, palms up with her thumbs and middle fingers touching. She appeared to be entering some meditative trance. Swami Mom. She kept this position long enough (maybe 12 seconds) for most of us to wonder what she was doing. And then The Lovely Bea announced, "She has a list in her lap," and the questions began. Mom had picked up The Book Of Questions and carefully chose eight to ten questions to ask. We went around the table, not necessarily in order, and gave our answers. When asked, "If you suddenly had the courage to do something you've always wanted to do but have been too afraid to do, what would it be?" my answer was, "Speak my mind." My sister said she thought it seemed as if I do that already, but I often don't. A great deal of the time I don't say what's on my mind because I am fearful of one thing or another. Sometimes it feels as if I am choking on words. And so, that is something I am going to work on this year: speaking my mind.
Another question from last night that sticks out in my mind is, "If you could wake up in your own bed anywhere in the world, indoors or outdoors, where would you choose to wake up?" My dad's answer was my favourite, even if it did break my heart. "I would want to wake up where I could see my mom and dad again." Sort of made my "Italy" answer sound frivolous.
Every New Year's Eve I am reminded of the time my sister and I found out that certain events take place on the evening of December thirty-first. I was nine years old, she was eight. We were playing basketball with our neighbourhood pals when Mary Poop piped up, "What are you guys doing tomorrow night?" We most likely told her we'd be watching some television. Then she and Mason started talking about their big plans with their families, and how they were going to eat everything, watch a million shows, and clank pots and pans at midnight. My sister and I were confused. When we let them in on our unknowing, they looked at us with astonishment. How could we not know about New Year's Eve? Oh, my God, all the years we had missed out on that gorgeousness. Who let this happen?
We cut the game short and marched home, intent on getting to the bottom of this atrocity. Mom smirked as we demanded answers. We argued our case that our friends, who were our ages, already had a few years of this glorious celebration under their belts. Restitution was necessary—we looked like dorks in front of our pals, and all these years on the last evening of December we had been sent to bed without a party.
The next evening when my dad got home from work, he gave us each a pin to wear to the shindig. I don't remember my sister's pin, but mine was Tweety Bird (pictured below), and I loved it madly. Even more, I loved that my dad gave it to me. It is showcased in a display cabinet with some of my other childhood treasures. May I tell you just how much two young girls enjoyed the hell out of their first official New Year's Eve festivities? I was in charge of checking to see what was on television (read: I took control of the TV Guide). Show after show of television goodness. This was, by far, the latest we had ever been permitted to stay up, and it was a heaven I am not quite sure I can properly describe without exploding. We had a different snack for just about every show. I recall looking up at the clock often, wanting the night to last ten years. When midnight rolled around, we grabbed our pans and pots and ventured outside to clank away, and yell with utter delight.
Mom popped a pizza in the oven, and soon we were dining on that deliciousness, washing it down with Shirley Temples. The pizza and the Shirleys at midnight became a tradition, and I am happy to say that even on the New Year's Eves we have not spent together, I have kept up that custom in honour of my family. One must never let cherished traditions die, especially when they are delicious.
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I don't know why a person would look to the internet for ladies in the loo doing a poo pics; all I know is it restores my faith in humanity.
Today my dad offered to make me a sandwich and drive it over. How cute is that? I am so fortunate. I have more than I could ever need, and yet it is human nature to want more. If only we had that one thing—whatever it is—we would be happy. But then we get that one thing and find something else that will complete us. Maybe we are already complete and just keep forgetting, and maybe the forgetting is what keeps us awake at night, and what puts the inexplicable aches in our bodies, the chaos in our heads, and the grief and doubt in our hearts. I don't know.
Quote From My World
"It's kind of embarrassing to be this retarded in front of you."
"Honey, you've been retarded in front of me for twelve years now."
Well,
I'm off to read this book I love so much that I'm taking a bloody
lifetime to read it in an effort to make the whole thing last forever. I
wish you a wonderful
Linda
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