Notes to Hanks: How I Survived the Winter Holidays

Since I wrote the story concerning my workmate, and friend, Hanks’ upcoming heart surgery, and endured people’s accusations as to how it read like a love letter and I was like “Yes?”, the news of his recovery has been of great interest to some, who only read about it, not knowing him at all, on this site.

Well, like already acknowledged in one of the earlier stories, he is fine, folks, he is great. When he came in to the salt mine to greet people and have some coffee and ice cream with his family on the night before Christmas, I was doing some chores in the back, and hearing his voice and recognizing it as his, chatting with my workmates of the day, I have to say I became quite undone and teared up, so I had to wait a while before I could show myself out front, because showing up crying would have seemed a little iffy, wouldn’t it?

When I was able to make an appearance, it was so lovely to see them all so joyful and glad, Hanks his old self, there was no sign whatsoever of his recent date with the old heart removal scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Rita was radiant and smiled all the time, the kids had their ice cream like it was going out of style. I spoke at length with Rita about my personal tragedy of the season, losing my beloved home, and for once I had an audience who had been there and could sympathize. Turned out she, too, had gone through it right before she had their first kid. Everything was so blissfully – normal, a word I usually shy away from, but just this once, forgive me, but it is not only the correct word, but also the best possible, the loveliest word to be used here.

Hanks is returning to work in February, and while I can’t say I exactly checked the day with an X in the calendar as if I was incarcerated, his return still makes me a happy camper. Some stuff, normal stuff, one might say, in this game of life seems to just be harder for me than it is for others, and having folks around who not only know about it, but never make a big deal out of it, or feel the need to talk about it all the time, is something I did appreciate well enough before one of those folks was removed from my vicinity for a lengthy period of time, but now, even more.

So here it is. Hanks, while you were gone, here’s what went down:

A: I finally re-watched The Predator. I still think it’s terrible. My man did his damnedest to try and explain to me just why it is a divine movie, but all I saw were my own tears of laughter. The monster is not scary, and I have no idea why everyone thinks he is equal to fight with the Alien. Because he is not. He is not badass at all. He isn’t an exquisite example of evil. The dreadlocks are horrible. When he takes off his mask, he is downright hilarious. In a fight with Alien, he will lose, man. I also hate the jungle setting, the political subplot, the idea of the Predator assimilating his prey’s speech and ways. Oh, balls. The one thing I will give you are the sound effects marking the creature’s closeness, shamelessly borrowed on to Stranger Things, along with a bunch of other stuff I remembered from before. The sound is ingenious, and the one thing that is truly frightening in the film. I realize this may come as a shock, since I am the Monster Movie - Rob Bottin - Werewolves Ate My Baby -girl. But there is just something about The Predator that rubs me the wrong way.

B: On Christmas Eve, upon returning from the boneyard, where I had been, accompanied kindly by Swinton, to greet my grandfather and light some candles for him and both my grandmothers and my sister’s dog and the Old Lady, so basically claiming the consecrated ground for my own needs, but the earth did not swallow me, nor did the lightning strike me down, expressing the wrath of a Christian god, so I am figuring in the Lord’s room, everyone with true sorrow really is welcome, I saw a note on my building’s notice board, reminding people of the Christmas sauna, hot from eleven to six, one available for men, the other, ladies. Having returned home on foot, since I enjoy walking, I was all perspired from the twelve-k hike, and all but woohooed in the hall, deciding on the spot to go soak myself in the steam. I hopped upstairs to get my towel and other sauna gear from home, and went in. I was delighted to find the steam untouched and dry: I was the first one there. Since I was spending a solitary Christmas at home, I was liking the solitude of the sauna, too, and sat in for almost an hour. While there, I suddenly had a strange sensation that I was in the wrong place. Which, of course, I was, seeing it in black-and-white when returning home wearing nothing but the towel. The whole time I had been enjoying my Christmas sauna in the men’s side. And no one came in. It was like, naked lady, eleven o’clock, and nothing! What a complete waste of an honest mistake, I mused to my man when I spoke to him on the phone later. He heartily agreed, elaborating that had he been the stranger walking in while I was there, he would have been the happiest man of the whole Christmas.

C: December was my omelet-month at work. I carried carton after carton of eggs to work, and made quick lunches out of those and double cream, because there is always room for double cream, no matter how strict the diet. During the holidays when the going got tough, I was in a hurry one morning, and hastily changed while discussing some rubbish with Roberts. The changing room is unisex, and very small, so basically we needed to get out of the way so others could fit in, and I was explaining something with hand movements too large for the room and the near-standing woman, and while doing that, I picked my apron and sweater and glasses and the egg carton from the table in one quick swoop. The carton went right through the hole between my arm and my side, and landed on the floor with a silent thud. Not missing a beat, I picked it up, interrupting my own story by some famous last words: “Shit! Well at least they didn’t break, great”, without even checking. Note to self: always check. It was less funny, when I was getting down to making my lunch that day, and found the carton in the fridge all wet and sticky and disgusting, with one count it one unbroken egg inside the mess that reminded me of the death scene in Gremlins, where the heinous creatures dissolve into puddles of gross liquids and green bubbling substance with an eyeball and a few teeth visible. Eggs can break silently, you know. All that was missing was the terrifying Zuul! from inside the refrigerator when I opened it.

D: I fought with most everybody. Roberts scolded me about the using of the double cream and not writing down the date when I had opened the carton. I forgot to clean the salsa dispenser, so the poor person in shift after me had to do it. I snapped at people. I became widely unpopular in a short amount of time. By the end of December, I had morphed into the hellhound from the aforementioned scene from Ghostbusters. You know, in the fridge. Red eyeballs and all.

So, pretty much same old same old, in the salt mine. I guess people in our line of work really do have two families, since our working hours are insane and all we have are each other in the trenches. We were talking about it at work the other day, how the (insert the name of our workplace here) husbands and wives all have us, their spouses, in common, and were they to meet up, sort of like in Al-Anon, and compare notes, there would be astounding similarities in how we, the workers, behave or act out at home, to our loved ones and real families, no matter how different our dispositions or personalities. There is a certain something in all our characters, that draws us in and keeps us there, in our lovely, messy, loud, high-pressure job. It’s some kind of wonderful magic, or serendipity, a coming together and finding something truly hilarious in a carton of broken eggs on one of the busiest days of the whole year. The laughing at the same crazy things. The knowing the other person’s mood of the day by the tiniest wrinkle in their eye brow. We fight, we make up. We have bad days and worse days, and then we have some fantastic days. Our loved ones endure our complaints and venting and rambling about them. I know my own loved one has endured beautifully my whinnying and neighing and kicking and snorting and not wanting to eat the carrots from his hand when I was in a bad mood.

Anyway, while you were gone, Roberts had to take so much of my crap which I usually share equally with the two of you, that I want to take a minute here and thank her kindly and officially, for her patience and understanding and just being her delightful self when I was having problems being my own delightful whatever. I also solemnly swear that if I forget to bring my own cream for my omelets, I will always write down the date of when I opened the carton.

I know I am not the only one who missed you at work, so, on behalf of everyone there, welcome back, man, we’ll see you soon enough, yeah? And for my part, I will try and not go apeshit on some stupid topic on the very first day of your return.

(Thanks, Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom for the idea for the title)