My father died twenty years ago today. The date usually passes without notice, but my mother and I had a funny conversation the other day in which he was mentioned (which is rare, as we never talk about him), and it got me thinking. I started thinking about the characteristics that I share with him, which is also rare, because I have always defined myself negatively against him.

What happens to your identity when half of your genetic material comes from someone who you watched drink himself to death for the first ten years of your life? When the majority of what you remember is yelling, physical violence, and just feeling terrified to do anything that would wake the beast?

I've spent a lot of my life being angry at him. Angry at the way he treated my mother. Angry that he loved my brother more than me because he was "the boy." Angry that he continued to drink and smoke even when the doctors told him that he would die if he didn't quit. Angry that I had to watch him hemorrhage and waste away in a hospital bed for ten days. Angry that he left us to struggle in poverty after he was gone.

Then, a few years ago, I started feeling sorry for him. I wondered what made him the way he was. Was he severely depressed and self-medicating? Did living in a foreign culture and speaking a language that wasn't his make him feel alienated and alone? What makes someone so miserable that he would drink himself to death at the age of 38? I don't know. But it makes me feel sad for him. And for me. Because I never really had a father.

God, I think this is only the second time that I've cried while writing an entry. Give me a minute.

So, yes, it makes me sad. And there are times in my life that I feel the loss more than others. Like when I graduated from high school and university. I wanted him to be there. I wanted him to be proud that I was the first person in my entire family to get a degree, against all the odds. After everything, I still long for his approval and love.

This loss leaves a big hole that never goes away. It affects my relationships with men, it affects my ability to sip more than one glass of wine in a night, and it even affects my life choices. At one point, I dedicated a huge chunk of my life, almost obsessively, to an organization that he had supported when he was alive. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was doing it because it made me feel close to him, and because I knew he would be proud.

If it affects me that much, then I can't just focus on his negatives. I can't be living my life to please someone who was nothing more than an abusive alcoholic. So, I have to think about the things he left me that are good.

I kind of look like him. We have the same Roman nose and full lips, and big almond-shaped eyes. We also have the same hands, with long fingers and strong nails that can grow as long as we want them.

He was incredibly smart and could pick up foreign languages easily. Even though English wasn't his first language, he spoke it perfectly, without a trace of an accent. French, too.

He was a charismatic public speaker and loved to be in front of a crowd.

He wanted a better life, so he left his home country, family and friends to move to a foreign country. He followed his dream here.

He loved old Marilyn Monroe, Elvis and Clint Eastwood movies. We used to watch them together. Some people told him he kind of looked like Elvis.

He had a love for authentic Italian food and taught my mother how to make it all - fettuccine, lasagna, chicken parmesan - you name it, from scratch. She then taught me.

He was incredibly attractive and women used to hit on him all the time. As far as I know, he never took them up on it.

In the end, he realized everything my mother had gone through for him. When he was in the hospital dying, he said to her with tears in his eyes, "You know that song, 'Stand by your man'? You really did that." She's carried that with her ever since.

Rest in peace, Babbo. I'll have you know that I successfully convinced mom not to make the homemade fettuccine and meatballs with condensed tomato soup. (Apparently, the folks at the care home like it just fine like that. Um, hello? We're not care home residents: we're Italian!) She claimed not to remember how to make tomato sauce. I taught her again - just the way you would have. It turned out really nice. I think you would have been proud.

Labels: childhood, grief

You know a bar is kind of sketchy when the coat check gal's tip tray has a sign in front of it that says: "Fill my box."

I'm told that the men's washroom was scary. Or at least the traumatized expression on male friend's face gave me this impression. He didn't really want to talk about it. We called him "delicate."

The gals came back with stories of the paradise that was the women's washroom. Apparently, there were candies and an attendant who turned the water on for you, handed you paper towels and had a variety of necessities for purchase. I think male friend was bitter.

However, the ancient mathematical calculation holds true that:

sketchy bar (albeit one with candies in the women's washroom)
+
crazy friends who are uninhibited dancers
=
an incredibly good time.

We're so going back.

Tell me your favourite sketchy bar story.

Labels: sketchy bars

I caught the bouquet.

Okay, technically, I was the only one standing there and the bride threw it directly at me. I think she saved it until the very end of the night because she wanted me to have it, as I was the only guest who had flown across the country to be there. It was a very sweet gesture. And it still counts as catching the bouquet, right?

The challenge then was: how to get it back across the country in one piece? Fortunately, it was a very sturdy, well-made bouquet (this bride spared no expense). It even made it through airport security - apparently bridal bouquets are far less suspicious than copies of Bleak House. But I had to carry it around with me all day, through three airports and two cab rides. It's interesting how people respond to you when you are carrying a bridal bouquet in non-bridal situations. One woman congratulated me. Another told me how envious she was. A couple of men used it as an opportunity to flirt and say, "Is that for me?" Everywhere I went, people smiled and found ways to strike up a conversation. I imagine many constructed a narrative in their minds as to how I had gotten the bouquet or who had given it to me. Because, really, how often do you see someone walking around carrying flowers? People were so nice that I wondered if I might just make this a regular practice of mine.

Weddings do weird things to people. They create a different world wherein simply donning a white gown or carrying a bouquet elevates you to a higher level than those around you. In particular, there's this great mystique around "The Bride". She becomes this magical figure whom we worship. When She in the White Dress walks by, people whisper and say, "Look at The Bride. Isn't She Beautiful?" You can actually hear the capital letters - listen for them. Even I have been sucked in by this, feeling an odd swell of pride when I've said, "I'm friends with The Bride." And I am not one of those people who is all into weddings. They just have this weird power over us. I think it has a lot to do with our society's need to pair everyone up and get them to procreate. Ah, patriarchy, old pal - you know how to manipulate us to keep that machine churning.

So, when you catch the bouquet and end up carrying it around with you all day, people treat you differently because you've been Touched by The Bride (hmmm, that sounds kinda dirty). Your proximity to She of Beauty and Grace and Fertility has made you Special. And, remember, you're next.

I danced with the guy who caught the garter, who was actually a wedding crasher from another celebration down the hall and also the only person standing there when the bride threw the garter directly at him. He asked me, "When are you getting married?" I laughed and said never. "No, you caught the bouquet. You'll be married in a year. Don't worry." I wanted to say that I wasn't worried, that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to get married, that I'm in love with my life right now and I'm just incredibly happy being me instead of playing the role of The Wife, The Bride or The Girlfriend. But instead, I laughed, put the garter around his head like a headband and let him spin me around the dance floor until I was dizzy.

Symbolism aside, the bouquet was a lovely memento of a perfect weekend.

Labels: weddings

Jane and I had an amazing time at Babs' wedding last weekend. We hadn't seen each other since Christmas, so it was great to catch up and spend some quality time together.

The wedding was held at a beautiful lake surrounded by hills and maple trees with leaves that were yellow, orange, and deep red. It's not until you go out east that you realize that this is what the Canadian Flag was based on - the leaves really do look like that. Our entire national identity hinges on this symbol that is not found in the majority of the country. But that's a rant for another day.

Jane is very spontaneous, which I admire about her. We make a good pair, because she's the one who comes up with the crazy ideas and I'm the one who plans them out. The moment she saw the lake, she said, "We should go skinny dipping!" My eyes lit up at the idea, because it was something I would never normally do. All the more reason to do it. The rest of the day, I began surreptitiously asking questions about the lake. How deep is it? Can you swim in it? Where exactly can you wade in to go swimming? How cold do you think it gets at night - like, for instance, tonight? By the end of the day, I had it all planned out. Unfortunately, that night, it got incredibly cold and the water even colder, foiling my best-made plans.

So, all I have is the story of how Jane and I almost went skinny dipping, instead of the story of how we actually went, which we totally would have, if we could have, but we couldn't, so we didn't. How lame is that? Why am I even writing this? Oh, yeah, because I raised everyone's expectations by telling you about our usual wedding antics and now I feel like I have to apologize because I didn't bring you back something salacious. I tried, I really did. Oh, well, there's always next time.

We did make a bit of a spectacle of ourselves after the ceremony, which was held outside at one of the cabins by the lake. While the bride and groom were getting pictures taken, Jane grabbed my hand and we ran down the peer, which wobbled underneath our feet. As a Prairie girl, I have no sea legs and almost fell into the water a few times. (Now, that would have been a story. But it wasn't, so there you go - another almost story. I'm really bad at this, aren't I?) When we got to the end of the peer, we lay down and took silly pictures of each other, and rolled around, giggling like a couple of little kids. We caught the attention of the wedding photographer, who took a few interesting shots of us from the shore.

Jane couldn't stay for the reception, so I was on my own. I learned that teaching bellydance lessons on the dance floor at a wedding makes you incredibly popular. I also learned that I am a magnet for Jewish wedding crashers. Three guys wearing yarmulkes came from the wedding down the hall to crash ours and made a beeline for me. They spent the rest of the night spinning me around the dance floor and trying to convince me to ditch this wedding to come to theirs. Apparently, I've got shiksappeal. Who knew?

It was amazing to see Babs again and reconnect after so many years. Man, that gal knows how to throw a party. I've never seen anything so meticulously planned or experienced such hospitality. It was worth the plane ticket, the trip, and the hassles at the airport to be there. I definitely would have regretted not going.

Labels: Jane, weddings

Labels: books

Tomorrow, I will fly across the country to go to the wedding of a friend that I haven't seen in seven years. In fact, during that time, we've never talked on the phone, and we've only sent each other the odd email. It's one of those friendships where you feel close to the person, but don't actually physically communicate. A few months ago, she wrote to ask me to come to her wedding. It really seemed to mean a lot to her. In fact, I believe her email went something along the lines of: "Please, please come. It would make my wedding if you came. You don't have to buy me anything at all. I just want you to come!" I've never had anyone beg me to come to a wedding before, so I thought, "Why not?" I really can't afford it, but it's one of those situations where if I didn't go, I may never see this person again.

What made it even more appealing was the fact that Jane is going to be there. We barely get to see each other because she, too, moved across the country. Jane and I have a history of raising hell at weddings. We're notorious in some circles.

My favourite incident occurred at my friend's wedding three years ago. I was a bridesmaid and was dating Mr. E at the time. We were at the reception and Jane suggested that the boyfriend and I kiss and she would take a picture. I obliged but I thought it was really lame. "It would be way more interesting if I had a picture of you and me kissing, Jane," I said.

Jane tossed the camera at my brother and laid one square on my lips. It took my bro quite awhile to compose himself to get the shot, so we sat there, lip to lip, for some time, waiting. Behind us, I heard a little old lady's voice, sounding very confused and disturbed:

Girls? Girls! What are you doing? What are you doing? Quit that girls! Oh dear! Girls! Stop that now!! Stop!

Our lips were quivering with laughter, but we dared not break the pose, because after that outburst, we definitely needed the photo to commemorate the moment.

The pic turned out pretty well. If you look really closely, you can even make out the little old lady in the background. I think she was Lyn's great aunt, and I'm pretty sure we traumatized her.

Who knows if I'll come back home with any stories like that, but it's sure to be an interesting weekend regardless.

Labels: Jane, weddings

At the folk festival this summer, I had the honour of seeing the great Utah Phillips perform. He said something that day so incredibly wise that it hit the ground with an audible thud in front of me. It was: "Following the path of least resistance is what makes the river crooked."

At the time, it made me think of someone I know who lives his life this way - lurching from crisis to crisis, always reacting to other people rather than planning his own life, never really thinking about how his actions affect the people around him, and always viewing himself as the victim of circumstances. Utah confirmed what I already knew to be true about this person.

But over the last few months, I've started thinking about how this phrase applies to me. I'm pretty good at making the major decisions in life - buying a house, going back to school, signing up for major surgery. But when it comes to day-to-day choices, I tend to float. I wait for the phone to ring rather than making a call. I let other people decide what we're doing when we go out rather than indicating a preference. I sign up for a bunch of activities and show up at the appropriate time - just add water, stir, and presto: you have a social life. Instead of planning my meals and bringing lunch to work, I figure out what I'm eating right before it's time to chow down, and it's not as though I'm eating balanced meals or keeping vitamins and nutrients in mind when I'm doing so. I know they sound like small things, but when I add them up, it feels as though I'm a passive participant in my own life. What is life, really, but a sum of all the little things?

I understand why so many people live this way, because to do otherwise is a lot of work. But I deserve better than this, my body deserves better than this, and my friends deserve better than this.

So, I'm trying something new. Instead of just floating around, I'm going to become active. I'm going to build the life I want to live and be the person I want to be. I owe it to myself to set this river straight.

Now, where's that shovel?

Labels: transition