No. For serious. I haven't updated in awhile because frankly, I'm burnt out on the cause celebrity I am usually so passionately snarky about. When you snark on the rich and undeservedly famous allllll the live-long day at work, to come home and snark on the exact same thing either feels like you're poaching or like a retread.
For the most part, I love my job. I know of no other place where a gal with my level of unparallelled sarcasm could say, at the top of her outdoor voice "Fuck Paris Hilton! Fuck her right in the brain! I fucking hate that dumb bitch! I hope she loses all her money and dies!" And have five people shout right back: "Amen, sister!" If you know of a place that does allow - nay, encourage - that type of behaviour, please let me know, because for the OTHER part, my job has been a sucking void of suck lately.
There were recently across the board layoffs which somehow means a lot more work gets piled on my desk and I get the same amount of pay. And the work isn't the fun "Hey, why don't you go review that Red Hot Chili Peppers concert?" work. No, it is of the "Hey, could you please stay late to edit the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert review copy of the guy who was basically promoted over you" variety.
Yaaaaay! Who else feels like writing a funny entry about that? Nobody? EXACTLY!
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The OTHER reason I haven't updated as much lately is because I needed a break. Not a break from writing, but a break from the above job.
I needed a break where I could visit old friends like Brett and Vanessa and Darla and Curtis and Amanda and David and EVERYBODY while watching my very good friend (and one of my seven readers) Erin T., get married to the love of her life, Lance Romance. I am not kidding you. I'm not giving him some cute nickname for the purposes of this diary. That is his actual nickname. It's how Erin refers to him and it's the name by which all us J-schoolers know him.
And you're REALLY not going to believe this, but he looks a lot like Lance Bass. I'm sorry, Lance Romance, but you do. A little bit. I think you're more handsome, but the resemblence is there. And of course, it's even funnier that Lance "Space Gay Cowboy" Bass decided to come out on the cover of People magazine the very week you two tied that knot. You're both incredibly good-humoured about it all and I definitely hope you'll both be at the next Smitty's breakfast in Regina. Let's do that before you both move to the Northwest Territories. I don't think they have a Smitty's in Yellowknife.
Let me also thank you for affording me the opportunity to imbibe all those confidence enhancing, judgement impairing, cheap hi-balls at the reception so I could then go out with my homegirls Brett and Darla and Leisha (and Curtis, honourary homegirl for the evening with special merit badge for driving our drunk-asses back to our apartments and hotels) and get my dance on at a pub while making out with a mysterious stranger on the dancefloor.
Oh, and Ryan from Winnipeg? You're money baby. I like it when boys tell me their favourite Elvis Costello songs and I don't immediately roll my eyes because they're such obvious choices.
One day, I'd like to be able to say I got drunk and made out with a strange boy in a bar in every major city in Canada.
Hey, a girl's got to have goals.
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This break also gave me the opportunity to stop in Weyburn to visit my ailing Grams.
She of the stolen maps.
See, she had cancer. Lung cancer. Breast cancer. Cancer of the most cancerous variety. Lots and lots of cancer. Tumours on tumours on tumours. Do you smoke? If not, you're missing out on an awesome method of receiving said tumours!
About two and a half months ago, Grams fell down and couldn't get up. I'm sure there's a joke there, and if it was some feeble old woman on TV advertising some sort of beeper, I would point and laugh, but I will be damned if I'm going to make that joke about my Grams, who used to lift my entire five year old body with one hand so that she might better spank my bad ass with a wooden spoon. (Don't worry, I totally deserved it.)
Since she fell, she's been unable to walk and was deposited in the hospital. Soon after, the doctors think she had a little stroke. After, she was unable to speak beyond a whisper and her right arm became useless, but she was still alert and relatively happy when they moved her to a nursing home about a month ago. I don't advocate the usage of prescription drugs for leisure use, but I imagine morphine patches have something to do with that.
I got to spend some time with her on my visit. We watched soap operas and I asked her why the hell Sammi would want to marry Austin, seeing as how he's just a big, dumb, sack of hair. And she gave me a look that said "Girl, John and Marlena aren't even together! Don't even get me STARTED on Sammi and Austin!" We watched some game shows and I knitted while telling her about the Chairman Meow's recent bid for freedom (jumped out of a second storey window, roamed the neighbourhood for a day or two until finding his way into the apartment of the girl who lives below me and making friends with her cat) and she "harumphed," which is her want when I mention my cat. She fed me the yarn as I knitted and when I showed her the almost-scarf, she smiled and kneeded the material and stared at me. I think she was trying to tell me something, but I don't know what. Perhaps "You are shite at knitting and should find a new hobby."
When I left her, she whispered that she loved me and I kissed her on the forehead and said "I love you too. So much. So much." She smiled and held my hand and I said "See you later."
My parents and I drove back to Calgary the next day and the day after THAT, I drove with Gripper and Ruby to Kelowna.
I feel mean. Because the last thing I said to my Grams was "See you later." And I won't be. Seeing her later, that is. She died on Tuesday morning. The morning after I got home from a vacation of lounging on the beach.
I don't know when the funeral is, sometime Saturday probably. And that makes me feel selfish because I'm glad I don't have to go home immediately. I'm sorry, but I have been traveling non-stop for two weeks. I don't think my Grams would begrudge me a sleep in my own bed for a couple of nights before more couch surfing ensues.
Sorry this wasn't more coherent and thought-provoking, but I wore myself out just thinking about it all and how my family is studiously avoiding the entire thing. We've all cried quietly and alone to cover up our incredible insecurity. We've all stiffly hugged each other. We've all eaten little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. It's our way.
My Grams was a strong, hard-working woman and she battled this fucking disease with everything she had. Everything! I am reminded of a line from the film Calendar Girls: "The flowers of Yorkshire are like the women of Yorkshire. Every stage of their growth has its own beauty, but the last phase is always the most glorious."
My Grams wasn't from Yorkshire, but she was a gorgeous flower and in her final days, she looked her best. The nurses and aides at her care home were matter of fact about her situation, but they took care of her as if she were their own Grandmother. They curled her hair, which had returned from Chemo snow-white and soft, they helped her apply her makeup and even gave her a manicure. She looked fantastic. Better than I'd seen her since she went into the hospital.
I would have more analogies and quotes, but none of those things mean as much to me as the memory I have of her from when I was little and pretending to nap. I was watching dust particles float in sunbeams, tracking their way across her bedspread as I tried desperately to stay awake so she'd keep humming and rubbing my back.
I'll remember that to get myself through that stuffy Catholic funeral she wants. I love my Grams, but MAN is that going to be dreary and weird. Well, at least it's low mass, so on the plus side, snacks! Gooooo Christ Crackers!
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When I die, I'm going to donate my body to science. There will be no ashes to spread, no casket to bury. I want my body to be used for science. Dissection of a cadaver by medical students. A corpse in a field for scientists to measure how long it takes for the bugs to eat it. Let me return to the Earth naturally. Say a prayer, cast a spell, do whatever you have to do privately, but don't waste your time with funerals.
Instead, have a party! I'm gonna do like Janis Joplin and leave money behind for a party, not a funeral. Cheap hi-balls! That sour lime bar juice and clamato for mix! Do a shot in my honour! Get shit-faced and make out on the dance floor with some guy named Ryan from Winnipeg you only just met! Oh, and try not to throw up. I don't want you cursing my name every time you drink red wine because you got sick off it at my wake.
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