Hello Sweetie Dahlings. I trust you have all been well.
Whew. I've been gone a while, eh? Sorry bout that. I could continue to use a computer explosion as a convenient shield but the truth is:
a) Yahoo for computer explosions when it means getting a brand new system that is one billion times faster! Yahoo for 512 MBs and supa-speed! Vroooommmm.
b) The real reason for my absence can be explained in 3 easy words: The Longest Yard. I figure if a bunch of pimply virgins can line up for a nerd-fest called Star Wars, then surely Adam Sandler's new riot deserves at least as much. So, armed with an arctic sleeping bag and 13 days worth of Cheetos, I camped out in front of the movie theatre. I had some interesting conjugal visits and made better friends with a pigeon than I ever thought possible (and no, he was not using me solely for the benefit of cheeto dust!).
And yes, it was worth it. The makings of a great date. Of course, there was some stuff both before and after it that also made for an interesting evening...
Like the first ice cream of the season! It's been many months, so many in fact that I forgot that I placed an embargo on Dairy Queen for its dismissal of the Reese's Pieces Blizzard. Bastards. Jason likes the strawberry cheesequake one, but I hate cheesecake almost as much as I hate strawberries, so I had a small dipped cone instead, prompting Jason to declare that my new nickname should be Small Dipped Cone for the duration of the summer. If I ever become a rapper, I am so getting my ass kicked.
Then we saw someone we used to go to high school with, and the man is balding. Badly. At the ripe old age of 25. And he's using hair gel like mad to make it up, which gives the effect of Charlie Brown, because you can't just stick up your 2 strands of hair and have us believe that you've got a whole head of the stuff. Jason added a further dig (still having all of his hair firmly in place, thank you very much): "Wow, his woman is looking a little rough. Look at those tattoos." Yes, he was quick to correct himself: "Well, her tattoos are gross. Yours are nice." This is true. Note to everyone: roses, barbed wire, butterflies and eagles are definite DONTS.
Next, as I was standing in line to pay for some overpriced "beauty" products, the woman in front of me started gushing about how lovely my hair was, and what a stunning colour at that. This is not unusual, in fact, I have well-rehearsed answers for all of the typical questions (where do you get it done? what's your natural colour?). Only when I was leaving the store did I remember that my hair is blonde. Just blonde. Hardly worth getting excited about. Usually the questions are prompted by shades of blue or magenta. But blonde? Yup, that freaked me out.
It so freaked me out that it took my mind off more pressing matters, such as the fact that I had planned on it being dark when we went out, and here we were tramping through artificially lit stores. The problem was, I was wearing a skirt that requires a slip, but I wasn't wearing a slip. I hate slips. But with any light before or behind me, my pink and white checked underpants were definitely visible. Not as visible as when I sat down in the theatre with my knees open as heck, but still. God, I hate sitting like a girl. I can never be royalty because I cannot keep my legs crossed at the ankle. For shame. I was so distraught over flashing my bits to the greasy guy who kept looking back for another view that I never ate my Swedish Berries! How do you even know if you've been to the movies if you didn't eat your berries?
Wipe your tears away. Do not weep for me. We had wild monkey sex when we got home, and that more than made up for it.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Roof, The Roof, The Roof Is On Fire
Fire: the lick of flame can devastate us, entertain us, keep us warm,
or sexually excite us. All it asks in return is that we respect it,
and in its smouldering, ashy aftermath, it's hard not to.
How many lighted candles on a birthday cake does it take to set off a
fire alarm? How many of us are slowly inching closer to the age where
we will have a definitive answer to that question? As my sister-in-law
celebrated her birthday this week, I couldn't help but wonder why it
is that we light sticks of wax on fire, and shove them into a cake to
mark the anniversary of our births. Maybe there's meaning to this, a
symbol (fire is often equated with life-I did watch season 2 of
Survivor), or maybe someone just thought it looked neat. I do think
the candlelight flickers beautifully in the birthday girl's eyes right
before she blows them out. My sister-in-law has added more fire to her
cake - another year older, another year wiser. She turned 13.
During the course of my years I have been burned many times. The whole
palm of my dominant hand was covered in a thick black scab after I
picked up a curling iron by its barrel. I am so often in the kitchen
that I have long since lost count of those burns, although I still
carry the remnants from a bad burn I gave my wrist last year from the
steam of turnip. But the worst burns I have gotten have been from the
sun. I am what my mother generously calls "fair" but others have
cruelly or jokingly called me "translucent" or "albino". Just writing
about the sun makes my skin turn pink. I wear an SPF of 50 all winter
long to shield me, but in the summer I am a hopeless case. But I
refuse to hide from thee sun. I love heat, I love the outdoors, and so
I get burned. Badly. I can assure you that the worst sunburn you have
ever seen has nothing on me. My close friends and family know better
than to touch me during the summer, but a well-intentioned
acquaintance will accost me with something as simple as a hug, and
that can break several of my burn blisters at once. I wish I didn't
know that blisters could fit on the tiny tops of my ears, or that my
scalp could burn so badly that the part in my hair would glow red and
make brushing my hair a near-death experience, but that's life. Well,
that's my life. I arm myself with aloe vera and try to assure myself
that I am not just smearing myself with lime jello.
My biggest pet peeve is when someone says "Hey, looks like you got
some sun!". Oh really? Funny, despite the angry red hue, bubbling
blisters , and the searing agony of every single movement, I hadn't
noticed. Thanks for pointing out my defects, asshole. Only I don't say
any of that. I just smile tersely, and nod. Then I drown my sorrows in
Solarcaine.
Sunburns so far this month: 3
Assholes who commented on it: 7
Funny sunburn moment: Jason burned his receding hairline! Hehe! Okay,
okay, it's not technically a receding hairline, "he just has a high
forehead". Which is true, it's not receding, it's pretty stationary.
But still funny.
In other fire-related news, my mother's house caught fire. She was out
mowing the lawn, and looked up to see smoke billowing from the house.
She ran back to find that the washer and dryer had caught fire. She
yelled at my sister to call 911, but being my sister, she flatly
refused.
Jason drove at break-neck speed to the scene. Every neighbour was out
gawking. The firefighters thought my mother was awfully calm for a
woman watching her home burn down. My grand-mother, forever missing
the point of things, made these insensitive observations:
1. Isn't it embarrassing how all the neighbours are watching?
2. Did they have to send so many trucks? It's making a scene.
3. It's embarrassing how everyone can see the dirty laundry. (the
firefighters were passing out flaming towels and dousing them in the
ditch).
Had my mother not thought to close the bathroom door, the damage would
have been much worse. The firefighters tried to convince her she's
lucky, but she doesn't see it that way. She had led a hand-to-mouth
existence raising 4 daughters on her own (all but me are still at
home) where her deadbeat ex-husband informed the courts he'd rather go
to jail than pay child support (in the end, he did neither). Finally
after 20 hard years, she had just paid off her mortgage. She'd just
scrimped and saved to replace a leaky roof and the thread-bare
carpets. No, my mother doesn't feel "lucky" at all, but in a way, she
is.
The neighbour to her right rubbed her back while the neighbours to
the left offered coffee or "something stronger", much to our
amazement. Said neighbour is a Jehovah's Witness, so we can only
assume it wasn't alcohol being proffered, but espresso, or Red Bull at
best. At any rate, the small kindnesses did not go unnoticed. And I
thank goodness that it didn't happen at night while they slept. By
all accounts, the smoke was immediately thick, black, and
overwhelming; the "what ifs" are the scariest part of all.
But, everyone is fine. The house will be repaired, though we have
forever lost the mirror where I primped for my first date, the tub
where all 4 of us would take baths together when we were young (one of
my sisters loved to shit in the tub, and to this day if I yell "Mom!
Ones touching me!" my mother will erupt in giggles), we've lost the
counter where I would sit to have gravel removed from my scrapes, and
the toilet where Jess, Sarah and I learned we could all sit and pee at
once, and the dryer where my first tube of lipstick, apple blossom
rose, forgotten in the pocket of my jeans melted all over the clothes
and ruined the whole load (my lifetime ban on lipstick has still not
been lifted).
If I have learned one thing this week, it's that a burned-out charred
dryer on the front lawn is a sight to see, but a melted jacuzzi tub is
even funnier.
And now, as if fires have not traumatized us enough this week, I bring
you the real reason for this post: my computer exploded. That's right,
it finally went kaput, and so I am writing to you from the Public
Library, a beautiful and majestic building I wish you all could see.
We almost had a bona fide fire of our own. Personally, I think the
computer just had a fit of jealousy. Just this weekend we came home
with a new computer, so the old one knew its fate (having seen I,
Robot several times). But the new computer hasn't been hooked up yet
because we're waiting on a part that's coming "soon". So we were still
relying on the old one to do its job, albeit painfully slowly, when we
heard a POP!
"Oh real mature, Jay", Jason said, shooting me a look, then noticing
with some confusion that I wasn't holding the remains of the balloon I'd
just popped.
"Jason, it wasn't me, it came from the computer" And we looked over to
see plumes of smoke coming from it, and seconds later our nostrils
were filled with the acrid scent of, well, burning computer. So Jason
yanked out the wires and got the thing outside. Rest in peace
computer.
So, that explains my upcoming absence, but rest assured that I will be
back "soon", and as always, thanks for reading.
or sexually excite us. All it asks in return is that we respect it,
and in its smouldering, ashy aftermath, it's hard not to.
How many lighted candles on a birthday cake does it take to set off a
fire alarm? How many of us are slowly inching closer to the age where
we will have a definitive answer to that question? As my sister-in-law
celebrated her birthday this week, I couldn't help but wonder why it
is that we light sticks of wax on fire, and shove them into a cake to
mark the anniversary of our births. Maybe there's meaning to this, a
symbol (fire is often equated with life-I did watch season 2 of
Survivor), or maybe someone just thought it looked neat. I do think
the candlelight flickers beautifully in the birthday girl's eyes right
before she blows them out. My sister-in-law has added more fire to her
cake - another year older, another year wiser. She turned 13.
During the course of my years I have been burned many times. The whole
palm of my dominant hand was covered in a thick black scab after I
picked up a curling iron by its barrel. I am so often in the kitchen
that I have long since lost count of those burns, although I still
carry the remnants from a bad burn I gave my wrist last year from the
steam of turnip. But the worst burns I have gotten have been from the
sun. I am what my mother generously calls "fair" but others have
cruelly or jokingly called me "translucent" or "albino". Just writing
about the sun makes my skin turn pink. I wear an SPF of 50 all winter
long to shield me, but in the summer I am a hopeless case. But I
refuse to hide from thee sun. I love heat, I love the outdoors, and so
I get burned. Badly. I can assure you that the worst sunburn you have
ever seen has nothing on me. My close friends and family know better
than to touch me during the summer, but a well-intentioned
acquaintance will accost me with something as simple as a hug, and
that can break several of my burn blisters at once. I wish I didn't
know that blisters could fit on the tiny tops of my ears, or that my
scalp could burn so badly that the part in my hair would glow red and
make brushing my hair a near-death experience, but that's life. Well,
that's my life. I arm myself with aloe vera and try to assure myself
that I am not just smearing myself with lime jello.
My biggest pet peeve is when someone says "Hey, looks like you got
some sun!". Oh really? Funny, despite the angry red hue, bubbling
blisters , and the searing agony of every single movement, I hadn't
noticed. Thanks for pointing out my defects, asshole. Only I don't say
any of that. I just smile tersely, and nod. Then I drown my sorrows in
Solarcaine.
Sunburns so far this month: 3
Assholes who commented on it: 7
Funny sunburn moment: Jason burned his receding hairline! Hehe! Okay,
okay, it's not technically a receding hairline, "he just has a high
forehead". Which is true, it's not receding, it's pretty stationary.
But still funny.
In other fire-related news, my mother's house caught fire. She was out
mowing the lawn, and looked up to see smoke billowing from the house.
She ran back to find that the washer and dryer had caught fire. She
yelled at my sister to call 911, but being my sister, she flatly
refused.
Jason drove at break-neck speed to the scene. Every neighbour was out
gawking. The firefighters thought my mother was awfully calm for a
woman watching her home burn down. My grand-mother, forever missing
the point of things, made these insensitive observations:
1. Isn't it embarrassing how all the neighbours are watching?
2. Did they have to send so many trucks? It's making a scene.
3. It's embarrassing how everyone can see the dirty laundry. (the
firefighters were passing out flaming towels and dousing them in the
ditch).
Had my mother not thought to close the bathroom door, the damage would
have been much worse. The firefighters tried to convince her she's
lucky, but she doesn't see it that way. She had led a hand-to-mouth
existence raising 4 daughters on her own (all but me are still at
home) where her deadbeat ex-husband informed the courts he'd rather go
to jail than pay child support (in the end, he did neither). Finally
after 20 hard years, she had just paid off her mortgage. She'd just
scrimped and saved to replace a leaky roof and the thread-bare
carpets. No, my mother doesn't feel "lucky" at all, but in a way, she
is.
The neighbour to her right rubbed her back while the neighbours to
the left offered coffee or "something stronger", much to our
amazement. Said neighbour is a Jehovah's Witness, so we can only
assume it wasn't alcohol being proffered, but espresso, or Red Bull at
best. At any rate, the small kindnesses did not go unnoticed. And I
thank goodness that it didn't happen at night while they slept. By
all accounts, the smoke was immediately thick, black, and
overwhelming; the "what ifs" are the scariest part of all.
But, everyone is fine. The house will be repaired, though we have
forever lost the mirror where I primped for my first date, the tub
where all 4 of us would take baths together when we were young (one of
my sisters loved to shit in the tub, and to this day if I yell "Mom!
Ones touching me!" my mother will erupt in giggles), we've lost the
counter where I would sit to have gravel removed from my scrapes, and
the toilet where Jess, Sarah and I learned we could all sit and pee at
once, and the dryer where my first tube of lipstick, apple blossom
rose, forgotten in the pocket of my jeans melted all over the clothes
and ruined the whole load (my lifetime ban on lipstick has still not
been lifted).
If I have learned one thing this week, it's that a burned-out charred
dryer on the front lawn is a sight to see, but a melted jacuzzi tub is
even funnier.
And now, as if fires have not traumatized us enough this week, I bring
you the real reason for this post: my computer exploded. That's right,
it finally went kaput, and so I am writing to you from the Public
Library, a beautiful and majestic building I wish you all could see.
We almost had a bona fide fire of our own. Personally, I think the
computer just had a fit of jealousy. Just this weekend we came home
with a new computer, so the old one knew its fate (having seen I,
Robot several times). But the new computer hasn't been hooked up yet
because we're waiting on a part that's coming "soon". So we were still
relying on the old one to do its job, albeit painfully slowly, when we
heard a POP!
"Oh real mature, Jay", Jason said, shooting me a look, then noticing
with some confusion that I wasn't holding the remains of the balloon I'd
just popped.
"Jason, it wasn't me, it came from the computer" And we looked over to
see plumes of smoke coming from it, and seconds later our nostrils
were filled with the acrid scent of, well, burning computer. So Jason
yanked out the wires and got the thing outside. Rest in peace
computer.
So, that explains my upcoming absence, but rest assured that I will be
back "soon", and as always, thanks for reading.
These Boots Are Made For Walking
And that's just what they'll do.
I have a thing for walking. It's baffling really, considering my natural habitat is a nice warm bed with a beer fridge for a night table and a long reaching stick for any other needs that may arise, such as scratching my ankle when I don't feel like leaning or bending.
But every day, I must walk. Usually, I walk nowhere. It's not about the destination, but the act itself, so I walk in circles, or squares, really big ones, sometimes spanning several kilometres (although I'm more likely to measure distance in time, ex: how far did you walk? oh, about 3 hours).
These are my babies. My first ever Doc Martens, so of course I cannot help but revere them. They have seen me through: mosh pits, raves, exams, cold Ottawa winters, Christmas parades, nature walks, and yes, even my wedding day (no one can tell under the dress!). Other boots may come and go, but these will forever have a special place in my heart.
During a stroll around my neighbourhood, I spy with my little eye:
Tulips.
Tulips are a real joy. They sprout up out of the ground at the first sight of spring, sometimes when there is still snow on the ground, and what a sight they are. They bless us with their majesty for such a limited time and burst with such intense colour every walk is a tour around an artist's palette.
The church where my parents were married. I've never even been inside it, but I think it's nicer this way, maintaining a bit of mystery.
The St. Lawrence River
Look, no smugglers today! Actually, it can be quite beautiful at times, and the cool breeze that comes off it is perfect for summery walks.
Yes, I tend to give this city a hard time. It's not always friendly to the under 72 crowd, it categorically rejects anyone with more than a high school diploma, and its intellectual/cultural aspects are limited to the magazine rack at the 7-11. I don't think I'll be settling here, but I'll admit it does have its moments. When the smallness is not oppressive, it's quaint. It's funny to be able to walk from one end of the city to the other in the space of an afternoon. And for every piece of trash, there's a friendly neighbour with a ready smile.
I have a thing for walking. It's baffling really, considering my natural habitat is a nice warm bed with a beer fridge for a night table and a long reaching stick for any other needs that may arise, such as scratching my ankle when I don't feel like leaning or bending.
But every day, I must walk. Usually, I walk nowhere. It's not about the destination, but the act itself, so I walk in circles, or squares, really big ones, sometimes spanning several kilometres (although I'm more likely to measure distance in time, ex: how far did you walk? oh, about 3 hours).
These are my babies. My first ever Doc Martens, so of course I cannot help but revere them. They have seen me through: mosh pits, raves, exams, cold Ottawa winters, Christmas parades, nature walks, and yes, even my wedding day (no one can tell under the dress!). Other boots may come and go, but these will forever have a special place in my heart.
During a stroll around my neighbourhood, I spy with my little eye:
Tulips.
Tulips are a real joy. They sprout up out of the ground at the first sight of spring, sometimes when there is still snow on the ground, and what a sight they are. They bless us with their majesty for such a limited time and burst with such intense colour every walk is a tour around an artist's palette.
The church where my parents were married. I've never even been inside it, but I think it's nicer this way, maintaining a bit of mystery.
The St. Lawrence River
Look, no smugglers today! Actually, it can be quite beautiful at times, and the cool breeze that comes off it is perfect for summery walks.
Yes, I tend to give this city a hard time. It's not always friendly to the under 72 crowd, it categorically rejects anyone with more than a high school diploma, and its intellectual/cultural aspects are limited to the magazine rack at the 7-11. I don't think I'll be settling here, but I'll admit it does have its moments. When the smallness is not oppressive, it's quaint. It's funny to be able to walk from one end of the city to the other in the space of an afternoon. And for every piece of trash, there's a friendly neighbour with a ready smile.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Crazy, Complainy Americans
Measure of a man's worth:
4 days a week, 12 hours a day, Jason takes phone calls from Americans who didn't read the contract they signed when they bought their cell phones. 4 days a week, Jason comes home so exhausted and frustrated that it takes almost endless shoulder massage to work the kinks out. He does it because he loves me.
The crazy place where Jason works:
It's Sunday night, Desperate Housewives is on (and for once, I have remembered to watch it), and Jason is still at work for another couple of hours. He works on a team with a bunch of old ladies. They'll probably ask him to go out to the old trucker's hangout for coffee when their shift is over. And like every night for the past 6 months, Jason will politely refuse. This is why a dozen 60 year-old ladies refer to him as "anti-social."
The truth is, Jason works way beneath him. He should rightfully be their supervisor's supervisor, and in Ottawa, he was. But he gave it up and started all over when we moved here. And he'll do it again when we move again, shortly. Such is life.
So for now, he works with old ladies and despite the fact that they've all been there since the dawning of the age of aquarius, they hassle him for help constantly. They hang over his shoulder, fouling up his cubicle with fetid old-lady stench, pointing their greasy fingers all over his screen (Jason is touchy about that), and making it impossible to hear customers over their death-rattle.
Jason's supervisor is a real wanker. His claim to fame is farting on people. Farting on people. That's right. I wrote it twice because it took me at least twice, maybe 40 times hearing it to really believe it. He farted on people. Not on Jason of course, Jason would have punched his lights out, and apparently his supervisor sensed this. But it didn't stop him from doing it to everyone else. He left their cubicles stinking, chuckling like he'd just told the greatest joke ever. And aside from Jason, he was adored by his team. The old ladies fawned over him, brought him gifts, giggled over his every word.
Guess how broken up Jason was that this supervisor left last week. Yeah, not very. The team held a little party for him in the office, they didn't bother telling Jason about this of course. There was cake, so according to Jason, "it wasn't a total waste of time." The smirk on his face when he said this was to die for.
The old ladies have pined for their supervisor all week (there was no one to fart on them!), and by the end of the week they had called him up at home and begged him to have a delicious chicken dinner all together, like the big happy family they pretend to be. Jason declined to participate (this week alone he also declined a trip to the sugar bush, a potluck, and a stitch & bitch, and those are only the tip of the iceberg because generally speaking, they don’t bother inviting him anymore). Instead, Jason and the one other guy on the time who is
a)under 60
b)less dense than the Britney Spears fan club
spent the evening together, getting high (no doilies, no pound cake, no Gold Bond medicated powder), and attempting to laugh about their lot in life.
Ridiculous coworkers of note:
Dora - old lady who came to work one day, saw that someone was sitting at her desk and was so outraged by this, she went right home without saying anything to anyone.
Gayle - reads Harlequinns at work for "research" because she wants to write one in the future, despite the fact that she's barely literate. Also known for asking questions about things that came and went 2 weeks ago, without reintroducing the topic so that no one ever knows what the hell she's talking about.
Thorr - well, his name is Thorr. No viking hat, but still. His skinny runt-like status makes his name both ironical and comical at once.
Serge - 50 year old man who hates perfume wearers, and is always quick with an answer (even though it's never right). Likes to give everyone updates on the mail tracking of various computer parts he's ordered (no one cares). Is known to cry frequently, in frustration. When told to start Internet Explorer by pressing the E on the bottom of the screen, he asked the class "There's no E in start, is there?". Then he cried.
Staring Girl - Jason and Joey don't know her name, but damn do they complain about her. On Tuesdays they have to sit near this woman, who I believe is a little soft in the head. She's not quite 5 feet tall, 40ish, has an elf haircut and the most ridiculous outfits you can imagine: salvation army corduroys tucked into imitation ugg boots, paired with coats that can only be described as 'yak's hair', and that doesn't quite do it justice. She straddles her chair backwards and swivels her chair back and forth so she can stare at Jason, then Joey, over and over for 12 hours at a time.
Customers of note:
Jason: Sir, there are only 2 ways to get out of your contract; either we made a mistake, or you're in the military and being deployed.
Customer: I'm in the military.
J: Where are you going?
C: I don't remember.
J: Well when you remember you need to fax your information into us.
C: Never mind then.
Jason: I'm sorry ma'am, you can't get out of your contract. You read it, you signed your name to it.
C: Well I work in a law office, and I can find a loophole.
J: Uh, okay.
C: Maybe you should just fax that contract to my law firm then.
J: That's fine, what's the fax number?
C: (yelling at her kid in the background) What's the fax at my work? Kid yells: the one for Burger King? Mom says yes.
When Jason faxes it, sure enough, she works at Burger King, also known to Americans as "a law firm."
Customer: Yes, I'd like to make an insurance claim for a lost phone.
Jason: Sir, I can tell that you're calling me from the phone...are you sure it's lost?
Custumer hung up.
Customer: I'm having a problem with my cellphone.
Jason: Okay, no problem. Can you take the battery out of it and tell me what happens?
Phone goes dead.
This happens a few times a week.
Customer: I have a $700 phone bill for calling France and I'm not paying it!!
Jason: Sir, did you make those calls?
C: Yes.
J: Well then shouldn't you pay for them?
C: No. You guys shouldn't have let me called! You fuckers should have blocked it!
Jason: Can I get the last 4 digits of your social security to confirm your id please?
Customer: No you cannot. That's an invasion of my privacy! What's the last 4 digits of your social security?
J: I don't have one sir.
C: Well you're working there illegally then!
J: No, sir, I'm not American.
C: Oh.
Customer: I am not paying my phone bill, it's for $300!
Jason: Did you make the calls?
C: No. Someone must have cloned my phone and is making calls on my account and I'm not paying for it.
J: Which calls did you not make?
C: XXX-XXXX
J: Are you sure? Because that number is listed as your home phone number, and usually thieves don't call your house.
Customer hung up.
Customer: How come I never get my bill on time? The crackers always get theirs!
Jason: Uhhhh.
Customer: Why can't I get a dial tone on my cell phone?
Jason: Cell phones don't have dial tones sir. Just dial and press send.
Customer: @#%&$!!!!!
Customer: Jeez, it took you long enough to answer.
Jason: Sorry about the wait. Can I get your area code?
C: XXXXX
Jason: Sorry, can I get that area code again?
C: XXXXX
Jason: Your area code has 5 digits?
C: Yeah, what are you, stupid?
J: Are you sure that's not your zip code? I need your area code.
C: Oh you mean my area code. XXX
Customer: I pay my grandson's bill, and there's some charges here I don't recognize.
Jason: The first one is for a song.
C: Song? What song?
J: P.I.M.P.
J: The second charge is for the girl of the month club.
C: What's that?
J: It's uh, a service, um, that sends pictures. Of girls....
Jason worked for a Canadian company before this, so the contrast is pretty painful at times. How can Americans be so crude?
- People often ask him if he is white "because I don't understand ebonics."
- Jason can hear toilets flushing when he's talking to customers.
- People call him to ask which states they've called, as if Jason is their personal geographical service: "which one is AZ? OR? RI? BC? Where the hell is BC?"
- Calling Jason racist because the company doesn't give free minutes on Martin Luther King Day.
- Parents who say they will "beat their kids with their phone" for racking up huge bills texting and downloading ring tones.
- Men who ask women to talk to other men because "he'll know what he's doing."
- Men who ask to talk to women, and want them to recite this month's specials while they breathe heavily into the phone.
Yup, there surely were not any of these problems with Canadian customers. Canadians are all please and thank you. But to be fair, Jason says that from what he's seen, a lot of Americans get a bad rap. New Yorkers, for example, despite a reputation for rudeness, are often the nicest, but they like to emphasize that they'll be paying with their PLATINUM Visas.
New Jersey - also surprisingly nice, as long as you're efficient.
Florida - often involves lengthy explanations of cellphones to the elderly.
California - everyone is a "bizness" man, "I can't be missing these phone calls! I'm in bizness!"
Texas - like to haggle over pennies.
Georgia - most bad phone calls come from here - motto at Jason's work is "I'm going to get yelled at if it's from Georgia."
Carolinas - customers are laid back.
Massachusetts - most likely to swear at you.
Hawaii - everyone is your best friend.
Michigan - can immediately spot the Canadian accent and are quick to point out that employees are "so polite!" and that "we love your side of Niagara Falls!"
So Jason puts up with a lot when he goes to work. But he has a tender heart and I admire his attitude - he's never "just doing his job." He really does try to help people out, especially if the phone call did not start with an irate customer yelling "you fucking assholes, you're all gonna die!" (it happens more often than you'd think). And he has a good sense of humour about it. I know that I would never last more than 5 minutes in that kind of job. He shows so much restraint, but I would be slamming the phone down at best, and cussing up a storm right back at worst. But that's my nature, and a big part of why Jason works outside the home and why I stay at home. Plus, I get to wear Eeyore pajama pants and no one yells at me when I drop daiquiris all over the keyboard at 10am and have to give up work for the day so it can "air out." And now that the nice weather is here, you can bet that spillage will increase tenfold, and that poor Jason will continue to be cussed out by crazy, complainy Americans.
4 days a week, 12 hours a day, Jason takes phone calls from Americans who didn't read the contract they signed when they bought their cell phones. 4 days a week, Jason comes home so exhausted and frustrated that it takes almost endless shoulder massage to work the kinks out. He does it because he loves me.
The crazy place where Jason works:
It's Sunday night, Desperate Housewives is on (and for once, I have remembered to watch it), and Jason is still at work for another couple of hours. He works on a team with a bunch of old ladies. They'll probably ask him to go out to the old trucker's hangout for coffee when their shift is over. And like every night for the past 6 months, Jason will politely refuse. This is why a dozen 60 year-old ladies refer to him as "anti-social."
The truth is, Jason works way beneath him. He should rightfully be their supervisor's supervisor, and in Ottawa, he was. But he gave it up and started all over when we moved here. And he'll do it again when we move again, shortly. Such is life.
So for now, he works with old ladies and despite the fact that they've all been there since the dawning of the age of aquarius, they hassle him for help constantly. They hang over his shoulder, fouling up his cubicle with fetid old-lady stench, pointing their greasy fingers all over his screen (Jason is touchy about that), and making it impossible to hear customers over their death-rattle.
Jason's supervisor is a real wanker. His claim to fame is farting on people. Farting on people. That's right. I wrote it twice because it took me at least twice, maybe 40 times hearing it to really believe it. He farted on people. Not on Jason of course, Jason would have punched his lights out, and apparently his supervisor sensed this. But it didn't stop him from doing it to everyone else. He left their cubicles stinking, chuckling like he'd just told the greatest joke ever. And aside from Jason, he was adored by his team. The old ladies fawned over him, brought him gifts, giggled over his every word.
Guess how broken up Jason was that this supervisor left last week. Yeah, not very. The team held a little party for him in the office, they didn't bother telling Jason about this of course. There was cake, so according to Jason, "it wasn't a total waste of time." The smirk on his face when he said this was to die for.
The old ladies have pined for their supervisor all week (there was no one to fart on them!), and by the end of the week they had called him up at home and begged him to have a delicious chicken dinner all together, like the big happy family they pretend to be. Jason declined to participate (this week alone he also declined a trip to the sugar bush, a potluck, and a stitch & bitch, and those are only the tip of the iceberg because generally speaking, they don’t bother inviting him anymore). Instead, Jason and the one other guy on the time who is
a)under 60
b)less dense than the Britney Spears fan club
spent the evening together, getting high (no doilies, no pound cake, no Gold Bond medicated powder), and attempting to laugh about their lot in life.
Ridiculous coworkers of note:
Dora - old lady who came to work one day, saw that someone was sitting at her desk and was so outraged by this, she went right home without saying anything to anyone.
Gayle - reads Harlequinns at work for "research" because she wants to write one in the future, despite the fact that she's barely literate. Also known for asking questions about things that came and went 2 weeks ago, without reintroducing the topic so that no one ever knows what the hell she's talking about.
Thorr - well, his name is Thorr. No viking hat, but still. His skinny runt-like status makes his name both ironical and comical at once.
Serge - 50 year old man who hates perfume wearers, and is always quick with an answer (even though it's never right). Likes to give everyone updates on the mail tracking of various computer parts he's ordered (no one cares). Is known to cry frequently, in frustration. When told to start Internet Explorer by pressing the E on the bottom of the screen, he asked the class "There's no E in start, is there?". Then he cried.
Staring Girl - Jason and Joey don't know her name, but damn do they complain about her. On Tuesdays they have to sit near this woman, who I believe is a little soft in the head. She's not quite 5 feet tall, 40ish, has an elf haircut and the most ridiculous outfits you can imagine: salvation army corduroys tucked into imitation ugg boots, paired with coats that can only be described as 'yak's hair', and that doesn't quite do it justice. She straddles her chair backwards and swivels her chair back and forth so she can stare at Jason, then Joey, over and over for 12 hours at a time.
Customers of note:
Jason: Sir, there are only 2 ways to get out of your contract; either we made a mistake, or you're in the military and being deployed.
Customer: I'm in the military.
J: Where are you going?
C: I don't remember.
J: Well when you remember you need to fax your information into us.
C: Never mind then.
Jason: I'm sorry ma'am, you can't get out of your contract. You read it, you signed your name to it.
C: Well I work in a law office, and I can find a loophole.
J: Uh, okay.
C: Maybe you should just fax that contract to my law firm then.
J: That's fine, what's the fax number?
C: (yelling at her kid in the background) What's the fax at my work? Kid yells: the one for Burger King? Mom says yes.
When Jason faxes it, sure enough, she works at Burger King, also known to Americans as "a law firm."
Customer: Yes, I'd like to make an insurance claim for a lost phone.
Jason: Sir, I can tell that you're calling me from the phone...are you sure it's lost?
Custumer hung up.
Customer: I'm having a problem with my cellphone.
Jason: Okay, no problem. Can you take the battery out of it and tell me what happens?
Phone goes dead.
This happens a few times a week.
Customer: I have a $700 phone bill for calling France and I'm not paying it!!
Jason: Sir, did you make those calls?
C: Yes.
J: Well then shouldn't you pay for them?
C: No. You guys shouldn't have let me called! You fuckers should have blocked it!
Jason: Can I get the last 4 digits of your social security to confirm your id please?
Customer: No you cannot. That's an invasion of my privacy! What's the last 4 digits of your social security?
J: I don't have one sir.
C: Well you're working there illegally then!
J: No, sir, I'm not American.
C: Oh.
Customer: I am not paying my phone bill, it's for $300!
Jason: Did you make the calls?
C: No. Someone must have cloned my phone and is making calls on my account and I'm not paying for it.
J: Which calls did you not make?
C: XXX-XXXX
J: Are you sure? Because that number is listed as your home phone number, and usually thieves don't call your house.
Customer hung up.
Customer: How come I never get my bill on time? The crackers always get theirs!
Jason: Uhhhh.
Customer: Why can't I get a dial tone on my cell phone?
Jason: Cell phones don't have dial tones sir. Just dial and press send.
Customer: @#%&$!!!!!
Customer: Jeez, it took you long enough to answer.
Jason: Sorry about the wait. Can I get your area code?
C: XXXXX
Jason: Sorry, can I get that area code again?
C: XXXXX
Jason: Your area code has 5 digits?
C: Yeah, what are you, stupid?
J: Are you sure that's not your zip code? I need your area code.
C: Oh you mean my area code. XXX
Customer: I pay my grandson's bill, and there's some charges here I don't recognize.
Jason: The first one is for a song.
C: Song? What song?
J: P.I.M.P.
J: The second charge is for the girl of the month club.
C: What's that?
J: It's uh, a service, um, that sends pictures. Of girls....
Jason worked for a Canadian company before this, so the contrast is pretty painful at times. How can Americans be so crude?
- People often ask him if he is white "because I don't understand ebonics."
- Jason can hear toilets flushing when he's talking to customers.
- People call him to ask which states they've called, as if Jason is their personal geographical service: "which one is AZ? OR? RI? BC? Where the hell is BC?"
- Calling Jason racist because the company doesn't give free minutes on Martin Luther King Day.
- Parents who say they will "beat their kids with their phone" for racking up huge bills texting and downloading ring tones.
- Men who ask women to talk to other men because "he'll know what he's doing."
- Men who ask to talk to women, and want them to recite this month's specials while they breathe heavily into the phone.
Yup, there surely were not any of these problems with Canadian customers. Canadians are all please and thank you. But to be fair, Jason says that from what he's seen, a lot of Americans get a bad rap. New Yorkers, for example, despite a reputation for rudeness, are often the nicest, but they like to emphasize that they'll be paying with their PLATINUM Visas.
New Jersey - also surprisingly nice, as long as you're efficient.
Florida - often involves lengthy explanations of cellphones to the elderly.
California - everyone is a "bizness" man, "I can't be missing these phone calls! I'm in bizness!"
Texas - like to haggle over pennies.
Georgia - most bad phone calls come from here - motto at Jason's work is "I'm going to get yelled at if it's from Georgia."
Carolinas - customers are laid back.
Massachusetts - most likely to swear at you.
Hawaii - everyone is your best friend.
Michigan - can immediately spot the Canadian accent and are quick to point out that employees are "so polite!" and that "we love your side of Niagara Falls!"
So Jason puts up with a lot when he goes to work. But he has a tender heart and I admire his attitude - he's never "just doing his job." He really does try to help people out, especially if the phone call did not start with an irate customer yelling "you fucking assholes, you're all gonna die!" (it happens more often than you'd think). And he has a good sense of humour about it. I know that I would never last more than 5 minutes in that kind of job. He shows so much restraint, but I would be slamming the phone down at best, and cussing up a storm right back at worst. But that's my nature, and a big part of why Jason works outside the home and why I stay at home. Plus, I get to wear Eeyore pajama pants and no one yells at me when I drop daiquiris all over the keyboard at 10am and have to give up work for the day so it can "air out." And now that the nice weather is here, you can bet that spillage will increase tenfold, and that poor Jason will continue to be cussed out by crazy, complainy Americans.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Friday Fuckfest
Fucktards of the week:
The Backstreet Boys.
Dear "Boys": you're supposed to pursue solo projects, discover that only one of you is really saleable to the general public, then after the trials and tribulations of drug rehab, dumb clothing lines, and failed attempts to travel into outer space, you're supposed to break up so the world can finally be rid of you. So what the hell? It's 2005, at least 4 of you should be at home crying to Momma about how life ain't fair while trying desperately to make "comebacks" that none of you deserve (you just don't appreciate that it was only by the grace of a rare black hole that you ever made a record in the first place) while salivating jealously over the apparent success of the black sheep bandmate who could buy and sell your soul.
Jamie recommends:
Creepy first guy with the bad facial hair: Become friends with Donnie from The New Kids On The Block. Something tells me you two have a lot in common.
Chubby blonde guy: Lay off the Krispy Kremes. Apply at KFC.
Mildly attractive guy in the middle: If you start training now, I'd say you have the makings for Britney Spears' 5th or 6th husband.
Small blonde man: Avoid prison, you'd be somebody's little woman in no time with your cute little nose and sweet altar-boy voice (for that matter, stay out of churches too).
Guy who's pretending he's not gay on the end: Come out of the closet. It's not a well-kept secret anyway. Become the 6th Queer Eye, whose specialty is "delusions of unemployment".
Fucker of the week:
No, not Hank Hill. Hank Hill is my hero. Hank Hill will save us all.
I'm talking about the annoying guy in the neighbourhood who must mow his lawn obsessively, regularly, and unfailingly before 7am (if possible, before the sun comes up). It's damn annoying.
First you get on your big fancy machine which you polish as often as your car, and named Bertha, evidenced by the vanity license plate which you have affixed to her rear end. Then you get your little sun canopy attached, and the big bag thing to catch the clippings, and you must know we're all laughing at you, but as you cut around corners with diamond-tip precision, you obviously don't care. Your lawn is more pristine than any baseball diamond or golf course. Then you get out the push-mower to make sure you have that obnoxious criss cross pattern going (what the hell is the point of that?), and then the weed-whacker, and the hedger, and the pruning shears. By the time you're finished, it's time to start all over again, AND YOU DO!!!
But that's not the worst part. No, the worst part is when you attach the little trailer to the back of your lawn mower, and drive it up the street. Does this make you feel cool? Manly? Special? Well, it shouldn't. The whole neighbourhood thinks you suffer from some sort of diminished mental capacity. Especially when we see you coming home with a couple of bags from the corner store tossed in the little wagon. Why do you ride your lawn mower to the corner store? What is wrong with you? I can only hope that your grown children will have the good sense to throw you into a nursing home good and early.
Most fuckable of the week:
Jason Lee
Tall, dark, handsome, sexy eye crinkles when he smiles. He's an obvious choice.
I fell in love with him via Mallrats, and am always delighted to find him reincarnated with the regulars in Kevin Smith films, of which I am a big fan.
Also find him in: Kissing A Fool (why do I like this movie? how do I like this movie? can only be explained by Jason Lee's presence), Almost Famous, The Incredibles (well, his yummy voice anyway).
Not just a hottie, but "funny and gentlemanly" too, according to friend Ben Affleck. He got his acting start in a Spike Jonze music video, but was a well known professional skateboarder long before that (retired at the age of 26). Now, between acting jobs, he owns his own skateboarding business, so I'm thinking, athletic and rich? Count me in.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
April 18th: The Rapture Cometh
A wise man named Homer Simpson has warned us with a prophecy: next Wednesday at 3:15 we will experience The Rapture. Biblically, The Rapture is when God calls up to heaven anyone worthy of being there - the "good" souls float up toward the sky, and the unpure are left behind to live on a hellish Earth. If you are left behind (and chances are you will be, you lecherous pervert), you have only yourself to blame.
I am feeling optimistic about my standing since my sweet mechanic's skills have allowed me to roll back my sin-o-meter and fudge my heaven qualifications a little bit. The rest of you are on your own.
So, In preparation of being called up to The Big Cocktail Hour in The Sky, a list:
Things to do before I die.
1. Inflict a violent death upon my computer. Go all Office Space on its ass, because damn it feels good to be a gansta.
2. Learn what all the fuss is about Girl Scout cookies, ie: what the hell are thin mints?
3. Walk 1 kilometre in a pair of Jimmy Choos (preferably red, patent leather), then throw them out.
4. Learn all the lyrics to Rapper's Delight (i said a hip hop the hippie the hippie
to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat...) and then slither around on a kareoke stage in a skanky sequined top, just because.
5. Burn all my journals, and my bras.
6. Camp underneath the stars, contemplating life's greatest questions, such as who will pick Jason's bellybutton lint when I am gone.
7. Shave my head and get a cool tattoo on my scalp. Let my grandfather tease me about it.
8. Have a slumber party for all my girl friends. Watch Disney movies, dance to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, pay each other sincere compliments, drink ourselves silly on cosmopolitans and daiquiris.
9. Have a barbecue for all my boy friends. Grill steaks, drink cold beers, and whoop all their asses at lawn darts.
10. Rent the use of a big well-stocked kitchen for 1 full day. Do my favourite things: chop veggies, flambe something, play with phillo pastry, make cheesecake, and freeze enough casseroles to ascertain Jason will be comforted and full. Drink lots of good wine, feed Jason fruit kebabs, and then have sex while sitting on the counter.
11. Finish my story, for peace of mind. Seal it in an envelope, and mail it to a fake address.
12. Plant a tree. Spit in the dirt where it grows to leave something of myself behind.
13. Write strongly worded letter to Student Loan people to the tune of "Haha you fuckers, just try to get a penny out of me now that I'm dead!"
14. Spend one night dancing in a club, by myself, to say thank you to my body for its usefulness. Request 'It's Not Right, But It's Okay' and dance on speakers for old times' sake.
15. Return to the strip of beach where I was married and enjoy the sunset with our toes in the ocean; tell Jason that even the bad times were good, that I've loved loving him, and that I'll visit him in hell if I get the chance.
16. Hug everyone I've cared for, goose a few when they're all weepy and touched.
17. Put some weed up where the sun don't shine so I can smuggle it into heaven.
18. Cut the electricity and read aloud to Jason by candlelight. - E. B. White's Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web. Hope to be remembered that way.
I am feeling optimistic about my standing since my sweet mechanic's skills have allowed me to roll back my sin-o-meter and fudge my heaven qualifications a little bit. The rest of you are on your own.
So, In preparation of being called up to The Big Cocktail Hour in The Sky, a list:
Things to do before I die.
1. Inflict a violent death upon my computer. Go all Office Space on its ass, because damn it feels good to be a gansta.
2. Learn what all the fuss is about Girl Scout cookies, ie: what the hell are thin mints?
3. Walk 1 kilometre in a pair of Jimmy Choos (preferably red, patent leather), then throw them out.
4. Learn all the lyrics to Rapper's Delight (i said a hip hop the hippie the hippie
to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat...) and then slither around on a kareoke stage in a skanky sequined top, just because.
5. Burn all my journals, and my bras.
6. Camp underneath the stars, contemplating life's greatest questions, such as who will pick Jason's bellybutton lint when I am gone.
7. Shave my head and get a cool tattoo on my scalp. Let my grandfather tease me about it.
8. Have a slumber party for all my girl friends. Watch Disney movies, dance to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, pay each other sincere compliments, drink ourselves silly on cosmopolitans and daiquiris.
9. Have a barbecue for all my boy friends. Grill steaks, drink cold beers, and whoop all their asses at lawn darts.
10. Rent the use of a big well-stocked kitchen for 1 full day. Do my favourite things: chop veggies, flambe something, play with phillo pastry, make cheesecake, and freeze enough casseroles to ascertain Jason will be comforted and full. Drink lots of good wine, feed Jason fruit kebabs, and then have sex while sitting on the counter.
11. Finish my story, for peace of mind. Seal it in an envelope, and mail it to a fake address.
12. Plant a tree. Spit in the dirt where it grows to leave something of myself behind.
13. Write strongly worded letter to Student Loan people to the tune of "Haha you fuckers, just try to get a penny out of me now that I'm dead!"
14. Spend one night dancing in a club, by myself, to say thank you to my body for its usefulness. Request 'It's Not Right, But It's Okay' and dance on speakers for old times' sake.
15. Return to the strip of beach where I was married and enjoy the sunset with our toes in the ocean; tell Jason that even the bad times were good, that I've loved loving him, and that I'll visit him in hell if I get the chance.
16. Hug everyone I've cared for, goose a few when they're all weepy and touched.
17. Put some weed up where the sun don't shine so I can smuggle it into heaven.
18. Cut the electricity and read aloud to Jason by candlelight. - E. B. White's Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web. Hope to be remembered that way.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Oh You Wicked Wednesday
Ugh. This new "up at 5am" schedule of Jason's is killing me. Well, actually, it feels good to have a semi-normal schedule, I'm actually sleeping, seeing daylight, and believe it or not, I have so much accomplished by 7am that I actually feel a little less slothlike. But I imagine that this kind of lifestyle is surely killing me softly, and one day soon I'll wake up dead, at 5am.
This morning I barely rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and I was on the treadmill, pounding out a few miles (damn sticker says made in Canada, but then why does it not measure in kilometres?) to the tune of crappy "Hits!" radio stations filled with insipid DJ talk, and I thought to myself: Jay, you are retarded.
My reasoning:
Reason #27 why I don't go to the gym:
My workout ensemble this morning consisted of
1-pink plaid pants
2-yellow tweety bird socks, with orange pompoms
3-purple sketchers...well more like lavender
Clearly no other human should have to see me in this getup.
Reason #94 why I don't go to the gym:
I curled my bottom lip upward, so that I could blow up towards my own face in an order to dry the sweat on my brow before it fell into my eyes. It didn't work. I looked like an arse.
Reason #568 why I don't go to the gym:
I find it impossible to run normally when I am listening to music. My movements turn into some sort of demented dance, which complicates matters since I am atop a moving surface (and I know from previous experience that you do get "road burn" on your face when you fall on your treadmill). But alas, I ain't no holla back girl.
So anyway, I had a good workout, and look Ma, no shin splints! Woohoo! And I also made a funny discovery: the new Will Smith song Switch (I didn't even know he had a new song, but anyway...) is great for doing bicep curls. Oddly so. I was mastering my triceps and bopping all over the place, quite a sight I'm sure, but whateva. No, I am not too cute to dance!
And all of this before 7am. It's criminal.
And then I hung out the laundry, which means I am playing chicken with mother nature. It's supposed to rain today. "Scattered thundershowers", in fact. Hah. I laugh in the face of weather. That's right, bitch. Wanna rain on my laundry? Come on, I dare you.
Oh, and I had the privilege of being the 29 999th visitor to my blog. That was exciting for about half a second, and then the Will Smith song came on again, and I grabbed my dumbbells to knock myself down a few pegs.
Now I just have a pain in my ovaries. I think I sprained them. It feels like when you overwork your abs and end up with that ouchy crampy feeling...only it's lower than my abs, it's down in my abdomen, so with my rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, I have labeled it my ovaries. Perhaps I have just been kicked in my invisi-balls, and am feeling the pain. I could be wrong about that, but that's the fun of self-diagnosis. You just never know.
All I have to do now is steer clear of Phizz because he has an innate talent for spoiling the Gilmore Girls for me. He watches it on Tuesday, I don't see it until Wednesday, and somehow he finds a way to ruin it every time. He's like the Polkaroo. Except not really.
So I went for a walk. And ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you all the 3 most beautiful words in the English language (or any language), said in my sultriest, most knock-em-dead voice:
WINTER IS OVER!
And screw you spring, this is summer weather we're having! Of course this means that all the old people are out washing their driveways and watering their laws... which in turn poses an awkward situation for pedestrians like me. Invariably, I come across a patch of sidewalk in the direct path of a sprinkler. I can either try to dart under the water's spray, or walk around it, in the sodden grass thereby muddying my shoes. I choose to chance it on the sidewalk. I get wet. Ah well. That's still 2 straight days of gorgeous weather, for which I am eternally grateful. I keep meaning to just get out for 30 minutes and end up awol for an hour and a half. Today I snaked up and down streets because I figured it would give my shoulders the opportunity to sunburn more evenly that way. Ingenious, yes?
I reentered the house with some reluctance, only to remember that I still had clothes on the line. I took them down in a hurry, and noticed my arms were getting sore. I felt quite out of shape if the mere act of hanging laundry could deplete the strength in my arms...and then I remembered the vigorous dumbbell dancing to Will Smith, which I have heard half a dozen times so far today. What is it with radio? There are more than 14 songs in the world you know!!!! But no, let's hear that crappy J-Lo song one more time! Don't you know it by heart yet? Everybody now!!!! Gawd, I wish I was a good radio tuner. Usually it's on The Bear, a much more palatable choice.
Anyhoo, sore arms and ovaries aside, I was having a pretty good day until THE DREADED ZIPPER INCIDENT. Notice the capital letters here.
So a few months ago, I bought these pants, cute I thought, light gray, with a pink and white pinstripe, and a pink velvet ribbon around the waist. I wore them once. And then the pull of the zipper broke off. Crap.
Jason "fixed" them for me, by attaching a keyring. I wore them once more. Could not manipulate said zipper to save my life. Almost pissed myself. It was bad.
In the closet they went, and stayed, until this morning, when in the optimistic sunlight, I thought they would look adorable with my pink knit tank top. So I pry off the stupid keyring (only a boy would put a keyring on pants), and came up with my own "fix": a paperclip. Don't worry, it was coated in pink plastic, totally cute! Fast forward several hours, and I'm on the verge of pissing myself yet again in these pants because the damn paperclip would not go down! Not for anything! Finally, in an act so frantic you would have laughed to see it (and quite possibly will laugh just imagining it), I poked a hole in my pants with my tweezers, then I reached inside and ripped the whole zipper right off my pants. It was as intense as it sounds. Stupid pants. I blame Jason of course. He's the one that said "Your ass looks hot in those pants", so of course I had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them, which hurtled me down the conflicted lifecourse that has led me to this day. Damn him.
So now I've got my breasts marinating in a Greek concoction (my chicken breasts, you perv). Tune in tomorrow to find out what can possibly go wrong with that.
This morning I barely rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and I was on the treadmill, pounding out a few miles (damn sticker says made in Canada, but then why does it not measure in kilometres?) to the tune of crappy "Hits!" radio stations filled with insipid DJ talk, and I thought to myself: Jay, you are retarded.
My reasoning:
Reason #27 why I don't go to the gym:
My workout ensemble this morning consisted of
1-pink plaid pants
2-yellow tweety bird socks, with orange pompoms
3-purple sketchers...well more like lavender
Clearly no other human should have to see me in this getup.
Reason #94 why I don't go to the gym:
I curled my bottom lip upward, so that I could blow up towards my own face in an order to dry the sweat on my brow before it fell into my eyes. It didn't work. I looked like an arse.
Reason #568 why I don't go to the gym:
I find it impossible to run normally when I am listening to music. My movements turn into some sort of demented dance, which complicates matters since I am atop a moving surface (and I know from previous experience that you do get "road burn" on your face when you fall on your treadmill). But alas, I ain't no holla back girl.
So anyway, I had a good workout, and look Ma, no shin splints! Woohoo! And I also made a funny discovery: the new Will Smith song Switch (I didn't even know he had a new song, but anyway...) is great for doing bicep curls. Oddly so. I was mastering my triceps and bopping all over the place, quite a sight I'm sure, but whateva. No, I am not too cute to dance!
And all of this before 7am. It's criminal.
And then I hung out the laundry, which means I am playing chicken with mother nature. It's supposed to rain today. "Scattered thundershowers", in fact. Hah. I laugh in the face of weather. That's right, bitch. Wanna rain on my laundry? Come on, I dare you.
Oh, and I had the privilege of being the 29 999th visitor to my blog. That was exciting for about half a second, and then the Will Smith song came on again, and I grabbed my dumbbells to knock myself down a few pegs.
Now I just have a pain in my ovaries. I think I sprained them. It feels like when you overwork your abs and end up with that ouchy crampy feeling...only it's lower than my abs, it's down in my abdomen, so with my rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, I have labeled it my ovaries. Perhaps I have just been kicked in my invisi-balls, and am feeling the pain. I could be wrong about that, but that's the fun of self-diagnosis. You just never know.
All I have to do now is steer clear of Phizz because he has an innate talent for spoiling the Gilmore Girls for me. He watches it on Tuesday, I don't see it until Wednesday, and somehow he finds a way to ruin it every time. He's like the Polkaroo. Except not really.
So I went for a walk. And ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you all the 3 most beautiful words in the English language (or any language), said in my sultriest, most knock-em-dead voice:
WINTER IS OVER!
And screw you spring, this is summer weather we're having! Of course this means that all the old people are out washing their driveways and watering their laws... which in turn poses an awkward situation for pedestrians like me. Invariably, I come across a patch of sidewalk in the direct path of a sprinkler. I can either try to dart under the water's spray, or walk around it, in the sodden grass thereby muddying my shoes. I choose to chance it on the sidewalk. I get wet. Ah well. That's still 2 straight days of gorgeous weather, for which I am eternally grateful. I keep meaning to just get out for 30 minutes and end up awol for an hour and a half. Today I snaked up and down streets because I figured it would give my shoulders the opportunity to sunburn more evenly that way. Ingenious, yes?
I reentered the house with some reluctance, only to remember that I still had clothes on the line. I took them down in a hurry, and noticed my arms were getting sore. I felt quite out of shape if the mere act of hanging laundry could deplete the strength in my arms...and then I remembered the vigorous dumbbell dancing to Will Smith, which I have heard half a dozen times so far today. What is it with radio? There are more than 14 songs in the world you know!!!! But no, let's hear that crappy J-Lo song one more time! Don't you know it by heart yet? Everybody now!!!! Gawd, I wish I was a good radio tuner. Usually it's on The Bear, a much more palatable choice.
Anyhoo, sore arms and ovaries aside, I was having a pretty good day until THE DREADED ZIPPER INCIDENT. Notice the capital letters here.
So a few months ago, I bought these pants, cute I thought, light gray, with a pink and white pinstripe, and a pink velvet ribbon around the waist. I wore them once. And then the pull of the zipper broke off. Crap.
Jason "fixed" them for me, by attaching a keyring. I wore them once more. Could not manipulate said zipper to save my life. Almost pissed myself. It was bad.
In the closet they went, and stayed, until this morning, when in the optimistic sunlight, I thought they would look adorable with my pink knit tank top. So I pry off the stupid keyring (only a boy would put a keyring on pants), and came up with my own "fix": a paperclip. Don't worry, it was coated in pink plastic, totally cute! Fast forward several hours, and I'm on the verge of pissing myself yet again in these pants because the damn paperclip would not go down! Not for anything! Finally, in an act so frantic you would have laughed to see it (and quite possibly will laugh just imagining it), I poked a hole in my pants with my tweezers, then I reached inside and ripped the whole zipper right off my pants. It was as intense as it sounds. Stupid pants. I blame Jason of course. He's the one that said "Your ass looks hot in those pants", so of course I had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them, which hurtled me down the conflicted lifecourse that has led me to this day. Damn him.
So now I've got my breasts marinating in a Greek concoction (my chicken breasts, you perv). Tune in tomorrow to find out what can possibly go wrong with that.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
In Which Our Heroine Encounters a Pink Confection.
Something funny turned up on my doorstep this morning, and her name was Janice.
Her stringy brown hair looked like it hadn't been washed in a month, and clearly she allowed a sugar-high 3 year old to cut it, but it was still her best feature; her best feature by far. In fact, the clump missing from her greasy bangs highlighted her pasty forehead in such a way that it almost detracted from the large, protruding mole she had over her left eyebrow. Well, to clarify, she really only had the one eyebrow, but I'm talking about the portion of that eyebrow located on the left side of her face. The eyebrow was an intimidating mess of hair; one single strand of hair had grown out the mole and joined the jungle of the eyebrow beneath it.
I tried to meet her eyes in order to stop staring at the mole, but this was difficult to do since only one of her eyes was able to stare back at me. The other one, the left one, the one underneath the hairy mole, lolled about in its socket, seemingly watching my bare feet and the cloudless sky at the same time. The right one, bloodshot as it was, met my gaze. The white of her eye was better described as yellow, and the iris was more oval than round, sort of like a cat's eye turned on its side.
Her nose was enormous, but in a thin, beak-like way as opposed to round and bulbous. It looked raw and red, so I quickly looked away. Not to her mouth because for all intents and purposes, she had no mouth. No lips, anyway. Not even the thinnest of lips, as far as I could tell, and she kept darting her tongue out to lick where lips should have been, and it was just wrinkly, spotted skin. She didn't smile. Maybe she couldn't. All she did was grunt.
I backed away just slightly from the door, imperceptibly, I hoped. It wasn't so much that I was afraid of her, but that she smelled, in a stale, stagnant kind of way. There was body odour to be certain, but something more than that, something that vaguely reminded me of gym shoes, incontinence, and cheese. Possibly her crusty clothes were contributing to the smell, they looked stiff with crud and impossibly uncomfortable. I would have thought they might chafe her skin, except all of her exposed skin, gaunt as it was against the sharp bones of her body, was covered in dark, downy hair, reminiscent of an aborted bird fetus found on the side of the road.
She wore shorts, curiously, though the weather is still a bit cool for them. Her legs were so skinny they couldn't even support her knee-socks, which drooped about her big, floppy shoes. On anyone else I would have called them clown shoes, except on her, I didn't doubt that they were real, and that her feet really were that big. I tried not to think about the dirty people you read about in the Guinness Book of World Records with 16 inch long toenails.
I shuddered involuntarily, but all in all I thought I had remained pretty composed. I was pretty sure that Janice (I read her nametag, pinned to her concave chest) was used to far worse reactions than mine. She grunted once more, and shoved a small brown box into my hands.
Oh Canada Post, where do you do your hiring?
Anyhoo, Project International Twinkie Exchange (PITE, for short) has crossed the northern border and landed at my doorstep.
I used my iron will to leave it unopened, unmolested, and unexplored until Jason came home, and then all hell broke loose (not that hell is ever very well restrained at my house anyway).
Dear, sweet Becky thought it was a tragic, sheltered life I was living, never having come across pink Sno Balls before, and so she kindly sent them upward, with a cautionary word that they may or may not be actually fit for human consumption. But she didn't just send those, no, she send a whole boxfull of treats for us to squeal over (correction: Jason insists that he did not squeal).
The Kit Kat, for example, provoked a "Oh look what this looks like!" reaction from these fine lips of mine. We do of course have this particular chocolate bar up here, but the packaging is much different. Perhaps this is a testament to the boring life I lead, but we spent quite a long time studying the wrapper. "It's orange!" I exclaimed, with wonder. I generously described it as "retro" while Jason more pessimistically dismissed it as "ghetto".
At any rate, the box of goodies was a big hit at our house, maybe sadly so, considering our chronological ages. Luckily, we're as immature as they come, so Becky, we thank you sincerely. We are now in the throes of thinking up a 'Canadian' package to send in return.
Jamie: "Should we send fudge? Maple fudge?"
Jason: (sternly) "No. Nobody actually likes fudge."
Jamie: "Well God in heaven, what else is there?"
Jason: "Syrup?"
Jamie: "Oh don't be retarded, Americans have maple trees too you know."
...
Jamie: "I'd send poutine fixings, but considering Americans don't have free health care, we should probably keep our heart attacks to ourselves."
Jason: "Well, you could always send her a Kit Kat from here so she could see our far superior packaging."
Jamie: "Yes, yes, we could do that."
Woops, sorry if I spoiled the surprise there, Becky.
Her stringy brown hair looked like it hadn't been washed in a month, and clearly she allowed a sugar-high 3 year old to cut it, but it was still her best feature; her best feature by far. In fact, the clump missing from her greasy bangs highlighted her pasty forehead in such a way that it almost detracted from the large, protruding mole she had over her left eyebrow. Well, to clarify, she really only had the one eyebrow, but I'm talking about the portion of that eyebrow located on the left side of her face. The eyebrow was an intimidating mess of hair; one single strand of hair had grown out the mole and joined the jungle of the eyebrow beneath it.
I tried to meet her eyes in order to stop staring at the mole, but this was difficult to do since only one of her eyes was able to stare back at me. The other one, the left one, the one underneath the hairy mole, lolled about in its socket, seemingly watching my bare feet and the cloudless sky at the same time. The right one, bloodshot as it was, met my gaze. The white of her eye was better described as yellow, and the iris was more oval than round, sort of like a cat's eye turned on its side.
Her nose was enormous, but in a thin, beak-like way as opposed to round and bulbous. It looked raw and red, so I quickly looked away. Not to her mouth because for all intents and purposes, she had no mouth. No lips, anyway. Not even the thinnest of lips, as far as I could tell, and she kept darting her tongue out to lick where lips should have been, and it was just wrinkly, spotted skin. She didn't smile. Maybe she couldn't. All she did was grunt.
I backed away just slightly from the door, imperceptibly, I hoped. It wasn't so much that I was afraid of her, but that she smelled, in a stale, stagnant kind of way. There was body odour to be certain, but something more than that, something that vaguely reminded me of gym shoes, incontinence, and cheese. Possibly her crusty clothes were contributing to the smell, they looked stiff with crud and impossibly uncomfortable. I would have thought they might chafe her skin, except all of her exposed skin, gaunt as it was against the sharp bones of her body, was covered in dark, downy hair, reminiscent of an aborted bird fetus found on the side of the road.
She wore shorts, curiously, though the weather is still a bit cool for them. Her legs were so skinny they couldn't even support her knee-socks, which drooped about her big, floppy shoes. On anyone else I would have called them clown shoes, except on her, I didn't doubt that they were real, and that her feet really were that big. I tried not to think about the dirty people you read about in the Guinness Book of World Records with 16 inch long toenails.
I shuddered involuntarily, but all in all I thought I had remained pretty composed. I was pretty sure that Janice (I read her nametag, pinned to her concave chest) was used to far worse reactions than mine. She grunted once more, and shoved a small brown box into my hands.
Oh Canada Post, where do you do your hiring?
Anyhoo, Project International Twinkie Exchange (PITE, for short) has crossed the northern border and landed at my doorstep.
I used my iron will to leave it unopened, unmolested, and unexplored until Jason came home, and then all hell broke loose (not that hell is ever very well restrained at my house anyway).
Dear, sweet Becky thought it was a tragic, sheltered life I was living, never having come across pink Sno Balls before, and so she kindly sent them upward, with a cautionary word that they may or may not be actually fit for human consumption. But she didn't just send those, no, she send a whole boxfull of treats for us to squeal over (correction: Jason insists that he did not squeal).
The Kit Kat, for example, provoked a "Oh look what this looks like!" reaction from these fine lips of mine. We do of course have this particular chocolate bar up here, but the packaging is much different. Perhaps this is a testament to the boring life I lead, but we spent quite a long time studying the wrapper. "It's orange!" I exclaimed, with wonder. I generously described it as "retro" while Jason more pessimistically dismissed it as "ghetto".
At any rate, the box of goodies was a big hit at our house, maybe sadly so, considering our chronological ages. Luckily, we're as immature as they come, so Becky, we thank you sincerely. We are now in the throes of thinking up a 'Canadian' package to send in return.
Jamie: "Should we send fudge? Maple fudge?"
Jason: (sternly) "No. Nobody actually likes fudge."
Jamie: "Well God in heaven, what else is there?"
Jason: "Syrup?"
Jamie: "Oh don't be retarded, Americans have maple trees too you know."
...
Jamie: "I'd send poutine fixings, but considering Americans don't have free health care, we should probably keep our heart attacks to ourselves."
Jason: "Well, you could always send her a Kit Kat from here so she could see our far superior packaging."
Jamie: "Yes, yes, we could do that."
Woops, sorry if I spoiled the surprise there, Becky.
Monday, May 09, 2005
God of Wine
The Lamborghini races along the old highway, going nowhere in particular, but going there fast. The road traces the contour of a familiar river; the car becomes a red blur along this road. I am unimpressed by the car. I think it's ugly, but there aren't many like it in the area, indeed there are not many people from a certain income bracket in the area, which makes the car, and its driver, conspicuous.
Strands of my hair whip around my face, threatening to mar the cerise lip gloss I have carefully applied. The wind is strong, but the sun is hot, and it feels good. The flowers on my skirt ruffle with the breeze. My toes, painted red for the summer, are up on the dashboard. Any oncoming cars would have quite a show, but there are none. It's just me, and Justin, and Linda. Linda is the car. He named the car. I try not to judge him too harshly for this.
Unlike me, he is tanned. When I am close enough, I can smell the sun in his skin, as if he's marinated in it. He looks over, and smiles. One eyebrow is raised cockily over his Raybans. God he's good looking, and damned if he doesn't know it. It’s that smile, so disarming, that got me here in the first place. He is charming and aloof, and irresistible to women. He is sure of himself, and sure of me.
At his house, we sit out on the patio, indulging as the night brings cooler air. Wolf Blass, Yellow Label. My toes are in the grass, my sandals long forgotten. We talk of the Mordecai Richler I am currently reading, and sip the wine, wine that will forever taste like summer evenings to me. I am 17, and impressionable. I don't know it yet of course, I feel worldly and sophisticated when I'm with him, but the fact remains that I was young, and a lot of what happened that summer shaped me in ways I am still discovering today.
We sit in 2 scooped canvass chairs; we hold hands between them, watching the sky turn orange, then burn into pink, glare briefly in red, and then go out in a convoluted blue. There is music playing somewhere, it goes well with the wine, intermingling somewhere between my tongue and my heart. He pulls me to my feet. We dance in the grass; there isn't dew on it yet, but it feels cool between my toes. We don't dance cheek to cheek, that only happens in the movies; we dance cheek to chest since in my bare feet I am a good foot shorter than he is. His shoulders are so broad that I get lost in them when he holds me tight.
He tells me I have beautiful collarbones, then leans down to trace their contour with his tongue. Finally, he reaches my mouth. He controls his desire, taking his time, driving me crazy. He leaves me breathless in the moonlight with his kisses, and then leads me back inside.
A little while later, he is tending to my carpet burns. We laugh, and languish, and polish off a second bottle of Yellow Label. I sit between his legs, leaning against his chest, and I feel him stiffen with excitement, ready to go again. He may be a decade older, but he’s as eager as any boy I’ve ever known, just far more deliberate.
As he takes a nipple possessively in his mouth, I think to myself, So this is growing up.
Strands of my hair whip around my face, threatening to mar the cerise lip gloss I have carefully applied. The wind is strong, but the sun is hot, and it feels good. The flowers on my skirt ruffle with the breeze. My toes, painted red for the summer, are up on the dashboard. Any oncoming cars would have quite a show, but there are none. It's just me, and Justin, and Linda. Linda is the car. He named the car. I try not to judge him too harshly for this.
Unlike me, he is tanned. When I am close enough, I can smell the sun in his skin, as if he's marinated in it. He looks over, and smiles. One eyebrow is raised cockily over his Raybans. God he's good looking, and damned if he doesn't know it. It’s that smile, so disarming, that got me here in the first place. He is charming and aloof, and irresistible to women. He is sure of himself, and sure of me.
At his house, we sit out on the patio, indulging as the night brings cooler air. Wolf Blass, Yellow Label. My toes are in the grass, my sandals long forgotten. We talk of the Mordecai Richler I am currently reading, and sip the wine, wine that will forever taste like summer evenings to me. I am 17, and impressionable. I don't know it yet of course, I feel worldly and sophisticated when I'm with him, but the fact remains that I was young, and a lot of what happened that summer shaped me in ways I am still discovering today.
We sit in 2 scooped canvass chairs; we hold hands between them, watching the sky turn orange, then burn into pink, glare briefly in red, and then go out in a convoluted blue. There is music playing somewhere, it goes well with the wine, intermingling somewhere between my tongue and my heart. He pulls me to my feet. We dance in the grass; there isn't dew on it yet, but it feels cool between my toes. We don't dance cheek to cheek, that only happens in the movies; we dance cheek to chest since in my bare feet I am a good foot shorter than he is. His shoulders are so broad that I get lost in them when he holds me tight.
He tells me I have beautiful collarbones, then leans down to trace their contour with his tongue. Finally, he reaches my mouth. He controls his desire, taking his time, driving me crazy. He leaves me breathless in the moonlight with his kisses, and then leads me back inside.
A little while later, he is tending to my carpet burns. We laugh, and languish, and polish off a second bottle of Yellow Label. I sit between his legs, leaning against his chest, and I feel him stiffen with excitement, ready to go again. He may be a decade older, but he’s as eager as any boy I’ve ever known, just far more deliberate.
As he takes a nipple possessively in his mouth, I think to myself, So this is growing up.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
A Person Who Is Heading North Is Not Making Any Mistake, In My Opinion.
A hearty hello to all of you, or at least to the few of you who may still be checking for my lusty return.
Also, my sincere thanks to all of you who sent me emails in concern of my health. They were kind and much appreciated; Jason was quite dutiful in reading them to me during my convalescence.
Far outnumbering the get-well emails were the 'where the hell is the Friday Fuckfest?' emails, for which I am somewhat amused, and also most assuredly sorry. You can trust that it will be back this week in all its embarrassing glory.
Rest assured that I am quite well and not ill at all. I was overeager and overenthusiastic about a new writing project, and my back went on strike. As many of you know, though it has healed in its entirety from the last surgery, the scar tissue continues to prove a nuisance and as punishment for sitting for longs periods, it starts to force its way out of my skin, and alas, I found myself with a new oozing sore, turning the act of sitting into a physical impossibility (in short, it was d).
To anyone still harboring doubts: there is no threat of a baby J, ever, and I notice it was mostly some people who definitely know better than that who perpetuated that rumour, although as Jason is wont to say, "Jay, you brought this on yourself." Fair enough.
To clear up other, some of them even nastier, rumours:
1. Please do not for a second think that I have ever watched an episode of Regis & Kelly. While I do believe that Kelly is an improvement over Kathie Lee, that margin of improvement is infinitesimally small. My share of the morning ratings would belong to Ellen, though I have not actually been up that early since 2003.
2. I have no plans, current or future, for taking over Hollywood, but if I did, I am quite intrigued by the idea of a diamond-studded sink.
3. Although I do believe the game of Parcheesi is available up here in the Great White North, I have never seen it in person, much less played the game. I did discover the oddity that is Battleship, however, in my 22nd year, and find it a curious, if not highly entertaining game.
4. I have not been touched by a hot Brazilian man in much, much too long. Actually, I probably prefer the females from that area...clearly something magical is in the water, there are some great bazooms on those chickitas!
5. I have not run dry. There is clearly nothing dry about me. Urm, well, by which I meant to poke fun about my alcoholism, but I may have left myself open for comments of another nature.
6. I do have rage, although I tend to think of it as insuppressible, and my admission of this fact probably contradicts the denial factor. I have never been raped by a possum, unless I'm just suppressing the memory of it, or living in denial. I do, however, think I would notice if I was labouring over my possum baby, and so far, nothing to report on that front.
7. Upon recently watching my first ever episode of Dr. Who, I immediately felt I had been played for the fool. To all of you who played a part in getting me to watch it, I applaud your trickery. What straight faces you kept while telling me it was "good". A follow-up conversation I had with a good friend of mine who lives on the other side of the great pond (he doesn't want to be identified any more than that for fear of retribution) offered this piece of clarity: "People over here don't know any better. We have crap TV."
8. The goat is alive and well. The goat will out live us all.
9. I have not recently come into contact with any of the following: space hamsters, double agents, giant clams, Jessica Simpson, navel-obsessed aliens, Family Guy on DVD, duck sandwiches, or pan-dimensional fluxes (fluxi?).
10. I have recently come into contact with a prison cell, but only briefly,and it probably didn't mar my blogging ability; martini-heightened love making is a given, although at my house we call it "fucking" because I'm still not grown up enough to call it making love with a straight face; and stalkers aplenty, but none so fetching as the dear Lois Lane.
So there you have it. I am back until my back opens up again, or until silence overwhelms me, or until I wear my fingers down to the nub, or until I fall off the face of the Earth, which ever comes first (feel free to place your bets now).
Meanwhile, I am off to celebrate mother's day with my husband. I received the most wonderful gift a girl could ask for (and yes, I did ask for it): the shower has been regrouted! We're also picnicking in the park for as long as the good weather permits.
Also, my sincere thanks to all of you who sent me emails in concern of my health. They were kind and much appreciated; Jason was quite dutiful in reading them to me during my convalescence.
Far outnumbering the get-well emails were the 'where the hell is the Friday Fuckfest?' emails, for which I am somewhat amused, and also most assuredly sorry. You can trust that it will be back this week in all its embarrassing glory.
Rest assured that I am quite well and not ill at all. I was overeager and overenthusiastic about a new writing project, and my back went on strike. As many of you know, though it has healed in its entirety from the last surgery, the scar tissue continues to prove a nuisance and as punishment for sitting for longs periods, it starts to force its way out of my skin, and alas, I found myself with a new oozing sore, turning the act of sitting into a physical impossibility (in short, it was d).
To anyone still harboring doubts: there is no threat of a baby J, ever, and I notice it was mostly some people who definitely know better than that who perpetuated that rumour, although as Jason is wont to say, "Jay, you brought this on yourself." Fair enough.
To clear up other, some of them even nastier, rumours:
1. Please do not for a second think that I have ever watched an episode of Regis & Kelly. While I do believe that Kelly is an improvement over Kathie Lee, that margin of improvement is infinitesimally small. My share of the morning ratings would belong to Ellen, though I have not actually been up that early since 2003.
2. I have no plans, current or future, for taking over Hollywood, but if I did, I am quite intrigued by the idea of a diamond-studded sink.
3. Although I do believe the game of Parcheesi is available up here in the Great White North, I have never seen it in person, much less played the game. I did discover the oddity that is Battleship, however, in my 22nd year, and find it a curious, if not highly entertaining game.
4. I have not been touched by a hot Brazilian man in much, much too long. Actually, I probably prefer the females from that area...clearly something magical is in the water, there are some great bazooms on those chickitas!
5. I have not run dry. There is clearly nothing dry about me. Urm, well, by which I meant to poke fun about my alcoholism, but I may have left myself open for comments of another nature.
6. I do have rage, although I tend to think of it as insuppressible, and my admission of this fact probably contradicts the denial factor. I have never been raped by a possum, unless I'm just suppressing the memory of it, or living in denial. I do, however, think I would notice if I was labouring over my possum baby, and so far, nothing to report on that front.
7. Upon recently watching my first ever episode of Dr. Who, I immediately felt I had been played for the fool. To all of you who played a part in getting me to watch it, I applaud your trickery. What straight faces you kept while telling me it was "good". A follow-up conversation I had with a good friend of mine who lives on the other side of the great pond (he doesn't want to be identified any more than that for fear of retribution) offered this piece of clarity: "People over here don't know any better. We have crap TV."
8. The goat is alive and well. The goat will out live us all.
9. I have not recently come into contact with any of the following: space hamsters, double agents, giant clams, Jessica Simpson, navel-obsessed aliens, Family Guy on DVD, duck sandwiches, or pan-dimensional fluxes (fluxi?).
10. I have recently come into contact with a prison cell, but only briefly,and it probably didn't mar my blogging ability; martini-heightened love making is a given, although at my house we call it "fucking" because I'm still not grown up enough to call it making love with a straight face; and stalkers aplenty, but none so fetching as the dear Lois Lane.
So there you have it. I am back until my back opens up again, or until silence overwhelms me, or until I wear my fingers down to the nub, or until I fall off the face of the Earth, which ever comes first (feel free to place your bets now).
Meanwhile, I am off to celebrate mother's day with my husband. I received the most wonderful gift a girl could ask for (and yes, I did ask for it): the shower has been regrouted! We're also picnicking in the park for as long as the good weather permits.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Exactly How It Seems, That's How It Is
Jamie has not been posting regularly. Pop quiz kiddies - the reason for this is:
a) A stirring game of Parcheesi has held our fair lady in a state of rapture for 3 days now, and not even her own rank body odour will make her admit defeat.
b) She's pregnant, and morning sickness is a bitch.
c) An enchanted forrest abundant with squirrels and cute little duckies opened up and swallowed her whole.
d) After reaching the agonizing achievement of 30 000 words to Story A, Jay scrapped it all in a fit of insomnia and sat down to the daunting task of starting Story B from scratch. After a flurry of 10 000 words, the weak spot on her back opened up, and after the bleeding was staunched, ANYTHING BUT SITTING AT THE COMPUTER rest was been heavily recommended.
e) Other. Please specify: ________________________________.
In the meantime, please feel free to sift through this selection of vintage Jamie:
- Jamie explains the age-old question.
- Jamie's take on a practical use for men.
-Jamie explains how smart Jessica Simpson REALLY is.
-Jamie explains sexy, colon-blow cereal.
a) A stirring game of Parcheesi has held our fair lady in a state of rapture for 3 days now, and not even her own rank body odour will make her admit defeat.
b) She's pregnant, and morning sickness is a bitch.
c) An enchanted forrest abundant with squirrels and cute little duckies opened up and swallowed her whole.
d) After reaching the agonizing achievement of 30 000 words to Story A, Jay scrapped it all in a fit of insomnia and sat down to the daunting task of starting Story B from scratch. After a flurry of 10 000 words, the weak spot on her back opened up, and after the bleeding was staunched, ANYTHING BUT SITTING AT THE COMPUTER rest was been heavily recommended.
e) Other. Please specify: ________________________________.
In the meantime, please feel free to sift through this selection of vintage Jamie:
- Jamie explains the age-old question.
- Jamie's take on a practical use for men.
-Jamie explains how smart Jessica Simpson REALLY is.
-Jamie explains sexy, colon-blow cereal.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Hi. My Name is Stereo Mike.
(A love letter to Ed.)
The music is slick on my skin, sealed in by a thin coat of sweat. It's hot in here, the sultry kind of hot; the sticky kind of hot; the best kind of heat I know.
Cigarettes will kill you. I think this when you take a drag. I wish I was a cigarette, that your lips were on me, drinking me in. I wish I was the cloud around you, that I was the scent you carried.
You always have a drink in one hand, and one for me in the other. So I'm sipping on a juice and gin and it awakens my kaleidoscopic mind. Red is the vision. Red is the feeling pulsing all around us.
You have a pretty mouth, you say. A dirty little mouth. The hairs stand up on my body, I lean in close. You haven't touched me yet.
There are people all around us, long legs and big tits, and you never take your eyes off mine. I'm the prettiest mess you've ever seen.
You tell me you don't dance, but we do. Close. And I want a TV embrace. I want you to push me against the wall and kiss my neck. Your hand touches my arm and I ignite. Friction is turning to fire.
Tell me where you'd hide, you whisper in my ear. Your hot tongue darts out and licks my lobe, searing my skin, marking me as yours. I am.
I tell you how I wish I was in your apartment tonight. I bite my bottom lip. I see you watching; you grab me and pull be close. My breath a tickle on your neck, I whisper I want to see your clothes beside, your clothes beside your bed.
I guess I'm just a fool who never looks before she jumps.
You take me by the hand and lead me through the crowd. I know people will talk. I know just what they'll say. I wish I could say that everyone was wrong. I wish everyone was wrong. I know they're not and I don't care. I will only regret the things I don't do. I don't have many regrets. Who'll risk their own self respect in the name of desire? Lovers will.
We sit close in the cab; the city speeds by under stars I can't see. You tell me you're too old for me. I tell you I'm older than my years. Your hand is on my thigh. I am so alive I could die. You are the fire brought to my babylon, you tell my shoulder, so intimate the words lick me and leave me wet.
Every time I play an ace my partner always trumps.
At your place, we walk into this room and fumble in our haste. Clothes are quickly discarded. We lay it down. You devour me with taste. You stretch me with your hands. You love to watch me beg. You offer a la carte. It must feel good to stand above me while I worship at your alter and watch the ripples fade away.
I wake up in your twisted sheets the next morning, your hand still holding my breast. I find bruises on my thigh; souvenirs I will take home with me. So this is goodbye. This isn't for madder love. This is goodbye.
I guess I'll go through life just catching colds and missing trains.
Everything happens to me.
Time passes, I see men come and go. And how I wish I was in your bed tonight. To taste the salt upon, the salt upon your neck. To feel your body press, pressing down on me.
You are an indellible imprint on my mind; a sensation I can't forget. I know that life is for the taking. I still want that TV embrace.
The music is slick on my skin, sealed in by a thin coat of sweat. It's hot in here, the sultry kind of hot; the sticky kind of hot; the best kind of heat I know.
Cigarettes will kill you. I think this when you take a drag. I wish I was a cigarette, that your lips were on me, drinking me in. I wish I was the cloud around you, that I was the scent you carried.
You always have a drink in one hand, and one for me in the other. So I'm sipping on a juice and gin and it awakens my kaleidoscopic mind. Red is the vision. Red is the feeling pulsing all around us.
You have a pretty mouth, you say. A dirty little mouth. The hairs stand up on my body, I lean in close. You haven't touched me yet.
There are people all around us, long legs and big tits, and you never take your eyes off mine. I'm the prettiest mess you've ever seen.
You tell me you don't dance, but we do. Close. And I want a TV embrace. I want you to push me against the wall and kiss my neck. Your hand touches my arm and I ignite. Friction is turning to fire.
Tell me where you'd hide, you whisper in my ear. Your hot tongue darts out and licks my lobe, searing my skin, marking me as yours. I am.
I tell you how I wish I was in your apartment tonight. I bite my bottom lip. I see you watching; you grab me and pull be close. My breath a tickle on your neck, I whisper I want to see your clothes beside, your clothes beside your bed.
I guess I'm just a fool who never looks before she jumps.
You take me by the hand and lead me through the crowd. I know people will talk. I know just what they'll say. I wish I could say that everyone was wrong. I wish everyone was wrong. I know they're not and I don't care. I will only regret the things I don't do. I don't have many regrets. Who'll risk their own self respect in the name of desire? Lovers will.
We sit close in the cab; the city speeds by under stars I can't see. You tell me you're too old for me. I tell you I'm older than my years. Your hand is on my thigh. I am so alive I could die. You are the fire brought to my babylon, you tell my shoulder, so intimate the words lick me and leave me wet.
Every time I play an ace my partner always trumps.
At your place, we walk into this room and fumble in our haste. Clothes are quickly discarded. We lay it down. You devour me with taste. You stretch me with your hands. You love to watch me beg. You offer a la carte. It must feel good to stand above me while I worship at your alter and watch the ripples fade away.
I wake up in your twisted sheets the next morning, your hand still holding my breast. I find bruises on my thigh; souvenirs I will take home with me. So this is goodbye. This isn't for madder love. This is goodbye.
I guess I'll go through life just catching colds and missing trains.
Everything happens to me.
Time passes, I see men come and go. And how I wish I was in your bed tonight. To taste the salt upon, the salt upon your neck. To feel your body press, pressing down on me.
You are an indellible imprint on my mind; a sensation I can't forget. I know that life is for the taking. I still want that TV embrace.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
A Freakin' Sweet PSA From Jason
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Today I'd like to talk about something close to my heart. Television. For all you fans out there you know what this Sunday means. 9pm (8 central) is the return of the Family Guy. The show has been out of production for some time, well basically, it was yanked off the air. There have been hundreds of petitions sent to Fox and the DVD sales have been through the proverbial roof. So, the comedy is back and who could forget such memorable episodes when Peter says.....
Peter: Oh my god, Brian, there's a message in my Alpha bits. It says, 'Oooooo.'
Brian: Peter, those are Cheerios.
and
Peter: Ok, here's another riddle. A woman has two children. A homicidal murderer tells her she can only keep one. Which one does she let him kill?
Brian: That's... that's not a riddle. That's ... that's just terrible.
Peter: Wrong, the ugly one!
Watch it tonight!
If you miss it, you better be dead or in jail.
And if you're in jail, break out!
-Jason
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