Who at Hunt Insurance Wants a New Asshole?

So, our auto insurance just went up, like 230% unexpectedly.

I am ripping.

In fact, I am way more than that.

A prize to whomever can best define my anger.

I am a selfish bitch.

Sometimes, I tell Jason he can pick the movie/restaurant/sexual position. "Your choice" I tell him, as if I am a nice and generous person.

His face clouds over. He knows I am neither nice, nor generous. He declines my offer. "No, no, your pick," he'll insist, but I am steadfast. I make him pick.

And so he does.

And if he picks wrong, as in, picks anything other than what I was secretly hoping he'd pick all along, I will pout.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Can't sleep. Need sleep. When will I sleep? Please let me sleep. Can't live without sleep. Not sleeping makes me crazy. Cranky. Sleepy.

Can't sleep. Haven't slept all week. Cheese in bra still a mystery. Workin hard. So hard I can't even put the g in 'ing'. My poor archless feet groan in protest: the blisters have blisters. So many meetings, so many limp handshakes. Bought some red dishes. Too trendy? I like em. Also too busy to put the 'th' in 'them'. Considering red stemware - but how much red is too much red? Agonized over this problem so long I considered calling mother-in-law for a second opinion. But didn't. Saw Santa at the mall. And Frosty. And the Grinch. And SnowWhite. Since when is SnowWhite part of Santa's entourage? Got a courtesy invite from upstairs neighbours. Had to explain concept to Jason: no, dear, they don't really want us to go, they just don't want us to complain about the noise. And yet, 8 straight hours of loud Hindi music made us want to complain anyway. But we didn't. My blisters were oozing and I couldn't manage the stairs. First snowfall mercifully melted the next day. Car died, had to get a jump. Stayed up all night reading The Secret Life of Bees. Stayed up all the next night reading Atonement. Don't even remember reading Heart of the Matter. Bought some new lingerie. Receipt literally reads "Panties! Panties! Panties!" but this failed to cheer me up when the sleepy duckies became far too intimate with me on our first date. Missed the Christmas parade. Sad. But mostly tired. Oh sooo tired.....

Q: How do you know if you partied way too hard for a Monday night?

A: You find cheese in your bra the next morning.

Friday Fuckfest, Foo Style

Mmm mmm, Sweet Davey Grohl:



It wasn't just my eye he caught when he went from being the drummer in Nirvana to founder/guitarist/singer/songwriter of the Foo Fighters; pretty soon, the whole world was watching.

This year, the band celebrated its 10th anniversary (boy does that make me feel old) with the release of a two-disc album that is probably their best to date that highlights Dave's unique talent of writing songs that are equally relevant as hard-hitting rock songs and quiet-but-intense acoustic ones.



Dave Grohl gets my vote for this week's Most Fuckable, not just for his impressive breadth of talent, not just for his tattoos (which make me moist), not just for being a brown-eyed boy, but also for never taking himself too seriously. If you've seen any Foo videos, you know what I mean.

And, as luck would have it, this week they're playing Saturday Night Live, so be sure to tune in. And if they happen to play their recent single D.O.A., we'll all know it's meant for me. If that's not exciting enough, the show is hosted this week by none other than a veteran of the Friday Fuckfest, the delectable Jason Lee!

Fucktwat of the Week:



Yeah, yeah, I know, it's almost too easy to pick on Courtney Love. I mean, she's a train wreck teetering around on 2 pasty-white legs. But come on, isn't that half the fun of the Friday Fuckfest? I think so.

Also, being the arch nemesis of Dave Grohl, she falls into the role a little too well. You may remember that way back in the day, she was married to Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain. In fact, the song Heart Shaped Box was written for her:

Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel's Hair and baby's breath
Broken Hymen of your highness I'm left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back

Now, if you're thinking that those lyrics don't sound like the typical love song written for a beloved wife, ding ding ding, you're right on target. When Kurt Cobain committed suicide, he was in the process of divorcing Courtney. Now, as the ex-wife of a dead bandmate, she seems to think she should have control over the Nirvana songs, as opposed to say, oh, Dave Grohl, who was actually part of it. Tale as old as time, eh? Courtney is just a bleached blonde Yoko who knows the court system a little too well.

She's been in, and out, and in, and out, and in, in, in, because she just can't keep her nose out of the blow. Her husband killed himself, her bandmates (Hole) gave up a multi-million dollar career in music just to get away from her, and her daughter has been taken away. Besides the cocaine, she also has a hard time not assaulting people, including her fans. So, after Hole broke up, she released a solo album, and nobody cared. Ever since, she has stretcher out her 15 minutes of fame with a sure-fire 3-step process:

1. Have extensive plastic surgery:





Maybe it's just me, but if you go around saying you're addicted to plastic surgery, shouldn't your face not scare children anymore?

2. Flash your boobies:



I mean, they're not even nice for crying out loud!

3. Get arrested. A lot.



So, who wants to cleanse the palette with a little Bea Arthur after all of that nastiness?

Sheep Go To Heaven, Goats Go To Hell

Reasons why it's likely I will burn in hell:

1. Just yesterday I claimed that I was God. A tarot card reading then confirmed it.

2. I get annoyed by Jason's sneezes. I realize a more traditional response would be sympathy, or at least concern, but honestly, every time he starts sneezing, it grates on my nerves.

3. I covet Harry Potter. Even though he's like, 12. He's totally gonna be a hottie.



4. I don't wear my wedding rings when I go out with the girls. Actually, I don't wear them, period.

5. I routinely judge people on: what fruit they eat, where they get their hair cut, what books they have (and have not) read, and whether their pants are hemmed at the right place.

6. I don't apologize. In fact, I am adamant that I have never been wrong.

7. I get paid to lie professionally. I enjoy it.

8. Eavesdropping is one of my favourite hobbies.

9. I've practiced magic. In fact, I took a whole class where magic was referred to as a religion; I made my own candles in order to cast spells. I've been to a fortune teller. I've read palms. All of which is referred to as "prostitution against God" in the bible, which I refuse to capitalize, and have routinely critiqued.

10. The last time I was in the vicinity of a church, my elbow spontaneously combusted.

11. Of all the delicious, indulgent sex that I have ever had, none of it has ever been for procreation.



12. I am prideful and arrogant. Mostly arrogant, but for a good reason: I'm just plain better than everyone.

13. I once made a pact with the devil, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

14. I am a glutton. I drink 3 bottles of wine when technically I'm "drunk enough" after the first 1 1/2.



15. I'm greedy as hell. I take up all the bed, and the last Oreo, and Jason's favourite hoodie.

16. I routinely pray to a Troll doll. I believe it makes me a better bowler.



17. I believe that Sunday mornings are for sleeping in, Sunday afternoons are for sex, and Sunday nights are for poker.

18. I covet my neighbour's house. I mean, dude, he has a pool AND pink shutters. Life is SO not fair.

19. Sometimes I don't wear undies.

20. I want it all, but I don't want to work for it. I believe in delegating and profiting from the hard work of others. I live for sloth. I roll in it.

First Impressions

To commemorate the 1-month anniversary of our move, I have compiled a list of observations made living in a new place where we know absolutely no one:

1. On Thanksgiving Day, we found it funny to find that one mall in all of Canada remained open, that being The Pacific Mall. If you are unfamiliar with the Pacific Mall, all you need to know is that it's "the largest Chinese indoor mall in all of North America" - and they're not kidding. The mall contains no known brands - no Gap, no Toys R Us, no Body Shop. But there are over 400 stores, each of them more like cubicles than actual retail spaces. Many sell only a few products, and can fit only a couple of people at a time. And though it was almost 9 on Thanksgiving (Monday) night, the place was hopping. In fact, we had to wait a very long time to make a right turn into the place, during which time Jason played "count the Toyotas" but then got bored when he realized it wasn't much of a challenge - they're all Toyotas. There were a few different kareoke bars, lots of unfamiliar spices, and an awful lot of stores selling DVDs of movies I'm pretty sure are still in theatres (if you're not Asian, you can only purchase these if you're accompanied by an Asian friend...otherwise, expect to purchase a blank CD). Anyway, we were packed like sardines on an escalator, which is a big no-no for me, but we were unable to find stairs, when Jason remarked "Do you realize you are the only blonde in this entire building?" That was eerie, but not so eerie as when we realized that Jason had to duck in order not to whack his head on the light fixtures which, though lovely, were hung so low that anyone over 6' could not safely pass below them.

2. Our first weekend here was Jason's birthday. I made him chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. In doing so, I managed to set off the smoke detector. Luckily, it was 11:30am, so I don't think I woke anyone out of their beds, but I felt guilty that this was what I, the new girl, would now be known for. Setting of the fire alarm is particularly bad because:
a) When ours goes off, everyone's goes off.
b) Our apartment has no less than 4 sprinklers built in (keep in mind, it's a pretty small space). No one has told me just how sensitive these sprinklers are, and I really don't want to learn the hard way.
Anyhoo, I continued to feel embarrassed about this incident for about 3 days, until someone else set all the alarms off. We were still asleep that morning, and in our only half-awakened state, we immediately began opening our windows and fanning the air...for quite some time until we realized that this made no sense whatsoever. And a week after that, someone set them off at 12:30 at night. So we've been here a month, and we average 1 alarm per week, only one of which was caused by me. Phew.

3. We soon learned that we lived in "Phase 1" of a new composting endeavour - every week the city picks up our recycling and composting, but only picks up trash every two weeks, and even then, we're only allowed 1 bag of trash. At first I thought this was just a crazy Markham thing, but have since discovered that it doesn't encompass all of Markham at this time, but it does seep down past Steeles, so I have no idea who all is included in this exclusive Phase 1, but I think it's safe to call us all the "guinea pigs." Not that I mind. I am rather fond of the effort, and Jason and I are not great trash producers to begin with. Plus, knowing that they currently transport 50 000 tonnes of trash down to Michigan every year, I can kind of see where they're coming from. However, when the landlord was explaining the green bin program, I was greatly unsettled every time she'd list the compostables: tissues, food waste, nail clippings. But each time she came upon nail clippings, she'd look at me and lick her lips. I mean, you'd be frightened too, right? Anyway, these green bins come with their very own instructional DVDs, which claim the bins are rodent proof. No word on whether they're landlord-proof though, so we secure ours with bungee cord. Just in case.

4. The neighbours around here have complex names, at least to me. Guess how long it took me to learn those names? Actually, I still would not know them had I not finally seen them in print. I was beginning to think that these would be nodding-neighbours only. The best Jason could do was recall with some vagueness that "the girl name sounds like a car." Generally speaking, Jamie and Jason are not hard names for North American tongues, but we do wonder whether they struggled as much with ours as we did with theirs. Jason has also informed me that we probably smell like kraft dinner to them. Neither of us can remember the last time we ate that crap, but apparently this is our lot in life. You see, this particular area is known as one of the few places in North America where white people are the minority. Being from Ottawa, I am used to French and English. Here, there is no French at all, and few signs in English. There's a whole lot of Cantonese though, which made looking for stamps wayyyyy more of an adventure than it's ever been before!

5. As you know, I love to go on looong walks. However, out of the last 20 walks, I've gotten lost a good 19. There was one time I didn't get lost, but that's primarily because it started raining before I reached the end of my street, and I had to turn back. Luckily, the bread crumbs hadn't washed away yet. But every other time, I get lost. Not hopelessly, hug-a-tree lost, but just the kind of lost where I don't know where I am. I try to keep Steeles and McCowan as reference points, but if I get onto a street that loops, boy am I in trouble! My inner ear prevents me from knowing my North, South, East, or West. Especially west. That one's a real bugger. Getting mildly lost is one thing, but I've also gotten in the habit of walking right by my house, unnoticed. You see, I live in a large neighbourhood full of cookie-cutter houses. Every single one of them looks the same, and there are thousands of them! Once, I was strolling along happily, when I noticed that someone had the same ugly trash bin that we do. And then I noticed that our address was printed on the side of it. In my handwriting, with my Sharpie. And then I noticed that it was indeed my house that I was standing in front of. I felt like an idiot. I am an idiot.

6. As mentioned above, Jason and I are in the minority here. I thought I had encountered pretty much every accent there is, when I worked with tourists for the government. Boy was I wrong. I have this one acquaintance, Ricardo, who I somehow manage to bump into on a regular basis. He's a talker, and I'm a talker, but lord almighty, I have no idea what that man is saying.
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Pardon me?
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Um, what?
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Oh. 5 o'clock.
Seriously. I have this 2-whats-rule, and if I can't decode it by then, I just throw out an answer, and hope it applies. In all probability, this is what our conversations consist of:
Ricardo: Can you believe this weather we're having?
Jamie: What?
Ricardo: This weather. It's so warm, can you believe it?
Jamie: What?
Ricardo: This weather!
Jamie: Oh. 5 o'clock.

Any suggestions?

Toronto Public Library, Unite!

When moving to a new city, my first real concern is: where is the library? Is it lame?

Of course, the answer to these questions vary by location. For example, the downtown location in Ottawa on Metcalfe is awesome. The Gloucester version sucks: they had no Nabokov. None whatsoever. What kind of library is that?

The Cornwall library is actually pretty good for Cornwall (of course, it's consolidated, so there's only one branch). Still, they had all of 1 work of Stephen Leacock's. You know, Stephen Leacock, Canadian comedic genius and author extraordinaire? How can any Canadian city library have only one volume of his work for all of its 50 000 residents to share? This my friends, is a tragedy of libraric proportions.

Now, at the time of my move I was in the middle of reading The Brothers Karamazov, which was as good as I had anticipated, having very much enjoyed The Idiot, even though I still believe that all the great authors of yesteryear, Dostoevsky included, would have greatly benefited from an editor. But I didn't quite finish it, and I had to send it down the chute before I left town.

For the past month, I have relied on the stockpile of store-bought books I gathered up before the move. However, the pile was running low. Finally, during the last half of A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man, I began to sweat (and not just because I hate the Joyce). The last time I didn't have a book on the go was May 2001, and it didn't go well. Those 3 days were the worst days of my life; days I cared not to repeat.

But when I went through the awful process of sifting through Toronto's 99 branches to find the one closest to me, I made a disheartening discovery: my "local" branch not only keeps inconvenient hours and operates only 5 days a week, is actually closed for carpet cleaning for the next 3 weeks. Not good.

So we decided to try the Markham Public Library instead, so off we went to the closest branch, following signs marked 'library', into a building named 'library' and through a door labeled 'library', where we found...well, NOT a library. Just a room full of people, and not one book in sight. How did that happen?

Well, obviously we must have walked into a bus driver's symposium because the people were as friendly and helpful as all get-out (please note: extreme sarcasm was used during the making of the preceding sentence. I have found the bus drivers in this city to be extremely rude. In fact, rude does not quite cover the feelings I have toward them.)

Anyway, we finally tracked down a library that really was a library. And I finally got a copy of the Dostoevsky. And I finally remembered where I was at in the story when I left off (book 9, chapter 6). So all is well, except for one small thing: how will I ever remember where to return it?

Today I Love This Country

Well, I love this country on a pretty regular basis, BUT.

Only in Canada will you find the Prime Minister doing a cameo role on a silly little sitcom like Corner Gas.

Good for Paul Martin.

I'm already a bleeding heart for life, but I'd say his 30 second spot probably did more to up his likeability factor than all the million dollar ad campaigns he's launched combined. Maybe you're not such a snob after all, Paulie.