Oscar Night

So here it is, the night Harvey Weinstein, Joan Rivers, and maybe 3-4 other people look forward to all year round: THE OSCARS. For the rest of us, it's something to watch because The Simpsons aren't on.


I tend to think that giving trophies out for art is a little ridiculous (read: completely stupid). Plus, the Academy is biased and will never actually reward the people who most deserve it. Picking "the winner" is done pretty much the same way your high school picked a prom queen: it's all a popularity contest. Except now they've changed the wording so that they don't say "the winner is", they say "the Oscar goes to..." and we all sit with baited breath, hoping that whatever bitch won will trip on her way up to the podium. Oh come on, admit it. You'd like to see that smug Meg Ryan get knocked down a peg or two. Okay, I'm just kidding. Meg Ryan will never be up for an Oscar. But the same applies to any number of annoying starlets, so we're safe there. So, no, I don't tend to put much stock into these nights. Nor do I care who's wearing what dress (which is not to say I won't make fun of them tomorrow), who cried the most during their acceptance speech, who remembered to thank their stylist's brother-in-law but not their own husband, and who did not clap politely when someone else took home the statue. Now, I hope this isn't coming off like I don't have the utmost respect for Hollywood, because I was hoping to cover that in more detail in my next paragraph.

People, it's acting. Let's get that straight. It's just movies. Pretend. I out-acted many of these people when I told my mother I had no idea how the carpet caught on fire when I was a mere 6 years old. Let's not forget that past winner Halle Berry made this year's stinker Catwoman. I'll give credit where credit is due, though. I saw Hillary Swank in Boys Don't Cry, and it was intense shit. But I also saw her when she played Steve's girlfriend on 90210, and I'm not willing to forget it. If not anything else, this "craft" is fickle, at best. Which is okay by me. But how can you take 2 very different movies (The Aviator and Sideways, for example), and compare them adequately enough to decide which is better? Making this kind of distinction is beyond me. Luckily, the Academy is exclusive, invitation-only, and made up of reputable voting members such as Michael Jackson's good friend, Liz Taylor.


So why do I watch? If you know me at all, then you already know the answer: I never pass up the excuse to blend up some daiquiris with friends.

Last year, we hosted an Oscar soiree. That very morning, Jason and I decided to throw this impromptu party. We invited people quickly, and then dressed in our Oscar finest. Jason wore his tux, I wore my red satin gown. I primped and prettied myself all morning, I did my hair and makeup, and even made Jason shave. Then we went grocery shopping.

Jason has gotten used to my antics. Grocery shopping in his tuxedo might have embarrassed him 5 years ago, but after years of wearing our pjs to the 7-11 and sporting the balloon hats I lovingly made just for him, he's used to these kinds of things by now. I gathered up all the ingredients I needed to make yummy Oscar food. We went to the liquor store and bought lots of Oscar bubbly.

At home, I strapped on an apron over my dress, and set to work. I made all kinds of ridiculously delicious food, and when my friends arrived, dressed to the nines, we delighted in gorging ourselves while watching waifs that hadn't eaten in a week in order to look red-carpet-ready parade around on TV. What fun!


Somebody give this girl a cheeseburger!

By the time we'd heard all the stars tell Joan Rivers "it's just nice to be nominated", we were all saturated in champagne. It oozed from our pores, and that can only mean one thing: time to do tequila shots. Normally my party trade-mark in the jello shot, but this is the Oscars we're talking about, and the Oscars are all about class. Therefore, tequila.

Now I don't know about you, but where I come from, the boys aren't exactly enthusiastic about watching the Oscars. Heck, us girls don't overly care for it either (I'm hoping Chris Rock will liven things up a bit this year). Some people bet dollars on their Oscar night picks; at my house, we do shots. When a category comes up, we all announce our picks. If yours doesn't get the Oscar, you do a shot. It's a simple concept, and I find that boys will be more than happy to watch the show with those odds.



I myself am quite fond of tequila, so here are my picks for this evening's broadcast:

ACTOR: Will Ferrel, Anchorman
SUPPORTING ACTOR: Snoop Dog, Starsky & Hutch
ACTRESS: Lindsay Lohan, Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen
SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Angelina Jolie, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow
ANIMATED FEATURE: SpongeBob all the way, baby!
COSTUME DESIGN: Napoleon Dynamite
SCREENPLAY: White Chicks
VISUAL EFFECTS: Scooby Doo 2
DIRECTOR: Trey Parker, Team America: World Police
PICTURE: Princess Diaries 2: The Royal Engagement

That's a lot of shots.

p.s. The next day, Jason was at work, hazy with an Oscar-sized hangover. His co-worker took him aside and said "Dude, I saw you with that hot blonde yesterday at the grocery store. High five!" Jason's reputation as a philanderer persisted at work, despite the fact that it is common knowledge that I change my hair colour bimonthly.

And with that as a final warning, I leave you with my wish that you all have the very best that Oscar has to offer.

Thank Goodness for Little Girls

A story given to me by my youngest sister, who was aged 6 years at the time:

There was wons
a Teddy named
Zeddy his momy
was named Betty
his brother was
named Billy. and
his sister was
named Kitty. and
his dady was named
Jimmy. and his
dog was named
Timmy.
The End.


And another one from my next-youngest sister, who was 7 at the time. A picture for me on one side:





(it says: I Mist you verri verri mouch)

And the message on the back:

To: Jamie

I Mist you verri verri much irs a stori.
1s ther as 4r sisters 1 girl that name is Jamie went to toronto for a wecend and I Mist wer verri verri Much and wen Jamie cam home I hose glade.

The End.


When I'm having a bad day, these are the things that make me go "aw". Now they're both grown adults and can write fluent English (in their defense, we were educated in the French language, so the fact that they can write in English at all was a testament to their high intellects), but I like to look back on the days when they were cute instead of hot, still shorter than me, and still wrote stories in crayon instead of sending me sporadic too-short emails.

Life is short, enjoy the sweet stuff.

Marriage Advice from Friends and Family

Okay, one last contribution to wedding week (well, 3 days, but who's counting?). There's a huge possibility that no one wants to read this, but the truth is, blogs are very self-indulgent. And I'm very self-indulgent. So when my husband set me up with this account, he knew right away that he'd created a monster. Wedding bells are in the air right now, friends are finally getting engaged, many of whom are seeking my advice because I'm the only one in our circle to have already gone through it (I realize I got married unconventionally, but it was still legally-binding, and that's what it's all about, right?). So I've been trudging out my stuff, Weddings for Dummies, and Emily Post's Wedding Etiquette (hah! that's a good one!), and it brings back a flood of memories, most of them good.

Today I am sharing some advice and good wishes from friends and family. At our reception, I decided to make books for each table. Inside we included a few stories of our relationship together so the guests could get to know us as a couple (have I mentioned that the reception was the first time I met most of Jason's family? Yeah, that was trippy). We left pens on the tables and also asked the guests to contribute their own thoughts and feelings of the night. Some were heart-warming, some were hillarious, and as the night wore on (and more drinks were poured), they became more and more interesting. Lots of weddings have guest books, but people generally only leave their names and addresses in those. These books are real treasures that are so much fun to look through, I would not hesitate to recommend this idea to anyone.

_____________________
Jason,

I must say that your wife looks quite lovely tonight!! Especially lovely. So do you, don't worry!! I have no doubt that the two of you will have a really FUN life together. Not a moment of dullness! Not with Jamie around, she's a jewel.

Jamie,

I still remember the time last year when you told me that you were getting married and I said 'No you're not, where's your ring?" and there it was, right on your ring finger. I felt like such a fool! Enjoy your life together, you deserve the best,

MLA (a good friend of mine)

___________________________________

OH you beautiful dancer in your beautiful dress. Baby I'm amazed by you.

Mmmm Cheez!

I don't even like to dance, but look at me dancing the night away. You guys know how to throw a party!

HE (friend from work)

____________________________________


It's wonderful to see such a special young man meet an equally special young lady.
It has been a pleasure to watch you grow up Jason...Thank you for your friendship through the years.

-Jason's father's girlfriend

(p.s. by "special young lady" she means "girl with the big feet", which is the first thing she ever said to me -"I tried on your Doc Martens, and boy do you have big feet!")

_____________________________________

Jamie and Jason,

It's 1:25 am and I am drunk. But you should know this night has been a blast. You guys seem so happy together and I am so jealous!

RC (friend of mine)

_____________________________________

When Jason comes to visit the thing that strikes me the most is the amount of food he eats. With four teenage daughers that are either very picky eaters or always trying to diet, the food consumption is quite low. Add a growing Jason to the family dinner table and you have a human trash compactor. I enjoy watching him eat up all the leftovers and even when he's full he checks around to make sure there's enough for a midnight snack. Having a boy around the house has sure opened my eyes! As much as I love Jason, I'm glad I had daughters.

-my mom

______________________________________

Jamie, we have so many memories together. You have a partially fake front tooth because of me and my figure skate! I remember the lemonade stands, the perms, the poisonous berries, the Care Bear dance recitals. I can’t believe you’re getting married. I keep thinking I’ll wake up in the orange tent with Patches running around and we’ll go on another adventure to find treasure. I wish you nothing but happiness and love,

SS (family friend)

_________________________________________


Bah humbug, I hate Christmas.
Jamie has to learn to tap dance like her Pa.

-grandfather
(As a child, it would make me very upset when he pretended not to like Christmas.)

__________________________________________

A really great name for a boy would have to be Christopher.

Chris (Jason’s friend)
(Chris and Dan thought it would be appropriate to box after the reception; they wrapped their fists in towels, and when they passed out, they were in the neighbour’s yard 2 houses over!)

___________________________________________


Jamie, you look absolutely gorgeous tonight, very happy and in love. Jason, keep up the good work. I’m sure Jamie will keep you on your toes. As for memories, I’ve known you since kindergarten, where should I begin? The loss of your pony-tail, the crush on Jean-Claude, Everfresh and Cactus Butt, the endless number of plays we put on together…Jason, your new wife has always been a little crazy. She used to run straight into the biggest and brightest objects, like conversion vans and bright red posts. She was smart though, she had special classes because she was so smart. This is how I know you won’t let her down. I’m sure she made a smart decision in deciding to spend her life with you.

LC (a very old friend)

___________________________________________

Jason,

Wassup. Sphincter says what?

-Anon

_____________________________________________________

Be careful of the words you say
To keep them soft and sweet
You never know from day to day
Which ones you’ll have to eat

BT (Jason’s aunt)

______________________________________

Jamie, I love you – no I am not coming on to you – I love the fact that you are not afraid to be you…Thank you for listening to my soap opera life and giving me comfort and advice through it all. I hope that married life will not keep you too occupied to talk to moi. You caught a good one.

MN (a dear friend)

_______________________________________

I wish you luck
I wish you joy
I wish you first
A baby boy
And when his hair
Begins to curl
I wish you then
A baby girl

-Pokey
(yeah right)

____________________________________

For seemingly innocent girls, the stream of sticky situations and trouble was endless, and I, for one, do not handle sticky situations well. I mean, if stupidity got us into this mess, then why can’t it get us out of it, right? Apparently not. Thankfully, Jamie, our fearless and sometimes fearful leader, has always been there to help us out. It’s always been a comfort to know that should I ever land in jail, Jamie will be there to bail me out.

-sister #3

___________________________________________


Hi Jamie and Jason

Thanks for the great party. I riliey liked the suckirs and the chocholet.

GB (Jason’s young cousin)
(I hand made hundreds of red heart-shaped lollipops as part of our favours - hard work man!)
_______________________________________________

As a group of married women, we would like to share our expertise with you (64 years of married life all together).

1.Remember Jason, no matter what you say, Jamie is always right.
2.When you have an argument, Jason you always have the last two words: Yes dear!
3.Never go to bed angry, even if you go to sleep at 4am.
4.Jason, when Jamie has a headache, tell her that it’s not her head that you want.

-friends of the family
(they giggled over this message all night long; between the 4 of them, not one spoke English, so this was quite a challenge!)
_________________________________________________

Hello Jamie,
It’s your secret admirer. I have loved you ever since our days in elementary school. I was that little sexy man in the halls. I remember that day that we met at the water fountain. I dream about you every night and I will never forget you until I die.

-Anon

_______________________________________________
Your sisters tell me they want to be aunts!

-MO
(they’re no longer holding their breath!)


___________________________________________

I have no advice because the best advice I’ve ever been given has always come from Jamie. Just have fun and invite me over more J. Memories we’ve shared: Stereo Mike, psychedelic, Melissa’s 19th birthday, St. Patrick’s this year, etc, etc, etc. Thank you for including me in your lives.

SM (good good friend)

Bells will ring, the sun will shine, I'll be hers, and she'll be mine

We had a great time on the rest of our honeymoon. Except for almost not getting our wedding documents back. And the plane trouble on the way home (do we have the worst luck or what?). It still miffs me to think that we missed out on a whole day of our wedding-moon, and how were we recompensed? Complimentary earphones! We do not recommend Air Transat, but at any rate, we couldn’t dwell on any of that, because after our delightfully laid-back wedding, we arrived back in Canada to have a big party with friends and family. We sent out about 300 invitations, and about 180 actually came. A whole family was divided, but I won’t get into family politics. Suffice it to say that I was broken-hearted at the time, but I’ve moved on.

It was a wedding reception, but a pretty relaxed one. I didn’t want to suffer through a sit-down dinner, or hours of speeches, or any of those normal trappings. We had buffet, and lots of dancing.

The manicure this time around held up much better. My mother and I were fussed over and pampered while Jason did the errands. There are no caterers in our small town, and unless you have your reception at a hotel (which were too small a venue for us), you have to do it yourself. So Jason had to go to one place to pick up 15 dozen dinner roles, and another place for the pastas, and another place for the deli...my mother’s van smelled like meat for a week! Bringing home the leftovers after the reception also proved to be a nightmare; my mother had to borrow the freezers of 50 neighbours just to store it all!

The morning of the reception we went to decorate the hall. We did a super-cheesy theme that kind of reincarnated the Dominican for us, with fish floating everywhere, and seashells, and palm trees and the like. The DJ was there setting up, and he played us some really great tunes that got us all pumped up. The lady set up our cake, the florist delivered our flowers on time, the 'balloonist' came, and warned us all about the wire she was using to string together the balloon arch. How many of us tripped over it anyway, you ask? Oh, about 8 I think, but only one of us got a bloody lip from it, and who that was, I’ll never tell. I was so, so nervous this time around. It was a quiet wedding, but a great big reception, and somehow, it rattled me. My youngest sister did a good job keeping me calm.

My sisters and I went to get our hair and makeup done together. I sat in the chair for over three hours; apparently I had a very anal-retentive stylist, but it got done. All the while, my cell phone rang off the hook (well, not that it has a hook, but you get the idea). Now here’s a lesson in etiquette: when you want to cancel out on a wedding, do not call the bride herself just hours before the shindig begins! As if I wanted to be dealing with that! Grrr. I almost could not believe that people would be so rude. Almost.

The poor photographer had to chase us around to get any pictures, and I found that I couldn’t find my white wedding thong and had to substitute with a pair of lime green panties – eep! Jason did such a rush job shaving that you can see a slight razor burn on him in every photo. Also, I had a slight crisis when I was in the washroom, trying to get all my dress over my hips but not into the toilet bowl, and somehow hover in the right direction and tinkle without getting any on my dress, or my leg, or my shoe, when suddenly I realized the window was open, and Jason’s grandparents were sitting out there, having a drink, and probably hearing my attempt to pee.

We took some great photos outdoors, but it was a hotter day in Canada for the reception than it was in the Dominican. Plus, in the Dominican we put our toes in the ocean to cool off, and during our horse-drawn carriage ride, I hoisted my dress up, and though I probably gave quite a show to all the native Dominicans we passed, it sure felt good on my skin.

We made it to the hall on time, which is completely baffling. Unfortunately, we were the only ones to do so. The rest of the guests trickled in slowly, very slowly. It was agony for me because I just wanted to get things started. I was tired of smiling and shaking hands. My feet were already killing me, and I hadn’t even had the first dance yet (I danced barefoot, as it turns out; in the Dominican I'd eventually traded in my heels for my Sketchers). I wanted to cry, but before I melted completely, someone saw my distress and we started things whether people were there or not. Another lesson in etiquette: it's the most important day of her life, I'm pretty sure the bride would appreciate it if you could show up on time. My sister had an asthma attack after a brutal two-step, and missed me throwing the bouquet (a girl who was there to serve the food ended up catching it, much to my dismay). Once, when I was getting all 'footloose', I realized that I had a nice breeze on my back, and then to my horror, realized that my zipper had worked its way down! I made a mad dash to the bathroom where I was reassembled and back out dancing in no time.

We luckily got a lot of great candid shots of the reception because as luck would have it, the brand new camcorder Jason had given me as a wedding gift crapped out halfway through our beach poses in the Dominican. Turns out, sand and motors don't mix. So, we were out of a video, but we don't like to dwell on the bad stuff, right?

The entire reception, I had one eye on the door, and I suspect Jason did too. There was a very good chance that we would have wedding-crashers, and I was nervous. We made sure not to even publicize the exact date or location in the papers, but we knew that certain information was available, and we didn't want any irate family members showing up and making a scene. There were no crashers, thankfully, but plenty of uninvited guests. Said guests invariably came dressed like they were going to the gym, ruined my seating plans, and one woman made such a scene she had to be escorted out. Funny how I'd almost blocked that one from memory completely!

When dinner was announced, my grandfather took off running at a speed none of us knew he was capable of. He was upset when the lady told him that the bride and groom were to go first, but I gave him my space because, hello –white dress! I stayed on the dance floor with my Mom and didn’t miss a single second of the fun. We stayed later than our contract stated, no one wanted things to end. But even when it was over, it still wasn’t over. I hadn’t sung yet. Many of our friends stayed the night with us, camped out in my Mom’s backyard. I changed out of my dress and into some pjs, and went out back to find Jason building a raging fire in his tux. We taught our city friends the art of making smores, We talked and got drunk, and didn’t go to bed until after the sun came up. The next day, we opened hundreds of presents on 30 minutes of sleep, but the whole thing was fabulous. There were a lot of ups and downs, but in the end, it was worth it, and I wouldn’t have changed anything. Except maybe the herpes.

Today's the day we'll say "I do" and we'll never be lonely any more

Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is a veritable up-close and personal WEDDING DAY GONE WRONG post. I don’t know if it qualifies as a wedding disaster, because we did get hitched in the end, but it’s close.

Background: Jason and I got married in one of those get-the-hell-away-from-our-crazy-family weddings out of the country and brought only a select few with us. We later had a big wedding reception back here in Canada. In the photos, you can tell we’re in the Dominican if my hair is somewhat disheveled and my flowers are white. In Canada, the flowers are red and my hair is held firmly in place due to a mah-velous invention called CEMENT hairspray.


We had the usual gripes that most couples go through: demanding family, a reply rate of only about 10% on our RSVPs, stressful dress fittings, nutty travel agents, blah, blah, blah. The real fun started when I came down with herpes.


Yeah, you heard me right. Herpes. Okay, so it wasn’t the 'blisters in a bad place' kind of herpes. It was a much more special kind called herpes zoster, otherwise knows as shingles in your eye. IN YOUR EYE! In my eye, which is even worse, and all this just a week before the wedding. Basically, half of my face was swollen and sore, my eye was a frightening thing to behold, red, and puffy, and the surrounding tissues were 80 times their normal size. It hurt like hell and looked even worse.


Flash forward one week. We’re in the airport, I’m trudging around with an 80 pound dress and wearing the wedding eye patch that my mother made me. It was your standard pirate patch, only my mother got out her glue gun and added lace trim, false eyelashes and a great big googly eye. I wore it to show what a good sport I was, but do you think it made me feel better? More bridal? Less like a wedding freak? Nope. Plus, the fact that this was just months after 9/11 didn’t help because they confiscated my weapon-like eyebrow tweezers and I now my big bushy eyebrows would match my herpes. Anyway, I was in the bathroom having another nose bleed (that’s standard for me) when I heard the announcement: plane delayed. Again. No one likes to get delayed. But when you’re carrying a dress that cost more than your car, and you’re on your way to your own wedding, and your honeymoon, and this is your first trip to pretty much anywhere, it’s a big deal. Boo-frickin-hoo, right?

So our 6pm flight turns into a 2am one, but we get on the damn plane, take off, and I’m impressing seasoned-flyer Jason with how calm I am on my first flight. Sure, I’m tired and hungry and upset that I’ve already missed out on several hours of an open bar at my own week-long wedding, but at least now we’re on our way. Or at least that’s what I thought, until the pilot says “We’re having engine trouble, so we’re dumping fuel over New York City, and heading back. ENGINE TROUBLE! I do my best to keep Jason calm as we head back toward the airport, but the passed out flight attendant behind us is not helping. We do land safely, back where we started, and still with no food in our distraught tummies. The airport’s cafeteria does not have enough food for all of us, so we have muffins and Doritos, I think some people got nothing. Jason stakes out a piece of carpet for us to lie down on while I blubber in the bathroom, the tears stinging my herpes. Finally they herd us to the airport hotel, and you know how those are. We’re not impressed. We’re supposed to be enjoying our 5-star resort in the Dominican right now. We sleep a couple hours, are fed those same damn muffins for breakfast the next morning and are encouraged to board a new plane, one that doesn’t have engine trouble. Supposedly.

A day late to our wedding-moon, we land in the Dominican, and are met by a crazy woman named Lou. While an even crazier driver careens us toward our resort hotel, Lou, in her thickly accented voice, gives us the usual spiel: livestock on the buses, don’t drink the water, look out for "natural" laxatives, etc. At the resort, we scarf down our first vodka punches and our first real meal in 48 hours. Exhaustion and drunkenness seep down on us quickly, but this is our wedding-moon, dammit, and we’re committed to having a 'fun' time.

The next day we meet our wedding coordinator, Sendy. She looks over the legal documents we brought with us, her country’s requirements to marry us that incident cost us over $500 and even more in effort. She tells us they’re not valid and we cannot get married in the Dominican Republic. Suddenly, I wished I was dumping fuel over NYC again. We are sent back to our pretty room to drown our sorrows in banana mamas. And that’s a total crock: depression requires jd, not a fruity drink with a girly name and a tropical umbrella spouting out the top. Meanwhile, I discover that sunscreen and manicures don’t mix: my nails are now full of the red fuzz from my towel, and that paired with my jungle-like eyebrows and herpes in the eye are not making me feel very bridal anyway.


The resort was beautiful, the buildings were completely open with plants growing right in the middle of pretty much everywhere. We were right on a white-sand beach with the ocean lapping at us all languidly and sparkly. There were bars in the pools, for goodness sake! And still, I moped. I traveled all this way for nothing. My dress would hang, unused. I would never get a tan line from my brand new wedding band. It just felt wrong, and I guess it showed on my face, because the staff would continually tell me "The problem is, you have no drink", which was rarely even true. But it’s not enough to have a drink, and a back up drink. You should always have three or four or thirteen lined up when you’re on vacation. I really liked that policy, and if nothing else, I was determined to at least get my money’s worth in liquor. Late in the afternoon, the sun and the drinks were getting to me. I also realized that it should have been just 24 hours before my wedding, I should be enjoying some sort of bachelorette-type cavorting, but instead, I headed shakily back to our room. And there it was, on the bed, a memo from Sendy: the wedding was back on. Woo hoo!

The day of my wedding, I woke up, went down to the pool, and put back a few vodka punches. I bought some $32 nail polish remover and fixed my manicure. I borrowed tweezers off of someone. And magically, just magically, the herpes had completely cleared up (I will never know how, nor do I care to question it…it did come back the next day, probably aggravated by the salt water, but at the point, I didn’t care one blessed ounce). Things were looking up for me, which means that Jason…well, Jason spent the morning on the bathroom floor, making friends with the porcelain throne. If I had stopped to think about it, I might have been insulted that he was nervous about marrying me, but he was mumbling things about 'too much buffet', and I just forged on ahead.


Jason and I got ready separately. In true bride fashion, my hair took longer than expected, and poor Jason paced alone. Finally, it was time to go. The photographer came to retrieve me. As I made my way from my room to the gazebo where we’d be married, the entire resort blasted the wedding march through its speakers. All the naked beach-goers came to clap and shout their congratulations. I made my way through a sea of naked boobies and tried to be nice to my feet (note: you know how things expand in the heat? Feet are no exception!), and at the end of the path: Jason. I remember how the wind blew my veil over to one side, and how handsome Jason looked in his tuxedo, and how I all of a sudden realized that the guitar trio were singing my name "Ohhhh Jamie Lee", over and over. I giggled at them, at the marvel of the situation, and from relief of having made it.

We got married at 3:50pm on a Tuesday afternoon. The ceremony was funny. I swore I was taking Jason as my ‘host’, but was later assured that the lady was indeed saying hose-band as best she could. Sendy and one of the guitar players became our new Dominican godparents. We sliced into a jam-filled cake. We drank strange Dominican champagne. They threw rice at us. Oh yeah, the rice. Let’s just say that what goes up must come down…down you’re the front of your dress. Each grain making its way down into your bustier, into every crevice imaginable. Then, bake at about 88 degrees for the rest of the day. Right. Under the dress, the crinoline, and the bustier, it was hot. Sweaty, even. I cooked the rice. When I took my bustier off that night, cooked rice fell out all over the floor. All over the bed. We found it under my boobs, in my hair, and some unmentionable places too. The maid came in every day of our honeymoon, but never quite got rid of all that rice.



Still to follow: the follies of our Canadian reception.

Kickin' It Up a Notch

During the winter, garden gnomes usually get put away. They sit in sheds, with all the other lawn appendages, and wait for spring. Except, that lately, driving around town, I have noticed that there is a new ornament on the scene, and he ain’t waiting for no spring: the ceramic donkey. It seems like every third house has a ceramic donkey, ass-deep in snow mind you, but there nonetheless. It’s an epidemic, I tell you, and there’s only one reason that I can think of for them: they’re trying to class the place up.



My home-town has never been one to put on airs. When we finally got a Walmart a few years back, people were like “Ooh, finally somewhere up-scale to shop!” East Side Mario’s is the finest dining establishment in town. The air literally stinks, although we rely on out-of-towners to confirm this since none of us smell it anymore, except on those “Danger! There may be acid rain!” days we occasionally have when the mill makes a mistake. There are pockets in town where the lawn isn’t mowed, the house isn’t painted, a car sits out front on cinder blocks, and you can tell the curtains are just towels thumb-tacked to the wall. These houses invariably have a handwritten sign on the front door asking the pizza guy to use the side door, and these signs are always rife with spelling mistakes. And it’s such a small town that if you live in a nice area like my grandparents do, for example, only 2 streets over is where all the drug dealers live. Less than two blocks, and you go from nice, clean, retirement living to the slums of the city. We have the highest unemployment rate in the country, but the bingo halls and the coffee shops are always filled to capacity. All the young bucks drive around in their mama’s minivans, rocking out and honking their horns at the hot young women who have rolls of fat oozing out of their spandex and hair teased higher than you thought was possible. Cornwall is known for only three things:

1. smuggling
2. porn rings
3. having the biggest lesbian community per capita in Canada

So when all these ceramic donkeys started popping up, I wondered why the townspeople were putting on such a show. We’re talking about people who still have rotting pumpkins on their front stoops, and a smattering of shoes, footballs, and dead birds up on their roofs. Why were they now getting all fancy-schmancy with the ceramic donkeys?



And then I heard the news. As you may have heard, Prince Charles will soon be marrying his long-time love, Camilla. I’m not sure why it works this way, nor do I care, but instead of being titled Princess, she will take the title Duchess of Cornwall. The city I live in is named Cornwall. See the connection? Yeah, I didn’t either at first, but that’s because you’re not thinking big enough. Maybe only our Mayor has the ability to think this big, but he has recently written the happy couple an invitation to come honeymoon in our fair city. He wants to make them breakfast and everything. I’m not sure where they’ll stay, we don’t even have a HoJo here! But the invitation has been extended, and the Mayor is 100% confident that they’ll come. Clean-up efforts are underway.

All the cigarette butts that usually line the streets have been pushed into one great big pile; when the snow covers it, children will be able to toboggan on it! City transit has stopped picking up the undesirable passengers, and now the buses are running empty, but spic-and-span. Smugglers have been encouraged to wear a shirt and tie to work. Oh, and if you’re going to fire your weapon at the Civic Complex, please do so at the rear of the building. The front doors were just replaced due to last month’s incident, and the backdoor already has bullet holes in it anyway.

Charles and Camilla, if you’re reading this, we welcome you with open arms. You’ll come for the mayor’s breakfast, but you’ll stay for the 50-cent steamed weenies. That’s what sucks us all in, in the end. Actually, I think Camilla and Charles will be quite happy here. He's a good-for-nothing bum who's never worked a day in his life, and she's his ugly mistress. All he needs is a rusted-out Ford Aerostar, and they'll be a perfect fit.

Valentine's Dinner

A romantic dinner for two.

After many requests, I have provided the recipes to this dinner over on my cooking blog, Sweet Jay's. Enjoy

I could be a 'good' girl, but where's the fun in that?

"For the rest of my life, the only fights I’ll get in will be because of you."

I thought that was a little uncalled for, since I was just puttering around. It was unprovoked. I barely caused any trouble at all last night, and the one small incident that did occur was not my fault at all. I swear. But Jason’s right. He’s not a violent person. He’s not a troublemaker. His only fault is that he married a crazy woman, and often has to deal with the path of destruction she leaves in her wake.

Still, I fight my own battles. I know I have a big mouth. I don’t exactly look for trouble, but I don’t shy away from it. I don’t back down. I’m a truth-teller and can be slightly inflammatory when I start swinging around my razor-sharp tongue. I’m abrasive enough to get myself into scrapes, but cute enough to charm my way out of them too, for the most part. If Jason could just learn to let me handle my own brawls, there would be lots of drama, but far fewer blows. Unfortunately, Jason still has that protective instinct, and when things get heated, he feels he has to puff up, and intercede on my behalf. Puh-lease. I can handle myself, thank you very much. I don’t need a knight in shining armor; all I need is someone to drive the getaway car. But boys can’t handle that. They get possessive. Last night Jason was counting up all the black eyes he’s bound to rack up in his lifetime with me, and apparently the tally was impressive.

"I think you’re exaggerating a bit, Jason. When’s the last time you got in a fight over me, anyway?"

"Kingston."

"Oh. Right."

But Kingston wasn’t really my fault. In fact, I’d say it was Jason’s fault. It was his bright idea to whisk me away for a long weekend of pampering and partying. It was his choice that I wear the too-short skirt, and it was Jason buying all the drinks. So when we were shaking it on the dance floor, it should have come as no surprise that we were attracting a little attention. When the guy tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to dance, I pointed at Jason and told him politely that I already had a partner. When he suggested that I change partners, I said quite firmly that I’d come with Jason and intended for it to stay that way. He insisted that he was a ‘trade up’ that would be worth my while. Well, okay, I admit I smirked a bit at that. Give me a break. There were hundreds of people there, and I’m sure plenty of liquored-up girls just oozing for an opportunity to be with this cocky frat boy. I wasn’t one of them. I even dragged Jason to the other side of the dance floor in an effort to shake this guy off. It’s not my fault that he grabbed 3 of his buddies and tracked me down. It’s not my fault that he was so intent on dancing with me that he had his friends surround Jason to break us apart. I made every attempt to get away from him, but when he wouldn’t let me, I stood still, crossed my arms, and was prepared to wait him out. He was just a jerk with a bruised ego and too many beers in him. I knew if I stood there ignoring him, he’d eventually get huffy and walk away. But he made a rookie mistake: he touched me.

Before I even had time to knee him in the balls, Jason was angrily breaking out of the wall of frat-boys and charging at us full-force. I tried to put myself between them. This guy was a local, and I could tell he easily had at least a dozen buddies with him there that night. Not good. But Jason didn’t stop to do the math. In less than a second, he was on the guy, fist to face. Turns out, for all the big talking he did, this guy was a bit of a pussy. He sat on the dance floor, his nose bleeding, looking like he was trying not to cry. He wasn’t much of a threat, after all. But his buddies were closing in around us, so I grabbed Jason’s hand and headed for the door. We luckily caught a waiting cab and drove away while all the angry frat boys shouted obscenities and shook their fists at us.

Jason insists that I should have learned my lesson that night, and he’s right. This is what I learned:

Jason + fight = surging testosterone = really great sex when we get back to the hotel

I would almost say it was worth a repeat, except that one of my favourite shirts was sadly torn in the scuffle. Oh, who am I kidding? It was totally worth it. Plus, I think black eyes are sexy. Rrrrrrrrroooowwwwwrrrr.

An Ode to My Bed (A Cautionary Tale)

When Jason and I first moved into our new apartment on Laurier, we had very little furniture to our names. The first few nights we slept on the wooden floors because what few sticks of furniture we had were still in another city. When we finally collected the things we had between us, one item was thankfully a bed. It was Jason’s, a purchase from his bachelor days up in le big city of Toronto. The frame was blonde wood, and he had a neutral duvet with blue Martha Stewart sheets on it. When I had slept in this bed previously, I didn’t think of it one way or another, but now that it was in my home, I felt it was a reflection of me, and a rather poor one.

I teased Jason about the Martha Stewart sheets rather mercilessly, but it’s not like I had a more appropriate set of linen in my hope chest or anything. When I had left my mother’s house to go live the dorm life at University (this lasted all of one month), I had purchased new bedding for myself, but the Winnie the Pooh motif that had looked cute and whimsical in my dorm not only seemed silly in a new apartment, but also way, way too small (beds in dorms are smaller than single, I swear, and here I was upgraded to a queen).
But we were busy buying other necessities at the time, such as a TV, a microwave, and lots of Crown Royal. Linen fell to the back of my mind.

But then one day, something happened to put the bed back into our frontal lobes. We were quietly reading in bed one Saturday afternoon (if you’re over 18, by reading I of course mean having vigorous girl-on-top sex), when we heard a terrifying CRRRRAAACCKKKK. Well, it couldn’t have been that terrifying, because we didn’t put down our books, we were really into them, so we shot each other looks but kept on reading away. Then, with a WHOOOOSH, we took a tumble. The wooden slats beneath us had given way, and the mattress (and us), caved into the hole. Even then we were still kind of reading a little, trying to quell our laughter, but eventually it became impossible. Limbs were distributed somewhat haphazardly, the sheets were suffocating us, and we were sucked into a hole that took several minutes to free ourselves from.

Surveying the damage, we quickly realized that the bed was totaled. It was the end of an era. Piece by piece, we delivered the broken bed to the dumpster out back. It was a sad day. We’d had a lot of good times in that bed…heck, that’s where we got engaged! We were back on the floor for a little bit, but at least this time we had our trusty mattress. Jason insists that this mattress is quite cheap and should be replaced, but I wouldn’t then and still won’t now, think of replacing it. It has my sweet spot. I try not to think of what other hanky-panky took place on it before I arrived on the scene.

When we could finally arrange for delivery, we got ourselves a new bed. It’s really nice, big and black and metal…plus, it disassembles easily for all the moving we do and has stood up to all the tests we’ve put it through (so far). And, through the miracles of bridal registries, I was able to get a really great bedding set for it, expensive and regal, just the way I like pretty much everything. Now my bed is luxurious. When I crawl into it at night, the sheets are always cool. I burrow in and never want to come out. It’s delicious. That doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes think of the old bed and miss it, but there’s a lot to be said for breaking in a new bed, testing its limits, and making new memories. I think this bed and I (and Jason) will be just fine.

International Find Jamie a Job Day

So, I've perfected the art of lounging and napping, and have decided that perhaps it is time to get back out into 'the real world.' It's been a long time since I've had a J-O-B, and I can't say I miss being employed, gainfully or otherwise, but I'm beginning to feel morally obligated. Jason keeps throwing phrases around like "you don't contribute", "you're a damn leach", and "get a job", and quite frankly, I'm beginning to think he wants me to get a job or something. And if I don't, I'm afraid he's going to force me to bear children so I can at least call myself a stay-at-home-mom instead of just a stay-at-home-lady.

So I was thinking maybe you all could help me in this area. Here are a few pointers so you don't start naming jobs that are completely out of whack with my personality, like doctor, or teacher, or limo driver, or shark feeder.


What I want out of a job:

-extremely high paying
-emotionally fulfilling
-lots of room for personal growth
-lots of room for advancement
-interesting travel, solely at my discretion, with first class accommodations and no driving necessary
-glamorous, with extra perks such as lipsticks and silk purses
-flex-time, summers off, 4-day work week
-an expense account for martinis and stilettos
-health coverage including deep-tissue massage
-the ability to express myself creatively
-random pajama days
-employee fridge stocked with diet pepsi and fudge
-clothing allowance
-under-the-table cash bonuses rewarded for cuteness instead of merit or productivity
-the ability to work from home November-March and June-September
-preferred but not necessary, the opportunity to fire people on a weekly basis
-preferred but not necessary, the opportunity to tongue-kiss Angelina Jolie


Things I won't put up with:

-customers
-meetings
-obnoxious coworkers
-uniforms
-direct supervision
-start time before 10am
-end time past 4pm
-sitting in an office all day
-being on my feet all day
-anything eye-related
-more than 5% of my day spent in the vicinity of computers

Talents/aptitudes:

-applying lip gloss in the dark
-bossing people around, particularly men
-criticizing others
-I have sweet Boggle skills
-the ability to unroll a condom using only my mouth

My qualifications:

-folding t-shirts
-suppressing my rage, sort of
-past experience at Old Navy and the Government of Canada (but unwilling to work for either ever again)

* Will consider moving to Kingston, Nunavut, or New Brunswick
** Will work for Manolos

So take this information, consider it, and if you please, spit something back out at me that will direct me in my job search. Thank you in advance.

Life is waiting for you, it's all messed up but we're alive. Life is waiting for you, it's all messed up but we'll survive.

Item number the first one: Remember that plumber that we needed last Thursday? He came this morning. Meanwhile, I had been swimming laps in the laundry room.

b) We had a very pleasant night last night, even if it was cut short. Jason didn’t get home from work until 10:30 pm, and as I was telling Kelly, I was ready for bed by 5. It took a lot to muster up the will to get things done, but I did. I only received 2 minor injuries, and both times I was able to staunch the bleeding fairly quickly. I was a busy been from 6am until 10pm, and had foolishly only taken Diet Pepsis for nourishment. When Jason came home, we started with a fresh tomato and mozzarella salad, which is one of my favourites. Jason opened the Chardonnay and I was a lost cause. We finished off the bottle with the adorable potatoes, glazed carrots and sante fe stuffed chicken. Dinner was very good, but by the time I served the chicken, I was too drunk to be hungry so I ate maybe ¼ of my chicken. Jason, of course, ate all of his, and the rest of mine. And had seconds of the potatoes. We curled up on the couch, I lost all feeling in my legs, we giggled about Jason’s work wife, and agreed to watch Moulin Rouge. I served up dessert: death my chocolate trifle. And then, when the movie was barely 1/3 of the way in, I begged to be put to bed. You can tell this was a “romantic” dinner because we had wine instead of margaritas, and because I bought pink napkins from the dollar store.

Next: Some of you may remember early in January a post I had written about my sister. Briefly put, I had baked a cake for her on Christmas Eve, didn’t charge her for it, only asked that my cake board and box be returned since I have a hard time getting them in this city, and they are overpriced. 2 weeks later, I wrote her an email reminding her that she still hadn’t returned them, she sent me back some snarky reply, and because I pointed out that this was rather mean of her, my whole family went on the offensive and sent daggers flying my way. Fast forward 2 months, and here we are, still no closer to getting my stuff back. Except that my mother suddenly remembers that she had lent me something that she needed back, so she sent me a snarky email requesting it. Jason, who filters all mail from my family, apparently wrote her back with a list of things of mine that they have in their possession, including books, a purse, a wrap, my wedding hairpiece, shoes….Anyhow, today the cake board and box got dropped off, so in a gesture of goodwill, I sent my mother’s item back to her, even though I still haven’t received any other of my things. Upon closer inspection, I realize that my sister never wiped off the cake board. For the past 2 months, the icing has grown mould. It’s disgusting and has to be thrown out. Now, I occasionally bake for other people, and even though some customers have been complete strangers, I have existed successfully on the honour system until now. Moral of the story: when it comes to family, always charge a deposit.

4. Last week I sent Jason out to get subs at 3 am. For once, I did not go with him, and this is pretty rare. Probably my back was too sore for a car ride, but the point is, you’d think Subway is a pretty safe place, and that you can send your husband there and be confident that he will return. Not so. Well, he did return of course, but it was touch and go for a while. I don’t know if it was the disheveled bed head that was working for him, or if he just looked mighty good compared to all the truckers who normally stop for subs at 3 am, but apparently the ‘sandwich artist’ or whatever they’re called had the hots for my husband. What you have to understand is that I am the least jealous person in the world, and I think it’s funny…Jason, however, is so easily embarrassed (and usually oblivious) that he would rather die than have a woman flirt with him. So this chick was all like “What are you doing tonight?” and being quite forward while she was putting mayo on MY sub, until Jason finally blurted out “I’m married!” Poor guy. I think he’s off subs for a little while.

In conclusion, Madame La Dropsky strikes again: Jason insisted I tell this story. It’s really not funny. I had made Italian chicken in the crockpot, and Jason was served it up on Sunday night. I had to send him back because he didn’t give me enough juice. We were eating quietly, watching Stuck on You, when suddenly my plate completely upended itself, spilling the entire contents (and all that extra juice) on my lap. The kafuffle caught Jason’s eye, and he was almost laughing before he realized that said juice was scalding me. We got the chicken, potatoes, and carrots off me in a hurry, but all that extra juice soaked into my pants (I was wearing my new jogging pants, which apparently are ultra-absorbent) and my calf and ankle were burning up. Anyway, when Jason got me a new plateful, I took it dry, no juices at all. And the jogging pants are now stained permanently, it seems. But the burn blisters are healing nicely, and I’ve certainly learned my lesson. Italians are evil.

Love Turned 5 Today

It was 5 years ago today that my life took a sudden turn, and I went barreling down a path that led to this moment, right now. Valentine’s day 2000 was spent like a lot of other days: I got up, went to school, probably slept through algebra and geometry, got gumballs from Liz on break, played euchre with Mel and Steve and Jamie on spare, munched on a bruised green apple for lunch, and passed notes during writer’s craft. I probably gave out 30 valentines (I think Toy Story was that year’s theme), and treat bags filled with goodies. At home, I probably locked myself in my room, turned up the Smashing Pumpkins real loud to drown out the Spice Girls, and ignored the homework that I’d probably left in my locker anyway. It was a Wednesday, and it was snowing awfully hard by the time I was home from school. It was starting to look like the next day would be gold: a snow day. It meant being trapped indoors because the roads around our country home were unnavigable, but that was okay by me, because my best friend lived in the same neighbourhood, and no snow ever kept us apart. Hump days were good to me back in high school, for the first part of it, it meant Party of Five night, a time to get together with friends, and have a good cry. When Party of Five was cancelled, Wednesday nights became Dawson’s Creek night.

By the white-out conditions outside, I assumed that I would be watching Dawson’s Creek alone this particular Wednesday night, and that was if I was lucky enough to have the power hold out that long. But after dinner came a familiar phone call from a good guy friend of mine, with a plea: Wednesday night just wouldn’t be the same without me, he’d saved a seat on his couch just for me, yadda, yadda, yadda.

So, silly girl that I was, I got in my Mom’s van, and slowly made my way across town just to watch Dawson’s Creek. I didn’t really think about why this friend of mine was so insistent that I risk my neck to get to his house, I just turned on the radio and tried not to get stuck in any ditches. The episode that night, Valentine’s Day Massacre, was probably very satisfying to me since it’s when Pacey first admits he likes Joey (yay!), and I’d like to say that I remember everything about it, and everything about that night, but I don’t. As far as I knew, it was a night just like any other. I brought him a Valentine, and a bag of candy.

What I didn’t know was that on this day, February 14, 2000, my friend Jason had mustered up the courage to make a confession a la Pacey. But he didn’t do it in words. He didn’t tell me he liked me, or that he wanted to go out with me, or any of those logical choices. Instead, just as I was about to head home, he put a box in my hands. A velvet box. The kind with jewelry inside.

This flustered me, and probably for the one and only time in my life, I was without words. I think I tried to refuse it. I felt it was an inappropriate gift between friends, and he wasn’t making any ‘more than friends’ statements. He insisted that it was for me, that he’d picked it out himself and wanted me to have it. So, I kissed him on the cheek, and left. The drive home was probably more shaky than just the snow would allow for. The wheels were set in motion.

The next day, he copped to wanting to be more than friends. We had our first kiss and our first sexual encounter, and probably our first fight, and all before the next week’s Dawson’s Creek had aired. We still haven’t had an official date, but I think we’re doing okay. Now it’s been 5 years and I can’t believe how much has changed, and how much has not. No more Dawson’s Creek, although Wednesday nights are Gilmore Girls nights now: Kirsten&Charlie-Pacey&Joey-Luke&Lorelai, and all the while, Jay&Jay. In these past 5 years, we’ve had 16 jobs between us, 3 homes shared together, 1 University degree, a foreign wedding and a familiar reception, dozens of good friends, only 2 small fires, 37 hair colours, 3 surgeries, more good times than bad, and a lot of luck.


Happy anniversary, Jason, and here’s hoping we survive another 5 years of this crazy, kamikaze-style love that we’ve got going. xo

Fair Warning, Ladies

Listening to: Heart-Shaped Box, Nirvana


Fair warning, girls: If any of you were planning on getting a Valentine's themed bikini wax, time is running out. No need for fancy panties if you've got a heart-shaped coochie. And for you do-it-yourselfers, these kits offer heart-shaped stencils and instructions for how to "prepare the area with style." Don't say I didn't warn you.

Pubic primping: it's not just for hoors anymore.

The Difference Between Me and You

Listening to: Our Lady Peace, Live
Today I like: the fact that my grandparents are probably jitterbugging at the Valentine's Day dance right this very moment.

Random contents of my home:


I wish I could be A REAL MAN.


Unrelated post:


The two most beautiful words in the English language:



Fuck me.




The two ugliest words in the English language:



Fuck you.




The difference between me and you.

A Story Told in Numbers

6587 porn files deleted off of my father-in-law's computer. Why can even the most computer-illiterate Dad find the porn, but never erase it?

365 days until I'm allowed back into The Body Shop. Note to self: when they say 'no sex in the champagne room', they mean business.

103 kilometers put on the car so far today, just driving around the city, and with gas at 80 cents per liter, I suggest we take up snow-shoeing.

89 times Jason let the song 'Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows' (from The Simpsons) stay on repeat. My ear started bleeding after the first 12.

36 times I've corrected Jason - Him: "Are we going to go see Hutch tonight?" Me: "Hitch?" Him: "Do not correct me, woman!"

35 times I've been punched for correcting him; the single time I got away with it, he was busy flipping off some lady with 11 Jesus bumper stickers on her car.

23 times I asked Jason to bring out the recyclables before I did it myself. I cut myself crushing cans and have collected muchos sympathy since.

19 crotch shots and 12 butt shots have accumulated on the digital camera since Jason picked it up an hour ago (all his own).

17 pennies have choked up the vacuum so far today. Damn these brown carpets! Damn them to hell!

15 slices of pizza consumed by Jason for lunch. Plus 12 bread sticks and 2 Pepsis and 0 beers because he forgot he wanted one and I neglected to remind him.

6 Walmart employees were consulted before finding one who knew what a bungee cord is.

4 hours late (and counting) is our dear friend the plumber. Is anyone surprised?

3 grocery stores were pillaged in order to find chives. Where have all the chives gone? And no, Jason, they're not "sorta" the same as dill.

3/4 of a Boston cream pie has "mysteriously" disappeared in the past 24 hours. My guess is that it has found a home in the abyss that is my Hungry Hubby.

Corrupting The Minds of Children

Don't eat the green banana.

If I could go back in time and whisper into young Jay's ear one thing, that would be it.

Fingers don't go in sockets.

Never cut your own bangs.

Crayola doesn't taste as good as it looks.



Yup, I could come up with a multitude of things to tell little Jamie, and she would have grown up the much wiser for it (and with straighter bangs). But that's not the way things work. You learn the hard way, and I guess that's what makes life interesting. But just for the heck of it, here goes nothing.



Jason and Pedro


Dear Jason: If you stop eating dirt, you might make a real friend. You've got about 2 more years left of this friendship before Mom starts to worry.

p.s. This might be the first Mexican you ever met, but they don't all look like this. Try not to stereotype.


Little Jamie

Dear Jamie: In 20 years, when your pig-tails are all crooked, it's because you're drunk, not because Nanny has bad sight. And also, since Mom is in the hospital having another baby sister, you'd better learn to do your own hair. She'll tell you not to worry, there's plenty of room in her heart for all of you, but what she really means is "you're on your own."



Jamie

Dear Jamie: One day, you'll have a little less belly and a lot more boob, but you'll never again wear a bikini with so much confidence. Enjoy it while it lasts.


Jason in Florida

Dear Jason: You're not European. Lose the Speedo.


Little Man


Dear Jason: If you don't lose the boat shoes and the mullet, you'll never get laid.


Ballerina


Dear Ballerina: One day you'll be dancing on a speaker in a skirt just as short, leering at some half-naked football players, and except for some dizziness, you'll be much happier. But watch out for the bruised legs - right now people attribute it to playtime, but when you're older, people will speculate something else entirely.



Baby Jason

Dear Baby Jason: You'll grow up to love sleeping cuddled up to a woman's bosom. Just take care that it's not always your Mom's!



The Boots

Dear Jamie: White fur boots are for whores.



So, friends, if you could go back in time, what savy advice would you give to yourself?


Love,
Jamie and Jason from the future
xo

Grandma Drops the F-Bomb

You heard me.

I'm just sitting quietly, except for that awful industrial farting noise I make when I fidget on the plastic slip-covers, minding my own business, refusing offers of coffee, cognac, cheese, and strudel (in that order), when Grandma comes out with the f-word.

"When are you two starting a FAMILY?"

Oh, sure, make it sound all innocent, like it's not the most loaded question known to humankind. Good one, Grandma.

Family is a pain in the ass. Really. When you're single, every visit with the extended family is an opportunity for vaguely pickle-smelling old women to pry into your personal affairs.

Q: When are you going to bring a boy around for us to meet?
A: The truth is, I have never hated anyone enough to subject them to your nonsense. This one time, I thought Robbie gave me syph and I almost brought him to uncle Ted's toe-picking Tuesdays, but then it turned out to be nothing, so I just stole his AC/DC t-shirt and stopped returning his phone calls instead.

Q: When are you going to settle down?
A: Probably around the same time you realize that your comb-over resembles road kill.

Of course, you don't say these things. You smile uncomfortably, maybe force a chuckle, and then go lock yourself in the bathroom for 20 minutes while you try to talk yourself out of throwing some lit matches in the waste basket and jumping out the window.

But the single people have it easy. It's when you get engaged that they really eat you alive. And they drag your poor fiance into it too.

Q: So, Jamie's fiance...
A: His name is Jason, aunt Liz.
Q: Right, right. So, Jamie's fiance, how much money do you make, how much have you got saved up, how much is that ring worth, what are your long-term plans, and you do realize that you'll be obligated to spend every national&religious&bank holiday with us, right?
A: Uh...well...uh...

Q: Have you seen Jamie's baby pictures yet? There's some of her in the bath, and of when she was 9 and got that haircut...you know, we thought she was going to turn out to be one of those lesbians that you hear about on the news.
A: Uh...well...uh...

Q: Do you have room for just 4 more on the guest list? Because I was over at Gertrude's for tea, and she was telling me that her great-niece will be visiting from Sweden, and I thought it would be nice if you could invite them. Don't you remember her? Don't you remember her? She was good friends with your great-aunt May. Oh that's right, she passed on from the emphysema before you were born. So is there room on the guest list, dear?
A: Uh...well...uh...

It's good fun. And if by some miracle the person you were engaged to survives this induction into the family and becomes the person you are now married to, then you're in store for much, much more fun. Such as when Grandma drops the f-bomb. Because she will, you know. And sooner than you'd think. You'll still be tan from your honeymoon when the questions begin.

Q: So...?
A: What?
Q: Is there something that you two want to tell us?
A: Um, no I don't think so Grandma.
Q: What, you're not pregnant yet?

And the questions are repeated so often that you get creeped out about how much the family is keeping track of your sex life.

Q: When are you two going to get a bun in that oven?
Q: When are you going to make me a grandma?
Q: Don't you realize we need more babies around the house?
Q: Will I see my great-grandchildren before I die?
Q: How come you aren't pregnant yet?
Q: But you're trying, right?
Q: What do you mean, no?
Q: Why do you hate me?

And you can't escape them. No matter how you answer, they will hound you until they die. Or until you get wise and start going to Jamaica for the holidays.

VD is not as bad as you think it is.

No, this is not a post that exults the lesser-known benefits of genital warts. That's for another day. Today I would like to address all the people who flipped their calendars from January to February and immediately assumed their whiny bitch attitudes.

Yes, Valentine's Day is coming. Yes, it's a highly commercialized quasi-holiday that encourages people to trade in their right kidneys to Hallmark and the neighbourhood florist's in an effort to out-cheese each other and make the rest of the world gag in response. You don't like it? Fine. But shut yer trap about it.

Every 3rd person feels the need to "boycott" the day, badmouth the sentiments it represents, and crucify anyone who ever considered buying those candy hearts. Give me a break. It's a sweet holiday. How can anyone be bitter about a day on which people are loving and romantic? You don't have to participate, but you don't have to ruin it for everyone else, either. If the lady in the cubicle next to you has pink construction paper hearts with glitter and doilies attached, indulge her. If your best friend prattles on about the 3 dozen roses he bought for his girlfriend, be happy for him. If your grandmother sends you a Valentine in the mail with a $5 cheque to buy yourself a treat, don't roll your eyes; appreciate it, it's nice. It's nice, dammit.

When February creeps up on people, they revert to their 3rd grade selves. They secretly worry that their cubby will be the only empty one and to save themselves from that possible embarrassment, they pronounce the holiday to be unfit. It's a defense mechanism. It's a silly one.

We don't really get into the whole big hoopla around here. I don't decorate. We don't buy roses or chocolate. I'm pretty sure we'll have dinner, but then, that's a nightly thing for us. Maybe we'll have a bottle of wine, or dessert. We'll probably say "Happy Valentine's day" and kiss. Maybe Jason will even get lucky and get a cuddle out of me (god I hope not). But at any rate, it's nice to be romantic. It's nice to think of a meal my husband will really appreciate, and make it for him. It's nice to send my friends goofy Valentines that we're much too old for. We all get a kick out of them. It's nice to call someone and say 'I'm thinking of you.' It's nice to decorate a few heart-shaped cakes for friends. Valentine's day doesn't have to be an over-the-top, overpriced, overrated occasion. Expectations are set individually. Do what makes you feel good. But having a black day where you walk around with a huge chip on your shoulder is in poor taste. There's no need to rain on anyone's parade.

I for one will be walking around with a vat of those little cinnamon hearts. I will pelt them at anyone who doesn't have a smile for me. And believe me, those little suckers will raise quite a welt.

Peace out.

Exhaustion.

Still not sleeping right.

I managed 3 hours yesterday, but they were in the middle of the day, 3-6pm. Actually, make that more like 3 1/2 hours, because apparently I was a little resistant to getting up at 6 when Jason tried to wake me. I don't even remember him coming in, which is not surprising since I've been walking around here like I expect to be crowned Miss Zombie 2005 for the past week, and 3 little hours just don't cut it. Logically, I should have just hoarded all the sleep I could get, but I keep thinking that if I deprive myself during the day, I'll have to sleep at night. Uh, no. Not happening.

On the upside, (and this will only mean anything to Anners), I have been reading a lot of those books you sent over. However, Memoirs of a Geisha probably set be back in sleep because I have been since obsessed with the thought that a man's eel will spit in his favourite dark, warm cave to mark his territory. Gross. So I was thinking, what kind of book will put me to sleep? And then I remembered (can't believe I didn't think of this before!) that there is one kind of book that never failed to put me to sleep - textbooks! I broke my nose like 8 times while I was in University....when you fall asleep holding a 30 000 page hard-covered tome, that's a lot of dead weight smashing into your face when your grip gives way to sleep! So for old time's sake, I got out an old favourite, Death and Dying. Perfect bedtime reading, right? Wrong. Still no luck.

So I got up, but I have this persistent condition that I like to call "Vaseline eyes", and I think you can imagine what that's all about. The world is one big smudge when I'm tired. I'm a bit of a hazard. And my neck is on strike. This morning, it just got fed up and decided that it wasn't going to support my head anymore, so my face went for a swim in the cereal. Perfect. My arms just do not have the strength to shampoo cornflakes out of my hair right now.

So to try to gather enough oomph to be somewhat productive, even for a few hours, I turned on some really invigorating music - Jesus Christ Superstar. I mean, who doesn't like to Windex to all those Hosannas? Except I don't actually have that soundtrack, so I have to sing every verse myself. And believe me, that's not normally a problem. I seem to know a lot of words to religious show tunes for some reason. And I'm a singer for sure, especially while I'm cleaning. But my heart just wasn't in it today. That's how I know this is serious. I mean, for cripe's sake!

I was making out a grocery list, which is one of my most favourite things to do. I love making lists, and I love grocery shopping, and I love love love to cook, so normally when Jason thinks I need a cheer-up, he gets out my grocery list stationary, my meal plan, and any nano-lists that I've got going. But after half-heartedly jotting down a few items, I spaced out, lost 20 minutes that I can't account for, and finally just declared that all I needed was rice. So, I sent Jason out for rice. And Pepsi. When I'm tired I develop an irrational fear of running out of Pepsi (even though all I drink is water, because my stomach can't decide if it's morning, noon, or night). I end up sending Jason out a lot when I'm tired because if he's here, he's snoring. It's like being on a diet and hanging out at a hot-dog eating contest all day long: torture!

Meanwhile, I've been blubbering like a baby at the drop of a hat! Try dropping a hat, it's sadder than you'd think. You'd think that Jason would want to take care of poor me (okay, you may also be thinking that Jason should be kicking me to the curb, but for shit's sake, let's go with the first one), but he doesn't. Yesterday he said to me that I should lie down, we could watch Garden State, and he would brush my hair, which I love. Halfway through the movie, when I was feeling nice and sleepy, he took advantage of me. He gathered up all the blue hairs in the brush, made a big hair ball, and dropped it on my face. I should have realized he was far too quiet, but I didn't. I'm out of it. My reaction time is slow, so I couldn't even swat it away. It got right in my eye and freaked me the hell out. Long story short, 40 minutes later, the EMT guy said my heart rate and bp were slowly returning to normal, and that I should "try and get some rest." Gee thanks.

Another thing about being tired is that it always seems like a good time to drink. And then Wham comes on, puts the boom-boom into my heart, and there's no turning back. Before I know it, I'm waking Jason up at 4 am so we can go get me a milkshake, and he uses the Harry Carey voice at the drive-thru and tells me that McDonalds workers are required to hand you the bag with the big M facing you. I'm easily amused in this state. When I'm not crying, that is.

And of course I'm grumpy as hell. I was in my email yesterday, and saw that the maroon g-mail giveaways was finally gone. Good. Except then I noticed a new box on the lefthand side of the screen: g-mail invites: 50 left. 50! WTF!* So between my 2 accounts, I have 100 invites. Fabulous. The thing is, back when we only had 6, they were trying to make it seem like an exclusive club. Lame. But trying to get me to sign up 100 new members? I don't think so, Google. Do your own dirty work, or else put me on the pay roll. I was so mad, I almost called Jason on the emergency line at his work. I only stopped myself because I thought in telling him about it, I might start to cry again, and I had just ended my 20-minute crying jag from the last time Kristie Alley called me chubby. I mean, lay off, okay? It's really hard to do cardio when you're tired all the time. Gawd.



* Note, WTF will henceforth represent What the Flip?!?

Next up to bat...

I remember standing outside in the cool September air. I was wearing the tiniest Tommy Hilfiger skirt (black) known to man, with a silver top that had no back at all, and my silver Candies running shoes that I miss dearly these days. It wasn't an outfit for a Canadian autumn, but this wasn't the kind of place I expected to have a coat check, so there I was. There WE were, actually, a whole group of friends, all scantily dressed, all bleary with alcohol, waiting to get patted down, waiting to get into Electropolis.

We were all set for a serious night of clubbing when Allison somehow managed to steer us all toward a rave she'd heard of. I don't know how she managed to veto the other 20 people in our group, perhaps she was just the most sober, but that's where we ended up that night. The security at this place, like all others, picked me out of the crowd to pat down. Everyone laughs because that is such a Jamie thing to happen. They always pick me. Touch, touch, touch, feel, feel, feel, turn your head and cough. No, I don't have any "blades" nor do I have a stash of illicit drugs shoved up, um, anywhere.

So in we go, my enthusiasm having been cooled somewhat by the body search, but everyone else all a-twitter. It was a huge building, 3 storeys, and the whole thing was blacked out. Each level had a different theme, and was packed with hundreds of sweaty, squirming bodies. In the dark, the group got separated, but Jason squeezed my hand hard enough not to lose me, and to make me think he'd break a finger or two of mine in the process.

The music, as you can imagine, was pounding. I think the walls actually warbled with the beat. There were mysterious objects hanging for the ceiling, beads or streamers hung at each doorway. A strobe light pulsated with the music, slightly illuminating the faces of the crowd around you for a split second, plunging us into darkness the next, and then lighting it up again, for us to realize that in less than a second everything around us had changed. No face was familiar.

At a good rave, you forget that there is an outside world. Your mind clouds over and you just get swept along. The world is reduced to your body, the music, and a bottle of $10 water. There is no concept of time. The music streams into one long song, with no beginning and no end. The air is smoky and heavy. You are pressed against the skin of strangers so much that you cease to notice it. You dance with people you will never know. No one even tries to speak.

Back on the outside, I was never so grateful for the cool September air. I gulped it down more readily than the overpriced water. It must have been very late at night, but I never thought to check a clock. We made our way home still high from the experience; brain telling feet where to go, the rest of me following quietly and somewhat astonished at this fact.

Jason was staying at his mother's for the weekend, but she was out for the night. The place was eerily quiet after the assault our ears had just taken. I was still having this amazing out-of-body experience, I was tripping pretty heavily, and we were both too tongue-tied to have attempted any conversation at all on the way home. We stood in the dark kitchen for a long time. My heartbeat was still irregular. I was sure Jason was lying when he said he couldn't hear it from where he was standing, but I let him feel for it anyway. From there, our bodies took over and did what they knew best.

I was already so tingly and aroused, the sensations that I had that night were other-worldly. My mother-in-law's kitchen table got in on the action as we were unwilling to even get to the bedroom first. I remember how hard it was underneath me, and how white my legs looked around Jason's waist in only the moonlight from the window. And then, above or beyond the noise that I was making, I heard something.

And I heard it again. It sounded like something was being crinkled. Like someone was crinkling a plastic bag. My mind raced. I knew that Jason's Mom was definitely not home. No one else lived there, no one else even had a key. And then I heard it again. Jason, of course, was oblivious, and completely wrapped up in what he was doing. I struggled to get my tongue to form a word.

"Jason!"
"Mmm, yes..."
"No, Jason, there's a problem."
"What? Too hard?"
"No, I heard a noise. I think there's someone in the bathroom."

Well, that put a halt to the activities. Suddenly, I realized that right then would be a good time to be scared. Someone was in the house. Jason scooped me up and ran me into the bedroom. Great hiding place, right? He told me to be brave, stay there, and he'd go investigate.

As soon as he left the room, I realized that I hated this plan. I felt stupid sitting in the dark, waiting. Seconds went by, then minutes. Probably only 5-10, but it felt like forever. 10 minutes is a long time to be thinking that your boyfriend is laying dead in the hall somewhere, while just sitting around politely, waiting to be next.

It was an old house, complete with creaky floorboards and ominous shadows. I don't know what I expected when the door opened slowly, but I held my breath and winced. It was only Jason.

"Bat", he said.
"He has a bat?" I gasped. I couldn't believe what was happening.
"No no..."
"You want a bat? Oh god, are you going to hit him? Is he alone?"
"No, Jay. It was a bat. The animal."

The bat had not taken kindly to Jason snapping on the bathroom light. They battled each other valiantly, but in the end, Jason won. He trapped the bat in a plastic bag, and then went outside to free him. Meanwhile, I had sat in the bedroom, fearing the worst.

It was just a bat.

What a night.

I've Got Friends In Low Places

So there's this minty chickita who buzzes around this blog on occasion, named Becky. And a few days ago, she made this astute comment: "Really? You make friends easily? I would *never* have guessed that about you, Jay. ;)" And yes, that attitude is exactly why I love her. But anyway, I am a lover of people. I count myself lucky to have a great stable of friends. They make life interesting.

I am a friendly person by nature. Definitely a talker. Approachable, apparently, because I'm always having funny encounters with complete strangers. But I am definitely NOT of the Kathie Lee/Kelly Ripa perky persuasion. Ew. I have a scathing sense of humour. I can be a smidge sarcastic. I'm opinionated. I'm boisterous (which I think is a kind word for obnoxious). I say what's on my mind, and I don't agree with people just to be polite. I'm stubborn and I stick to my guns. I'm very tolerant of other people's opinions, but I'm very sure of myself and I don't back down. So the effect I have on people is that they either love me, or they hate me.

And do you know who tends to hate me the most?

Jason's friends.

It's gotten to be funny, in a way. They just don't like me. They think I'm a bossy bitch (well, to be fair, I am). They think I'm snarky and critical, and once that conclusion is reached, I'm a goner. They never see through to my soft, chewy centre (okay, well, we all know I have no inner softness...but I must have some redeeming qualities...like, um, punctuality, and um, good hygiene...right?). The only time I made a somewhat favourable impression, I was hopped up on demorol and percocet, and I just sat on the sofa, smiling like an idiot.

Now, I suppose to outsiders, Jason and I do have a strange relationship. I am not the mushy, loving type. I don't smile and nod in deferential agreement to every third syllable to fall out of his mouth. I give him a lot of sass. I talk back all the time. I disagree just to disagree. I yell at him all the time (though, ironically, not when I'm mad...I just think it's funny to yell stuff like "PASS THE CHEESE!" and "HAVE YOU SEEN MY SHOE?"). And Jason thinks it's pretty funny too. He knows that between us, 'you big nard' is more of a term of endearment than 'sweetie pie'. When I get quiet, Jason gets worried.

And it's not like Jason plays it straight either.

Jamie: I think I'm ready for bed
Jason: Well fuck you right in the ear.

We crack each other up. We think we're funny. And for the most part, we exist in our own little bubble...and when our friends come over, they think we're very entertaining. Karen used to always say that she could listen to our banter for hours and hours. So we don't censor ourselves. I'm not really worried about what others think; as long as we're happy, it's all good.

But every once in a while, Jason will invite a work buddy over, and within an hour, this guy thinks Jason is a battered husband or something.

Anyway, a few years ago, we were having a little get-together, and two guys show up that I haven't met before. Due to my delicious Irish brownies and an abundance of jello shots, I have no recollection of what I could have possibly done to make such a piss-poor impression, but before long, Chris had Jason out in the hallway, and he said "Look, dude, you CANNOT marry that woman! What can you possibly even see in her?"

And Jason, without missing a beat, said "Well, mostly, it's the blow jobs."

And that, my friends, is why we'll be married for 50 years.

Thank you and good night.

Getting February off to a good start.

Listening to: The Killers
Today I like: the tiny little unexplained bruise on my arm, it's a real cutie!

I've gone and done it again. Somehow I'm off my sleep schedule, which means I'm off my rocker. I sleep from 10am-1pm if I'm lucky, spend the afternoon and evening literally sick and tired, and then at 2am when my body should be kicking into mandatory sleep mode, I catch this "second wind" and I'm buzzed all night.

I try to keep the music quietish for Jason's sake, he has to get up at the ungodly hour of 10 to go to work...but consideration of that kind takes a functioning brain wave or two, and I have none.

What do people do all night long? I'm not much of a TV person even during prime-time hours, so it's out of the question now, although I suspect I'd get a lot of those coloured bars and not much else.

I do some good blogging at night, but I still have trouble sitting for very long, so that limits me.

Usually one of two things happens, both of which will result in me waking Jason up at 3am.

1) I let things get quiet, and soon the noises of the house start to freak me out, my imagination, which is unstoppable, just runs rampant, and within 10 minutes I'm running for the bedroom to make Jason check the laundry room for boogeymen.

2) I let things get loud, I turn on some good tunes and start extreme-cleaning, or dancing, or working out. Either way, I get myself all riled up, and suddenly I'm foaming at the mouth for sex.

So Jason starts to have bags under his eyes, and people say "Gee, are you having trouble sleeping lately?" to which he responds "No, but my wife is." And I strongly suspect he peppers that response with some choice expletives. I feel badly, but not badly enough to cut it out. Besides, this is his last day of the week, and he'll have 3 days off to catch up on his sleep.

And yes dear, before you leave me a nasty comment, I know that's faulty logic. When Jason is off work, I expect that he'll stay up and keep me company during the night. So we can have toga parties together. And invite friends over to do parachutes. And play the 'put this in your mouth' game. Or just lie on the floor and think about how funny the world is, or how screwed up my family is, or how fucked up that book about the bible stories I just finished reading was...I mean, I'm pretty sure that the Noah story is supposed to be about more than just how smelly the ark was.

But for now, I am left to my own devices. Which means, I get into the freezer to finish up all the half-empty bottles that we got into on the weekend...and then I move on to the daiquiri bucket...the slush bucket...the fridge rail...the liquor cabinet...and then the naked hilarity begins.

Once Jason woke up at 5 am because who can listen to James Brown quietly?, only to discover me stark naked and re-painting the bathroom, with so much rye coursing through my veins that the yummy Crown Royal smell that I gave off overpowered the paint fumes.

Life is short, it's meant to be fun.

I should be bottled or something.

But anyway, no painting tonight. I was just dancing around with the music at a practically reasonable volume, and suddenly I was like :

"Ow, mutherf****r!"

Apparently I've reached that stage in my life where I need a sports bra if I'm going to dance around like that. Dammit.