Do you know what I know?
The holiday season… quite an oddity this year. My family got struck with the great plague of late 2021, the Omicron variant, which I am confident they confused for seasonal allergies; yes, they were fortunate not to be dealing with anything severe.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
No comments have been added yet.
