I can't quite bring myself to go to sleep. It's wretchedly hot in the apartment and I want to... I don't know... off myself? run away to the wilds of northern Canada? climb inside a tub full of ice, and love the fact that I still have both my kidneys?
Maybe I should find a way to get into my fridge. I don't know what it is about this fridge, but it is freaking cold. I've found ice crystals in milk and sodas left in there. I've found leftovers near frozen solid. I've left things in there to defrost for twenty-four hours only to find them still mostly hard. Yet, oddly enough, it doesn't really do anything bad to the fruits or veggies I store in there. One would expect a lot of wilting or something, but no.
I mention this fridge because I just went and fetched myself an iced tea, which brings me to my next point: I may have... er... what's the best word here... inheritied? acquired? picked up? hmm... Let's just say The Other Half is truly rubbing off on me. TOH loves iced tea. Loves it. Especially Lipton Blue Label iced tea. It's iced tea, get this, without lemon in it. I know. Completely foreign to us Canadians. Here's the thing though... it tastes better than any other iced tea I've ever had, ever. It's the lack of lemon. It tastes like TEA. I know. What a flipping concept. Iced tea... that tastes like tea... and not dishsoap, bathroom cleaner, or artificial lemon. And... I have to confess this. It may get me tarred and feathered, but I'm coming clean. I love it, too. I love tea, that tastes like tea. The complex integrated flavours of leaves, and in some rare cases, other herbs and spices, that have been grown in the sun, in soil, and dried in the sun, and brewed with hot water, and sweetened, ever so slightly, with honey, or sugar. But for some.... unfathomable reason (to me at least) there is nowhere, in Canada, that one can acquire an iced tea without lemon in it, or any other fruit for that matter, in a retail store situation.
At least, that's what I thought for the longest time.
Enter the Arizona company's Black and White Iced Tea. A magnificent blend of both black and white teas.... without any hint of lemon anywhere near it at all. I found this miracle in the corner store at my apartment, and anyone familiar with the Arizona brand will know how beautifully, how reasonably their beverages are priced. It's no Lipton Blue Label, but by all the gods in heaven I hold dear, I will drink this stuff with a love and relish I have not felt towards any form of liquid sustenance, ever. This even surpasses my breif love affair I had with the Booster Juice Matcha Green Tea Smoothie that was my pick-me-up breakfast before work for so many, many weekends in Ottawa.
Want to know how I realized how much I love this iced tea?
I found out how many cans I have waiting to go out to recycling... I'm not telling, but TOH will understand if I say that I have a pile beginning that rivals his own one-week consumption levels of Blue Label.
Mine's cheaper though.
Weird thoughts at 12:13 in the morning. I definitely want to get this all down while I'm thinking about it though.
Worried about The Other Half. He disappeared a little while ago, kind of in the middle of some "enjoying each other's company" time, because his eye was bugging him. I hope no serious damage has been done. I also hope it's not pinkeye or something like that. We had been sharing movies and laughing.*
Elaine: "We had one of those relationships where we'd laugh and laugh. All the time! Do you know what it's like to laugh like that?"
Judge: "Yes. Yes, I do"
Quote from Airplane, one of our favourite movies. Yeah, yeah, insert "d'aww" track here. We'd just finished watching one of Billy Connoley's stage shows. I couldn't breathe for laughing, about choked it was so funny. I'm telling one of the jokes to Dad later today, for Father's Day.
It feels kind of... odd? alien? to remember Father's Day. Much of my childhood was spent not making that big a deal out of it, or Mother's Day, for that matter, whenever they rolled around. My parents apparently had differing opinions about whether or not they should be observed. Since growing up a little (lot?) more, I've come to the realization that the observance does serve a purpose, but, like any so-called "Hallmark" holiday, they must have a spirit of observance throughout the year. Difficult for me, who is learning to rebuild her relationships with her parents; to change them into a long-lasting one of mutual respect, if not understanding, in some form or another. I do my utmost best to let my parents know, whenever I talk to them, that I appreciate that they didn't let me die before I was out on my own; I appreciate all the things they taught me, both those they meant me to learn, those they hoped I would learn from them and not from my own mistakes, and those they hoped I wouldn't notice and learn from them at all.
Every year that passes, and I look more at myself, I see the parts of me shaped by my parents, and my grandparents (for parents they are, if a generation removed). I think I look a lot like my maternal grandmother, more than any other relative. I know I got my independent streak from my Mother. Both parents contributed to my stubborn refusal to ask for help unless I'm halfway down the chute to the grinder. But one thing I love most about my personality, that I'm truly proud of, all the time, I know I can attribute that to Dad. My sense of humour. Dry, horrible, gut-wrenching, clever, cunning puns and wordplay. It was the vaudeville, Dad. And your own, dear Father, my Papa John. It was all the Monty Python, all the Marx Brothers, and your own brothers, too. All the jokes I make, the contests of wit and wills that have lasted hours (hours!) as I weild this funny bone of mine like a linguistic mace.
So, from me to you, Dad, said here first, and to be uttered to you directly later today... you know, when there's sunlight and I can call you and stuff, but still said:
I love you. Happy Father's Day, and thank you for being my Dad. Even though you may be the living dead.**
*He came back. Eye is better. Now if only his latency would go away so I can stop hearing that "My god I hate you" exasperated sigh. Says something about my own internal demons that any sigh of that tone, no matter who issues it, makes me think that I've done something horribly, horribly wrong, and that I must apologize and make amends IMMEDIATELY or face further, far more dire, consequences.
**No, really. I do love you. Nevermind what I said when I was, what.... four? five? You're hardly showing any signs of decay at all!
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