(Jason writes in BLUE)
3am So when I wrote earlier about "just 2 more sleeps", I was being optimistic. Stupidly, doggedly, optimistic. No such sleeps, but lookey, Christmas came anyway. It's a little sad to be up all alone at 3am in the wee hours of Christmas day; I suspect that even Santa is back home and safely in bed at this point.
Zzzzzzzz.......zzzzzzzz........zzzzzzzzzzz
The house looks beautiful. Superficially, it actually looks clean and orderly (if you keep the door to the spare room shut tightly). The garlands are hung a little crookedly (that's what I get for delegating them to Jason and his staple gun) but let me tell you this: I bought some beautiful tumeric plates that offset my new chili red ones, plus a new table runner and bold gold napkins that are to die for...seriously, my table settings will make you cream. It almost seems sacrilegious to eat on this table!
So I am up, alone, and contemplating getting a head start on my meatballs which will have to slow cook for 8 hours. Jason is in bed having wet dreams after I assured him that Sugar Plum Fairy was just some big-titted girl's stripper name. I just want to shake him awake and pile his mountain of gifts on top of him. We are so bad at keeping secrets from each other that keeping presents a surprise is a real challenge. Already he's given me a few: a fleece hoodie, The Penelopiad, and the collector's edition DVD of A Christmas Story (seriously folks, if you haven't seen it, do - it's a holiday classic).
4:31am The tedious part of meatballs is done. Now when I get up (for real this time), I'll just have to make the sauce and then throw them in the crockpot. Oddly, even the smell of two meats frying away in heaven did not rouse Jason from his sleep.
Zzzzzzzz.......zzzzzzzz........zzzzzzzzzzz
5:55am Okay, pie's done. Looks delish. I put it in the bar fridge where hopefully it won't get poked at. I had to use the mix master 4 separate times, and Jason still sleeps. What a kid. We'll both be glad to have such a good jump on all the food prep later, but I guarantee Jason will say something to the effect of : But I didn't get to lick the beaters!
Zzzzzzzz.......zzzzzzzz........zzzzzzzzzzz
8:58am After tossing, turning, and reading another 50 pages of The Cunning Man, I decided sleep was not for me, so I woke Jason up at 7:30 and we had Christmas right there and then. I poured strong mimosas, and he opened his stocking impatiently, eager to get to "the real presents." By 8, he was drunk, sugar-high, and half-buried beneath a mound of wrapping paper and bows. Now that, my friend, is Christmas.
I fought off the challenges of both champagne on no sleep, and one-handed unwrapping (someone has to yield the camcorder, right?) to reveal my bounty - among which, I found the Chuckies that I asked for one million times!
Wholly Crap! It's Christmas. The one day a year where no one calls me a "gourmand" because I had thirds and fourths of dessert. Also, the presents rocked! There was everything I asked for and stuff I didn't even know I wanted. From an iPod to Booze to Simpsons DVD Seasons to PS2 games, it was awsome. There wasn't a package of socks or tighty whities anywhere. Thanks Jamie!!
Mother-in-law called to say she fought off tears opening her gift. After I basked in the warm glow of giving a good gift, I realized: she's coming for 5 damn days. Shit.
Meanwhile, Jason really got into the Christmas spirit by playing one of his new video games, where I witnessed some carjacking, cop killing, prostitution, and bmxing all rolled into one. Lucky me.
She's just jealous it's not a two player game.
10:05am Tired. Very tired. Going to bed for nap. Jason insists on staying up so he can "play with his toys."
Figured out the iPod and downloaded crappy music. Well, crappy according to someone I know.
1:45pm Up, but still tired. However, el turkey beckons. Must give him intimate bath in all the right places. Oh my!
Now I'm jealous.
4:52pm Chez my grandparents, we always had Christmas dinner at about 4:30pm. They're seniors, you see. Once we had to hold dinner until almost 4:45 and my grandfather nearly fainted from hunger and anticipation. Today we'll eat on our terms, when our bellies are ready for it. And as for 4:30pm, well, that was a great time for sex.
Enough said.
7:33pm Realized that Jason neglected to remove the turkey's neck.
8:06pm All told it took about 7 hours of hard labour to cook the meal, and about 20 minutes to consume it, 15 minutes of queasiness over not having made even the slightest dent in the mounds of food, and 4 hours to groan about having over-eaten before I started eating again. I parched myself in the kitchen, so I gulped down wine a little too enthusiastically. I dirtied my new hoodie. Wished my Nanny a merry Christmas. Indulged Jason. Had to remove my pants because the fridge just didn't have enough room for all the leftovers. Had to admit a certain satisfaction since the meal turned out perfectly, all seventy kabillion courses of it, and not even any lumps in the gravy, thankyouverymuch.
10:23pm Drunk. Still full, probably because I'm trying to give the leftover curds a good home. Decided mountain of dishes will still be there tomorrow. Dessert has not been attempted (well, at least not by me). Watched Jason play with some of his new toys. Must go to bed soon - so much hard work, so little sleep. Between the drunkenness, the bellyful, and the exhaustion, my body has become dead weight. Earlier, I worried that I might have to live out the rest of my natural life sucked between the sofa cushions.
6:13am Ah, welcome boxing day, day of boxes, day of dishes and leftovers and hopefully rest. I dropped into bed just after 11, fell almost immediately asleep (which I have not done since I was 7), and slept like the dead for 2 solid hours before overheating (winos sweat a lot in their sleep, but the sweat is sweet like wine). Left the bed and have not been back since.
I think it's safe to say that Christmas was a success. Coming from a large and boisterous family, I am unused to such quiet celebrations, but I must say that I rather enjoyed it. We made our own schedule, we unbuttoned our pants without fear of recrimination, and best of all, we left the mess until later. It was a cozy day and predict I will be tempted in the future to keep all Christmases to a party of 2. But towards the end of the night, with food for 20 more piled high in the fridge, at least half a dozen loads of dirty dishes piled in and around the sink, wads of discarded wrapping paper still crinkling underfoot, and delicious sweet potato still undigested in our stomachs, we couldn't help but turn to each other and ask, So, what are we doing for New Year's?
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Just 2 More Sleeps.
I've mostly been too busy to notice that Christmas is coming. As per usual, I managed to get my holiday cards out in good time, but it's all down hill from there.
I blame the move, mostly. I couldn't put up the decorations on the 1st (following tradition) since it didn't make sense to put it all up for a few days, tear it down, pack it up, move it across the hall only to unpack it, put it up for a few more days, and then tear it back down and pack it away until next year. So I elected to only put it up in the second apartment...only...once I got here, I just kind of plunked down boxes willy nilly and then plunked down myself in complete and utter exhaustion.
The decorations are still not up.
I did some holiday baking, when I was able to uncover both the ingredients and the oven (oddly, the oven was the harder one to find). Also, I managed to get my Christmas shopping done well ahead of schedule, with gifts wrapped and in an ugly pile (NOT UNDER A TREE) for Jason, and the rest shipped off to family many kilometers away.
So I wondered to myself what I could do to put myself in the holiday mood. When I was a kid in school, we would colour pictures of the baby Jesus, and glue macaroni to green construction paper and call it an ornament (my mother still hangs these mouldy offerings in her tree faithfully each year), and learn songs that irritatingly still occupy mucho space in my head today (au petit trot s'en va le cheval avec ses grelots....). My mother would attempt to pile her 4 daughters on Santa's 1 little lap for the classic family photo and then she'd tell us how Santa really doesn't like milk and cookies nearly so much as he likes Doritos and daiquiris (coincidentally my mother's favourites also).
But, it's safe to say that none of these things were doing it for me this year. So I did what any sane person would do: I bought a colouring book, a box of 96 crayons, and I rented Tis The Season to Be Smurfy. It was just like I remembered it. Smurftastic.
Last night (or rather, earlier this evening, as it is 4:41 am and this little girl has still not seen her bed, except for a brief romp which was completely sleep-unrelated) Jason took me to the Lindsay Lights, a smurftacular display of lights and music which is actually just the work of 2 dudes with some time on their hands and their parents' sprawling yard at their disposal. For some reason, we actually drove half an hour outside of the city to see that, which meant that we then had to use the all-night grocery store to get everything but the turkey (the butterball has been defrosting all week), and then we had to go on a fevered search for booze because apparently we're both unwilling to face the holidays sober.
So now we are set to encounter the great unknown: Christmas for 2. Oh, we'll have food enough for 12, and liquor enough for 20, but there'll just be me and Jason. What, oh what shall we do?
If we don't hit the mimosas too hard, we may attempt to blog the day (otherwise we'll never know how we spent it). But there's also a high probability that Jason will incur yet another severe beating thanks to his knack for getting me "practical" gifts, although after last year's lashing, you'd think he'd understand that hair products are not smurfaroonie for Christmas.
Whatever December 25th means to you (and even if it means nothing at all), I wish you love and peace and pie.
And remember: syphilis is not a Christmas gift.
Be good; Santa's watching.
I blame the move, mostly. I couldn't put up the decorations on the 1st (following tradition) since it didn't make sense to put it all up for a few days, tear it down, pack it up, move it across the hall only to unpack it, put it up for a few more days, and then tear it back down and pack it away until next year. So I elected to only put it up in the second apartment...only...once I got here, I just kind of plunked down boxes willy nilly and then plunked down myself in complete and utter exhaustion.
The decorations are still not up.
I did some holiday baking, when I was able to uncover both the ingredients and the oven (oddly, the oven was the harder one to find). Also, I managed to get my Christmas shopping done well ahead of schedule, with gifts wrapped and in an ugly pile (NOT UNDER A TREE) for Jason, and the rest shipped off to family many kilometers away.
So I wondered to myself what I could do to put myself in the holiday mood. When I was a kid in school, we would colour pictures of the baby Jesus, and glue macaroni to green construction paper and call it an ornament (my mother still hangs these mouldy offerings in her tree faithfully each year), and learn songs that irritatingly still occupy mucho space in my head today (au petit trot s'en va le cheval avec ses grelots....). My mother would attempt to pile her 4 daughters on Santa's 1 little lap for the classic family photo and then she'd tell us how Santa really doesn't like milk and cookies nearly so much as he likes Doritos and daiquiris (coincidentally my mother's favourites also).
But, it's safe to say that none of these things were doing it for me this year. So I did what any sane person would do: I bought a colouring book, a box of 96 crayons, and I rented Tis The Season to Be Smurfy. It was just like I remembered it. Smurftastic.
Last night (or rather, earlier this evening, as it is 4:41 am and this little girl has still not seen her bed, except for a brief romp which was completely sleep-unrelated) Jason took me to the Lindsay Lights, a smurftacular display of lights and music which is actually just the work of 2 dudes with some time on their hands and their parents' sprawling yard at their disposal. For some reason, we actually drove half an hour outside of the city to see that, which meant that we then had to use the all-night grocery store to get everything but the turkey (the butterball has been defrosting all week), and then we had to go on a fevered search for booze because apparently we're both unwilling to face the holidays sober.
So now we are set to encounter the great unknown: Christmas for 2. Oh, we'll have food enough for 12, and liquor enough for 20, but there'll just be me and Jason. What, oh what shall we do?
If we don't hit the mimosas too hard, we may attempt to blog the day (otherwise we'll never know how we spent it). But there's also a high probability that Jason will incur yet another severe beating thanks to his knack for getting me "practical" gifts, although after last year's lashing, you'd think he'd understand that hair products are not smurfaroonie for Christmas.
Whatever December 25th means to you (and even if it means nothing at all), I wish you love and peace and pie.
And remember: syphilis is not a Christmas gift.
Be good; Santa's watching.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Hello. My name is Jamie; I'm a Canadian and I hate hockey.
So help me god.
When we moved to Toronto from Ottawa, our new landlord actually thought it was important to warn us that we should cheer for the Senators very quietly if we didn't want to be knifed.
No problem.
My IQ is like, oh, 100 points too high to think that hockey is any way, shape or form, entertaining. I mean, it's just a bunch of guys who would otherwise be unemployed, and most of whom are too dumb to tie their own skates, smashing into each other on ice. It's just ice capades on steroids really, and with dumber costumes and less attractive men. For most of these numbskulls, the drunk tank is their second home, and yet we arm them with blades and big sticks, and then sell tickets at 200 bucks a pop to see who can have the most teeth knocked out. Frankly, I think fans of hockey are not much smarter than the players.
But hey, that's just me. Just because I think literacy and culture are more worthy pursuits than watching a neanderthal chase a tiny black puck doesn't mean that anyone else does. For the most part, it's easy enough to stay oblivious to the whole hockey thing. I avoid the sports page and any drinking establishment where a large proportion of the patrons wear jerseys, and I do okay. Except when I go home.
Like many Canadians, I come from a mixed family. Some of them (inexplicably) like the Habs. Some of them (fervently) like the Leafs (there are Canucks and Sens fans in the mix also, but these teams are mostly peripheral). This has created a rift in the family that gets particularly nasty during match-ups and play-offs. My sister is a die-hard Leafs fan. Her life's ambition is to marry Mats Sundin. Her bedroom looks like the Leafs giftshop had explosive diarrhea in it. My grandfather, who is also a Leafs fan, pretends to be a Canadiens fan just to rile her up. There have been tears at Christmas dinner because of this.
As for myself, well, I can think of about a kabillion things I'd rather do on a Saturday night than sit in a ratty recliner eating pork rinds and drinking cheap beer, and screaming at the TV because the damn ref isn't calling icing on the other team.
When we moved to Toronto from Ottawa, our new landlord actually thought it was important to warn us that we should cheer for the Senators very quietly if we didn't want to be knifed.
No problem.
My IQ is like, oh, 100 points too high to think that hockey is any way, shape or form, entertaining. I mean, it's just a bunch of guys who would otherwise be unemployed, and most of whom are too dumb to tie their own skates, smashing into each other on ice. It's just ice capades on steroids really, and with dumber costumes and less attractive men. For most of these numbskulls, the drunk tank is their second home, and yet we arm them with blades and big sticks, and then sell tickets at 200 bucks a pop to see who can have the most teeth knocked out. Frankly, I think fans of hockey are not much smarter than the players.
But hey, that's just me. Just because I think literacy and culture are more worthy pursuits than watching a neanderthal chase a tiny black puck doesn't mean that anyone else does. For the most part, it's easy enough to stay oblivious to the whole hockey thing. I avoid the sports page and any drinking establishment where a large proportion of the patrons wear jerseys, and I do okay. Except when I go home.
Like many Canadians, I come from a mixed family. Some of them (inexplicably) like the Habs. Some of them (fervently) like the Leafs (there are Canucks and Sens fans in the mix also, but these teams are mostly peripheral). This has created a rift in the family that gets particularly nasty during match-ups and play-offs. My sister is a die-hard Leafs fan. Her life's ambition is to marry Mats Sundin. Her bedroom looks like the Leafs giftshop had explosive diarrhea in it. My grandfather, who is also a Leafs fan, pretends to be a Canadiens fan just to rile her up. There have been tears at Christmas dinner because of this.
As for myself, well, I can think of about a kabillion things I'd rather do on a Saturday night than sit in a ratty recliner eating pork rinds and drinking cheap beer, and screaming at the TV because the damn ref isn't calling icing on the other team.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Oops.
I did it again.
After swearing it off, and swearing a bunch, I still did it again.
I moved.
If anyone finds the tendon I am missing from my left arm, please forward it to me immediately.
After swearing it off, and swearing a bunch, I still did it again.
I moved.
If anyone finds the tendon I am missing from my left arm, please forward it to me immediately.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Because I Can
I'm trying to grow a handlebar mustache.
It's harder than it sounds.
I've been at it since October, and I think I'm finally starting to make some progress. Not that you can tell. No stubble yet. No whiskers. No 5 o'clock shadow, or 4 o'clock shadow. It ain't even noon yet as far as my upper lip is concerned, but I'm not worried. I have a plan: I am on a serious diet of black olives, stout beer, raw garlic by the head, and green bananas, and it's really starting to work. So far I've only sprouted hair on my chest, but I figure my face has got to be next. I'll be stachin with the best of them soon.
I know it's hot, but try to control yourself.
Why am I growing a mustache, you ask? Well, the answer is simple.
It's proof. Proof that I really can do anything I put my mind to. Proof that will sit prominently on my face like a furry dead rodent of enlightenment for all the world to see.
It's harder than it sounds.
I've been at it since October, and I think I'm finally starting to make some progress. Not that you can tell. No stubble yet. No whiskers. No 5 o'clock shadow, or 4 o'clock shadow. It ain't even noon yet as far as my upper lip is concerned, but I'm not worried. I have a plan: I am on a serious diet of black olives, stout beer, raw garlic by the head, and green bananas, and it's really starting to work. So far I've only sprouted hair on my chest, but I figure my face has got to be next. I'll be stachin with the best of them soon.
I know it's hot, but try to control yourself.
Why am I growing a mustache, you ask? Well, the answer is simple.
It's proof. Proof that I really can do anything I put my mind to. Proof that will sit prominently on my face like a furry dead rodent of enlightenment for all the world to see.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Jason Doesn't Fart.
I realize this probably sounds like heaven to many of you ladies who complain about disgusting, stinky husbands, but let's think on this subject just a little further:
1. Jason does not fart. DOES NOT FART.
2. Jamie, a very demure and genteel lady, admittedly farts on occasion. Tiny, adorable baby farts that Jason refers too as "toots" because apparently that's more ladylike.
Now do the math.
1 + 2 = I am the farter in the family!
Dear God!
1. Jason does not fart. DOES NOT FART.
2. Jamie, a very demure and genteel lady, admittedly farts on occasion. Tiny, adorable baby farts that Jason refers too as "toots" because apparently that's more ladylike.
Now do the math.
1 + 2 = I am the farter in the family!
Dear God!
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