All I wanted to do was give Nanny the picture of my mother dressed as a cow. It was a simple plan, in and out, seemed flawless, but I was wrong. I was apprehended for a 'conversation' during which she revealed these interesting facts:
a) She heaped enough guilt on my grandfather for not buying her a Christmas present again this year, that he went out to find them 'the things you put in your ears so we can both hear the TV'. Romantic, eh?
b) Her vasectomy was the most painful surgery she'd ever had.
Note: I'm pretty sure she meant her hysterectomy, although I guess that if my grandmother ever had a vasectomy, it would be pretty painful indeed.
So at home, safe and sound, I turned on the Finger Eleven really loudly to cleanse myself of the insanity when something happened in the laundry room that almost broke me down completely.
You see, lately I've had a thing for medleys, as in chicken caesar medleys, and green bean medleys...I think maybe I'm just putting the word medley on some of my old recipes to make them seem new again, but it did the trick. I'm hooked! It also appears as though the word medley refers to just a couple or more ingredients, together. Pretty easy stuff! On such a medley occasion a couple of days ago, I was chopping away, all proud of my medley: broccoli, carrots, peppers...but it was a red pepper that did me in.
Apparently I chopped too close and too flamboyantly near my 2nd favourite placemat of all time, and now it has the juices of a red pepper splattered on it. It did not come out in the wash. I could have cried. Well, not really, I probably just got them at Sears or something, they're not exactly precious heirlooms, but still. It's the principle of the thing. Now my only recourse is to energetically chop enough peppers to equally splatter the other placemats in the set so they all have a similar pattern going, and that might just take all the fun out of medley time.
So then I was eating, oddly enough, leftover medley for lunch, when I realized that I love forks. I mean, how great are they, eh? They're just so perfect in their utility. If you have an eating job to get done, you whip out your fork, and you've got the basics covered: spearing, lifting, separating, prying, piercing, and just downright shoveling when you're in a hurry or you're supposed to be 'sharing' (note to Jason: get your own damned brownie!).
Anyway, then I pulled myself together and saw an old friend, and we talked for 4 hours straight, and not about forks either.
Tomorrow's adventure: dinner with my mother-in-law...she cooked me a meal once, in September of 2000, and I've only now been invited back. Should be really happy fun!
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
A Moment of Silence
A little girl lies dead on the ground, her thin body stretched out in the dirt. I see her on the 6o'clock news, and wonder what her name was, and what she was thinking right before it happened, and was she scared, and did it hurt? Her father is hunched over her, too stunned to cry. Grieving not just for his little girl, but for 160 000 souls and more. He wipes the dirt from her face. I cry.
At times like these, words fail me. I wish I could be eloquent and significant, but all I can do in an attempt to join the millions of mourning voices is offer this, a moment of silence in honour of the recent tsunami victims, and for all those who are dying needless deaths around the world each day.
At times like these, words fail me. I wish I could be eloquent and significant, but all I can do in an attempt to join the millions of mourning voices is offer this, a moment of silence in honour of the recent tsunami victims, and for all those who are dying needless deaths around the world each day.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Okay, I'll Take Christmas Back
But only on a trial basis.
On Christmas morning I woke up to an alarm, which is very, very sad. In all my other years I have woken up much earlier, usually around the 7am range, but waking up with your little sisters crawling all over you, just dying with excitement, is a lot nicer than to an alarm at 9am. I will never complain again.
Jason had to work on Christmas day so I promised him a big breakfast and some quality time before he left. I didn't fall asleep until almost 6, so I could have slept the morning away, but no. I was up, trying not to faint at the smell of so much animal fat (breakfast isn't big to Jason unless there is more than one meat-yuck). While I cooked, Jason quizzed me from a new game he got, Trivial Pursuit SNL edition, which was really hard for me, since I have trouble remembering the sketches and characters that were on before I was born, and am still a little hazy with the ones that were on when the show aired past my bedtime. So basically I only have memory of shows from the 90s and beyond (when I fell in love with the great Sandu). We also opened our stockings, and guess what I got!! It's just what I was asking for, a screwdriver with a little flashlight built in so you can see what the heck you are doing.
Now I can screw in the dark!
Then he ate, asked for seconds, and was just getting around to proposing some other Christmas morning activities when it occurred to him that he should check the time. But of course, the power goes out so frequently here that we rarely reset the time, the VCR was off, the microwave was off, the computer was off...so, I suggested he check the decorative clock I had received the night before!! I set it, and the thing ticks so loudly that the people of Moscow are complaining...but when he took it out of the box, it was ticking in place. Already broken. Just my luck. So he checked the time in the bedroom and guess what? Time to go! He threw on pants, never showered, ran out the door. Yup, special AND romantic.
So then I was left with all the fun Christmas morning tasks: picking up all the wrapping paper, doing the dishes, tidying for company, garnishing my desserts (had to do without whipping cream since my mix master broke), stocking the fridge with drinks, vacuuming, etc. In between chores I would jog around the apartment a little, trying to air-dry my hair, because of course I was running late, and though I was desperate to save time with the blow dryer, I have learned the hazards of curling damp hair the hard way.
The kids ran wild, I was jealous. I wore my new bra under my new shirt, both gifts from Jason...oh yes, and my new diamond necklace. I sat like a prim and proper lady for the first hour, but my grandfather is an ace at refilling the drinks, so after that it was a free-for-all (but yes, I had the foresight not to wear a skirt!).
My mom and my uncle Jim (my namesake, by the way) had a battle over the Laz-E-Boy: every year Jim confiscates it, turns on the TV, and dozes Christmas away. This year my mom took it over, arranged for me to cover it if she had to pee, and made him actually converse for the first time in 10 years! I had forgotten what his voice sounds like. And then Jason arrived! Scared the bejesus out of me actually, him arriving out of the blue like that...I had already spent a week moping about him not being here for Christmas, and then he pulled a few strings in HR, and here he was!
Dinner was yummy...Nanny said the word Butterball like 86 times. We opened our Christmas crackers, and I was the one with the red crown while everyone else got green. Jessie's crown broke because her head is so big. My crown kept blinding me because my head is so small. Jason fixed them both with the prize he got in his cracker: a miniature roll of tape. It's a pink dispenser only an inch and a half long, so cute and so pointless!
After supper we groaned at the desserts, played games, managed to down a few more empty calories and few more drinks. It was great!
Of course, later that night my sister Jess went into hospital for a severe asthma attack, and my uncle's van broke down on the 138, stranding him with 3 cranky, tired, sugar-infused kids in the back seat...but did I let any of that ruin my Christmas? Heck no! I went to bed that night a very contented little girl, but a little bit glad that Christmas only comes once a year, and a lot glad that I got to do the one thing that Christmas is really about: crossing things off my Amazon wishlist.
On Christmas morning I woke up to an alarm, which is very, very sad. In all my other years I have woken up much earlier, usually around the 7am range, but waking up with your little sisters crawling all over you, just dying with excitement, is a lot nicer than to an alarm at 9am. I will never complain again.
Jason had to work on Christmas day so I promised him a big breakfast and some quality time before he left. I didn't fall asleep until almost 6, so I could have slept the morning away, but no. I was up, trying not to faint at the smell of so much animal fat (breakfast isn't big to Jason unless there is more than one meat-yuck). While I cooked, Jason quizzed me from a new game he got, Trivial Pursuit SNL edition, which was really hard for me, since I have trouble remembering the sketches and characters that were on before I was born, and am still a little hazy with the ones that were on when the show aired past my bedtime. So basically I only have memory of shows from the 90s and beyond (when I fell in love with the great Sandu). We also opened our stockings, and guess what I got!! It's just what I was asking for, a screwdriver with a little flashlight built in so you can see what the heck you are doing.
Now I can screw in the dark!
Then he ate, asked for seconds, and was just getting around to proposing some other Christmas morning activities when it occurred to him that he should check the time. But of course, the power goes out so frequently here that we rarely reset the time, the VCR was off, the microwave was off, the computer was off...so, I suggested he check the decorative clock I had received the night before!! I set it, and the thing ticks so loudly that the people of Moscow are complaining...but when he took it out of the box, it was ticking in place. Already broken. Just my luck. So he checked the time in the bedroom and guess what? Time to go! He threw on pants, never showered, ran out the door. Yup, special AND romantic.
So then I was left with all the fun Christmas morning tasks: picking up all the wrapping paper, doing the dishes, tidying for company, garnishing my desserts (had to do without whipping cream since my mix master broke), stocking the fridge with drinks, vacuuming, etc. In between chores I would jog around the apartment a little, trying to air-dry my hair, because of course I was running late, and though I was desperate to save time with the blow dryer, I have learned the hazards of curling damp hair the hard way.
The kids ran wild, I was jealous. I wore my new bra under my new shirt, both gifts from Jason...oh yes, and my new diamond necklace. I sat like a prim and proper lady for the first hour, but my grandfather is an ace at refilling the drinks, so after that it was a free-for-all (but yes, I had the foresight not to wear a skirt!).
My mom and my uncle Jim (my namesake, by the way) had a battle over the Laz-E-Boy: every year Jim confiscates it, turns on the TV, and dozes Christmas away. This year my mom took it over, arranged for me to cover it if she had to pee, and made him actually converse for the first time in 10 years! I had forgotten what his voice sounds like. And then Jason arrived! Scared the bejesus out of me actually, him arriving out of the blue like that...I had already spent a week moping about him not being here for Christmas, and then he pulled a few strings in HR, and here he was!
Dinner was yummy...Nanny said the word Butterball like 86 times. We opened our Christmas crackers, and I was the one with the red crown while everyone else got green. Jessie's crown broke because her head is so big. My crown kept blinding me because my head is so small. Jason fixed them both with the prize he got in his cracker: a miniature roll of tape. It's a pink dispenser only an inch and a half long, so cute and so pointless!
After supper we groaned at the desserts, played games, managed to down a few more empty calories and few more drinks. It was great!
Of course, later that night my sister Jess went into hospital for a severe asthma attack, and my uncle's van broke down on the 138, stranding him with 3 cranky, tired, sugar-infused kids in the back seat...but did I let any of that ruin my Christmas? Heck no! I went to bed that night a very contented little girl, but a little bit glad that Christmas only comes once a year, and a lot glad that I got to do the one thing that Christmas is really about: crossing things off my Amazon wishlist.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
I Quit Christmas.
The story of Christmas is told quite succinctly in The Bible; my re-telling of it, circa 2004, may actually take up considerably more space, and therefore be comprised of more than one entry.
For my family, Christmas has arrived when I give my mother her Christmas pedicure. My mother needs my patented pedicures on a monthly basis of course, because her feet get so calloused and rough they are unrecognizable. In December, I finish off the filing and moisturizing with a festive polish job: white with red and green polkadots. Then it's time to party.
At my own home, Christmas preparation is all about the baking. I've already done a lot of baking throughout the month. Anywhere Jason went, I sent him with a dozen cookies. I made a Christmas tree cake for my sister, and a snowman cake for dessert, and a caramel cheesecake...oh, and another 6 dozen cookies. And it was the cookies that did me in. I was making the icing, when disaster struck: it started with an off-smell, then plumes of smoke and blue sparks started coming out of my mix master. Soon enough, there were flames shooting out of it.
On Christmas Eve I dragged my tired butt over to her house again, and we had a nice dinner all together because Jason had to work on Christmas day. Then Jason and I opened Christmas gifts and got totally spoiled by my mother, which is another of her great traditions (and quite possibly my favourite!). We got games and movies, and a new blender (thank god, one night we were on our 8th batch of daiquiris and ours conked out...we've had to resort to straight rum ever since, and boy...that makes for a very different party).
And then my sister J gives me a gift, and she says "You won't like this. Maybe you should wait and open it in private. I think I was drunk when I bought it."
Which makes me a little apprehensive. But it was actually quite nice: a decorative clock. Well, it does make me feel old. In the good old days, I got Barbies and My Little Ponies for Christmas, and my sisters hand-made me gifts. Decorative clocks make you old.
My mom always said I was odd because when I was little, there would be a staggering amount of gifts for me, I would unwrap each one and set it aside. Then I would go play in the emtpy boxes. It was the boxes that got me going. There was nothing my young imagination could not turn those boxes into...and later, when I was maybe 7, I would get even bigger empty boxes, for fridges and washing machines, and I would cut out windowns and wallpaper them, and set up villages of them in the basement. Now I prefer the boxes to have something in them, and not just because I have become too claustorphobic to get inside a box and think of it as 'fun.' I love presents, I'm just not much good at getting them. For my bridal shower I had to unwrap dozens of presents in front of dozens of people, many of them strangers, so my mom had me practising my reactions for a week before. "How lovely!" "This is just what I wanted!"
Apparently, I don't usually look very excited when I open gifts. Actually, it does make me feel a little awkward...I do appreciate gifts, but I don't do the over-the-top excited thing. I am appreciative in a quieter way. But on Christmas Eve I was all like "Ooooh, cheese knives! Awesome!" Guess how many drinks I'd had? Jason is so much better at this stuff. Last year my mom got us a barbecue, addressed to both of us. Since I was still tender from the second of many surgeries on my back, and hazy due to pain pills, he did the unwrapping. "Oh cool!!" He yelled as he ripped through the paper...but it was several minutes before I could discern what the hell it was. It must have looked like I thought barbecues are stupid. Then my mom was like "hey Jason, ther's a gift here for you that goes with it", and he was all like "What is it, meat?" and it was meat. No meat this year.
Then we were informed that Santa needed the help of several elves. Jason went to my mom's hiding place, across the city, to load her van full of gifts for my sisters. The back door handle broke and the side door was frozen shut, so at 11 pm on Christmas Eve there was a scramble to find a borrowed van, but things worked out and the piles of gifts arrived; among them, new beds for T and Jan, and a dining set for J. The beds needed to be assembled, so Jason and I were not plied with milk and cookies, but with vodka and ham ball, and set to work. When we went home bone-tired at 3 am, I had a blister on my thumb from the damn allen key, but the beds looked fabulous and I knew they would add excitement to Christmas morning (of course, we'll have to go back in a few days to take them apart, move them to the appropriate corners of the house, and reassemble them, but I will try not to pick up my phone then!).
Next up: Christmas day
For my family, Christmas has arrived when I give my mother her Christmas pedicure. My mother needs my patented pedicures on a monthly basis of course, because her feet get so calloused and rough they are unrecognizable. In December, I finish off the filing and moisturizing with a festive polish job: white with red and green polkadots. Then it's time to party.
At my own home, Christmas preparation is all about the baking. I've already done a lot of baking throughout the month. Anywhere Jason went, I sent him with a dozen cookies. I made a Christmas tree cake for my sister, and a snowman cake for dessert, and a caramel cheesecake...oh, and another 6 dozen cookies. And it was the cookies that did me in. I was making the icing, when disaster struck: it started with an off-smell, then plumes of smoke and blue sparks started coming out of my mix master. Soon enough, there were flames shooting out of it.
On Christmas Eve I dragged my tired butt over to her house again, and we had a nice dinner all together because Jason had to work on Christmas day. Then Jason and I opened Christmas gifts and got totally spoiled by my mother, which is another of her great traditions (and quite possibly my favourite!). We got games and movies, and a new blender (thank god, one night we were on our 8th batch of daiquiris and ours conked out...we've had to resort to straight rum ever since, and boy...that makes for a very different party).
And then my sister J gives me a gift, and she says "You won't like this. Maybe you should wait and open it in private. I think I was drunk when I bought it."
Which makes me a little apprehensive. But it was actually quite nice: a decorative clock. Well, it does make me feel old. In the good old days, I got Barbies and My Little Ponies for Christmas, and my sisters hand-made me gifts. Decorative clocks make you old.
My mom always said I was odd because when I was little, there would be a staggering amount of gifts for me, I would unwrap each one and set it aside. Then I would go play in the emtpy boxes. It was the boxes that got me going. There was nothing my young imagination could not turn those boxes into...and later, when I was maybe 7, I would get even bigger empty boxes, for fridges and washing machines, and I would cut out windowns and wallpaper them, and set up villages of them in the basement. Now I prefer the boxes to have something in them, and not just because I have become too claustorphobic to get inside a box and think of it as 'fun.' I love presents, I'm just not much good at getting them. For my bridal shower I had to unwrap dozens of presents in front of dozens of people, many of them strangers, so my mom had me practising my reactions for a week before. "How lovely!" "This is just what I wanted!"
Apparently, I don't usually look very excited when I open gifts. Actually, it does make me feel a little awkward...I do appreciate gifts, but I don't do the over-the-top excited thing. I am appreciative in a quieter way. But on Christmas Eve I was all like "Ooooh, cheese knives! Awesome!" Guess how many drinks I'd had? Jason is so much better at this stuff. Last year my mom got us a barbecue, addressed to both of us. Since I was still tender from the second of many surgeries on my back, and hazy due to pain pills, he did the unwrapping. "Oh cool!!" He yelled as he ripped through the paper...but it was several minutes before I could discern what the hell it was. It must have looked like I thought barbecues are stupid. Then my mom was like "hey Jason, ther's a gift here for you that goes with it", and he was all like "What is it, meat?" and it was meat. No meat this year.
Then we were informed that Santa needed the help of several elves. Jason went to my mom's hiding place, across the city, to load her van full of gifts for my sisters. The back door handle broke and the side door was frozen shut, so at 11 pm on Christmas Eve there was a scramble to find a borrowed van, but things worked out and the piles of gifts arrived; among them, new beds for T and Jan, and a dining set for J. The beds needed to be assembled, so Jason and I were not plied with milk and cookies, but with vodka and ham ball, and set to work. When we went home bone-tired at 3 am, I had a blister on my thumb from the damn allen key, but the beds looked fabulous and I knew they would add excitement to Christmas morning (of course, we'll have to go back in a few days to take them apart, move them to the appropriate corners of the house, and reassemble them, but I will try not to pick up my phone then!).
Next up: Christmas day
Thursday, December 23, 2004
It's Hahrrrible!
The other day, Jason came home from work just shaking. He had that devilish grin on him that just screamed I HAVE A SECRET!
Jamie: "Jason, do you have something to tell me?"
Jason: "Well, I have a story. No wait. I shouldn't tell you. God I want to tell you."
Jamie: "Out with it."
Jason cannot keep a secret from me. He's almost as bad at keeping secrets as I am. I love to buy him presents. I shop weeks or months ahead, bring it home, hide it anywhere really (Jason is really unsuspecting and agonizingly gullible), but as soon as he gets home, he's all like:
"Hey."
and I'm all like:
"Okay, yeah, I bought you a present! It's hiding in the closet! Go try it on!"
My mom always says that I will forever be a faithful wife because I wouldn't have the good sense to keep the affair a secret. Yeah, Mom, that's why.
Anyway, so Jason had a secret to tell, and I knew it wasn't going to take much to get it out of him. Turns out, he had found another loophole at work. When he started at this company, he went into email withdrawal because hotmail is blocked...but he signed up for a gmail account and bypassed that problem. Then he was sad to find out he couldn't get onto blogger at work...until he realized that he could google my site and get here via a link. However, one of those links was not like the others, one of those links just didn't belong...
My new friend Rico The Squirrel has a site dedicated to criticizing the blogs he reads. As he puts it, "Blogs suck. Nobody wants to read yer fucking diary. So just stop. God, blogs really suck. -Shut yer blog." And of course starting your own blog where you consistently misspell the difficult word 'your' is the best way to propagate your message.
Jason had discovered that on December 10th, my site had received the honour of the second worst blog he'd read that day. Now that really bothered me, because I always say that if you're going to do something, do it well. Be the best, or be the worst, but never, EVER, come in second!!!! Who beat me? Fred Durst, the dude from Limp Bizkit. I'm not even in good company here!
His beef with me is concerning my December 9th post, and here's what he had to say:
Let's cut to the chase. Yer a whore. You don't get up before noon. But if you absolutely must do, you act the bitch. To avoid doing anything besides sitting on yer fat ass and daydreaming, you shake yer teats in yer husband's face "for like 5 minutes straight." Do you finish the job? Does he get full release? Not likely, cuz yer a lazy, baws-tripping slag. Will someone please slap this woman? And unless yer going to start posting nude photos of yerself, SHUT YER BLOG.
Here's what I have to say:
1. Okay, that's kind of a cute thing to do, I guess. I'm usually a pretty critical person myself. He's also down on Jenna Elfman, Margaret Cho, Dave Barry (hey, I love Dave Barry!), Mark Cuban, and plenty of every-day people like me.
2. Lazy? You bet! Have I ever denied this?
3. Baws-tripping slag? Can someone please define this for me, I'm too lazy to look it up myself.
4. Ohhh...you wanted nude photos. Sorry dude. Here I thought you were a witty critic, and turns out you're just another kid who can't get laid and wants free pictures of my tatas. Yeah, no.
So here's the deal:
I am now campaigning for him to give me the #1 spot on his worst blog readers list. I'm going to get Ben Affleck to stump for me, and a cute be-dimpled running mate, and I'm going to threaten to take away America's favourite ketchup souce if I don't win.
Oh wait, wrong campaign.
I don't need a pretty vp or catchy slogan; I think my posts stand for themselves. I have written plenty of crap this month, surely something will be worthy! So please, spare me a moment out of your busy lives, go to his site, scroll down to December 10th, and leave a comment under my second place ranking saying you would looove if I could be upgraded to #1 on some future date. Thanks all, I really appreciate it.
Jamie: "Jason, do you have something to tell me?"
Jason: "Well, I have a story. No wait. I shouldn't tell you. God I want to tell you."
Jamie: "Out with it."
Jason cannot keep a secret from me. He's almost as bad at keeping secrets as I am. I love to buy him presents. I shop weeks or months ahead, bring it home, hide it anywhere really (Jason is really unsuspecting and agonizingly gullible), but as soon as he gets home, he's all like:
"Hey."
and I'm all like:
"Okay, yeah, I bought you a present! It's hiding in the closet! Go try it on!"
My mom always says that I will forever be a faithful wife because I wouldn't have the good sense to keep the affair a secret. Yeah, Mom, that's why.
Anyway, so Jason had a secret to tell, and I knew it wasn't going to take much to get it out of him. Turns out, he had found another loophole at work. When he started at this company, he went into email withdrawal because hotmail is blocked...but he signed up for a gmail account and bypassed that problem. Then he was sad to find out he couldn't get onto blogger at work...until he realized that he could google my site and get here via a link. However, one of those links was not like the others, one of those links just didn't belong...
My new friend Rico The Squirrel has a site dedicated to criticizing the blogs he reads. As he puts it, "Blogs suck. Nobody wants to read yer fucking diary. So just stop. God, blogs really suck. -Shut yer blog." And of course starting your own blog where you consistently misspell the difficult word 'your' is the best way to propagate your message.
Jason had discovered that on December 10th, my site had received the honour of the second worst blog he'd read that day. Now that really bothered me, because I always say that if you're going to do something, do it well. Be the best, or be the worst, but never, EVER, come in second!!!! Who beat me? Fred Durst, the dude from Limp Bizkit. I'm not even in good company here!
His beef with me is concerning my December 9th post, and here's what he had to say:
Let's cut to the chase. Yer a whore. You don't get up before noon. But if you absolutely must do, you act the bitch. To avoid doing anything besides sitting on yer fat ass and daydreaming, you shake yer teats in yer husband's face "for like 5 minutes straight." Do you finish the job? Does he get full release? Not likely, cuz yer a lazy, baws-tripping slag. Will someone please slap this woman? And unless yer going to start posting nude photos of yerself, SHUT YER BLOG.
Here's what I have to say:
1. Okay, that's kind of a cute thing to do, I guess. I'm usually a pretty critical person myself. He's also down on Jenna Elfman, Margaret Cho, Dave Barry (hey, I love Dave Barry!), Mark Cuban, and plenty of every-day people like me.
2. Lazy? You bet! Have I ever denied this?
3. Baws-tripping slag? Can someone please define this for me, I'm too lazy to look it up myself.
4. Ohhh...you wanted nude photos. Sorry dude. Here I thought you were a witty critic, and turns out you're just another kid who can't get laid and wants free pictures of my tatas. Yeah, no.
So here's the deal:
I am now campaigning for him to give me the #1 spot on his worst blog readers list. I'm going to get Ben Affleck to stump for me, and a cute be-dimpled running mate, and I'm going to threaten to take away America's favourite ketchup souce if I don't win.
Oh wait, wrong campaign.
I don't need a pretty vp or catchy slogan; I think my posts stand for themselves. I have written plenty of crap this month, surely something will be worthy! So please, spare me a moment out of your busy lives, go to his site, scroll down to December 10th, and leave a comment under my second place ranking saying you would looove if I could be upgraded to #1 on some future date. Thanks all, I really appreciate it.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Quality Time
It's official: the holidays are here. Already I've seen more of my family this week than I did in the past 4 months. I spent some time with my mom and sisters yesterday, and we "popped in" to say "hi" to my grandparents first. Now usually for my mom, "popping in" to say "hi" means "my friend bought a bottle of gin, can someone come pick me up in a few hours?" but yesterday she was apparently practising abstinence because she didn't drink until she got home. We really did just say "hi", but in the few minutes we were there, we were treated to this little gem:
The phone rings, Pa answers. "Hello? Hello?...Hello?"
Nanny says to us, "Now watch, he'll get all mad."
Pa starts pressing some button on the phone furiously. Nanny and Pa are sitting on a few dollars, so they do donate to their favourite charities on a regular basis. This has put them on the call list for every charity and telemarketing firm in the world. The people making the calls don't even bother to pay attention, it's a surprise to them if someone actually picks up, so my grandfather gets very flustered when he can hear the din of a hundred people in the background, but no one answering his hellos.
I assumed that he was pressing buttons to make an annoying noise in their ear or something, but no. Nothing rational like that.
"I hear that if you press the # key, it buggers up their computers."
Buggers.
hehe
T was done work at 7, done work for the season actually; she worked all summer as a 'horticulturist' at one of those flower stands, which morphed into selling pumpkins and such during the fall, and lately Christmas trees. Now she's done until the spring, when it's flower time again. She needs the break because for the last month she has come home covered in sap from carrying and loading Christmas trees into people's cars. Now, T is a little girl, meaning she could fit in your pocket. She's very dainty. But she was throwing trees over her shoulder like they were just pretty little purses, and has discovered that sap is near impossible to get off your skin, and quite impossible to get out of your hair. Out of the hundreds of trees she has heaved into people's cars, only one person thought to tip her. Poor, poor T, she really deserves to be recognized for her hard work, especially since she got through this transaction just yesterday without cracking so much as a smile (until she got home, where she laughed uncontrollably):
Lady at the tree place: Can you put that tree in my car?
T: Sure.
Lady: You'll have to put it in the back, I've got too much junk in my trunk.
Junk in her trunk.
hehe
So later that night, we were all sitting around, doing what we do best: bugging the crap out of each other, and the conversation turned to one of our favourite topics: mom's death. J, my oldest younger sister, is a nurse, so naturally she has taken it upon herself to care for my mother in her old age. But should J not be available for this task...what then? Mom doesn't want to go to a nursing home. There are 3 of us left. Who's the backup? T, Jan, and I all looked at each other with that wild, panicky look about us. The conversation went like this:
....
....
(long, awkward pause)
....
Jamie: Not it!
Mom: Not it! I was sitting here waiting for someone to yell 'shotgun!' and that's
what I get?
J: Well T can't do it, she has no compassion. She'd yell at you if you ever
had an accident.
T: I would not. I would feel bad if she fell.
J: No, I mean if she wet the bed.
T: (gagging) Oh, god...gross...
Mom: Well Jan can't do it, she's way too high-maintenance herself.
Jan: Yeah, I'm totally not doing it.
J: Well that leaves Jamie.
Jamie: Hey, don't look at me. I am way too self-involved. I had my husband clipped so
I don't ever, EVER, have to change diapers. Mom, if you wanted someone to take
care of you, you should have had another kid for back-up.
Mom: I had 4 daughters, I thought that was enough back-up!
Don't worry Mom, I'm sure someone will come visit you in the home.
...
Or, not.
The phone rings, Pa answers. "Hello? Hello?...Hello?"
Nanny says to us, "Now watch, he'll get all mad."
Pa starts pressing some button on the phone furiously. Nanny and Pa are sitting on a few dollars, so they do donate to their favourite charities on a regular basis. This has put them on the call list for every charity and telemarketing firm in the world. The people making the calls don't even bother to pay attention, it's a surprise to them if someone actually picks up, so my grandfather gets very flustered when he can hear the din of a hundred people in the background, but no one answering his hellos.
I assumed that he was pressing buttons to make an annoying noise in their ear or something, but no. Nothing rational like that.
"I hear that if you press the # key, it buggers up their computers."
Buggers.
hehe
T was done work at 7, done work for the season actually; she worked all summer as a 'horticulturist' at one of those flower stands, which morphed into selling pumpkins and such during the fall, and lately Christmas trees. Now she's done until the spring, when it's flower time again. She needs the break because for the last month she has come home covered in sap from carrying and loading Christmas trees into people's cars. Now, T is a little girl, meaning she could fit in your pocket. She's very dainty. But she was throwing trees over her shoulder like they were just pretty little purses, and has discovered that sap is near impossible to get off your skin, and quite impossible to get out of your hair. Out of the hundreds of trees she has heaved into people's cars, only one person thought to tip her. Poor, poor T, she really deserves to be recognized for her hard work, especially since she got through this transaction just yesterday without cracking so much as a smile (until she got home, where she laughed uncontrollably):
Lady at the tree place: Can you put that tree in my car?
T: Sure.
Lady: You'll have to put it in the back, I've got too much junk in my trunk.
Junk in her trunk.
hehe
So later that night, we were all sitting around, doing what we do best: bugging the crap out of each other, and the conversation turned to one of our favourite topics: mom's death. J, my oldest younger sister, is a nurse, so naturally she has taken it upon herself to care for my mother in her old age. But should J not be available for this task...what then? Mom doesn't want to go to a nursing home. There are 3 of us left. Who's the backup? T, Jan, and I all looked at each other with that wild, panicky look about us. The conversation went like this:
....
....
(long, awkward pause)
....
Jamie: Not it!
Mom: Not it! I was sitting here waiting for someone to yell 'shotgun!' and that's
what I get?
J: Well T can't do it, she has no compassion. She'd yell at you if you ever
had an accident.
T: I would not. I would feel bad if she fell.
J: No, I mean if she wet the bed.
T: (gagging) Oh, god...gross...
Mom: Well Jan can't do it, she's way too high-maintenance herself.
Jan: Yeah, I'm totally not doing it.
J: Well that leaves Jamie.
Jamie: Hey, don't look at me. I am way too self-involved. I had my husband clipped so
I don't ever, EVER, have to change diapers. Mom, if you wanted someone to take
care of you, you should have had another kid for back-up.
Mom: I had 4 daughters, I thought that was enough back-up!
Don't worry Mom, I'm sure someone will come visit you in the home.
...
Or, not.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Yes, We Have No Bananas
It's here: the kind of weather that makes your lungs freeze up on the very first breath in. No man within a 500km radius of here will see his balls again until May. Yesterday we had what is being called 'the deep freeze' which sounds a lot like it feels: damn cold. And yesterday it was still autumn! No more of that 'mild' weather though, because today we are officially into the season of winter, that precious time of the year when I seriously consider becoming a bear so I can hibernate right through.
I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate snow. I hate coats with a vengeance; in fact, I don't even like sweaters. I have a touch of claustrophobia when it comes to clothes. Anything bulky makes me very uncomfortable. For the very reason, I do not own a parka. I have a nice little pea coat from The Gap, and although I wore it all winter long last year, I only did the buttons up twice, and both times it almost killed me, and I only did it because the frostbite would have surely killed me. I hate scarves. I hate mittens. I haven't worn a hat since 1989. It doesn't matter that yesterday it was -36 with the wind chill, I'm still trying to go out in just a hoodie. It's not so bad when you can send Jason out to start the car, warm it up, scrape off the ice, and drive up to the door when he's ready...I can run out in the bare minimum of clothes and be quite happy. And this makes Jason happier during the shopping portion of our trip, because me + coat + mall = bad. This time of year I always start freaking out in stores because I overheat. And I'm a fainter. Yesterday, however, the car would not start. And try getting a jump from any of the other cars on our street that were also frozen piles of tin. Nothing doing. So it stayed plugged in to the block heater all day, and fortunately started up okay this morning. Mom called to say that hers did not, and could she please have a ride?
So yeah, it's cold in Canada. In the very spot where I burned badly enough to blister on 6 different occasions this past summer. But no matter the weather, I still sleep naked. If I hate coats, then there isn't a word strong enough for what I feel for sleeping in pjs. But on a night so bitterly cold as yesterday's was, I cannot help wondering: is there something morally wrong with sleeping naked, but with socks? Cause man, I could have used some socks last night!
My mom was supposed to visit yesterday, but common sense tells people to stay indoors, so that's what we all did. I curled up with a good book. Not Tess of the D'Ubervilles, I've left off that one for Jason's sake, and I'm now reading Cheever's The Wapshot Chronicles where I came across an interesting concept: a carrot that strongly resembles male genitalia. Now, on the news I often hear about food that looks like something else...like the woman and her virgin Mary grilled cheese, for example. Or the lady who collects potato chips that resemble Elvis and Bart Simpson. But this particular image...well, it gave me nightmares, let's just say that.
Know what's funny? Yesterday Jason says to me "Let's play Boggle." Now, Jason and I own a fair collection of board games that we break out occasionally, often while watching an old Adam Sandler movie. Jason always loses. He's not bad, he's a pretty smart guy, and matched against anyone else in the world, he'd stand a pretty good chance...but I just have an edge on him, and he cannot win. But with Boggle, the edge is more like a cliff. I whoop his arse so badly it stings for weeks. But he is a glutton for punishment, and he keeps coming back for more. I won 115-17. But in the middle of the game, I suddenly got struck by a strong thirst.
"Jason, I'm thiiirrrrstttyyyyyy." Subtle, right?
"Oh, can I get you a drink?" Damn he's good!
But that's the thing: he will always jump up to get me a Diet Pepsi. Actually, I don't remember the last time I poured my own drink. Must have been back in the 90s (god it's good to be queen). The problem is, though, that his serving manners leave a little to be desired. Jason hands me everything. And by that I mean that he will never put anything on the table, he has to put everything directly into my hands. What kind of habit is that?
Anyway, with the 'deep freeze' (isn't stupid how the weather people have to name every little thing these days?) on, it's a miracle that Jason even made it home from work at all. My grandfather had to traipse out to pick him up. Jason works in a big office for a cell phone company, and Pa saw a strange sight in the front windows.
"Does everyone have one of those box things?"
Now, whenever your grandparent says something, it's always worthwhile to take a moment not to laugh, and to really try to understand what the hell they are saying. At first Jason thought he might mean the computers, but Pa at least knows about computers, because I've been giving him mini lessons on mine (he wants to buy a computer so he can play solitaire on it).
"What box things?"
"Oh you know, those square things. Where the people sit."
Oh right, cubicles. Funny to think that he's from a time where there were no cubicles. Clearly, he's never seen Dilbert.
On the way home, they also discussed tea cozies, of all things. Seems that Pa, the king of darts, won himself a tea cozy at the last tournament. He's not impressed. Pa has been trying to teach me how to play darts, but without the benefit of darts or a dartboard. Now, I have both right here in my home, but that's not the point. The point is, I still can't throw worth shit, and he's taken it upon himself to teach me via miming. So every time I see him, he gives me this gay little wave hello, so gay it would not be out of place in a pride parade, but it's actually not a wave, or gay, it's him miming the perfect way to throw a dart.
It's not helping.
I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate snow. I hate coats with a vengeance; in fact, I don't even like sweaters. I have a touch of claustrophobia when it comes to clothes. Anything bulky makes me very uncomfortable. For the very reason, I do not own a parka. I have a nice little pea coat from The Gap, and although I wore it all winter long last year, I only did the buttons up twice, and both times it almost killed me, and I only did it because the frostbite would have surely killed me. I hate scarves. I hate mittens. I haven't worn a hat since 1989. It doesn't matter that yesterday it was -36 with the wind chill, I'm still trying to go out in just a hoodie. It's not so bad when you can send Jason out to start the car, warm it up, scrape off the ice, and drive up to the door when he's ready...I can run out in the bare minimum of clothes and be quite happy. And this makes Jason happier during the shopping portion of our trip, because me + coat + mall = bad. This time of year I always start freaking out in stores because I overheat. And I'm a fainter. Yesterday, however, the car would not start. And try getting a jump from any of the other cars on our street that were also frozen piles of tin. Nothing doing. So it stayed plugged in to the block heater all day, and fortunately started up okay this morning. Mom called to say that hers did not, and could she please have a ride?
So yeah, it's cold in Canada. In the very spot where I burned badly enough to blister on 6 different occasions this past summer. But no matter the weather, I still sleep naked. If I hate coats, then there isn't a word strong enough for what I feel for sleeping in pjs. But on a night so bitterly cold as yesterday's was, I cannot help wondering: is there something morally wrong with sleeping naked, but with socks? Cause man, I could have used some socks last night!
My mom was supposed to visit yesterday, but common sense tells people to stay indoors, so that's what we all did. I curled up with a good book. Not Tess of the D'Ubervilles, I've left off that one for Jason's sake, and I'm now reading Cheever's The Wapshot Chronicles where I came across an interesting concept: a carrot that strongly resembles male genitalia. Now, on the news I often hear about food that looks like something else...like the woman and her virgin Mary grilled cheese, for example. Or the lady who collects potato chips that resemble Elvis and Bart Simpson. But this particular image...well, it gave me nightmares, let's just say that.
Know what's funny? Yesterday Jason says to me "Let's play Boggle." Now, Jason and I own a fair collection of board games that we break out occasionally, often while watching an old Adam Sandler movie. Jason always loses. He's not bad, he's a pretty smart guy, and matched against anyone else in the world, he'd stand a pretty good chance...but I just have an edge on him, and he cannot win. But with Boggle, the edge is more like a cliff. I whoop his arse so badly it stings for weeks. But he is a glutton for punishment, and he keeps coming back for more. I won 115-17. But in the middle of the game, I suddenly got struck by a strong thirst.
"Jason, I'm thiiirrrrstttyyyyyy." Subtle, right?
"Oh, can I get you a drink?" Damn he's good!
But that's the thing: he will always jump up to get me a Diet Pepsi. Actually, I don't remember the last time I poured my own drink. Must have been back in the 90s (god it's good to be queen). The problem is, though, that his serving manners leave a little to be desired. Jason hands me everything. And by that I mean that he will never put anything on the table, he has to put everything directly into my hands. What kind of habit is that?
Anyway, with the 'deep freeze' (isn't stupid how the weather people have to name every little thing these days?) on, it's a miracle that Jason even made it home from work at all. My grandfather had to traipse out to pick him up. Jason works in a big office for a cell phone company, and Pa saw a strange sight in the front windows.
"Does everyone have one of those box things?"
Now, whenever your grandparent says something, it's always worthwhile to take a moment not to laugh, and to really try to understand what the hell they are saying. At first Jason thought he might mean the computers, but Pa at least knows about computers, because I've been giving him mini lessons on mine (he wants to buy a computer so he can play solitaire on it).
"What box things?"
"Oh you know, those square things. Where the people sit."
Oh right, cubicles. Funny to think that he's from a time where there were no cubicles. Clearly, he's never seen Dilbert.
On the way home, they also discussed tea cozies, of all things. Seems that Pa, the king of darts, won himself a tea cozy at the last tournament. He's not impressed. Pa has been trying to teach me how to play darts, but without the benefit of darts or a dartboard. Now, I have both right here in my home, but that's not the point. The point is, I still can't throw worth shit, and he's taken it upon himself to teach me via miming. So every time I see him, he gives me this gay little wave hello, so gay it would not be out of place in a pride parade, but it's actually not a wave, or gay, it's him miming the perfect way to throw a dart.
It's not helping.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Dear Diary,
I had a strange dream last night, in which I was a naughty fruit vendor who had pissed off the mafia. Now why would I dream that? So I woke up with the intention of doing 2 things: writing in my dream book, and writing in my dear, dear diary. Somehow I am only now getting around to doing so. What a day!
I was in the bathroom this morning, doing my thing, primping mostly, making my hair pretty, and my lips pink.
"What are you doing in there?" yells my husband, as if he doesn't know every second of my morning routine as well as I do.
"I'm tarting myself up!"
"What does that mean?" he yells at me through the door.
"It means I'm whoring it up for you dear," I yell back.
"Yes, Grandma, that was Jamie in the background. She's just being funny."
....
Yup, darling husband took that very opportunity to call his grandma, right while I was yelling stuff about being a whore. Super way to start the day!
I managed to get Jason's new shirt returned. I should have known better than to tust Jason to buy his own clothes! All he needed was was a crisp new white dress shirt. I should have known he couldn't handle such a tall order! Apparently while in the store, he had a mental block as to the size of his own neck. He guesstimated it at 17 inches. Then he called me to ask me what the second set of numbers was...
"Chest size?", he wondered.
"No dear, it's for your arms."
"Oh."
So he came home with the wrong size. He was positively swimming in it. I am not crazy enough to keep sending him back to annoy the saleslady all week, so I got the job done myself. Then I popped in to see my own grandparents. I just wanted to run my selections for Christmas dessert by them, but I ended up having to play referree. They just bought Scrabble so they were busy screaming at each other. Nanny was raised speaking french and is practically an anglo now, which means she can't speak either language very well. So she not only makes up words left and right, she also doesn't believe that my grandfather's words can be real (my grandfather is a notorious game-cheater). When the topic of desserts came up and of course the desserts for which I have all the ingredients already lined up in my fridge will no longer do. I realize that I will have to call my mother when I get home.
When I got home, I have already received an email from my mother. It says: why don't you call me, I will actually be home for a change. I call her, and she is not home. I try to email her, but the phone interrupts me. It's my mother. Here is the confusion that follows, with what my grandmother (Nanny) told me in between:
Me: I have no idea what desserts to make, since it looks like my original choice of the carousel cake and the carrot cake-cheesecake and the snowman cake has been ruled out.
Mom: Well you were making too many desserts anyway. You need to scale way back. Just make one dessert. I told Nanny she is limited to 3 meats this year.
Me: Well, she just told me she's making 4.
Mom: 4!
Me: Yes 4 and she told me she has to make an apple pie and a carrot cake, which is why I can't make my carrotcake cheesecake. And she told me not to make any of the berry cheesecakes because your brother won't eat them.
Nanny: Jim thinks berries waste a perfectly good cheesecake. Make chocolate instead.
Mom: Chocolate wastes a perfectly good cheesecake. Make caramel instead.
She seems to have talked Nanny down to 3 meats, and me down to 2 desserts. She's bringing the stuffing.
"Does the stuffing have meat in it?" asks Nanny.
"No Mom, no meat."
Of course I have a few good stuffing recipes of my own floating around, not that I eat the stuff. I abhor stuffing. I have made it in the past, for Jason, and because I often make stuff I don't eat: cheesecake, for example. On the occasion of my bridal shower, my mother asked guests to bring a recipe for me with them. Jason's other grandmother, a great little lady, brought me a stuffing recipe.
Here it is:
Grandma Tobin's Turkey Dressing
1 cup chopped celery 1 cup popcorn
2 cups bread crumbs 1/4 cup butter
1 cup chopped onion
Mix ingredients in a pan, add sage and poultry seasoning to taste.
Roast at 325.
Dressing is done when the popcorn blows the ass off the turkey.
Special, eh?
So then I was tidying and I see that Jason has left his book at home again. We agreed to both read Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Ubervilles at the same time. I am always reading great books, and Jason doesn't even read his own horoscope on a regular basis. So I thought it would encourage him to be able to read together and talk about it together. He insisted that he needed a bit of a head start though, so I read Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale again, and he needed more time, so I also read Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Then I started reading the Hardy. He was still only on p. 20, so I read only as far as that, and then I read a thick issue of GQ and did a book of crossword puzzles before I started reading again. Currently, I am on p. 142 and he's on p. 26. Only 26 pages, and this from a guy was genuinely excited to get reading; after all, his copy of the book had ambiguous shadow drawings on the back cover that appear to be tree-fucking. And it is subtitled A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented, so he thought he was in for a real treat. Apparently not.
So then I got an email from a really old friend, Anna, who wants to get together over the holidays for 'tea'. I haven't seen Anna in 3 years maybe, but she still remembers that I hate coffee. What she doesn't remember is that I also hate tea. I may sometimes be induced to choke down a cappucino, but in my heart or hearts, I am just a chocolate milk kind of girl.
Yours truly,
Jay
I was in the bathroom this morning, doing my thing, primping mostly, making my hair pretty, and my lips pink.
"What are you doing in there?" yells my husband, as if he doesn't know every second of my morning routine as well as I do.
"I'm tarting myself up!"
"What does that mean?" he yells at me through the door.
"It means I'm whoring it up for you dear," I yell back.
"Yes, Grandma, that was Jamie in the background. She's just being funny."
....
Yup, darling husband took that very opportunity to call his grandma, right while I was yelling stuff about being a whore. Super way to start the day!
I managed to get Jason's new shirt returned. I should have known better than to tust Jason to buy his own clothes! All he needed was was a crisp new white dress shirt. I should have known he couldn't handle such a tall order! Apparently while in the store, he had a mental block as to the size of his own neck. He guesstimated it at 17 inches. Then he called me to ask me what the second set of numbers was...
"Chest size?", he wondered.
"No dear, it's for your arms."
"Oh."
So he came home with the wrong size. He was positively swimming in it. I am not crazy enough to keep sending him back to annoy the saleslady all week, so I got the job done myself. Then I popped in to see my own grandparents. I just wanted to run my selections for Christmas dessert by them, but I ended up having to play referree. They just bought Scrabble so they were busy screaming at each other. Nanny was raised speaking french and is practically an anglo now, which means she can't speak either language very well. So she not only makes up words left and right, she also doesn't believe that my grandfather's words can be real (my grandfather is a notorious game-cheater). When the topic of desserts came up and of course the desserts for which I have all the ingredients already lined up in my fridge will no longer do. I realize that I will have to call my mother when I get home.
When I got home, I have already received an email from my mother. It says: why don't you call me, I will actually be home for a change. I call her, and she is not home. I try to email her, but the phone interrupts me. It's my mother. Here is the confusion that follows, with what my grandmother (Nanny) told me in between:
Me: I have no idea what desserts to make, since it looks like my original choice of the carousel cake and the carrot cake-cheesecake and the snowman cake has been ruled out.
Mom: Well you were making too many desserts anyway. You need to scale way back. Just make one dessert. I told Nanny she is limited to 3 meats this year.
Me: Well, she just told me she's making 4.
Mom: 4!
Me: Yes 4 and she told me she has to make an apple pie and a carrot cake, which is why I can't make my carrotcake cheesecake. And she told me not to make any of the berry cheesecakes because your brother won't eat them.
Nanny: Jim thinks berries waste a perfectly good cheesecake. Make chocolate instead.
Mom: Chocolate wastes a perfectly good cheesecake. Make caramel instead.
She seems to have talked Nanny down to 3 meats, and me down to 2 desserts. She's bringing the stuffing.
"Does the stuffing have meat in it?" asks Nanny.
"No Mom, no meat."
Of course I have a few good stuffing recipes of my own floating around, not that I eat the stuff. I abhor stuffing. I have made it in the past, for Jason, and because I often make stuff I don't eat: cheesecake, for example. On the occasion of my bridal shower, my mother asked guests to bring a recipe for me with them. Jason's other grandmother, a great little lady, brought me a stuffing recipe.
Here it is:
Grandma Tobin's Turkey Dressing
1 cup chopped celery 1 cup popcorn
2 cups bread crumbs 1/4 cup butter
1 cup chopped onion
Mix ingredients in a pan, add sage and poultry seasoning to taste.
Roast at 325.
Dressing is done when the popcorn blows the ass off the turkey.
Special, eh?
So then I was tidying and I see that Jason has left his book at home again. We agreed to both read Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Ubervilles at the same time. I am always reading great books, and Jason doesn't even read his own horoscope on a regular basis. So I thought it would encourage him to be able to read together and talk about it together. He insisted that he needed a bit of a head start though, so I read Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale again, and he needed more time, so I also read Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Then I started reading the Hardy. He was still only on p. 20, so I read only as far as that, and then I read a thick issue of GQ and did a book of crossword puzzles before I started reading again. Currently, I am on p. 142 and he's on p. 26. Only 26 pages, and this from a guy was genuinely excited to get reading; after all, his copy of the book had ambiguous shadow drawings on the back cover that appear to be tree-fucking. And it is subtitled A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented, so he thought he was in for a real treat. Apparently not.
So then I got an email from a really old friend, Anna, who wants to get together over the holidays for 'tea'. I haven't seen Anna in 3 years maybe, but she still remembers that I hate coffee. What she doesn't remember is that I also hate tea. I may sometimes be induced to choke down a cappucino, but in my heart or hearts, I am just a chocolate milk kind of girl.
Yours truly,
Jay
Saturday, December 18, 2004
One Million and One Things That Make Me Smile
About a year and a half ago, after a bad day, I started a list called One Million Things that Bother Me. I banged out the first 100 entries right there and then, and it felt good. Over the next days and weeks, I kept adding to my list, and I was rounding up to about the 300 mark, I suddenly realized it was quite sad that there were so many negative things in my life. I do love to complain, but I also like to think that there is always more good than bad, so I started a second list, this one called One Million and One Things that Make Me Smile (this one has +1, so as far as karma goes, I'm all set). Sometimes I forget about them for a month or more, then I get them out and write down a few things here and there. In a year and a half I have amassed quite the collection (the first 100 are easy, beyond that, weh). This week was momentous for me, because I hit the 5000 mark in the happy list (and the happy list outnumbers the sad list by about 50%). To celebrate, I will share with you a random sampling of that list. Feel free to agree or disagree:
0006. fancy panties
0157. mittens on a string
0316. finding the matching lid for my tupperware
0415. painting smocks
0537. juice boxes
0826. heart-shaped jacuzzis
1018. the sound of Jason's key in the door
1314. opening a bottle of wine just because
1608. the song 'Sugar Sugar' by the Archies
1917. how Jessie would cry every time she got the old maid.
2138. the certainty of vasectomies
2300. pink snow on our balcony
2488. stuffing a can of beer up a chicken's arse
2694. watching Jason "braid"
2835. people who can correctly use the word plethora
3137. scrotums
3380. homoerotic football statues
3627. baby's first Cheerio: a little o-shaped piece of heaven
3952. accidentally choosing Feliz Navidad on the jukebox
4136. dumb criminals
4303. working out behind a guy with a great ass
4522. save a horse, ride a cowboy
4770. giving/getting the ole "good job!" after sex
4915. Edina and Patsy
4944. when people refer to their horses as their mounts
Phew. Well, that's like a bad trip down memory lane or something...Anyway, if you have anything that makes you smile, do share, I can always use the help!
p.s. 5000 items like that fill 94 pages of lined writing paper, front and back. To actually reach my goal of 1 000 001, I will have to add 46 new items every single day from now until I'm 83. Yikes!
0006. fancy panties
0157. mittens on a string
0316. finding the matching lid for my tupperware
0415. painting smocks
0537. juice boxes
0826. heart-shaped jacuzzis
1018. the sound of Jason's key in the door
1314. opening a bottle of wine just because
1608. the song 'Sugar Sugar' by the Archies
1917. how Jessie would cry every time she got the old maid.
2138. the certainty of vasectomies
2300. pink snow on our balcony
2488. stuffing a can of beer up a chicken's arse
2694. watching Jason "braid"
2835. people who can correctly use the word plethora
3137. scrotums
3380. homoerotic football statues
3627. baby's first Cheerio: a little o-shaped piece of heaven
3952. accidentally choosing Feliz Navidad on the jukebox
4136. dumb criminals
4303. working out behind a guy with a great ass
4522. save a horse, ride a cowboy
4770. giving/getting the ole "good job!" after sex
4915. Edina and Patsy
4944. when people refer to their horses as their mounts
Phew. Well, that's like a bad trip down memory lane or something...Anyway, if you have anything that makes you smile, do share, I can always use the help!
p.s. 5000 items like that fill 94 pages of lined writing paper, front and back. To actually reach my goal of 1 000 001, I will have to add 46 new items every single day from now until I'm 83. Yikes!
Friday, December 17, 2004
Busy Bee
Thursday I had a busy day telling Jason what to get me for Christmas: that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, 2 of those, that, that, that, that, and that in white gold.
Phew.
Today was a happy day because I got a much-needed haircut. I have this thing where I absolutely abhor long hair. My hair grows really fast, and I keep chopping it off. I usually keep my hair very short, which is what looks best on me because I have a small face and delicate features. But three years ago, my sister told me that I could not get married with short hair. Brides just do not have short hair. Therefore, it was imperative that I grow my hair out just for the purpose of that one day. And for some strange reason, I did. And gawd it annoyed me every day for the whole year that I was growing it. I admit it looked fabulous for the wedding, but 2 days later, it was gone. And I kept it off for 2 years, enjoying the feel of wind on my neck and the sight of my cute little ears. I had different styles, but all short. Mmmm short. But then, being a person that can never keep anything for very long, I had to grow it out again. I think there's just some female hormone that compels us to want to grow our hair. It's not quick, it's not convenient. It takes forever to dry it in the morning, baffling Jason because his hair is so short it's literally dry the second the towel touches it. Then I spend a fortune on product to wash it, condition it, fortify it, make it smell good, make it behaving, keep it in line, make it look nice. I have sustained a few burn blisters on my ears and neck from the curling iron.
I stopped myself from chopping it all off today though. I merely made it shoulder-length, which is still a vast improvement and will be way more manageable. But of course I had to encounter yet another dumb twit hair stylist. Yap, yap, yap, I have no real opinions but that doesn't stop me from making a fool of myself with my verbal diarhea. What possesses these people? I just want to sit there, in nice silence, perhaps with a little bit of friendly banter, but certainly not this insane blather that actually makes her stop cutting my hair in order to gesture wildly with her comb for emphasis.
Aaannnyyyywayyyy.
Then I had to convince Jason to get new shoes because Jason doesn't need new shoes. What's with boys and thinking you only need as many shoes as you can wear? Shoes are not about necessity or practicality. It's impossible to ever have enough shoes. If there's a cute pair of shoes, you just buy them, never mind whether you'll ever wear them or if they'll match anything in your closet. If they're cute enough, they don't even have to fit. Two years ago I found this to-die-for pair of shoes, red and high-heeled, strappy with silk ribbons that tie up your leg. Soooo sexy. They only had size 6 left, and of course I wear a 7. But I bought them anyway. They were on sale for a mere $180, regular for $300, and you just don't pass up that kind of sale. You smile your way through pinched toes for that kind of bargain! My mother always says that only whores wear red shoes, which of course is her way of saying she's devastated that she wears an 8 and there's just no way she'll ever squeeze into a 6.
Boys just do not understand this. While my husband indulges my shoe fetish, and insists that $1100 is not too much to spend on a pair of mary-jane Mahnolo Blahniks on E-bay, he just cannot spend the money on shoes for himself. And when he does go shoe-shopping, he somehow heads straight for the ugly section. Before me, he owned several pairs of hideous shoes, which I promptly threw into a dumpster when he and I started being seen together (several of his shirts met a similar fate). He still has hideous tendencies today, even though I quiz him incessantly when I flip through GQ. He does okay in theory, but in an actual store, you'd swear someone told him to go straight for the one pair that would cause his wife to leave him. He is literally not allowed to buy shoes without obtaining my approval first. But here he was, wearing a pair of shoes that had my solid approval (even my compliments), and he was still hemming and hawing? What is that about? Finally, I just took the box from him and bought them myself, which made me realize that in the past 5 years that we've been together, I have bought every single pair of shoes that he's owned: the running shoes, the dress shoes, the casual shoes, the shoes he wore to the wedding, his Doc Martens, even his slippers! This makes me wonder how we ever got together. How can people with such different priorities love each other? I would rather not eat than do without some pretty shoes, and Jason was running after me in the mall,filled with guilt, trying to convince me to return them. Who is this man?
Now, I'm sitting here about to go into a coma from pure excitement. The tickets are in hand: we will see Spanglish tonight. I love Adam Sandler almost as much as I love myself, and certainly more than I love Jason. I've loved Adam longer, too, since I was about 12 years old. I never miss his movies. I had to come home to change though, because I always freeze in movie theatres. Actually, I find the whole movie-going experience to be quite annoying on the whole. I'm a tad claustorphobic, so anything but an aisle-seat makes me uncomfortable. I like to get there fairly early because I just adore previews, but it's never worth it because 3 minutes into the movie, some 7-foot guy always decides to sit in front of me, even though there are plenty of empty seats everywhere else. It's even worse when it's a 7-foot guy and his bratty children. You can move somewhere else, but chances are, the city you live in will miraculously be populated with massive 7-foot men like you wouldn't believe. But you'll have to believe it, because you can't see the screen. The very screen that you inexplicably paid $12 a pop not to see, but on the upside, you hear everything so darn well that you frequently burst your eardrums (not to worry, they grow back you know). And the person sitting behind you just cannot sit still to save her life. She must kick the back of your seat continually, until she gets up to go to the bathroom and spills her drink, worst case on your new suede jacket, best case on the floor, where it leaks down to your aisle, causing your shoes to stick to the floor. Mmmm.
Wait, why am I going to the movies again? Oh right, Adam. Ahhhhh.
Wish me well!
p.s. It was a very good movie. Fortunately, I did not have to use the fork I keep in my purse for eye-stabbing...only one person left her cell phone on. I pummel the first two using only my fists, it's what I call a 'grace period.' The third gets the stabbing-fork. The purse item that I did have to use, however, was the little wadded up piece of kleenex that every woman has at the bottom of her purse. It wasn't a tear-jerker or anything, but I needed a few dabs. I was really amazed at what a good movie it was. Very strong performance from Tea Leoni; it takes a great actress to make crazy look normal. So many great moments, I won't even bother to tell you all of them, but I will urge you to go see it. Just don't buy the big gulp or anything, it runs a little over 2 hours and with all the damned commercials they shove in front of it, you're sitting there for quite a while (I know I said before I like previews, and I do, but I just hate those commercials!).
Phew.
Today was a happy day because I got a much-needed haircut. I have this thing where I absolutely abhor long hair. My hair grows really fast, and I keep chopping it off. I usually keep my hair very short, which is what looks best on me because I have a small face and delicate features. But three years ago, my sister told me that I could not get married with short hair. Brides just do not have short hair. Therefore, it was imperative that I grow my hair out just for the purpose of that one day. And for some strange reason, I did. And gawd it annoyed me every day for the whole year that I was growing it. I admit it looked fabulous for the wedding, but 2 days later, it was gone. And I kept it off for 2 years, enjoying the feel of wind on my neck and the sight of my cute little ears. I had different styles, but all short. Mmmm short. But then, being a person that can never keep anything for very long, I had to grow it out again. I think there's just some female hormone that compels us to want to grow our hair. It's not quick, it's not convenient. It takes forever to dry it in the morning, baffling Jason because his hair is so short it's literally dry the second the towel touches it. Then I spend a fortune on product to wash it, condition it, fortify it, make it smell good, make it behaving, keep it in line, make it look nice. I have sustained a few burn blisters on my ears and neck from the curling iron.
I stopped myself from chopping it all off today though. I merely made it shoulder-length, which is still a vast improvement and will be way more manageable. But of course I had to encounter yet another dumb twit hair stylist. Yap, yap, yap, I have no real opinions but that doesn't stop me from making a fool of myself with my verbal diarhea. What possesses these people? I just want to sit there, in nice silence, perhaps with a little bit of friendly banter, but certainly not this insane blather that actually makes her stop cutting my hair in order to gesture wildly with her comb for emphasis.
Aaannnyyyywayyyy.
Then I had to convince Jason to get new shoes because Jason doesn't need new shoes. What's with boys and thinking you only need as many shoes as you can wear? Shoes are not about necessity or practicality. It's impossible to ever have enough shoes. If there's a cute pair of shoes, you just buy them, never mind whether you'll ever wear them or if they'll match anything in your closet. If they're cute enough, they don't even have to fit. Two years ago I found this to-die-for pair of shoes, red and high-heeled, strappy with silk ribbons that tie up your leg. Soooo sexy. They only had size 6 left, and of course I wear a 7. But I bought them anyway. They were on sale for a mere $180, regular for $300, and you just don't pass up that kind of sale. You smile your way through pinched toes for that kind of bargain! My mother always says that only whores wear red shoes, which of course is her way of saying she's devastated that she wears an 8 and there's just no way she'll ever squeeze into a 6.
Boys just do not understand this. While my husband indulges my shoe fetish, and insists that $1100 is not too much to spend on a pair of mary-jane Mahnolo Blahniks on E-bay, he just cannot spend the money on shoes for himself. And when he does go shoe-shopping, he somehow heads straight for the ugly section. Before me, he owned several pairs of hideous shoes, which I promptly threw into a dumpster when he and I started being seen together (several of his shirts met a similar fate). He still has hideous tendencies today, even though I quiz him incessantly when I flip through GQ. He does okay in theory, but in an actual store, you'd swear someone told him to go straight for the one pair that would cause his wife to leave him. He is literally not allowed to buy shoes without obtaining my approval first. But here he was, wearing a pair of shoes that had my solid approval (even my compliments), and he was still hemming and hawing? What is that about? Finally, I just took the box from him and bought them myself, which made me realize that in the past 5 years that we've been together, I have bought every single pair of shoes that he's owned: the running shoes, the dress shoes, the casual shoes, the shoes he wore to the wedding, his Doc Martens, even his slippers! This makes me wonder how we ever got together. How can people with such different priorities love each other? I would rather not eat than do without some pretty shoes, and Jason was running after me in the mall,filled with guilt, trying to convince me to return them. Who is this man?
Now, I'm sitting here about to go into a coma from pure excitement. The tickets are in hand: we will see Spanglish tonight. I love Adam Sandler almost as much as I love myself, and certainly more than I love Jason. I've loved Adam longer, too, since I was about 12 years old. I never miss his movies. I had to come home to change though, because I always freeze in movie theatres. Actually, I find the whole movie-going experience to be quite annoying on the whole. I'm a tad claustorphobic, so anything but an aisle-seat makes me uncomfortable. I like to get there fairly early because I just adore previews, but it's never worth it because 3 minutes into the movie, some 7-foot guy always decides to sit in front of me, even though there are plenty of empty seats everywhere else. It's even worse when it's a 7-foot guy and his bratty children. You can move somewhere else, but chances are, the city you live in will miraculously be populated with massive 7-foot men like you wouldn't believe. But you'll have to believe it, because you can't see the screen. The very screen that you inexplicably paid $12 a pop not to see, but on the upside, you hear everything so darn well that you frequently burst your eardrums (not to worry, they grow back you know). And the person sitting behind you just cannot sit still to save her life. She must kick the back of your seat continually, until she gets up to go to the bathroom and spills her drink, worst case on your new suede jacket, best case on the floor, where it leaks down to your aisle, causing your shoes to stick to the floor. Mmmm.
Wait, why am I going to the movies again? Oh right, Adam. Ahhhhh.
Wish me well!
p.s. It was a very good movie. Fortunately, I did not have to use the fork I keep in my purse for eye-stabbing...only one person left her cell phone on. I pummel the first two using only my fists, it's what I call a 'grace period.' The third gets the stabbing-fork. The purse item that I did have to use, however, was the little wadded up piece of kleenex that every woman has at the bottom of her purse. It wasn't a tear-jerker or anything, but I needed a few dabs. I was really amazed at what a good movie it was. Very strong performance from Tea Leoni; it takes a great actress to make crazy look normal. So many great moments, I won't even bother to tell you all of them, but I will urge you to go see it. Just don't buy the big gulp or anything, it runs a little over 2 hours and with all the damned commercials they shove in front of it, you're sitting there for quite a while (I know I said before I like previews, and I do, but I just hate those commercials!).
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
The Gift That Got Away
Almost every year, especially when we are kids, there is one item on our wishlists that stands out above all the rest, the one that puts the twinkle in our eye, the one that would make all the other kids on the block jealous, the one you are sure you cannot live without.
For me, when I was 8, it was Barbie's Magical Motor Home. It had everything a little girl and her Barbie could want: it folded out to reveal a BBQ set, lawn chairs, a vanity area, even a candellabra. I just knew that this toy would make play-time just explode with funness. I could picture the hours I would spend driving it around the basement floor, picking up Ken and toasting marshmallows on the provided plastic campfire. Gosh, I'm practically salivating just thinking about it. I wanted it, I NEEDED it. I couldn't imagine waking up on Christmas morning and not finding it under the tree, but that's what happened. I asked for the motor home 3 years in a row, and I never did get it.
Barbie had a lot of choice vehicles available:
-Barbie cruise ship
-Barbie volkswagon Beetle
-Barbie jam & glam tour bus
-Barbie speed boat
-Barbie electronic travel train
-Barbie disco van
-Barbie leer jet
-Barbie dune buggy
And I never asked for any of these, all I wanted was the camper. Just the camper. I still want it today.
And there it is, available on Ebay, in the 'vintage' section (gulp) for a mere $289. Hah! If Mom had only bought it when I asked for it, she could have saved us $259. My sister Jan, when she was around that same tender age, asked for the Barbie horse trailer. And she got it. Lucky, lucky Jan. Boy was I jealous! Now, this is not to say that I was deprived. Over the years we had hundreds of Barbies. Just think about it: 4 girls x 4 birthdays x Christmas x 8 years of age-appropriateness = somewhere in the neighbourhood of 300 Barbies! Sometimes we would end up with 3 or 4 of the same Barbie and we would say "Oooohhh, triplets!" and there you go. We had a Barbie corvette, a Barbie swimming pool, the Barbie locker room, and Jan even had a 4-foot tall, 3 storey Barbie house, completely fitted out with pink furniture and pink appliances. But that motor home would have been the icing on the cake, and I mourned it for 3 years straight (I know, I know, how ungrateful and spoiled I was!).
Last year, my mother made it up to me. No, I didn't get the camper. What I got was a gift that I had never even asked for.
When I was maybe 11 or 12, my mother decided it was time to introduce me to the movies she loved when she was younger. We watched Love Story, and I cried. We watched The Outsiders, and I cried so much that I literally turned purple. We watched Billy Jack, and boy did I cry. So naturally, I decided to torture Jason with this group of goopy movies. We rented Love Story, and I cried again (Jason looked a little skeptical). We watched The Outsiders, and I sobbed (Jason couldn't believe how little Tom Cruise was!). But we did not watch Billy Jack. I looked and looked...in fact, I looked in probably over 20 video stores in 3 different cities, but no one was carrying it anymore. Too old, and obviously not often requested.
Imagine my surprise when I opened it up on Christmas morning, on DVD no less!
My little mom had actually found her way onto Ebay! I was dumbfounded that she would go to so much trouble. Who even knew that she could do that? I was so proud of her, and happy for myself. Now I can make Jason watch it as often as I like!
So tell me, please, what was it for you, your gift that got away?
For me, when I was 8, it was Barbie's Magical Motor Home. It had everything a little girl and her Barbie could want: it folded out to reveal a BBQ set, lawn chairs, a vanity area, even a candellabra. I just knew that this toy would make play-time just explode with funness. I could picture the hours I would spend driving it around the basement floor, picking up Ken and toasting marshmallows on the provided plastic campfire. Gosh, I'm practically salivating just thinking about it. I wanted it, I NEEDED it. I couldn't imagine waking up on Christmas morning and not finding it under the tree, but that's what happened. I asked for the motor home 3 years in a row, and I never did get it.
Barbie had a lot of choice vehicles available:
-Barbie cruise ship
-Barbie volkswagon Beetle
-Barbie jam & glam tour bus
-Barbie speed boat
-Barbie electronic travel train
-Barbie disco van
-Barbie leer jet
-Barbie dune buggy
And I never asked for any of these, all I wanted was the camper. Just the camper. I still want it today.
And there it is, available on Ebay, in the 'vintage' section (gulp) for a mere $289. Hah! If Mom had only bought it when I asked for it, she could have saved us $259. My sister Jan, when she was around that same tender age, asked for the Barbie horse trailer. And she got it. Lucky, lucky Jan. Boy was I jealous! Now, this is not to say that I was deprived. Over the years we had hundreds of Barbies. Just think about it: 4 girls x 4 birthdays x Christmas x 8 years of age-appropriateness = somewhere in the neighbourhood of 300 Barbies! Sometimes we would end up with 3 or 4 of the same Barbie and we would say "Oooohhh, triplets!" and there you go. We had a Barbie corvette, a Barbie swimming pool, the Barbie locker room, and Jan even had a 4-foot tall, 3 storey Barbie house, completely fitted out with pink furniture and pink appliances. But that motor home would have been the icing on the cake, and I mourned it for 3 years straight (I know, I know, how ungrateful and spoiled I was!).
Last year, my mother made it up to me. No, I didn't get the camper. What I got was a gift that I had never even asked for.
When I was maybe 11 or 12, my mother decided it was time to introduce me to the movies she loved when she was younger. We watched Love Story, and I cried. We watched The Outsiders, and I cried so much that I literally turned purple. We watched Billy Jack, and boy did I cry. So naturally, I decided to torture Jason with this group of goopy movies. We rented Love Story, and I cried again (Jason looked a little skeptical). We watched The Outsiders, and I sobbed (Jason couldn't believe how little Tom Cruise was!). But we did not watch Billy Jack. I looked and looked...in fact, I looked in probably over 20 video stores in 3 different cities, but no one was carrying it anymore. Too old, and obviously not often requested.
Imagine my surprise when I opened it up on Christmas morning, on DVD no less!
My little mom had actually found her way onto Ebay! I was dumbfounded that she would go to so much trouble. Who even knew that she could do that? I was so proud of her, and happy for myself. Now I can make Jason watch it as often as I like!
So tell me, please, what was it for you, your gift that got away?
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Heart-Warming Tale of how Jamie and Jason Got Together, Part II : The Ever After
This is a follow up to Part I: The Hook Up
Jason and I are the couple that never should have been. After that fateful day back in February of 2000, he drove me home, offered to take me out that night in fact, but I already had plans. And I had plans the next night too. I went to a concert in Ottawa, to see my favourite band, and I had the most exciting thing happen to me: the lead singer came down off the stage, held my hand and let me sing with him. So when I got home that night, I was bubbling over with the news. I even called Jason, though it was 2 am, and I’m sure he was expecting to have ‘a talk’, but my concert experience eclipsed whatever had happened between us, so poor Jason was lef in the dusty aftermath.
During the next few weeks, I managed to fit Jason into my schedule here and there. Our time together usually consisted of watching the first 10 minutes of a movie, having sex, and then I would go home. Not typical girl behaviour, I know, but if it bothered Jason to have this kind of arrangement, he never said a thing. Actually, that’s pretty much the long and short of it: 5 years later, he still hasn’t even asked me out on a date! He’s a quiet guy. After about 3 weeks of this, we should have broken up. And we probably would have…I would have stopped returning his phone calls, been unavailable: that was my M.O. I didn’t want anything long-term; I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was in high school for goodness sake! But then something happened that would change the course of things: I got mono.
Ah, the kissing disease. And yes, I totally got it the fun way. I was a party girl, I went out every weekend and a lot of week nights. I had a good time and made a lot of friends (wink, wink). When I got mono, I thought ‘Hey, great, now I won’t even have to bother with letting him down gently…I’ll be out of the picture for 6 weeks and we’ll forget all about it.’ But that didn’t happen. Instead, Jason visited me, pretty much every day. We would make grilled cheese for lunch and watch Wedding Story on TLC. I don’t remember very much of this time together, I was delusional and on very heavy medication, but I still looked good enough for Jason to fall in love. I know I know: puke! I just hate this mushy stuff, but bear with me.
When I came out of the whole mono thing, Jason was still hanging around. He asked me to stop seeing my other ‘friends’, and I did. We had a lot of laughs and we went on adventures and had good times. He was a good friend, but I was still resisting the word boyfriend, even though by this stage in the game, Jason was already professing his love for me.
Sidebar: the first time he said I love you, we were on the phone, and it
went like this.
Jason: I love you, Jamie.
Jamie: Goodnight! (slams down the phone)
And it continued on like that for a loooong time. Why the hell did he stick around?
My friends started teasing me that I had a boyfriend. I never had boyfriends. I hated the whole boyfriend thing. Yuck. I preferred to keep it simple, have fun with a guy for a couple of weeks, and part before any attachments are made or anything has time to go wrong. It was a nice system, but somehow I couldn’t do it with Jason. It was different right from the start.
And then it was time for prom. I did not ask Jason to be my date. I wanted to go alone, because alone is fun. Alone means potential! But then Jason broke down and invited himself (Remember, he wasn’t a student at this time, and really had no business inviting himself, but he was desperate…when Jamie’s alone, she comes home with mono. Or worse.). So, we went. As the Queen, I had to dance the first dance with someone else, but after that, it was all Jason. Lucky guy.
The next big event in my life was choosing a school for my post-secondary. By this time I was fed up with living at home and looking to get far, far away. I was looking at schools between 3 and 7 hours away from my hometown. Jason moped through all of my campus visits. He knew that by being so far apart, I was likely to get up to my old tricks again. He had no faith in me, isn’t that awful? I’m suuuure I would have behaved. Really I would have. But in the end, I decided on the closest school, good old Ottawa U, a mere 100km away (about an hour’s drive), and I did it for Jason. It could have turned out to be a horrible decision, (my mother was very vocal in telling me this) but I think it turned out all right. The first month I was away, Jason visited pretty much every day, which is a crazy amount of driving, but he did it. And after exhausting himself that first month, he got smart and found himself a new job, moved up to Ottawa, and rented us an apartment. We went from drug-induced sex to living together in 6 months flat.
A few months later we were engaged ( I was 19, he was 20) and by the next year, in June of 2002, we were married. Our parents at first were shocked and outraged. Our friends thought we were crazy. But everyone agreed, we make a great couple. My former roommates from University would spend their Friday nights at our place, because just being around us is entertainment. We are charming, and funny together. We tell the best stories, although this one rarely gets told…when Jason’s Grandma asked how it was that we first got together, he blushed and I said we were high school sweethearts. That’s not exactly a lie, and everyone knows we did go to the same high school…it just puts a more positive and socially-acceptable gloss on the actual truth.
We got married down in the Dominican Republic. That in itself is a whole nother story, one I’m sure you don’t want to hear. Every 4th couple seems to have a wedding-disaster story, and ours is no better and no worse. But it got the job done, and in the end, after some clever mental editing, I remember mostly only the good parts.
Back in Canada, we had a big reception for friends and family. It was a great party, but then, all our parties are great. We danced the night away, spent great time with friends from all over (Jamie came from Alberta, Melissa from Quebec, my uncle from B.C.). I danced with my mother. People ate meatballs (I stayed away from these people in my white dress…hehe, white dress, that’s a good one). My sister Jan took some amazing pictures. And there you have it, we were official (even though our marriage certificate is in a language we don’t speak).
None of our friends have caught up yet, none are even engaged. Neither are any of our parents, for that matter. We’re still the only married couple around, a constant source of amusement to many. And as far as happily ever after, only time will tell, but so far, all signs point to yes.
Jason and I are the couple that never should have been. After that fateful day back in February of 2000, he drove me home, offered to take me out that night in fact, but I already had plans. And I had plans the next night too. I went to a concert in Ottawa, to see my favourite band, and I had the most exciting thing happen to me: the lead singer came down off the stage, held my hand and let me sing with him. So when I got home that night, I was bubbling over with the news. I even called Jason, though it was 2 am, and I’m sure he was expecting to have ‘a talk’, but my concert experience eclipsed whatever had happened between us, so poor Jason was lef in the dusty aftermath.
During the next few weeks, I managed to fit Jason into my schedule here and there. Our time together usually consisted of watching the first 10 minutes of a movie, having sex, and then I would go home. Not typical girl behaviour, I know, but if it bothered Jason to have this kind of arrangement, he never said a thing. Actually, that’s pretty much the long and short of it: 5 years later, he still hasn’t even asked me out on a date! He’s a quiet guy. After about 3 weeks of this, we should have broken up. And we probably would have…I would have stopped returning his phone calls, been unavailable: that was my M.O. I didn’t want anything long-term; I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was in high school for goodness sake! But then something happened that would change the course of things: I got mono.
Ah, the kissing disease. And yes, I totally got it the fun way. I was a party girl, I went out every weekend and a lot of week nights. I had a good time and made a lot of friends (wink, wink). When I got mono, I thought ‘Hey, great, now I won’t even have to bother with letting him down gently…I’ll be out of the picture for 6 weeks and we’ll forget all about it.’ But that didn’t happen. Instead, Jason visited me, pretty much every day. We would make grilled cheese for lunch and watch Wedding Story on TLC. I don’t remember very much of this time together, I was delusional and on very heavy medication, but I still looked good enough for Jason to fall in love. I know I know: puke! I just hate this mushy stuff, but bear with me.
When I came out of the whole mono thing, Jason was still hanging around. He asked me to stop seeing my other ‘friends’, and I did. We had a lot of laughs and we went on adventures and had good times. He was a good friend, but I was still resisting the word boyfriend, even though by this stage in the game, Jason was already professing his love for me.
Sidebar: the first time he said I love you, we were on the phone, and it
went like this.
Jason: I love you, Jamie.
Jamie: Goodnight! (slams down the phone)
And it continued on like that for a loooong time. Why the hell did he stick around?
My friends started teasing me that I had a boyfriend. I never had boyfriends. I hated the whole boyfriend thing. Yuck. I preferred to keep it simple, have fun with a guy for a couple of weeks, and part before any attachments are made or anything has time to go wrong. It was a nice system, but somehow I couldn’t do it with Jason. It was different right from the start.
And then it was time for prom. I did not ask Jason to be my date. I wanted to go alone, because alone is fun. Alone means potential! But then Jason broke down and invited himself (Remember, he wasn’t a student at this time, and really had no business inviting himself, but he was desperate…when Jamie’s alone, she comes home with mono. Or worse.). So, we went. As the Queen, I had to dance the first dance with someone else, but after that, it was all Jason. Lucky guy.
The next big event in my life was choosing a school for my post-secondary. By this time I was fed up with living at home and looking to get far, far away. I was looking at schools between 3 and 7 hours away from my hometown. Jason moped through all of my campus visits. He knew that by being so far apart, I was likely to get up to my old tricks again. He had no faith in me, isn’t that awful? I’m suuuure I would have behaved. Really I would have. But in the end, I decided on the closest school, good old Ottawa U, a mere 100km away (about an hour’s drive), and I did it for Jason. It could have turned out to be a horrible decision, (my mother was very vocal in telling me this) but I think it turned out all right. The first month I was away, Jason visited pretty much every day, which is a crazy amount of driving, but he did it. And after exhausting himself that first month, he got smart and found himself a new job, moved up to Ottawa, and rented us an apartment. We went from drug-induced sex to living together in 6 months flat.
A few months later we were engaged ( I was 19, he was 20) and by the next year, in June of 2002, we were married. Our parents at first were shocked and outraged. Our friends thought we were crazy. But everyone agreed, we make a great couple. My former roommates from University would spend their Friday nights at our place, because just being around us is entertainment. We are charming, and funny together. We tell the best stories, although this one rarely gets told…when Jason’s Grandma asked how it was that we first got together, he blushed and I said we were high school sweethearts. That’s not exactly a lie, and everyone knows we did go to the same high school…it just puts a more positive and socially-acceptable gloss on the actual truth.
We got married down in the Dominican Republic. That in itself is a whole nother story, one I’m sure you don’t want to hear. Every 4th couple seems to have a wedding-disaster story, and ours is no better and no worse. But it got the job done, and in the end, after some clever mental editing, I remember mostly only the good parts.
Back in Canada, we had a big reception for friends and family. It was a great party, but then, all our parties are great. We danced the night away, spent great time with friends from all over (Jamie came from Alberta, Melissa from Quebec, my uncle from B.C.). I danced with my mother. People ate meatballs (I stayed away from these people in my white dress…hehe, white dress, that’s a good one). My sister Jan took some amazing pictures. And there you have it, we were official (even though our marriage certificate is in a language we don’t speak).
None of our friends have caught up yet, none are even engaged. Neither are any of our parents, for that matter. We’re still the only married couple around, a constant source of amusement to many. And as far as happily ever after, only time will tell, but so far, all signs point to yes.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Merry Christmas To All, And To All, A Good Night
Well, it has come to my attention that David Hasselhoff was not nearly greasy enough to offend everyone's tastes, so obviously I have not done my job properly. Please allow me this second chance.
For most Christians, Christmas is a holy holiday to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Along with the Christmas tree and stockings, they unpack their Nativity sets. It is the scene of the birth: all the key players are there, Jesus takes centre stage in his manger. My mother had one that she had made in ceramics class and hand-painted herself. It's a nice sentiment.
But then someone told me of a little discovery in a Christian bookstore...The Veggie Tales Christmas Nativity set. If you're not sure who The Veggie Tales are, then I guess you're not up at 7am on Saturday mornings (lucky you!). Because that's where you'd find them, a popular children's cartoon featuring singing and dancing vegetables. That's right, now your children can see Larry the Cucumber dressed as Joseph, and Laura the Carrot as Mary. The set includes all your favourites: Jimmy and Jerry Gourd, Mr. Lunt, Junior Asparagus, Pa Grape, and yes, even the French Peas. Oh la la!
Now, if you're not sure how much that blurs the line between cute and inappropriate, then I submit to you this little piece of evidence that is sure to push you over the edge:
Over in London, at the famous Madame Tussaud's wax museum, they have rigged up their own Nativity scene.
Visitors to the museum got to vote in the 'characters', so now appearing as Mary and Joseph are Victoria Beckham (aka Posh Spice) and her soccer-star husband, David.
Hey Victoria, remember when you were just a slutty spice girl?
Yeah, me too.
You know, I doubt the Virgin Mary really belongs in a lineup like that...and as for the gold glitter outfit, well.... And what about the songs with lyrics such as : "Come a little bit closer baby/Get it on, get it on/Cause tonight is the night when two become one" Yowza.
But wait, it gets better...Hugh Grant and Samuel L. Jackson get to play shepherds! That's Hugh there with the sheep tucked in his arm. Sweet, huh? But, kudos to them for at least including a non-caucasion into the mix!
Hey Hugh, sorry to bring this up buddy, you know I adore you, but remember back when you were arrested for that thing involving a certain hooker?
Yeah, me too.
But wait, it gets even better! Remember the Three Wise Men? This is going to blow your mind: playing the parts are Tony Blair, the Duke of Edingburgh, and George Bush.
George Bush..wise man...the jokes are endless.
Hey George, remember the pretzel that got the better of you?
Remember how you keep falling off your bicycle?
Remember the war in Iraq? WMD? The past four years?
Yeah, me too.
And finally, no Nativity scene would be complete without the angel, played here by Kylie Minogue...that's right, the Locomotion girl!
Just look at that booty! Very holy indeed.
So, by now I must have offended your sensibilities. Scalded them, probably.
Merry Christmas.
For most Christians, Christmas is a holy holiday to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Along with the Christmas tree and stockings, they unpack their Nativity sets. It is the scene of the birth: all the key players are there, Jesus takes centre stage in his manger. My mother had one that she had made in ceramics class and hand-painted herself. It's a nice sentiment.
But then someone told me of a little discovery in a Christian bookstore...The Veggie Tales Christmas Nativity set. If you're not sure who The Veggie Tales are, then I guess you're not up at 7am on Saturday mornings (lucky you!). Because that's where you'd find them, a popular children's cartoon featuring singing and dancing vegetables. That's right, now your children can see Larry the Cucumber dressed as Joseph, and Laura the Carrot as Mary. The set includes all your favourites: Jimmy and Jerry Gourd, Mr. Lunt, Junior Asparagus, Pa Grape, and yes, even the French Peas. Oh la la!
Now, if you're not sure how much that blurs the line between cute and inappropriate, then I submit to you this little piece of evidence that is sure to push you over the edge:
Over in London, at the famous Madame Tussaud's wax museum, they have rigged up their own Nativity scene.
Visitors to the museum got to vote in the 'characters', so now appearing as Mary and Joseph are Victoria Beckham (aka Posh Spice) and her soccer-star husband, David.
Hey Victoria, remember when you were just a slutty spice girl?
Yeah, me too.
You know, I doubt the Virgin Mary really belongs in a lineup like that...and as for the gold glitter outfit, well.... And what about the songs with lyrics such as : "Come a little bit closer baby/Get it on, get it on/Cause tonight is the night when two become one" Yowza.
But wait, it gets better...Hugh Grant and Samuel L. Jackson get to play shepherds! That's Hugh there with the sheep tucked in his arm. Sweet, huh? But, kudos to them for at least including a non-caucasion into the mix!
Hey Hugh, sorry to bring this up buddy, you know I adore you, but remember back when you were arrested for that thing involving a certain hooker?
Yeah, me too.
But wait, it gets even better! Remember the Three Wise Men? This is going to blow your mind: playing the parts are Tony Blair, the Duke of Edingburgh, and George Bush.
George Bush..wise man...the jokes are endless.
Hey George, remember the pretzel that got the better of you?
Remember how you keep falling off your bicycle?
Remember the war in Iraq? WMD? The past four years?
Yeah, me too.
And finally, no Nativity scene would be complete without the angel, played here by Kylie Minogue...that's right, the Locomotion girl!
Just look at that booty! Very holy indeed.
So, by now I must have offended your sensibilities. Scalded them, probably.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
The Heart-Warming Tale of How Jamie and Jason Got Together, Part I: The Hook Up
I have actually known Jason since my first year of high school, when he was just some guy who walked in the same halls as I did. Eventually, the circles we moved in drew closer and closer over 2 or 3 years, until we existed in roughly the same circle, though I assure you it was a pretty big circle. We were friends, we went out for coffee, we went to movies. We had Party of Five nights, during which he would help me with my trig homework. We had roles in the same murder mysteries at school. He was dating a girl that I had known (and hated) since I was 4, who I’ll call Danielle. Actually, most of his friends hated her, and told him that repeatedly, but he was smitten.
Nothing happened between us then. The first time I met Jason’s mom, she told him that he’d better never break up with Danielle because she liked her sooo much. I think that she still feels the same way, but oh well. Jason and I were ‘close’, but not that kind of close, thank you very much. I never even thought of him that way, mostly because he had a really bad haircut back then and I had very high standards. There was one incident involving his bed and some touching, but I was a touchy-feely kind of girl and didn’t think much of it.
Jason eventually moved to Toronto, 500km away, to be with Danielle. He would visit us on the weekends, but it was during this time that he and I had a blow-out fight and I decided to never talk to him again. And I didn’t, for a year.
And then suddenly he was back in my hometown. The first time I saw him, I was pulling into my best friend’s driveway, and it was totally unexpected (I was in the habit of refusing any invitation that might involve him at the time). I thought really hard about just backing right out and avoiding the whole situation, but I didn’t, for two reasons:
- I knew that since he was back, I couldn’t possibly avoid him for much longer. It’s a small town.
- I was never much good at driving in reverse.
So, my best friend Jane, Jason and his friend Toni, and I, all drove off for coffee at a great little place called Of One Earth. Sadly, that place is closed now, which makes us feel old. Jason pretty much ignored the other girls and fired one question after another at me. I was used to getting a lot of attention, so it didn’t really occur to me that this meant anything. That day, we all left messages in the coffee shop’s guest book, and I would do anything to be able to go back and take a look at it now.
The time was not right for us to hook up: Jason was busy cheating on Danielle with Toni, and I was busy testing my theory that sleeping with lots of men was fun (it was). So, I tolerated him in my life again. He had a great haircut, he filled out…he looked good. Plus, he seemed more mature, and was actually interesting to talk to.
Then came the fateful New Year’s Eve party at Toni’s house. Jason was there, no Danielle in sight, and the thing between him and Toni solidly ended. I was there, without any of the 3 boyfriends that I had at the time. I drank a whole bottle of Crown Royal by myself that night, so I was as socially lubricated as it gets. I got more tongue action at midnight than I cared for, and was touched inappropriately by at least 2 male friends, so it was a great night, all in all. When we all went to sleep that night, Jane and I would both come into some strange contact from unexpected corners.
The next day, she told me all about it: Jason had kissed her. He wanted to go out with her. What did I think? Very defensive of my fragile friend, I told her all the reasons why Jason was a scumbag and why she should not even be considering this. Hello, once a cheater, always a cheater! Not to mention that he seems to be serially sleeping with all of our friends. She agreed, and he received a very nasty phone call from Jane that night.
But as for our friendship, we seemed to be on the slow and steady path. He was single, and I was the kind of single where you say you’re single, but you have some good friends with benefits (that’s the way I liked it: no strings). He would call me up and lament his single status, and ask my advice. I was a good friend, although busy.
And then it was Valentine’s day. As you can tell by my Christmas card post, I love to do cheesy stuff like that for my friends, so I must have had 30 treat bags filled with heart-shaped candies, and little Valentine cards made out to all my friends, male and female alike. Valentine’s was on a Wednesday that year, which just a few years prior would have meant Party of Five night, but in this case, it was Dawson’s Creek night. There was a big snow storm that night, so I almost cancelled on Jason…but he insisted.
I got there, we watched the show (I probably cried, I cried every Wednesday night for 6 years straight back then). I gave him his little treat bag, he gave me a gift. A velvet box. With jewelry inside.
And I thought ‘…hmmm….Did he give this to all his friends this year?’ It made me a little uncomfortable to think too much about it, I think I tried to say it was too much, we probably argued a little about it, and then I kissed his cheek and said thank you. (Jason to this day thought that jewelry would merit more than a kiss on the cheek) But I was oblivious: we were just friends!
But the next day, I told Sarah about it, and she agreed that it didn’t seem like a ‘just friends’ thing to do. But when I called him that night to discuss plans for the weekend, it was business as usual. Weird, but whatever. Weird things happen every day when you’re in high school (yup, I was still in high school…Jason wasn’t, if that makes it any better for you).
That weekend, we went tobogganing with a couple of our friends. They were being all lovey-dovey, so that left the two of us pretty much on our own, and things were not awkward or weird at all. Horray!
We grabbed some hot chocolates afterward, and he and I headed back to his house to smoke a joint. And then we had sex.
Yup, that's how it happened. We were listening to some crap music, Underworld I think, really loudly, cramped on his bed, and I was so stoned that I could hardly move my arms. Sexy, eh? We never talked about it, we never went on a single date. One day we just got high and had sex. And that's the romantic story we will someday tell our grandkids. Or not.
Stay tuned for Part II: everything else!
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Christmas Card Confusion
Yup, it's that time of the year again. Normally, I love sending Christmas cards. Last year I sent about 80 of them, and since stamps cost $0.49 each, it gets a little crazy (especially because I request the Christmas stamps, and that always flusters the post office people...now why else does Canada Post keep issuing these stamps if not for Christmas cards?). I like to find the happy holidays kind, with generic and safe snowmen or glittering ornaments or stars, preferably blank inside since I write out a long message to each person on my list. Then I close the envelope with a Christmas seal and send it with a Christmas stamp. It takes me the better part of a week to get all of this done, but I start early and that's the kind of thing I enjoy. Of the 80 I send out, I maybe get a dozen back, which is okay with me. Christmas cards are becoming obsolete, and I know why.
No, it's not just that people are cheap and think they are too busy (yeah, like you couldn't sign your name to a few cards while you sit in front of the TV for four hours!). People are afraid of offending each other, and for good reason.
To me, Christmas is not a really a religious holiday anymore. I went to Catholic school as a child, so I was brought up on all the hype, but as an adult, I just don't believe in organized religion. I have my own beliefs, and on Christmas, I celebrate my family. It's still a special holiday for me, I love the time of the year and I still get really excited about seeing everyone, spending time with friends and family, visiting, catching up, finding special gifts for my sisters, baking delicious treats for everyone, decorating a tree and my home...typical holiday stuff.
But people don't respect that not everyone celebrates the holidays in the same way, and that not everyone celebrates them at all. So my collection of Christmas cards varies extremely (I keep numerous scrapbooks, and one of them contains all the cards I have received in the past few years).
My in-laws, for example, still see me as the heathen that is corrupting their precious Jason. Looking back on the cards they've sent us (which they only started sending once we were legally married and therefore could be acknowledged), their messages include:
-May God bless you both as you share and rejoice in the birth of Christ Jesus our Lord.
-Jesus loves us...everyone one!
and my favourite, which his grandmother underlined several times as she wrote it:
-Remember Jesus is the real reason for the season . Make room in your heart for Him.
My Nanny, who is a good Catholic, does not somehow veer toward the religious in her cards. She never writes much because she's not that comfortable writing in English (and if you've ever heard her French, you'd really wonder which language she does speak!). However, her cards do show what her first priority is:
-(2000) p.s. We'll be expecting you at xmas also Jason.
-(2001) We will be expecting you and Jason for xmas dinner.
-(2002) Got your new address. Thanks. Hope to see you both for xmas dinner.
-(2003) Hope you're feeling better and can make it for xmas dinner.
How funny is that?
My mother's approach to Christmas is great: she mixes in her religion with all the other great aspects, and she never takes herself or anything else too seriously. However, my mother really is too cheap to ever buy a card.
A good friend of mine, Sarah, has been sending me cards since we were first friends, back in 1996, and I still have every one of them. She writes Christmas cards the way I think we all should: with a personal message in the spirit of friendship (plus, she always remembers to date them!). It's funny to me to look back on the progression of our friendship.
1996: To wish you all the special joys of Christmas!
1997: I remember last year and the elaborate card you made (2 hours colouring little xmas trees), and I'm sorry this card isn't as 'psychadelic' but it will have to do. I wish you pleasant experiences with your most interesting teacher. For now, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Hope 97 was an awesome year, but 98 will kick!
1998: It's been great knowing you, hope we have many more great experiences as friends. Thank you so much for all your help in French class when you sat behind me. And never forget our CD that 'flubbered like green jello'!! (Sarah, how could I forget? In fact, I still have it, in yet another scrapbook...remind me to show it to you next time).
1999: It snowed in the Sahara desert on February 18th 1979. Love always, Sarah.
2000: Hope that all is well and that you're enjoying your new apartment together. Keep in touch.
2001: I hope you both have an enjoyable holiday season. Also, I want you both to know that I wish you all the happiness in the world-together.
2002: I hope that you have a very merry Christmas and an even better New Year! I wish you both all the happiness in the world.
2003: I haven't seen enough of you lately. I'll make more of an effort in the new year to keep in touch. I wish you both a happy holiday season and a festive new year.
The best of the rest:
1996: Dear Jamie, just wanted to give you this card to remind you that holiday magic is not found in every smile, not unless you have a Christmas decoder ring. Just so you know, I couldn't find a Thunder from Down Under calendar, sorry bud, Anna.
1997: Howdy ho, Jamie. Have a marvelous white Christmas with lots of expensive gifts, gross egg-nog, and alcohol! Love, Shannon. P.s. I addressed the envelope backwards on purpose!
1998: The picture on the front of the card made me think of you the way you've been partying lately (it's a drunken reindeer). Thanks for being there for Jay when I couldn't be, luv Danielle. (Danielle was Jason's then-girlfriend...how funny is that?)
1999: Hi Jamie-I was quite disappointed the other night because I tried to call you but alas, you were not to be found, which means you were not abiding to my rule that you do not have a life. Guess what? I got my eyebrow pierced so now I can be one of those crazy English-speaking people who scares young children. Cool, hey? Have a very merry xmas but not too much fun on new years, k? Love, Jamie.
2000:To the happy couple: Hope your first Christmas is your apartment is especially kinky! Love, Melissa.
2001: Haha, look, the angel has a tree up her butt! Love, Mom
2002: Hamster Girl and Trouble: Hope Santa is good to the two of you. If you get tired of the couch and wanna go into the public (clothed), give me a call. Love, Karen
2003: I won't bother reprinting these because sadly, they all have the word health underlined.
If you receive any holiday cards, you start to realize just how crazy your friends and family are. But it's still nice to know someone is thinking of you, right? This year I am not sending out a big batch of cards, because it is too hard for me to sit down for that long. Instead I am baking Christmas cookies for all the friends and family who cross my path, because you can do that standing up.
I hope this has inspired you to get a card and send it to someone you've been thinking of.
Finally, here is a card from me to you, and here's hoping that it offends each and every one of you!
No, it's not just that people are cheap and think they are too busy (yeah, like you couldn't sign your name to a few cards while you sit in front of the TV for four hours!). People are afraid of offending each other, and for good reason.
To me, Christmas is not a really a religious holiday anymore. I went to Catholic school as a child, so I was brought up on all the hype, but as an adult, I just don't believe in organized religion. I have my own beliefs, and on Christmas, I celebrate my family. It's still a special holiday for me, I love the time of the year and I still get really excited about seeing everyone, spending time with friends and family, visiting, catching up, finding special gifts for my sisters, baking delicious treats for everyone, decorating a tree and my home...typical holiday stuff.
But people don't respect that not everyone celebrates the holidays in the same way, and that not everyone celebrates them at all. So my collection of Christmas cards varies extremely (I keep numerous scrapbooks, and one of them contains all the cards I have received in the past few years).
My in-laws, for example, still see me as the heathen that is corrupting their precious Jason. Looking back on the cards they've sent us (which they only started sending once we were legally married and therefore could be acknowledged), their messages include:
-May God bless you both as you share and rejoice in the birth of Christ Jesus our Lord.
-Jesus loves us...everyone one!
and my favourite, which his grandmother underlined several times as she wrote it:
-Remember Jesus is the real reason for the season . Make room in your heart for Him.
My Nanny, who is a good Catholic, does not somehow veer toward the religious in her cards. She never writes much because she's not that comfortable writing in English (and if you've ever heard her French, you'd really wonder which language she does speak!). However, her cards do show what her first priority is:
-(2000) p.s. We'll be expecting you at xmas also Jason.
-(2001) We will be expecting you and Jason for xmas dinner.
-(2002) Got your new address. Thanks. Hope to see you both for xmas dinner.
-(2003) Hope you're feeling better and can make it for xmas dinner.
How funny is that?
My mother's approach to Christmas is great: she mixes in her religion with all the other great aspects, and she never takes herself or anything else too seriously. However, my mother really is too cheap to ever buy a card.
A good friend of mine, Sarah, has been sending me cards since we were first friends, back in 1996, and I still have every one of them. She writes Christmas cards the way I think we all should: with a personal message in the spirit of friendship (plus, she always remembers to date them!). It's funny to me to look back on the progression of our friendship.
1996: To wish you all the special joys of Christmas!
1997: I remember last year and the elaborate card you made (2 hours colouring little xmas trees), and I'm sorry this card isn't as 'psychadelic' but it will have to do. I wish you pleasant experiences with your most interesting teacher. For now, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Hope 97 was an awesome year, but 98 will kick!
1998: It's been great knowing you, hope we have many more great experiences as friends. Thank you so much for all your help in French class when you sat behind me. And never forget our CD that 'flubbered like green jello'!! (Sarah, how could I forget? In fact, I still have it, in yet another scrapbook...remind me to show it to you next time).
1999: It snowed in the Sahara desert on February 18th 1979. Love always, Sarah.
2000: Hope that all is well and that you're enjoying your new apartment together. Keep in touch.
2001: I hope you both have an enjoyable holiday season. Also, I want you both to know that I wish you all the happiness in the world-together.
2002: I hope that you have a very merry Christmas and an even better New Year! I wish you both all the happiness in the world.
2003: I haven't seen enough of you lately. I'll make more of an effort in the new year to keep in touch. I wish you both a happy holiday season and a festive new year.
The best of the rest:
1996: Dear Jamie, just wanted to give you this card to remind you that holiday magic is not found in every smile, not unless you have a Christmas decoder ring. Just so you know, I couldn't find a Thunder from Down Under calendar, sorry bud, Anna.
1997: Howdy ho, Jamie. Have a marvelous white Christmas with lots of expensive gifts, gross egg-nog, and alcohol! Love, Shannon. P.s. I addressed the envelope backwards on purpose!
1998: The picture on the front of the card made me think of you the way you've been partying lately (it's a drunken reindeer). Thanks for being there for Jay when I couldn't be, luv Danielle. (Danielle was Jason's then-girlfriend...how funny is that?)
1999: Hi Jamie-I was quite disappointed the other night because I tried to call you but alas, you were not to be found, which means you were not abiding to my rule that you do not have a life. Guess what? I got my eyebrow pierced so now I can be one of those crazy English-speaking people who scares young children. Cool, hey? Have a very merry xmas but not too much fun on new years, k? Love, Jamie.
2000:To the happy couple: Hope your first Christmas is your apartment is especially kinky! Love, Melissa.
2001: Haha, look, the angel has a tree up her butt! Love, Mom
2002: Hamster Girl and Trouble: Hope Santa is good to the two of you. If you get tired of the couch and wanna go into the public (clothed), give me a call. Love, Karen
2003: I won't bother reprinting these because sadly, they all have the word health underlined.
If you receive any holiday cards, you start to realize just how crazy your friends and family are. But it's still nice to know someone is thinking of you, right? This year I am not sending out a big batch of cards, because it is too hard for me to sit down for that long. Instead I am baking Christmas cookies for all the friends and family who cross my path, because you can do that standing up.
I hope this has inspired you to get a card and send it to someone you've been thinking of.
Finally, here is a card from me to you, and here's hoping that it offends each and every one of you!
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Shake What Yo Mamma Gave You
One of the top reasons people yell at me is because I am a slow dresser. When I was a kid and my mother would drag me through some department store desperately seeking an outfit that we could both agree wasn't totally gross, she always complained about how long it took me in the dressing room. Now that I'm a grown woman and I drag myself through the mall, it's my husband who complains, every morning. Every single morning.
Now I will admit to being a dawdler. I like to take my time, and I have learned that for the most part, the world will wait for me. I have a cute look that I reserve just for these occasions, and it works like a charm. Except in the morning, Jason is usually standing at the door screaming 'Let's go!' and various get-your-ass-moving statements, so he can't see my look since I'm still naked in the bedroom. And by the time he comes careening back into the bedroom to yell at me in person (as if that ever works!) and finds me sitting around half-dressed at best, he's in no mood for my looks. The thing is, I can usually get my underclothes on okay, and then I get stuck. I sit down and daydream. If I don't have a really great reason to kick into high-gear, I won't. I'm not a morning person. If I have to be awake before noon, don't expect me to be happy about it.
So when Jason comes steaming back into the room, chances are I haven't even considered what I should wear that day, let alone how to do my hair, or what shade of lipstick to select. I can't even match my bra to my panties! I am likely to be sitting there in my red duckie thong and a white lace bra. What am I thinking?!? I'm too tongue-tied to reason with him. He's too impatient to listen anyway. So I have only one option left (ladies, you know what I'm talking about). This morning, for example, I sat on him, and shook my boobies in his face for like 5 minutes straight. Yeah, it's a last resort, but it's never failed me yet. Suddenly he has no memory of why he was hurrying. The man who was yelling at me to hurry the hell up is now stripping down himself and sliding back into bed.
Victory!!!!
Now I will admit to being a dawdler. I like to take my time, and I have learned that for the most part, the world will wait for me. I have a cute look that I reserve just for these occasions, and it works like a charm. Except in the morning, Jason is usually standing at the door screaming 'Let's go!' and various get-your-ass-moving statements, so he can't see my look since I'm still naked in the bedroom. And by the time he comes careening back into the bedroom to yell at me in person (as if that ever works!) and finds me sitting around half-dressed at best, he's in no mood for my looks. The thing is, I can usually get my underclothes on okay, and then I get stuck. I sit down and daydream. If I don't have a really great reason to kick into high-gear, I won't. I'm not a morning person. If I have to be awake before noon, don't expect me to be happy about it.
So when Jason comes steaming back into the room, chances are I haven't even considered what I should wear that day, let alone how to do my hair, or what shade of lipstick to select. I can't even match my bra to my panties! I am likely to be sitting there in my red duckie thong and a white lace bra. What am I thinking?!? I'm too tongue-tied to reason with him. He's too impatient to listen anyway. So I have only one option left (ladies, you know what I'm talking about). This morning, for example, I sat on him, and shook my boobies in his face for like 5 minutes straight. Yeah, it's a last resort, but it's never failed me yet. Suddenly he has no memory of why he was hurrying. The man who was yelling at me to hurry the hell up is now stripping down himself and sliding back into bed.
Victory!!!!
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
It's All In The Hips
I woke up this morning because my bed was shaking. It took my ears a few minutes to deliver the message: Noise! Loud, loud noise, as it turns out. I thought to myself, why do my neighbours always mow their lawns so early in the morning? It's a travesty. Ungodly. Unneighbourly. And the old people are so anal about their lawns, it's never just a mow, there's the trimming and the clipping and the whipper-snippering, and the raking, and the watering. Ugh. What a long summer!
Ohhh yeah.
Clearly they can't be mowing, this is December. Without even opening my eyes, I surmise that the snow has come. Welcome to Canada.
And snow it did. Lots of snow, the lethal kind. The kind that makes you say a prayer under your breath that your loved ones are all driving safely. The kind that kids rejoice in because they provide snow days-no school! (and yes, my sister did indeed have the day off of school). The kind that old people wait all fall for because it gives them a project, something to do with their days that they haven't had since they last mowed their lawns! Everyone on the block has the latest snow-blower, and it's a competition to see not only who can get out there the fastest in the morning, but who can have the cleanest driveway. They don't just clear the snow. After plowing, they get out the shovel and the pick so they can chip off every last piece of ice from the cement. They salt, and they admire their good work. And they do it all before 8 am , if at all possible. Which is crazy, because it's not like most of them have anywhere to go. But should they want to go out, oh boy, could they ever!It may be winter everywhere else, but in their driveways, it may as well be June.
A little after noon, I ventured out for a walk. Snow had definitely blanketed the neighbourhood. It looks beautiful all covered in white, before cars and dogs come dirty it up. And it was so so quiet. So quiet it was eerie, and I could feel all these old pairs of eyes on my back, watching me pick my way in the snow. It felt like a cross between Winter Wonderland and Village of the Damned. I would not have been surprised if all the old people zombied their way out of their houses and chased me home.
I was telling this to my sister T and she was concerned for me because Jason and I could only count on the little boy who lives right beside us for help should such a situation arise. And as I pointed out, he's quite small and doesn't throw much of a punch. But T told me to look on the bright side: his height would have his punches landing right on old-people kryptonite: their hips! It would take the gentlest of nudges in the hip-region, and the geisers would be down for the count. I'm not sure exactly what it sounds like to hear that many hips breaking at the same time (tinkling glass maybe?) but the mere thought was enough to send shivers down my spine.
Anyhoo, nothing like that has happened, YET. But when/if it does, I'll be aiming for the hips, baby.
Ohhh yeah.
Clearly they can't be mowing, this is December. Without even opening my eyes, I surmise that the snow has come. Welcome to Canada.
And snow it did. Lots of snow, the lethal kind. The kind that makes you say a prayer under your breath that your loved ones are all driving safely. The kind that kids rejoice in because they provide snow days-no school! (and yes, my sister did indeed have the day off of school). The kind that old people wait all fall for because it gives them a project, something to do with their days that they haven't had since they last mowed their lawns! Everyone on the block has the latest snow-blower, and it's a competition to see not only who can get out there the fastest in the morning, but who can have the cleanest driveway. They don't just clear the snow. After plowing, they get out the shovel and the pick so they can chip off every last piece of ice from the cement. They salt, and they admire their good work. And they do it all before 8 am , if at all possible. Which is crazy, because it's not like most of them have anywhere to go. But should they want to go out, oh boy, could they ever!It may be winter everywhere else, but in their driveways, it may as well be June.
A little after noon, I ventured out for a walk. Snow had definitely blanketed the neighbourhood. It looks beautiful all covered in white, before cars and dogs come dirty it up. And it was so so quiet. So quiet it was eerie, and I could feel all these old pairs of eyes on my back, watching me pick my way in the snow. It felt like a cross between Winter Wonderland and Village of the Damned. I would not have been surprised if all the old people zombied their way out of their houses and chased me home.
I was telling this to my sister T and she was concerned for me because Jason and I could only count on the little boy who lives right beside us for help should such a situation arise. And as I pointed out, he's quite small and doesn't throw much of a punch. But T told me to look on the bright side: his height would have his punches landing right on old-people kryptonite: their hips! It would take the gentlest of nudges in the hip-region, and the geisers would be down for the count. I'm not sure exactly what it sounds like to hear that many hips breaking at the same time (tinkling glass maybe?) but the mere thought was enough to send shivers down my spine.
Anyhoo, nothing like that has happened, YET. But when/if it does, I'll be aiming for the hips, baby.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
My Wife Could Beat Up Your Wife
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a guest blogger: my husband, Jason.
Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the following, so if it sucks, don't blame me :)
You know all those movies that have the line "I'm the luckiest man in the world"? Well, here's a little secret, they're not. I have it on quite good authority that they are not, because in fact, I am. I don't have tonnes of money, or a huge mansion, or even good looks, but I do have Jamie. All the little stories in this blog are true, I have the smartest, prettiest, funniest, sexiest, cookingest, spontaneous, way coolest SuperWife on the planet. She even has the tights, cape and SW emblem on her chest and everything, she even made the costume! Is there anything this girl can't do? Well, catch a ball. It's not that she can't catch a ball, it's just that she plain ol' refuses to. If a ball happens to be thrown in her general direction she usually just moves off to one side. So as you can see, flawless. This should come as no surprise to anyone either, because if you've spoken with her, you'll know what I'm talking about. I'm also lucky because I'm no prize pig, actually, if you lined me up in a contest with 49 other pigs I may get "Most Improved" or maybe "Most Punctual" but no blue ribbon in this pigs' future.
She puts up with all my little and big idiosyncrasies. She also puts up with all the typical guy things I do, like trying to hover that last piece of trash on an already overflowing garbage can to when I leave the toilet seat up, or worse yet, when I forget to lift the lid before using it. Living at my house is the funnest thing ever too, in case you haven't read the earlier blogs, even teeth brushing is an experience. We have entertained ourselves for hours on end just doing impressions of one another. Mine usually go like this, " I'm Jamie Lee, blah blah blah, do what I say, blah blah blah". Sometimes we even do rude ones too. We pick on each other more then most people could imagine. If one of us is not giving the other a hard time then something is wrong. I also have become exactly 900,548% smarter since marrying this woman. She knows about everything and is good at explaining it to me, even if she needs to draw pictures sometimes for me to "get it". She didn't even laugh at me too hard when I asked if "A Tale of Two Cities" was about France and Seattle. She just sat me down and explained why I was so wrong and how I should never tell anyone about this story. I have even been around when she got her degree at university, so sometimes I like to think that I should get some sort of honorary degrees or something, they give those things out like candy to celebrities. Yeah, this girl puts up with a lot of my shiat, even when I use words like shiat. If you're ever out on the town and you see a guy who looks like the luckiest guy in the world and he's with a major hottie in a corn stalk dress, just stop us and say hello, or even bonjour, YES, this girl even speaks different languages. Me, I only speak English, which if Jamie were here she'd be rolling her eyes, saying "barely". She's probably right too because I tend to use words like:
1.Shiat
2.Biach
3.Shibby
4.Wang
5.Tromboner
6.Wes-Ley!
7.Crapola
8.Tits
9.Hiya
10.Oopsie Daisy
So, yeah, in spite of all my nonsense she's always right there, taping my Simpsons, making me a delicious dinner and telling me why I shouldn't laugh at the following literary authors' names:
Honore de Balzac
Martin Wank
Mu-Chou Poo
She's pretty, yeah........ pretty terrific. And she's all mine.
-Jason-
P.S: Honk!
Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the following, so if it sucks, don't blame me :)
You know all those movies that have the line "I'm the luckiest man in the world"? Well, here's a little secret, they're not. I have it on quite good authority that they are not, because in fact, I am. I don't have tonnes of money, or a huge mansion, or even good looks, but I do have Jamie. All the little stories in this blog are true, I have the smartest, prettiest, funniest, sexiest, cookingest, spontaneous, way coolest SuperWife on the planet. She even has the tights, cape and SW emblem on her chest and everything, she even made the costume! Is there anything this girl can't do? Well, catch a ball. It's not that she can't catch a ball, it's just that she plain ol' refuses to. If a ball happens to be thrown in her general direction she usually just moves off to one side. So as you can see, flawless. This should come as no surprise to anyone either, because if you've spoken with her, you'll know what I'm talking about. I'm also lucky because I'm no prize pig, actually, if you lined me up in a contest with 49 other pigs I may get "Most Improved" or maybe "Most Punctual" but no blue ribbon in this pigs' future.
She puts up with all my little and big idiosyncrasies. She also puts up with all the typical guy things I do, like trying to hover that last piece of trash on an already overflowing garbage can to when I leave the toilet seat up, or worse yet, when I forget to lift the lid before using it. Living at my house is the funnest thing ever too, in case you haven't read the earlier blogs, even teeth brushing is an experience. We have entertained ourselves for hours on end just doing impressions of one another. Mine usually go like this, " I'm Jamie Lee, blah blah blah, do what I say, blah blah blah". Sometimes we even do rude ones too. We pick on each other more then most people could imagine. If one of us is not giving the other a hard time then something is wrong. I also have become exactly 900,548% smarter since marrying this woman. She knows about everything and is good at explaining it to me, even if she needs to draw pictures sometimes for me to "get it". She didn't even laugh at me too hard when I asked if "A Tale of Two Cities" was about France and Seattle. She just sat me down and explained why I was so wrong and how I should never tell anyone about this story. I have even been around when she got her degree at university, so sometimes I like to think that I should get some sort of honorary degrees or something, they give those things out like candy to celebrities. Yeah, this girl puts up with a lot of my shiat, even when I use words like shiat. If you're ever out on the town and you see a guy who looks like the luckiest guy in the world and he's with a major hottie in a corn stalk dress, just stop us and say hello, or even bonjour, YES, this girl even speaks different languages. Me, I only speak English, which if Jamie were here she'd be rolling her eyes, saying "barely". She's probably right too because I tend to use words like:
1.Shiat
2.Biach
3.Shibby
4.Wang
5.Tromboner
6.Wes-Ley!
7.Crapola
8.Tits
9.Hiya
10.Oopsie Daisy
So, yeah, in spite of all my nonsense she's always right there, taping my Simpsons, making me a delicious dinner and telling me why I shouldn't laugh at the following literary authors' names:
Honore de Balzac
Martin Wank
Mu-Chou Poo
She's pretty, yeah........ pretty terrific. And she's all mine.
-Jason-
P.S: Honk!
Warm and Fuzzy Family Time
So I was talking to my friend the other day about how impossible it is to buy a holiday gift for your grandparents because they already have everything they could possibly want or need. After 50+ years of accumulating 'stuff', my grandparents at least, are bursting at the seams with stuff they don't even need. My Nanny is a clothes whore, who is continually ordering stuff from the Sears catalogue, and then it sits in one of her 8 closets, usually with the pricetag still on, until she donates it to the a charity to make room for even newer clothes or she offers to lend it to her grandkids, to our very horror. The only stuff that they like is stuff that hasn't been on the market for years...no one sells those god-awful tea towels anymore! Nanny and Pa still watch Little House on the Prairie faithfully; they have no idea that what they are watching is repeats (syndication!), and that the star of the show, Michael Landon, has been dead for 13 years. Last year they bought a new 'lamp', and what it actually is, is a lava lamp. Now picture the typical grandparent living room: hardwood floors, a very expensive and well kept furniture set that may be 20 years old but still looks never sat-on (probably because Nanny discourages anyone from ever entering the room), various trinkets that just scream OLD LADY!, some dried-flower arrangements, and of course, pictures of the grandkids. And a lava lamp. And not just any lava lamp, a CD rack/lava lamp, only don't tell them that, it's a family secret. The rest of us know what those black slats are for, but they have no idea. In fact, they have just recently learned about "the discs", as they call them, because they bought a van this year that had a CD player, and Pa just can't seem to take his agonizingly-slow drives without some good old country western tunes.
Anyway, then my friend C. and I were discussing the differences between her family and mine. Because of the whole gift thing, I told her that people often give my grandparents rolls of quarters because one of their favourite pastimes is to go to the casino and blow my mother's inheritance (haha). C. could never do such a thing because her grandmother is very anti-gambling; she can't even play go fish in front of her because cards are for the devil. In contrast, we often as a family gamble for money after a nice Christmas meal. Pa makes a nice pitcher of Christmas margaritas and we play 31. So far we only play for pennies, though our family is big enough to make the jackpot worth $1 ! My grandparents then spend the entire card game yelling at each other, accusing each other of cheating, and making other similar accusations. My Nanny will get a good hand and say "Oohh, delicious" and Pa will grumble about how T must be feeding her the good cards and how he can never get a break.
So, to sum it up: my grandparents are crazy. Mostly lovable, but totally nuts.
The apple does not fall far from the tree. My mother, their daughter, does not have a passion for lava lamps or Michael Landon. She is quite easy to buy for because there is always stuff she needs, and because of that, her list of wants is just astronomical; she never treats herself. This year, for example, she asked for new tires. She has 4 daughters, so if we all bought her one, she could have a new set. Great, right? Except the situation got dire and she had to get them replaced back in November before she went sliding down into the St Lawrence River or something. So now she's back to driving like a maniac, and my sister has to remind her that the new tires will only do so much since her brakes still suck.
On Christmas day my mother is more excited than you can imagine. On Christmas Eve she would always claim she could see Rudolph's nose in the sky, and believe in it so whole-heartedly that the excitement would get to her bladder and pretty soon she'd have to pee. Strangely, at our house, Santa did not like milk and cookies. We left Doritos and daiquiris for Santa (his habits strongly resembling our mother's...hmm). Then my mother would start hinting that we must be awfully tired at about 6pm because after we went to bed, it would take hours for her to make 4 elaborate displays of gifts for each of us. On Christmas night, she has rarely gotten more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep. First thing when we woke her up at 7 am, she would croak out something about needing coffee. So we would sit on her bed just bonkers with anticipation while she went out to start a pot. Then we would get the present from her. Some years it wasn't much of a surprise though, she would say something like: "Now let's go see the new desk...I mean, the gift..." and obviously she had not had enough coffee yet. Last year she wore a feather boa to Christmas because Nanny is always complaining that her sister's family dresses up more than her family does for Christmas. She has to put in extra effort because her brother's idea of Christmas is sleeping on someone else's barcolounger for the day.
So, to sum up: my mother is also crazy. And has a crazy brother.
Needless to say, I am looking forward to this quality family time again this year. Nanny will make 5 meats and confuse all the boyfriends' names. And she'll act hurt if you don't go back for seconds and thirds. Jan, my sister, despite 5 meats, will again have a dinner roll and a piece of cheese. Pa will remind me how I used to dance with him in the entrance that echoes when I was 3 (he tells this story EVERY SINGLE TIME!) . It will be a great day, and an even better one if I bring home the big dollar jackpot!
Anyway, then my friend C. and I were discussing the differences between her family and mine. Because of the whole gift thing, I told her that people often give my grandparents rolls of quarters because one of their favourite pastimes is to go to the casino and blow my mother's inheritance (haha). C. could never do such a thing because her grandmother is very anti-gambling; she can't even play go fish in front of her because cards are for the devil. In contrast, we often as a family gamble for money after a nice Christmas meal. Pa makes a nice pitcher of Christmas margaritas and we play 31. So far we only play for pennies, though our family is big enough to make the jackpot worth $1 ! My grandparents then spend the entire card game yelling at each other, accusing each other of cheating, and making other similar accusations. My Nanny will get a good hand and say "Oohh, delicious" and Pa will grumble about how T must be feeding her the good cards and how he can never get a break.
So, to sum it up: my grandparents are crazy. Mostly lovable, but totally nuts.
The apple does not fall far from the tree. My mother, their daughter, does not have a passion for lava lamps or Michael Landon. She is quite easy to buy for because there is always stuff she needs, and because of that, her list of wants is just astronomical; she never treats herself. This year, for example, she asked for new tires. She has 4 daughters, so if we all bought her one, she could have a new set. Great, right? Except the situation got dire and she had to get them replaced back in November before she went sliding down into the St Lawrence River or something. So now she's back to driving like a maniac, and my sister has to remind her that the new tires will only do so much since her brakes still suck.
On Christmas day my mother is more excited than you can imagine. On Christmas Eve she would always claim she could see Rudolph's nose in the sky, and believe in it so whole-heartedly that the excitement would get to her bladder and pretty soon she'd have to pee. Strangely, at our house, Santa did not like milk and cookies. We left Doritos and daiquiris for Santa (his habits strongly resembling our mother's...hmm). Then my mother would start hinting that we must be awfully tired at about 6pm because after we went to bed, it would take hours for her to make 4 elaborate displays of gifts for each of us. On Christmas night, she has rarely gotten more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep. First thing when we woke her up at 7 am, she would croak out something about needing coffee. So we would sit on her bed just bonkers with anticipation while she went out to start a pot. Then we would get the present from her. Some years it wasn't much of a surprise though, she would say something like: "Now let's go see the new desk...I mean, the gift..." and obviously she had not had enough coffee yet. Last year she wore a feather boa to Christmas because Nanny is always complaining that her sister's family dresses up more than her family does for Christmas. She has to put in extra effort because her brother's idea of Christmas is sleeping on someone else's barcolounger for the day.
So, to sum up: my mother is also crazy. And has a crazy brother.
Needless to say, I am looking forward to this quality family time again this year. Nanny will make 5 meats and confuse all the boyfriends' names. And she'll act hurt if you don't go back for seconds and thirds. Jan, my sister, despite 5 meats, will again have a dinner roll and a piece of cheese. Pa will remind me how I used to dance with him in the entrance that echoes when I was 3 (he tells this story EVERY SINGLE TIME!) . It will be a great day, and an even better one if I bring home the big dollar jackpot!
Monday, December 06, 2004
This Just In:
I'm pissed off. Make that super pissed off. You guessed it: cold shower again this morning. What the hell am I doing wrong? That means that I've started off every morning since last Thursday screaming obscenities, and no matter how much I tell myself 'Now Jamie, you musn't curse, it only shows that you aren't a real lady, and that you have a low level of intelligence' it just doesn't make me feel as good as when I can let out a good old FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
However, just writing that sentence makes me realize that there is something about me that you may not know: I can actually speak and write proper English. It's probably difficult for you to tell since when I'm writing for myself, I start sentences with But...So...And..... Shameful, I know. So to atone for these atrocities, I offer you this:
Lessons in the English Language
1. Slacks
When I had some friends over the other day, we wondered what the difference between pants and slacks was. We weren't sure if there was a physical difference between them, such as: slacks are pants with pleats, or if was a generation thing, such as slacks are what people over 60 call pants. What do you think?
I happen to have a Collins dictionary right here, which is no OED, I know, but here's what it says:
pants-undergarment for lower trunk; trousers in the US
slacks-informal trousers worn by men or women
Okay, so for me that doesn't clarify anything, and it actually raises some questions, namely:
1. Trousers? (don't you just love that in an essay about good English, I threw in a one-word question? and then didn't even bother to capitalize these ones? fabulous!)
trousers-two-legged outer garment with legs reaching to the ankles
2. Are slacks always plural? I mean, if you have just the one pair, do you have a slack, or do you always have slacks?
I think we can conclude that slacks are not just pants with pleats, because as the definition says, slacks are informal. Doesn't that rule out pleats? Is there such thing as casual pleats? Don't even tell me!
Moving on...
2. Snacks
So I've been reading some crummy Jane Austen lately...okay, well it's not really that crummy, but I expected it to be because I hated Charlotte Bronte, and somehow I had the two entwined in my head. But I felt I owed her a fair shake, so I read Sense and Sensibility this week, and came across the word nuncheon. Isn't that a great little word? It's defined as a piece of victuals eaten between meals. Mmmm...victuals (assume I said that in my best Homer Simpson accent). So basically, snacks. I for one vote to bring back the word nuncheon. When you're at the movies, offer to get your date some nuncheon (I haven't decided if it should be pluralized or not; either way, it's funny). When you get a case of the midnight munchies, head to Burger King for some nuncheon. Kudos to Groove Salad for suggesting to me that BK should henceforth be described as 'whoppy', as in "MMM, this nuncheon sure is whoppy." Isn't that super?
3. Nother
A whole nother problem that I have is with the word nother. Now, I have performing a small experiment in my last few entries, using this word as if it was a real word. I was sure someone would call me on it, but no one did. Now I know that MOST people know that nother is not a real word, and certainly MOST of you seem pretty intelligent, so I have come to the conclusion that:
1. you are all way too polite
2. you probably think that I'm an idiot
Well, I've been called worse than that, so no harm done. But this is a whole nother day, so from this time on, when you see the word nother, know that I am writing it with a smirk.
Okay, well, I really feel like we've covered the basics here. I'd just like to add to a list of funny words that was started in a comment section, where gist and pith were noted. Feel free to add your own. Class dismissed.
1. girth
2. stubby
3. dinghy
4. emu
5. goulash
6. nubile
7. fecund (doesn't that sound just 110% dirty?)
8. macaroni
9. paunch
10. pectoral
However, just writing that sentence makes me realize that there is something about me that you may not know: I can actually speak and write proper English. It's probably difficult for you to tell since when I'm writing for myself, I start sentences with But...So...And..... Shameful, I know. So to atone for these atrocities, I offer you this:
Lessons in the English Language
1. Slacks
When I had some friends over the other day, we wondered what the difference between pants and slacks was. We weren't sure if there was a physical difference between them, such as: slacks are pants with pleats, or if was a generation thing, such as slacks are what people over 60 call pants. What do you think?
I happen to have a Collins dictionary right here, which is no OED, I know, but here's what it says:
pants-undergarment for lower trunk; trousers in the US
slacks-informal trousers worn by men or women
Okay, so for me that doesn't clarify anything, and it actually raises some questions, namely:
1. Trousers? (don't you just love that in an essay about good English, I threw in a one-word question? and then didn't even bother to capitalize these ones? fabulous!)
trousers-two-legged outer garment with legs reaching to the ankles
2. Are slacks always plural? I mean, if you have just the one pair, do you have a slack, or do you always have slacks?
I think we can conclude that slacks are not just pants with pleats, because as the definition says, slacks are informal. Doesn't that rule out pleats? Is there such thing as casual pleats? Don't even tell me!
Moving on...
2. Snacks
So I've been reading some crummy Jane Austen lately...okay, well it's not really that crummy, but I expected it to be because I hated Charlotte Bronte, and somehow I had the two entwined in my head. But I felt I owed her a fair shake, so I read Sense and Sensibility this week, and came across the word nuncheon. Isn't that a great little word? It's defined as a piece of victuals eaten between meals. Mmmm...victuals (assume I said that in my best Homer Simpson accent). So basically, snacks. I for one vote to bring back the word nuncheon. When you're at the movies, offer to get your date some nuncheon (I haven't decided if it should be pluralized or not; either way, it's funny). When you get a case of the midnight munchies, head to Burger King for some nuncheon. Kudos to Groove Salad for suggesting to me that BK should henceforth be described as 'whoppy', as in "MMM, this nuncheon sure is whoppy." Isn't that super?
3. Nother
A whole nother problem that I have is with the word nother. Now, I have performing a small experiment in my last few entries, using this word as if it was a real word. I was sure someone would call me on it, but no one did. Now I know that MOST people know that nother is not a real word, and certainly MOST of you seem pretty intelligent, so I have come to the conclusion that:
1. you are all way too polite
2. you probably think that I'm an idiot
Well, I've been called worse than that, so no harm done. But this is a whole nother day, so from this time on, when you see the word nother, know that I am writing it with a smirk.
Okay, well, I really feel like we've covered the basics here. I'd just like to add to a list of funny words that was started in a comment section, where gist and pith were noted. Feel free to add your own. Class dismissed.
1. girth
2. stubby
3. dinghy
4. emu
5. goulash
6. nubile
7. fecund (doesn't that sound just 110% dirty?)
8. macaroni
9. paunch
10. pectoral
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Honk if you Love Natural Breasts
Yeah, me too.
So anyway, I got the shaft again this morning. Where did all the hot water go? This morning's shower was destined to suck either way, I guess, but I would rather it suck in scalding hot water than in water cold as a witch's tit (god I hate that expression!). On most days, I have a tried and tested showering method:
1. get wet
2. shampoo, lather
3. soap body
4. wash face
5. rinse
6. condition
7. brush teeth
9. rinse
10. squeegee shower, towel self, moisturize
Today my mind could not connect 1 to 2 to 3 to 4. Before the hot water ran out, this is what I managed:
1. got wet
2. shampooed
3. soaped
4. conditioned
5. screamed
Now if you think things look normal until the scream, look again. It doesn't really matter that I forgot to wash my face, or never got around to brushing my teeth. What matters is that I never rinsed out the shampoo. I just put the conditioner right on top of it, and I was just discovering my mistake when ice pellets starting spitting out of my shower head. So I had to give it a quick rinse, pulling that move where you stand outside the spray of the water and kind of arch your back so your hair is under the water but not much else. This certainly doesn't keep you warm, but I guess I just felt I had to try. I don't think I did a very good job of rinsing because my hair feels heavier than normal today...but it helped my hair keep its curl a little better, so I guess things aren't that bad. And since my hair is dark blue, it's kind of hard to tell it's goopy with shampoo or not. The dark back-drop also is perfect for highlighting dandruff. Great, eh? Well, actually, I don't have dandruff. Oh how I wish it was just a dandruff problem that I had! My problem is hair lint.
Hair lint? What the hell is hair lint?
I don't know where it comes from (no, I don't wear hats). It just appears, in my pretty pretty hair. I'm not a fan of lint. I never knew I had a lint problem, because for the past couple of months my hair's been blonde and nothing shows up in the blonde. Before that, it was pink, and I guess the pink is just so shocking that you don't notice much else. Now I have to remember to give myself a 'lint check' in the mirror before leaving the house. And it's nothing like the lint checks I give Jason's bellybutton. I'm in a whole nother ballgame now.
I went out to dinner with some old friends from high school tonight. We discussed, among other things: who got pregnant, who got married, who got gay. I managed not to call anyone Matt. And I got to show off my new year's gown. Everyone just adored the golden cornstalks.
God I love Diet Pepsi. Love it, love it, love it. I don't need it every day, but I like to know it's there. Some days I just crave it. If I had to choose just one beverage to drink for the rest of my life, it would definitely be water. Or daiquiris. Just tonight I spilled daiquiri on my shirt. And I shouldn't even be drinking because of the meds I'm on, but, meh. Gosh I love Diet Pepsi. Just love it!
I recently heard some very good news. The sequel that we have all been waiting for will soon (well, as soon as movies are made) be coming to a theatre near you! That's right, we finally get to see what happens next for the people on Titanic! Okay, that is in no way true. No way. But the real sequel is even better stuff than Titanic, if you can imagine that...Mrs. Doubtfire! Mrs. Doubtfire!!!
Sometimes, when I'm home alone and watching TV, my ear starts to bleed. The TV is way loud. So loud that even the rats scurry out to frown at me, and they'll usually only keep me company if I'm tossing crumbs the size of softballs. How does the TV get so loud?
Dear Jan,
You know the other day when you were making those noises that you claimed were words, and I insisted were not? Well, having just seen the Lemony Snicket commercial for the first time, I must now concede that you were not making up Lemony Snicket, and that it indeed is a new Jim Carrey movie. Sorry about the misunderstanding. I really wish I hadn't pulled that chunk of your hair out now. But I think if you just keep it up in a ponytail the bald spot won't be too obvious.
I taped The Simpsons for Jason tonight. What a good wife I am! I don't mind tooting my own horn. If I don't toot it, no one else will. Especially since I fucked up the tape. I tripped over the TV wire and yanked it right out of the wall. Obviously, without power, the VCR does not record. So the episode skips from Marge yelling at Kim Cattrall to her leaping on lava rocks. Woops! Please tell me it's the thought that counts. I'm sure we only missed some run-of-the-mill Simpsons hilarity, and we still got the gist of the show. Gist. Hehe. Gist is a funny word.
So anyway, I got the shaft again this morning. Where did all the hot water go? This morning's shower was destined to suck either way, I guess, but I would rather it suck in scalding hot water than in water cold as a witch's tit (god I hate that expression!). On most days, I have a tried and tested showering method:
1. get wet
2. shampoo, lather
3. soap body
4. wash face
5. rinse
6. condition
7. brush teeth
9. rinse
10. squeegee shower, towel self, moisturize
Today my mind could not connect 1 to 2 to 3 to 4. Before the hot water ran out, this is what I managed:
1. got wet
2. shampooed
3. soaped
4. conditioned
5. screamed
Now if you think things look normal until the scream, look again. It doesn't really matter that I forgot to wash my face, or never got around to brushing my teeth. What matters is that I never rinsed out the shampoo. I just put the conditioner right on top of it, and I was just discovering my mistake when ice pellets starting spitting out of my shower head. So I had to give it a quick rinse, pulling that move where you stand outside the spray of the water and kind of arch your back so your hair is under the water but not much else. This certainly doesn't keep you warm, but I guess I just felt I had to try. I don't think I did a very good job of rinsing because my hair feels heavier than normal today...but it helped my hair keep its curl a little better, so I guess things aren't that bad. And since my hair is dark blue, it's kind of hard to tell it's goopy with shampoo or not. The dark back-drop also is perfect for highlighting dandruff. Great, eh? Well, actually, I don't have dandruff. Oh how I wish it was just a dandruff problem that I had! My problem is hair lint.
Hair lint? What the hell is hair lint?
I don't know where it comes from (no, I don't wear hats). It just appears, in my pretty pretty hair. I'm not a fan of lint. I never knew I had a lint problem, because for the past couple of months my hair's been blonde and nothing shows up in the blonde. Before that, it was pink, and I guess the pink is just so shocking that you don't notice much else. Now I have to remember to give myself a 'lint check' in the mirror before leaving the house. And it's nothing like the lint checks I give Jason's bellybutton. I'm in a whole nother ballgame now.
I went out to dinner with some old friends from high school tonight. We discussed, among other things: who got pregnant, who got married, who got gay. I managed not to call anyone Matt. And I got to show off my new year's gown. Everyone just adored the golden cornstalks.
God I love Diet Pepsi. Love it, love it, love it. I don't need it every day, but I like to know it's there. Some days I just crave it. If I had to choose just one beverage to drink for the rest of my life, it would definitely be water. Or daiquiris. Just tonight I spilled daiquiri on my shirt. And I shouldn't even be drinking because of the meds I'm on, but, meh. Gosh I love Diet Pepsi. Just love it!
I recently heard some very good news. The sequel that we have all been waiting for will soon (well, as soon as movies are made) be coming to a theatre near you! That's right, we finally get to see what happens next for the people on Titanic! Okay, that is in no way true. No way. But the real sequel is even better stuff than Titanic, if you can imagine that...Mrs. Doubtfire! Mrs. Doubtfire!!!
Sometimes, when I'm home alone and watching TV, my ear starts to bleed. The TV is way loud. So loud that even the rats scurry out to frown at me, and they'll usually only keep me company if I'm tossing crumbs the size of softballs. How does the TV get so loud?
Dear Jan,
You know the other day when you were making those noises that you claimed were words, and I insisted were not? Well, having just seen the Lemony Snicket commercial for the first time, I must now concede that you were not making up Lemony Snicket, and that it indeed is a new Jim Carrey movie. Sorry about the misunderstanding. I really wish I hadn't pulled that chunk of your hair out now. But I think if you just keep it up in a ponytail the bald spot won't be too obvious.
I taped The Simpsons for Jason tonight. What a good wife I am! I don't mind tooting my own horn. If I don't toot it, no one else will. Especially since I fucked up the tape. I tripped over the TV wire and yanked it right out of the wall. Obviously, without power, the VCR does not record. So the episode skips from Marge yelling at Kim Cattrall to her leaping on lava rocks. Woops! Please tell me it's the thought that counts. I'm sure we only missed some run-of-the-mill Simpsons hilarity, and we still got the gist of the show. Gist. Hehe. Gist is a funny word.
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