Dry January came early.

On Christmas Day, Yann and I hiked up Mt. Doug (elevation 225m) and passed people in t-shirts. From the top, we had a 360° view of the Capital Regional District and its total absence of snow. White Christmases are overrated.

Yann, dressed in all-black and carrying a large daypack walks down a muddy trail on the side of Mount Doug.

Yann made an especially unnecessary observation when pointed out the observatory, which was obvious.

In the evening, we were served a Christmas meal by neither my nor Yann’s family, but Kristina’s family which meant there was significantly more signing involved than what I’m used to. Most of the time, THIS is what family dinners are like for me.

It would’ve been the perfect Christmas EXCEPT…

Our cat, Enfoiré, showed his displeasure for having been kicked out of the bedroom in the morning by peeing on the floor. So, the first thing I did on Christmas was clean up cat piss. White Christmases are… overrated?

Enfoiré: provider of golden puddles.

As the title of this post implies, I’ve spent the month sober. After the three-day headache that followed a pint of beer, I finally conceded that I had developed an intolerance to alcohol.

It was not the first time I had a hangover disproportionate to the amount I had drunk. Red wine was eliminated as a choice years ago, followed by saison beer after a friend said that it tended to make him feel ill. I knew it wasn’t logical for me to borrow my friend’s sensitivity to saisons, but I didn’t care much for the style anyway.

However, there is no one type of beer that is so good that I am willing to endure a three-day migraine. Naughty Hildegard by Driftwood Brewery is sublime, but because its effects stretched into my work-week, it ended up costing me more than $100.

After a few weeks of abstaining from alcohol, I noticed a physical change. I wondered whether Yann would notice: if he could spot a white dome sticking out of the side of a mountain as he had on the peak of Mt. Doug, surely his sharp observational skills would be up to the task.

“Look at my skin.” I pointed to my face.

“What’s wrong with it?” he looked at me, confused.


I was blaming genetics for carrying my teenage acne well into my adult years. I had been dealing with something called milia (or milk spots) for years. This problem almost entirely disappeared three weeks into my sobriety.

Skin is a good indication of our overall health, and my body was evidently happy about the break from alcohol. I’ve tasted hundreds of different beer from all over the world and narrowed it down to about ten that I was re-purchasing. Now that one of my regular purchases is making me ill, it’s time for me to embrace sobriety.

Oh well, I still have weed.

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