YOU LIGHT UP MY LIFE

What Vancouver lacks in snow it makes up for with Christmas lights. Every where there a constellations of them; balcony’s, the grove of trees near the Inukshuk, and of course St. Paul’s, which looks like Honest Ed’s in Toronto this time of year. If the city turned off the streetlights, I doubt it would make a difference in the winter night.
I’ve been to more parties in the last month than in the whole year combined. Parties are a bone of contention with me: I love getting invited to them, I just hate going. Socializing makes me anxious. This holiday season has been particularly challenging: I gave up smoking. I had no other choice; it was either smoke or stay in for the month of December.
So far I have been to four Christmas parties: The Diorama party, The Pilsner anniversary party, The Shop’s staff party, and Morticia’s leather beer bust. I’m pleased to report I have not punched or made out with anyone so far.
At the Shop’s staff party I broke the cardinal rule of drinking: never mix; never worry. The culprits this time were beer, wine and tequila. I have no idea how I got home. The next morning I got a phone call from Matilda telling me I was an hour late for work. I jumped out of bed in the same clothes I wore to the party. My head felt like someone had it with a frying pan. Nonetheless, I stumbled around the apartment, changing my shirt and getting Hawkeye out for a quick pee. Who knew if I had walked him before passing out the night before. The fresh air didn’t help. I might as well have been throwing up over the side of a boat on choppy water. As I walked to work I remembered throwing up into my pillow, and yet I didn’t wake up in my own vomit.
I could barely stand at work. If I wasn't in the toilet dry heaving, I was sitting in the corner on the white plastic pails where we keep the sugar and honey, my face in my hands. I was so embarrassed, but pretending nothing was wrong would only look worse. I could see Ollie glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. It was a price I was willing to pay.
“What’s that?” Matilda asked, pointing at my pants; they were covered in red clumpy splotches.
“Puke.”
I told Ollie I was going home to change, but halfway there I knew there was no going back. When I opened my apartment door I was over whelmed by the odor of vomit. Though I didn’t vomit in bed, I did manage to throw up on my couch and floor. Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more nauseas, Hawkeye got up off my bed and started licking it.I can't imagine how much lower I'll have to go before I finally hit rock bottom.
Even the lingering scent of puke didn’t stop me from decorating the apartment for Christmas. It was the first time my decorations have seen the light of day in two years. The last time was in San Francisco.
Craig Valentine was with me, he was in the town for the night Christmas shopping. The last time he saw my Christmas decorations he was still with his ex-lover. “Oh my God!” he kept saying, as he opened one decoration after another. “I gave this to you!”
“Remember this?” I asked, holding up a one-pound ceramic Christ Child.
“South Park nativity!”
Jesus was a gift from my Portuguese cousin the priest. Back in San Francisco I had these South Park piggy banks that I used to arrange around baby Jesus every Christmas. They’re expressions were so perfect; they looked like they had just found them at the bus stop.
“Unfortunately, I sold the South Park contingent at a garage sale before I left San Francisco,” I said.
I put Valentine in charge of lighting the Christmas tree while I lit up the bookcase. He kept forgetting the tree lights were stuck on the “Dim” setting; every time the coloured lights faded out, Valentine would sigh, “Ohhh.” The lights faded in and out five or six times before he remembered.
What is it about Christmas lights that make us so nostalgic?

GarpinBC