The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From The Tree. Unless Chucked Wildly by Either Myself of One of My Descendants.3
January 9, 2012 by rebelwithalabelmaker
And I’m back! I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath. We enjoyed a great holiday, the highlight of which was when we all rung in the New Year and my oldest boy (man) threw his drink on my friend who is not named Bruce who was not wearing a tux. You do not hear about my oldest nearly so much as the other kids, because he is not as eager to have every little detail of his life plastered all over the internet. In my defence, my blog is not “all over the internet”. My readers are a select group of people comprised of friends and family, and disappointed googlers of the phrase “Martha Stewart and porn”. This always surprises me, because I am nowhere near the first hit—which means there are a lot of people out there who really like Martha Stewart. I am the first hit for “Troll Boogers”, but that doesn’t seem to draw the same kind of traffic.
Discovering this critical fact, I started randomly googling stuff from blog posts, and when I googled “Unitarian Ministry and Life of Crime” I got North Shore Church in Vancouver. Minister who is not named Steven, what are you people doing over there?
In any case, my oldest is fine with the drink story being internetted, and declared light heartedly “Oh well, this is just Karma for that time I dumped pickle juice on that guy at work”. Now, this doesn’t exactly fit with my understanding of how Karma works, but as a Unitarian I respect the right to a free and responsible search for truth, meaning, and whatever rules of Karma make the most sense to the person searching. That is the fourth principle of Unitarianism. The third principle is acceptance of one another and encouragement to set down one’s drink prior to opening one’s arms wide for a Happy New Year Hug. Fortunately, my friend who is not named Bruce (after Bruce Wayne, on account of the lack of tux) was understanding.
I speak as though everyone at the party was wearing a tux—this is not so. It’s a “wear whatever you want” party (and there are inevitably a couple of tuxes). Bruce, had wanted to wear his, but had chosen not to, declaring “I want to be able to hang around with the kids and get messy”. Well, he was right, although it turned out that “kids” wasn’t the people he was originally referring to.
(I’m pretty sure that one of the people he was originally referring to was actually me).
In other news, Happy Birthday to me!
My Birthday is my favourite of all the Birthdays, because it is the one Birthday that nobody will be mad at me for forgetting. Or, that used to be the case, back when I spent every January in Canada. Not so, now. For the next several years I will be spending most of January in Chicago, because that’s when my mostly distance education program holds it’s not-distance part. They call it the “residential” part, because they are not Canadian so “residential” and “school” can be put in the same sentence without everyone in the room looking sadly at the floor.
Just one of many, many cultural differences I have observed. Another one is, you’re expected to remember your own Birthday, which is unfortunate for me because I only have room in my brain for one Birthday, and that slot belongs to my sister who is not named Wendy’s Birthday in late December. She cares a lot about it ever since she was a kid and Jesus marched in and kept overshadowing her, and all her birthday presents came wrapped in red and green paper with cards saying “Have a Merry (scratched out part) Birthday!”. Although, if we get technical, Jesus could be argued to have dibs since he was born first.
Likely sometime in late spring, as I understand it.
I discovered this unique American cultural artifact about remembering one’s own Birthday last year, when I was lounging around in the living room with my room-mates exactly one year ago today. The one who is not named Mark (who I have blogged about before because he reads the news) started inching towards the front door. As he got there, he theatrically finished his sentence with a loud and jubilant “… because it’s your BIRTHDAY!!!” and threw the door open to reveal friends with cake.
“What? It’s not my Birthday.” I said in confusion. Mark’s face fell in horror.
“It said on facebook that January 9th is your Birthday!” He said, clearly very upset because Mark likes to know stuff. Any stuff. Birthdays, domestic and foreign policy, the ethic composition of the small African nation of Mauritius, the correct pronounciation of “tse tse fly”…
“Oh, my Birthday is definitely January 9th.” I said, confidently. I know that for certain, because you are often asked your Birthday when you forget passwords for stuff. Which is kind of a stupid way to verify someone’s identity in these times of Facebook, if you ask me.
There was a pause. Friends with cake stood frozen in confusion.
“Is it January 9th?” I said, excitedly. “Really? Oh, this is the best surprise party I’ve ever had!!!”
And then they handed me a knife to cut the cake and I was all excited about having a surprise party and started gesticulating wildly and squeaking happily and then they took the knife away before I had a chance to cut anything—even the cake.
I guess they were thinking of what my oldest did to Bruce on New Year’s, and how the Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree. Which was a bit neurotic of them because nobody was wearing a tux.
And also amazing, as the Garoos among you will have noticed, because the drink thing didn’t happen until almost a full year after said super-surprise party. Clearly, they saw into the future. Using Karma.
American Karma. Very different. And spelled without a “U”.