Humanity
"Happy Holidays-- are you happy with the number of gimmicks in your cart?
I admit that title is not an authentic quote. No matter how hard I thought it, I never really said so to any customers when I worked at [national grocery chain that likes to pretend it’s a tourist destination in the hopes that those oddly dedicated influencers will keep hashtagging their hauls].
By Sam Spinelli3 years ago in Confessions
The Christmas Eve Trip to the ER
The truth is I love Christmas. I love everything about it from the decorations to the music, movies , food , spending time with my friends and most of all just all of the festivities that had to go with it. But of course there was one thing that I disliked. I hated the jarred cranberry sauce that seemed to magically appear on the table every Christmas Eve Christmas day dinner. I hated the smell, the texture, and most of all the way it fell out of the can with a plop.
By Avril Doucette3 years ago in Confessions
The Cat and the Crab
‘Twas the night before Christmas and as guests gathered round the dining table I’d gone to grab the crab. Only the crab was not alone, far from it in fact as I gazed upon Selvestee paw deep in our Christmas feast. Shouting his name briefly brought his face out of the dish, tiny chunks of crab flecking all white whiskers. Dinner was ruined, four hundred dollars worth of Snow crab flushed down the litter box and fourteen house guests waiting patiently, now only to be served sides. Everything should have been perfect for a seafood Christmas extravaganza yet here I stood in a gunslinger standoff with a punk ass cat Mac-daddying the main dish. Grabbing Selvestee and throwing him out onto the yard I survey the damage. Pulling all the meat out of the legs had been a mistake. Some pieces had hairs on them, others small nibble and teeth marks, but for the most part the cab was intact. So I had a choice; throw away a rents worth of meat and disappoint my guest or pick off the cat eaten pieces.
By Lilly Wages3 years ago in Confessions
A Letter To My Future Self.
Hey. When you're reading this I hope you made it. When I say made it, I mean I hope you made it to where you always dreamed of being, and where you always felt like you belonged. I hope you did all of the things you didn't think you would. I hope you got your dream job, I hope you made it out of debt, and bought that expensive car you wanted that you didn't need. I hope you married the love of your life and made a cute little family.
By Shay Gross3 years ago in Confessions
The Truth of Consequences
Oh, dear. Oh, dear… This is a true story, and one of those holidays that still crushes me. It was a typical Canadian Thanksgiving, meaning that it was celebrated by immigrants and took place earlier in the year than the one celebrated by our neighbours to the south. With my family, it was West Indian fare mixed in with turkey, pasta, salads, cakes and all the dishes that friends and family could bring over in the growing autumn cold. My mother was in charge of the kitchen, leading the other housewives and cousins and aunts and other female relatives whom I knew since I was a child. My father, as was common with the men in our families, had sports as a distraction on television (football and maybe hockey), or played dominoes on foldable wood and metal chairs and tables. Kids, if we were smart, had commandeered a television that was available in the basement and had our VCR ready to go with a choice of videos brought over or recently borrowed for the day (yes, the 1980s were a very different time). I would sometimes join them, but I was becoming a teenager. Most of the kids there were too young for me to play with, and the one who were older were not there (other friends and other events took over their lives). I was on my own. And I did not mind. I did not want to watch another comedy whose ending I could predict from the opening credits…or tape cover. I did not follow football or hockey (with the latter, I waited only for the playoffs), and with the kitchen, it was a no-go zone until I was called down to deliver grace and then eat. That would mean me, my room, and my guitar.
By Kendall Defoe 3 years ago in Confessions
Uncle Dale Can’t Drink
Uncle Dale wasn’t supposed to drink. Even at seven, I knew that. No one had said it to me directly, but the adults had said it to one another— on the phone, in the car, around the dinner table after the kids had been excused and weren't supposed to be listening.
By Kelley Zherzhi3 years ago in Confessions
Rough day
I wouldn't say I grew up in the worst of homes. However it was by far not the best place to be, between having two parents in an unhappy marriage, to a difficult split, and then both of them hating whoever the other was seeing; made for uncomfortable home life.
By Ryan Welch3 years ago in Confessions
