December 24, 2009

The dog and I were feeling pretty down last week. So we packed our germs in the car and headed up to Barrie over the weekend. The Regan and the Sherry held their annual Christmas open house, and man, pretty much everyone was there: that Alysia girl I haven’t seen in forever, big-bellied Megan, our fearless leader Corwin and his army of elves, and even this dude nobody knew so we insulted in various ways.

“Sucks to your asthmar, piggy.”

And then we jabbed him with wooden spears until he left.

And after the hugs, and scrabble, and treats, and the cold medication that went to my head, and Regan’s hands caressing my right nipple, a bunch of us somehow ended up on top of the stairs massaging each other, the dog wagging her tail lazily between us.

“This is like one of those high school parties where everybody sits around and massages everybody else,” Borrelli said.

Then there was slumber and dreams and dogs jumping on beds in the night.

In the morning everybody braced themselves as I drove to breakfast. “This van can fly,” I said. “Not today,” they said.

Over greasy breakfast foods I told them about girls in faraway places and awkwardness. They gave me life advice. “Try not to stick your penis in anyone for a while,” they said.

I thanked them, and when the dog and I left Barrie we felt enormously better, like the weight of all the sickness and anguish melted in the night.

Oh yeah, and we have pictures.