The Diary of Queen Mothy |
Christmas and Today written @ 10:59 PM on December 26, 2003 It was, as predicted, one of the more awkward Christmases I ever had but, thankfully, not nearly as bad as it could have been. You know, the great thing about being pessimistic, as someone in high school once told me, is that you're either correct or pleasantly surprised. So, the loot: I pretty much received everything I asked for on my Christmas list, which was an odd concoction of books, CDs, and gift cards. Dad actually shelled out Christmas gifts for my brother and me this year, a sure sign that times have, indeed, changed for our family. In the past he heaped all his Christmas money on my mother, and she bought for us. He gave me the Special Edition DVD of The Two Towers and a box of what he called hippie clothes, or the closest things that matched my fashion tastes. He did well trying to please me; I could never fault him for his good taste in gifts, except for that one time he gave my Mom a box of chocolates for her birthday, but he never faultered after that at least. Mom loved the swan painting I made for her back in September; I think she was surprised. She kept muttering, "Beautiful, beautiful" under her breath. And Dad liked the photos I developed of the hockey team. And Jonathan did like the tube lighting I bought for him, though he has no idea where he's going to string it. But when all the wrapping paper was cleared away and my brother began to busy himself trying on his new clothes while Mom prepared Christmas brunch, the dark cloud of change diffused into the nooks and crannies of old wounds that have yet to fully heal. Outwardly everything appeared normal and calm, of course, even if my dad sheepishly asked my mother, "Am I invited to eat?" "Of course," my mother replied naturally, but I know her well enough to sense that it was the beginning of the awkwardness. We chatted over a brunch of turkey, a cheesy potato casserole, and red wine. Again, the seeming appearance of calm, as if this was a scene we rehearsed a thousand times before. But if we ever really had, it was only in our hearts. I sat at one head of the table and my father at the other, but the cavernous divide between us seemed so much wider than a dining room table. When the meal had ended, my dad packed up his gifts, showering "thank yous" and kisses on my brother and me. And he left. It was shortly before one o'clock. I sat at the table, perusing my Northern Sun catalog. Mom was clearing some of the dishes and leftovers. "Did you expect him to stay all day?" she asked. I answered truthfully: "No." Somehow I knew my Christmas would become this picture of grey on a beautiful sunny afternoon. "Do you think he's going to a girlfriend's house?" she asked curiously. I had wondered about this often the past couple of years, but I just can't picture it. I strongly feel as though my dad left because he was not welcome. Once more, I answered truthfully, "No. I don't think so." Part of me thinks that he respects my mother too much to cheat on her, and I couldn't imagine anyone who would date him knowing what his marital situation was like. The scary part is that I could be wrong. I could be. I'm not so naive anymore. "Well," my mother concluded, "I didn't want him here all day anyway." I think she said these words half-heartedly though. She called my grandmother to wish her a Merry Christmas, and as she did so she began to cry. I left the kitchen and went to my room to try on all my new clothes and begin playing my new CDs. I received Loreena McKennitt's last two albums and the Urinetown and The Patriot soundtracks. I was at least determined to make this a bright day for me, a Merry Christmas for me, because my troubles were such this semester that I felt I deserved to honor myself with a little bit of peace of mind. In the end, it was a good day. Mom and I decided to go see Cold Mountain that night, and it was pretty good. I recommend it if you're into historical pieces. I'm not a fan of Nicole Kidman, but she does exceptionally well in this film. Mom felt it was a little longer than the story needed to be, but the story aside it was beautiful to look at. Today Kat, her cousin, and I went shopping-- armed with gift cards, of course-- in an effort to secure some super sales at the mall. I was disappointed because the stores seemed particularly stingy even with the dragging economy, but I did come away with a unicorn calender featuring some of the art of Susan Seddon Boulet, God rest her soul. After having a small dinner at a restaurant, we spent the bulk of the evening at Borders on the prowl for books and CDs we had wanted for some time, and enjoying a cup of hot chai with coconut in the meanwhile. I ended up buying the Riverdance soundtrack-- because I had always wanted it-- The October Horse by Colleen McCoullough (sp?), Blackwood Farm by Anne Rice, and Meridon by Phillipa Gregory. Actually, I was disappointed that I only came away with these jewels; apparently the other books I wanted, such as Abhorsen by Garth Nix and Wolfskin by Juliet Marillier, have not come out in paperback yet. I found what I wanted to give Christine for next Christmas though: a coffee table book featuring the complete works of J. W. Waterhouse. An odd event, though: I was browsing a book about some of history's notorious, insane monarchs and rulers (Caligula, Nero, Catherine the Great, etc) when a boy about my age with shoulder-length brown hair and an all-too-bohemian and rather unkempt mustache and beard approached me and asked if I was Sam the artist who went to East High. Taken off guard, I said I was. He introduced himself as Zach, saying, "Wow, I thought you looked familiar. I almost ended up in the AP Art class when I was a senior, but I never did the summer work." Now I have vague, vague, vague recollections of this Zach. I know he periodically prowled along the art wing in high school and sat in on a few of my classes, but think of this as a lesson in your lives folks: Pay attention to who you come in contact with all your life because you never know when they may cross your path again. You'd think I'd have learned this by now. Zach and I had an interesting chat about art and art colleges. I told him what I was up to. He's been working at Michael's Arts and Crafts for the past four months now, but he's ready to assemble his portfolio and maybe head to the Columbus College of Art and Design. Our chat turned from art to history, as that was the section of the store I was standing in, and he had some interesting things to say about Greco-Roman life and the history of politics in the U.S. Zach seems as though he's a sampler of many subjects, as wide and various as I have come to know, a fountain of "useless information." Had I know him better in high school, we might have been a sensible duo. But... my "boy-dar" was sounding a small siren. Zach was a little eager to impress. And I found it odd, since our chance happenings in high school were so few and far between, that he could remember me so clearly, know my name, and even know who my art teacher was in the ninth grade. It may have been coincidence, but I knew the longer we talked he would eventually be asking for my number. Which he did. I gave him my cell number, but the people who have my number know I hardly keep my phone on and still don't know how to activate the voice mail (because not only am I technologically impaired, I'm too lazy to learn). Zach strikes me as a coffeehouse kind of guy, so if we do end up hanging out while I'm at home this break, at least I'll be in a comfortable setting. "Here we go again," I sighed. Thus far my experiences with men have been-- well-- shall we say "nonexistent." I'm simply not interested in forming any relationship with anyone now, not when I'm so locked into my work with art and scenic design. But when the "boy-dar" sounds, the boy's about to come a-courtin'. And I long ago resolved that I would stop leading them on and tell them up front that we will not go beyond friends. So there. *lol* Being in huge, monopolizing bookstores such as Barnes and Noble and Borders always inspires me to get working on my novel series again. To write well is one thing, to get published is another, and often one does not lead to another. Thus, it's off to my magical little world again.
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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