The prodigal blogger

Alright.

Here we go again.

I couldn’t let an entire year pass by again before writing another post, but to be honest for the last not-quite-a-year I’ve been at a loss for words.  There are days where I feel like I have no words to describe what’s going on in my life, let alone to disect it and attempt to distill some kind of significant human experience from it.

My husband and I created an entirely new human being together — a person we are privileged to both cultivate and observe as he blossoms before our very eyes.  Trust me, some days I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.  Yes, this baby was planned (and longed for) and yes, we were not trying to Jedi mind-trick ourselves into believing it would be easy.  Yet even knowing that it was going to be hard and brace ourselves for it wasn’t quite enough to truly prepare for what happens when you become a parent for the first time.  It’s almost like you need to actually be majorly sleep-deprived for the true reality of the situation to really sink in.

Actually, “sink in” is too gentle a term for what it does to you.  It actually feels more like being hit across the face with a shovel.

Repeatedly.

I am no longer a single young twenty-something trying to figure things out.  I am now a married almost-thirty trying to figure things out (usually while my baby executes a new plan to distract me from figuring things out).  One nut I’ve been trying to crack throughout the first year of marriage and then into pregnancy and motherhood is a way to blog about “discovering the world and finding the significant human experience” without encroaching first upon the privacy of my husband and then that of our child.

After all, being a wife and a mother may not be my only roles as a woman of this world, but they’re inarguably intrinsic to my identity now and massively influence my individual self.  And how does one keep one’s private life off the Internet when one’s blog is all about how the small events of one’s daily life become catalysts to the bigger changes that lead one to one’s purpose?

Tricksy precious.

But I think I’ve figured out how to do it.  In addition to being excited to try out this plan I’ve concocted, I also really miss writing and have come to realize how much deeper I was able to root myself in things that matter when I wrote about them.

So.

Here we go again.

 

 

 

 

Mawwage.

It’s been a long minute since my last post.

In all honesty, even though it sounds like a cop-out the only explanation I have for my long absence from the blogosphere is life happened.

I was recently engaged when my last entry went live, and with a wedding date of 6 months from the day of our engagement things just started happening almost as soon as I hit “publish.”  Even for a small wedding (37 people, including the bride, groom, and priest) taking place in 6 months, there was a lot of work to get done.

And then once we walked down the middle of my church, had some cake, and took some photos, we were in full swing to prepare for my BigSis’ wedding later that same summer.

From there, life just became a blur.  A happy, blissful, stupidly cute blur.

Oh, and we got a dog.

On the 17th of this month, we’ll be celebrating 11 months of marriage — 11 months that I can only describe by quoting Pedro Casciaro:  “Dream, and your dreams will fall short.”  Because let me tell you, looking over previous blog entries where I was discussing my love life and my relationship with God (and sometimes both together), I realize now that everything I have experienced and endured while trying to follow Our Lord was His way of testing me in fire and refining me into the woman that would deserve the man I now call my husband.

I am a Catholic who had not one but two crises of faith (one in late adolescence and one in my early twenties) who grew up in the Catholicism of Opus Dei, and I ended up marrying an atheist who was raised in a Protestant home.

If anyone ever tries to tell you God doesn’t have a sense of humor, feel free to point them in my direction.  I’m well aware that describing the faith-dynamic of my marriage sounds like the beginning of a joke.

But it’s not a joke at all, and while I can see the humor in it and say that God really does have a way of making life turn out so weirdly and unexpectedly, I know in the deepest part of my heart that my vocation to married life (and eventually motherhood) means I am tasked with a serious lifelong mission.  And the fact that a man of science and reason, not of faith, was given to me by Our Lord and bound me in Holy Matrimony makes it all the more serious to me.

In First Comes Love, Scott Hahn states:

God knows it is not good for us to be alone .  He doesn’t want us to be alone.  It’s the oldest story in the world, and it’s written into our very human nature:  He wants us home.

As a wife, this is the point of my vocation:  to help my husband live as good and meaningful a life as possible so that we may eternally rejoice in God’s kingdom together. It doesn’t matter if he’s an atheist; not only is this one of my core beliefs, it is one that he has chosen to accept and, even without RCIA let alone the slightest iota of faith, one that he wants to support for my sake.

I promised my atheist husband that I would never beat him over the head with the Baltimore Catechism or the Compendium, that I would never make his conversion a requirement to be in a relationship with me, and that I would never force him to to Mass if he did not want to go.  In return, he listens respectfully to me when we debate about religion, he never ridicules or belittles my faith, and goes to Mass more often than other Catholics I know.  He has even held my hand while I’ve prayed out loud for guidance or for a special intention, and genuflects before stepping into our regular pew at my church.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine an “inter-faith” marriage working so well, even though I was open to the real possibility of it and readying myself for the challenge of being a practicing Catholic in a relationship with a non-religious person.  Our courtship and engagement together lasted 364 days (we chose to celebrate our first anniversary as a couple by getting married on the 365th day, and God saw that it was good), but in that short time I never once felt shortchanged on any level by our differences in beliefs.

When we discussed the direction in which we wanted to take our relationship and I stood my ground and said I wanted to get married and commit for life, and if he didn’t like that then we should part ways sooner rather than later, he respected me enough to tell me that he was also of the same mindset.

Later when we talked about getting married and I told him that marriage to me meant getting married in the Church in any way possible, he told me that as long as I was marrying him he was cool with it.

Because of his acceptance and willingness to support me in my faith — not only did he come, and still continues to go, to Sunday Mass with my family and me whenever possible, he also made no argument about doing the Archdiocese-mandated Marriage Preparation course and had a long one-on-one chat with our parish priest — we were blessed with a dispensation to get married in my parish chapel with the full Catholic Rite of Matrimony.

Yes, you read that right:  I married an atheist with the full matrimonial liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church.

And he never complained about “doing it my way.”

I may not have married a Catholic, but I am truly blessed in my marriage.  My husband’s name is Pierre, the French form of Peter, and he truly is the rock upon which I continue to build my house for God.  It does not matter that he is an atheist:  what matters is that there is love in his heart, and enough of it for him to support me in any way he can while I go about my faith each day.

He has seen me at my worst and knows where I have been and what I experienced before I found him, and he has forgiven and accepted and loved with all his heart.  And because of this, while I will never force a conversion upon him out of respect for his free will, I will always pray for him and always trust that God holds him in His hands just as He has held me.  Continuing to live my faith and follow God so that I am a strong example of Catholicism for him and for our future children while being respectful of his beliefs and of his free will is what I must do to keep our union harmonious and to keep God in it.

When we were dating, Pierre walked me home in the night even when we lived on different ends of the city.  By the graces given to us through our marriage I know he will walk with me to my Father’s home in Heaven.

The Food of Love

Most of my defining moments happened around the family dinner table, mainly because my parents raised my siblings and me on a steady diet of hearty home-cooked meals eaten as a single family unit every night of the week.  The family dinner table was where I learned life skills like the art of conversation, proper mealtime etiquette, and how to appreciate every morsel of food put in front of me — especially when I did not like it.  It was also where I learned how to value the time and effort of others, and how to give back to them in kind.

The dinner table of my childhood still stands in my mother’s home today and is a stately piece carved from narra wood, the national tree of the Philippines, that my parents shipped over from the Philippines to Canada when we emigrated in 1992.  I find it rather poignant and highly suitable that a Filipino family gathered daily around a table made from our homeland’s national tree, especially considering that everyone who’s taken a seat around it has helped build and strengthen the bridge between the old world and the new.

No matter where they started, family discussions always ended around the dinner table.  Get-togethers with friends and extended family also inevitably ended there, particularly during the summer months when the conversations of day-long barbecues outlasted the last encore of crickets.  Holidays never really saw us leaving it, except of course to clear away empty serving dishes and dirty plates only to return with more food and clean flatware. We ate around it as a family in both immediate and extended forms, adding not one but two leaves on countless occasions to accommodate more guests.  As a baby my nephew crawled on it in between mealtimes, we older folks standing on all sides to keep him from zooming off its polished top; as a toddler, he crawled and then ran under it before whacking his head one day on the edge.  Our dogs sat beneath it as we ate, often indulging in morsels that fell (or were surreptitiously held) under it.  We presented new friends and partners to one another around it, the “others” sizing “us” up against the yardsticks which we ourselves had measured our own progress as sociable human beings.  ((And, when not in use for its original function, my mother used it to sew clothes and curtains and sheets while we put together school projects.))

Nowadays, eating out is a slightly more frequent occurrence than it used to be during my youth and I don’t get many chances to join my mother and BigSis (and now, her boyfriend) around any table, but the family dinner is still integral to our relationship.  More recently than my BigSis, I too have started bringing my own new boyfriend along to dinner, and seeing his face around our table along with the faces of those who know me and love me best warms my heart immensely.

Last week we all went out to Junior, a Filipino restaurant on Rue Notre-Dame .  It was a grand occasion, mostly because MiddleSis and Nephew are in town as well.  As a kid I grew up desperately wanting to eat the North American fare that my classmates and neighbour-kids always tucked into instead of the dishes of islands I couldn’t even remember, but these days my more matured palate can’t get enough of the flavours and textures packed into Filipino food. I love the crisp saltiness of lechon kawali mixing with the tangy sweetness of Mang Tomas sauce; the heat and crunch of a sizzling sisig tempered only slightly by mayo and white rice; the limey zing of a fried bangus served whole, minus the needle-sharp bones of course.  Even the alarmingly sweetness and chewiness of sticky suman dipped into matamis na bao or the cold crunch of shaved ice mixed with ice cream, evaporated milk, sweet beans, young coconut flesh, fruit jellies, and jackfruit – in other words, halo-halo – seem to hit the spot on my cravings so much more accurately than North American desserts these days.

What  I loved most about this latest outing to Junior was that my new boyfriend – an Xth generation Quebecois from Sherbrooke whose Irish, French, and German roots stretch back a few centuries – is a good eater who thoroughly enjoyed the best of my homeland’s cuisine.  Of course it helps immensely that Junior is hands-down the best Filipino food you can get in the city, but even the greatest  and tastiest dishes can be lost on an unappreciative palate. I’ve witnessed it before with past boyfriends:  the polite smile with a barely-discernible trace of apprehension or even dismay at what’s on the Filipino table; the thinly-veiled suspicion of any meat that isn’t instantly recognizable as beef, pork, chicken, or fish; the staunch refusal to even try one mouthful of something new.  That is definitely not the case with this one, which in my book makes him a true keeper.

My family is somewhat leery of picky eaters, and not without good reason. Clearly, since I’ve just spent a few hundred words on the subject, our family dinner is a sacred and precious ritual, and those we invite to partake in food, drink, and company are not only invited to witness them but are indeed being welcomed into our family’s most intimate and telling moments.

But for me, having grown up with one foot in Canada and one occasionally still on the boat back to the Philippines, it means the world to have a non-Filipino partner with whom I can share my cultural roots on every level – especially when it comes to the weird food I have grown to love and re-adopt as “my own.”

The story of my family was written around that narra table; the story of the Philippines, by Spain’s use of the islands as a gateway to the New World.  In both cases food played a huge role in the shaping of such narratives, the exploration and development of which appeal to me as both an amateur writer and as an enthusiastic food-lover.  I can’t help but feel incredibly lucky and rather blessed to have grown up at a table that always had homemade meals upon it, especially from a cuisine that like the table itself was brought over from the home islands to the True North, Strong and Free more than twenty years ago.  And I certainly can’t help but feel extremely proud to share that table now, in all its laden groaning glory, with a person who will add his own words – his own chapter of the story – to that warm and loving narrative.

Shakespeare called music the food of love, but in this family the food of love is the food itself as well as the company we keep when we partake of it around our narra table.

Moonlight and memories

I wrote briefly the other day about what was on my mind leading up to Father’s Day 2016, and here I am again…tapping out another post on my phone, curled up on the bed of my childhood in the guest bedroom at my mother’s house as I reflect upon this evening. And yes, my dad is on my mind again, because without the example of his love for knowledge and for the pursuit thereof I probably wouldn’t be the such a dork.

Being a dork as a kid and as a teenager was tough, but as an adult it’s not so bad – especially when you find other people who share your interests to either the same or greater level. Now, I hop in and out of many different geekdoms but one thing that surprises people is that I’m really into outer space…and not just in a Star Wars kind of way.

Years and years ago, my favourite second brother got a simple telescope for his birthday. We used to aim it at the night sky outside my window in childish attempts to see it in greater detail. The Moon was obviously the easiest target, and even at its limited capacity the little telescope we had could bring out a few of the major details. I loved that telescope, because I already loved looking up at the night sky above our rural childhood home and seeing the Moon and stars in all their glowing glory…and that telescope brought at least the former a little bit closer.

Fast forward to just a few months ago, when I walked with a colleague from Job2 from the workplace to the bus stop and discovered a kindred spirit in astronomy – though clearly, he wins the dork competition here because he has his own telescope and recently made an astrolabe from scratch. And fast forward a little more to today, when a relatively clear night , his telescope, and his generosity with his time and knowledge allowed me to see the night sky in a whole new way with my own eyes.


I saw the Moon tonight in a waxing gibbous, its terminator line a jagged edge of greyscale craters against a black, black sky. I saw star clusters that we city folks can’t see with our naked eyes for all the light pollution our homes emit. I saw Jupiter and its four Galilean Moons. I saw Saturn with its rings accompanied by Titan just outside the bright circle of moonlight.

And in my mind’s eye I saw my father in a memory. He’s standing in the back doorway of my childhood home in his bathrobe and pyjamas, calling out from the back steps to a pair of tents pitched in the far corner of the lawn where five hyper children – my two brothers, two of my cousins, and I – have literally been howling at the stars and Moon. It’s now just after four in the morning and a rousing cacophony of these five voices singing different songs under this late-summer sky. He’s telling us to be quiet, and to try and go back to sleep; he doesn’t want to be dealing with disgruntled neighbours.

A few hours later, I’m the first to leave the tents and go inside to sit with my father at the breakfast table. He doesn’t scold me for the noise; instead he asks me, “What did you see?”

I saw the summer constellations and satellites zipping through them. I saw a shooting star and I saw the sky turn around Polaris. I saw just how small I was in the grander scheme of things and I saw just how much there was yet to learn and discover.

And at that breakfast table, I saw my father: calm, quiet, and attentive, slicing fruit for me as I told him about all these things I saw in the sky. I saw him beginning to stoop with the early onset of age brought on by illness, I saw the early tremors in his hands, and I saw the love in his eyes when he finally passed me a small plate with my helping of bananas, apples, and oranges.

He knew what to be angry about – and being woken at four in the morning by children shouting and singing at the dark grey sky was not one of those things. No, in this case my father’s wisdom held his temper in check, for he knew that there had to be some bigger reason behind our energy and excitement.

Yeah, maybe it was the fact that we kids were allowed to camp out in the backyard and that our cousins had been left behind on our whim to sleep over. Yeah, maybe it was the fact that my favourite first brother had brought out a book called Mysteries of the Unexplained and scared us all with accounts of the paranormal and supernatural. Yeah, maybe it was the sugar from the marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers we’d stuffed into our faces.

But maybe, just maybe…maybe we were all just enchanted by the night sky. I know I was. That night and all its astronomical wonder has stayed with me all these years. And tonight, for the first time in a long, long time, I was utterly delighted and totally captivated by the heaven we can see on a clear, warm summer’s night.

Cookies for a Cause

Father’s Day is coming up this Sunday over on my side of the world and, as has been the case since 2012, it’s another occasion in the year for me to remember my father and reflect upon his legacy.

This year, though, there’s the added element of my favourite first brother now also being a father – so of course the question of my father’s legacy and what we, his children, inherited from him is rather in the forefront of my mind. These are the thoughts and ideals and pieces of wisdom we’re supposed to pass on to our children, after all.  And while I don’t have children of my own I am an aunt (twice over now) and that, perish the thought, means at some point in the future my niece will be following in her older cousin’s footsteps and asking me questions.

I’m very close to my nephew, and maybe that’s why when I consider what my father left behind I immediately look over at my sister and brother-in-law, and then at this twelve-year-old boy. This kid came into our lives twelve years ago on our dad’s forty-ninth birthday and though his memories of his beloved “Grampy” are of a child, it’s up to him to give his younger cousin (hopefully that’ll be plural someday) the grandchild’s view of the man who raised their adults, filling in the gaps of the grown-ups’ memories with his own.

And although his time with Grampy – to us older folk, Poppie – was short indeed, my dad’s legacy of faith, hope, and love was passed down to this kid through my sister and her husband. I’ve always been aware of this because I’ve witnessed my nephew’s big heart in action before, but this week just how much of that heart is like Poppie’s hit me in full force.

My nephew has decided to take a stab at summer entrepreneurship, but he’s foregoing the lemonade stand in favour of chocolate chip cookies sold to raise funds not for more NERF Guns but rather for Parkinson’s research. I think chocolate chip cookies are a suitable choice, as my father loved sweets and would never say no to anything we’d make for him.

This is the disease that affected Poppie’s life for the better part of fourteen years, creating the conditions in which the entire family’s strength of faith, hope, and love was constantly tested. This is the disease that robbed Poppie of his motor functions and slowed down his ability to speak, but in turn gave him more time to sit still, ponder the wisdom he could give to his children, spouse, and friends, and learn to use his daily struggle greater purpose of teaching compassion, understanding, and fortitude to others, as well as to teach those around him the value of every human life.

It’s a disease that doesn’t get much attention compared to cancer or diabetes, but affects life for all involved in profound ways just the same. It’s a disease whose slow but steady progress in research has now, four years after my father’s passing, only just started producing better, more focused, and more grounded forms of treatment and management for those diagnosed.  There is still a long way to go before Parkinson’s is conquered and those physicians charged with treating it are able to give their patients a course of treatment that truly does give them back a normal standard of living, but without big hearts willing to do small things like baking cookies or selling flowers or running miles to raise funds, I don’t think even my father’s difficult journey would have been anywhere half as manageable as it would have been.

If you are in the greater Cincinnati area and would like to part with a few dollars for some amazing cookies for a worthy cause, please send an email to the address listed below. I don’t know yet if my nephew will be taking out-of-region orders, which has been suggested by many family friends on social media, but in the meantime if you would like to find out more about Parkinson’s and even donate, I invite you to check out the links below.

 


 

The Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Research – “Dedicated to ensuring the development of a cure for Parkinson’s Disease within this decade”

Parkinson Canada – “Support and Hope to Canadians with Parkinson’s Disease”

National Parkinson Foundation and Understanding Parkinson’s

 

The Classics FamJam

Here in Montreal, I’m typically the youngest in any of the groups I’ve run with ever since arriving in 2008. Coming from another province, my high school diploma was sufficient to gain admission to university; however, here in Quebec there’s this college system called CEGEP that means Quebecois students in university are usually in their early twenties by the time they get to university. And so, at age 18 I found myself invariably the youngest person in the lecture hall by at least two years and often, more.

The Department of Classics, Modern Languages, and Linguistics at Concordia University is, as you can imagine, pretty small. (The fact that the university merged three distinct fields of study into one department should be painfully indicative of this.) By the end of my first week at Concordia I was already pretty familiar with many of the faces five different lecture halls, but it would take about a year for me to really work up the courage to talk to most of them outside of class, if at all.

Eventually though, I was able to squeeze out of my shell just long enough to make a few friends in my program – but then most of them left Montreal to go pursue other things in other countries. From graduate and post-graduate studies in the United Kingdom to perpetually backpacking around the world, they all had something else to do somewhere else in the world.

I’m pretty lucky, though, because the post-graduation “something else” of three of these friends involved staying in Quebec (in the case of two) and coming back to Quebec after graduate studies in England (in the case of one). Ever since Marianne came back from York and successfully managed to get Amanda and Mario downtown for our first reunion pub night, the four of us have kept up the sporadic but deeply meaningful habit. Pardon the pun, but it’s a bit of a hangover from our days in Classics: not only were there pub nights with the former members of our crew, there were also pub study sessions in between classes. Some of the best second- and third-year Latin translations we ever did came directly out of the campus bar.

I will be 26 later this year, but Marianne, Amanda, and Mario are all hitting 30. But the funny part is, I don’t really feel the four-year age gap – nor have I ever with them. In fact, during Amanda’s birthday party this past Saturday I told Marianne, “I know I’m four years younger than y’all, but I still feel old too. Maybe it’s because I feel close enough to you guys to forget most of the time that there is an age gap to begin with, but you guys have also never made me feel like I was too young and too uncool to be a part of this.”

Not all of my friends from Concordia left the city once their Bachelors’ degrees were done, but of the ones in Classics who did stay it’s not just physical proximity that keeps us close to one another. There are common threads made up of shared interests, ideas, and perspectives; they weave in and out of one another and between each of us. One week before gathering to celebrate Amanda’s birthday, we were around Amanda and Mario’s dining room table discussing Star Wars over wine. It was just one discussion in stream of continuous chatter that lasted over multiple bottles of wine, and we continued long enough after the last one to sober up and dry out to get home safely. I crashed at Marianne’s that night, and the next morning she sent me on my way back downtown after making sure I was suitably caffeinated and fed for the trip from Laval back into Montreal.

The important part of all this is that the whole reason why we were at Amanda and Mario’s house instead of at the pub was because we were all a bit too skint to afford a night out, but they had plenty of wine to keep us well-sated. Though the plan changed a little last-minute, there was no question: Marianne and I would trek out to have dinner at home with them on a Friday night. This evolution in our age-old tradition of hitting up the pub reminded me that no matter what you do, if you’re doing it with people you love it doesn’t matter when or where things happen. It just matters that they happen in the first place when you’re together, because that’s what keeps you together in the end. Whenever I look around our table, whether it’s at the pub or in someone’s house it feels like home — like family.

At age 18 during my first week in Montreal, if you had told me I would have found an amazing group of friends who would soon become family to me after I had uprooted myself all the way across Canada to start over, I would have said you were crazy.  I came to Montreal via several burned bridges and with a deeply scarred and wounded heart, and I skulked around campus that first week like a scared lost puppy.  I had no idea that my childhood love for mythology and archaeology would lead me to far more than a degree in Classics, but as it turned out I graduated from that program with three amazing people I’m proud to include in my extended family.

It was really only at Amanda’s party that we officially dubbed our quartet as The Classics FamJam, but in retrospect there was never anything else this particular friendship could have ever turned into besides a family. It’s a weird, quirky, geeky, artsy-fartsy family whose motto is In Vino Veritas, but it works and is full of warm fuzzies and unquestioning support, and that’s what matters above all. We’ve known each other for more than five years now but this past Saturday night was the first time we took a group photo – our first “family portrait,” if you will. But it’s clear from how we all look, bunched up together with our arms around each other, that we’ve built something that’s going to last a whole lifetime.

FamJam

19 March 2016 – Amanda, Marianne, Mario, and Angela at Luce for Amanda’s Big Three-Oh

With mirth and laughter, let me continue being surprised by joy

When I look back on my life between 2003 and sometime in mid-2015, I realize that I lived through and survived through a hell of a lot as a teenager and young adult – and that while those experiences made me grow up, they made me grow up rather too quickly and also grow a shell that’s perhaps a little too hard and rigid.  I can’t say I didn’t have a happy childhood because in the grander scheme of things I really did, but somewhere along the way between then and now I lost the child-like ability to love easily, trust unquestioningly, and live joyfully.

Towards the end of 2015 I wrote a post about how one particular friendship I have in my life has been teaching me how to open myself up and be vulnerable again directly in front of a person in real time. Since I came to full realization of this dynamic in that one friendship (which in real time was a little while before I wrote and published the post in question), I’ve tentatively explored inklings of that same dynamic in my other best friendships. Being somebody who proudly proclaims that she has a small handful of best friends, as opposed to many acquaintances and only a few good friends, I felt that the only way I could really make these relationships live up to that status was to figure out how I could truly open up to be myself and truly give the best of me to the people I love best.

One of the things I’ve learned since then is that being completely open and honest with my best friends isn’t just about being able to talk (and sometimes cry) about the Tough Stuff. It’s also about melting in warmth of their camaraderie and learning to laugh again, and by doing so finally experience some of the joy I missed out on when I grew up too fast for my own good.

I’d be remiss talking about best friends without mentioning Gacia, my partner in crime for eating sushi, folding laundry, and outlet shopping (and yes, sometimes we manage to do all three on the same day). We’ve gone through a lot together but no matter how tough things have gotten we’ve always been able to laugh together at the end of a long day. She’s the magician behind this moment:

 

Then there was that one time in Ottawa when Elizabeth, Sam, and I spent the better part of an evening trying to balance a bag of gourds on Elizabeth’s dining room table in between asking Google what the difference between gourds and squashes were, if you can eat gourds, and why you can’t eat gourds.

 

There’s also any time that Louis lets me play my music when I’m riding shotgun –and doesn’t make me stop when I rock out on air instruments and headbang along to the very best of 80s cheese…even on a two-hour roadtrip up North in the middle of winter, during which I serenaded a Timbit. And let’s not forget any time we watch old episodes of Mythbusters over some quality take-out and still manage to discover something new about the beloved show that brought us together and cemented our friendship. Yes, we still laugh out loud when Adam Savage asks if he’s missing an eyebrow and yes, we still groan-chuckle over all the jokes and puns in the blueprint voiceovers.

There’s another friend who brings out my inner child through various means – most recently through a fantastic bottle of blended red but mainly by somehow getting me to open up about past failed relationships through the scope of frank, wry humor.  He is also rather adept at capturing my silly side when food is involved.

 

Marianne and I will fangirl over our favourite movie and comic book villains in between stories of “do you remember when –” with Mario and Amanda at our favourite pub downtown. And then the jokes will carry over onto Facebook, where we share and tag each other in videos, photos, and gifs that remind us of one another.

My closest friend from Job1 has also really brought a lot of laugher into my life.  Her documentation of her kitten in a onesie is a youthful foil to my constant jokes about my cat’s obesity issue, but she’s also got a heart of gold that has embraced a lot of my pain and treated it with frank wisdom and loving humour.  There were some days in 2015 when the only thing that could make me smile was something she said, and when I learned how to laugh again her jokes were among the first that I tried it out on.

And even though I don’t get to see this friend very often, he’s one of my favourite people living inside my phone because he makes me literally laugh out loud a lot more than I think he actually realizes. Sometimes it’s because we troll each other half to death in good fun, and sometimes it’s because he says things that I’m pretty sure he means quite seriously but end up coming off as hilarious. And sometimes it’s because he’s one of those friends who gets me and supports me rather fiercely, regardless of how ridiculous I can be around him – case in point:

 

These are the people I love the best in the world outside of my blood relations, and these are the people who teach me a little more about myself every day. My best jokes and my best laughs are credited to them and the joy their friendships bring to my life, and the best parts of me reflect what I love so much in each of them.  When I became an adult I did forget how to feel child-like exuberance in life’s little joys, but I am blessed with friends who can teach me how to feel them once more.