| Saturday, April 30, 2005 |
| Wisdom in 5 Words or Less: |
| Tomorrow is too late. |
posted by Jay @ 5:10 AM
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| Friday, April 29, 2005 |
| Friday Fuckfest |
Fucktwat of the week:
Anna Ayala
You will remember that some time ago that a woman found a finger in a bowl of Wendy's chili. When contacted for an interview, the estate of Dave Thomas was not very forthcoming. Sales have plummeted for the fast food chain ever since, but the story is now revealing itself not as the case of the missing finger, but as a hoax perpetrated by the phony victim. Anna Ayala apparently commits fraud for a hobby. (Artist rendering can be found here).This is not the first time she's sued a fast-food joint for damages in a similar case, and she is currently facing charges for defrauding and wrongfully evicting a woman and her children from their mobile home, which she sold to them despite the fact she didn't actually own it. She has been involved in 13 previous lawsuits, including others that have in fact paid off. Add the grand theft charge on top of that (Wendy's claims to have lost about $31 million since the incident), and this sue-happy lady is looking at over 6 years of possible prison time. The case was busted open with some great old-fashioned detective work, with findings including:
1. No Wendy's employees "seem" to be missing fingers.
2. No vomit was found at the scene of the crime.
3. The finger was not cooked (Wendy's simmers chili for hours).
Wendy's is celebrating their innocence with free Frostys for the Bay Area residents most affected by the debacle, and I think it's safe to say that they will be happier still to see this litigious woman behind bars. Shame on you Anna Ayala, shame on you.
Only one question remains: where DID she get that finger?
Fucker of the week:
My knee
It dislocated again on Wednesday, no biggie, it happens often enough, usually I can pound it back into its socket with a little sweat and a lot of swearing. Not so this week. The fucker just wouldn't click into place. I've been walking around with one stiff leg (I look like a demented soldier) for 2 days now, but you haven't heard the good news yet. The really good news is that I just got this cute flirty new skirt, that ends right above the knee (risky for someone my height!), and I have this big ugly purple knee glaring out from under it. It's really attractive. Ah yes, it's just another prime example of that fabulous Jay luck I have.
Most fuckable of the week:
Before the Tony Awards, the Emmy, the half dozen Academy nominations, and actually taking home the coveted Oscar statuette, before "Whoooah" and Serpico, before "Attica! Attica!", before Michael Corleone even, there was just a guy named Al who happens to have the most gorgeous bedroom eyes this world has ever or will ever see.
Al Pacino...think he'll take me home? With that gravelly voice and quiet strength, I doubt it would be a hard sell. Great Al quote to sum up the week: "When in doubt... fuck."
Drive safely, and tip your waitresses.Labels: Fuckfest |
| posted by Jay @ 2:50 AM
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| Thursday, April 28, 2005 |
| Randomly Observing Life, Fact #38 |
| Boys spend a disproportionate amount of time in the shower washing their genitals. Labels: Perversity, Randomocity |
| posted by Jay @ 4:44 PM
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| Wednesday, April 27, 2005 |
| Naked Jamie on a Llama - Coming Soon to a Petting Zoo Near You! |
Okay Kim, you saucy little minx, after a whole day pestering me to do this little meme of yours (hmmm...make that persistent, saucy minx), I have finally caved, so you'd better feel honoured and special because I don't do these for just anyone.
If I could be an athlete, I'd take up running. When I was a kid, I had (briefly) one of those real supportive fathers who swore at me when he wasn't ignoring my existence, and one of the only things I really remember him saying to me was "You run like a girl" and they way he said it made me feel like it wasn't a good thing. So this made me very self-conscious, and coupled with my fear of balls (no snickering, please), I turned out to be really unathletic (my current favourite sport: grocery shopping). So yes, I would run. Right now the best I do is jog on the treadmill while reading a book, and it's all I can do not to fall off. If I was a trained athlete, I would pull a Forrest Gump. One day, I would just drop whatever I was doing and take off. I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, home to some of the most friendly people. It would be amazing to set out on foot with just the clothes on my back, and see what might happen. I'd totally need to have my picture taken with all of the "world's biggest" things that I came across - Canada is a big country, so we have BIG roadside attractions, like the world's biggest apple in Colborne ON, and the axe in Nackawic NB, and the lobster trap in Cheticamp NS, and the dinosaur in Drumheller AB. I would run until I'd seen everything, and exploited people of their monetary resources for some totally worthy cause, a la Terry Fox perhaps, and I would feel like I had really accomplished something in this life. Oh, and a cult following would be nice too, and I promise I would never, EVER, wear those indecent, itty bitty running shorts. Nuh uh.
If I could be a musician, I would learn piano. I would need to have plastic surgery on my thumbs first, I have really stunted thumbs. I have lost every thumb war I have ever been in because even 3 year olds have longer/bigger thumbs than I do. But I love the sounds of the piano, so haunting and powerful. And I would play so well that all the dumb piano bimbos like Sarah McLachlan and Diana Krall and all the other whats-her-faces would have to form a support group just to cry themselves to sleep at night. I would put them all out of business. Then I would buy myself a Bedazzler and some oversized glasses so I could bring back the glam Elton John movement, and I would wear a tuxedo with tails and play standing up, and have men throw their manties at me on stage. But I wouldn't let the fame go to my head or anything, oh no, I'll eat humble pie all the way.
If I could be a painter, I would throw out all my pencils and pads. I would trash this blog and never write another word, because I wouldn't have to. To pour all my thoughts and feelings into one piece of artwork seems so energy efficient to me. No more agonizing after every last comma, no more struggles with dictionaries and thesauruses. I would just paint, in vivid colours and bold shapes, to my heart's content. Mme Boileau who once said to me "Jamie, le canard ressemble beaucoup l'orignal que vouz avez peinturé la semaine dernière" could eat her words. So what if my water buffalo looks like a sea plane looks like a tulip looks like my mother. It's impressionistic, dahhhling, so take your opinion and shove it. My high school art teacher "got" me much better, she let my lack of actual skill slide because I was bursting with creativity and had great use of colour. I am a visionary trapped in the body of a writer. Oh, and fyi, I MEANT to colour outside the lines - I was being ironic!
If I could be an inn-keeper, I would make sure there was always one room unoccupied "just in case." I would make each room a comfortable, sensory experience. I would have a very well-stocked bar, and I would bake a continuous supply of my famous cheesecakes. The inn would always be filled with mouth-watering aromas, and it would be a comfortable space for arty, intellectual types to congregate and socialize. I would have a huge room as a library, filled with all of my favourite books, no Danielle Steel or Stephen King allowed. I would have a large staff to run the inn efficiently, and after I spent the morning baking cheesecakes, I would curl up in the library with a glass of wine and a good book, and savour both all afternoon until it was time to get ready for another cocktail party with my witty, highbrow friends.
If I could be a llama rider, I would do so nude. First, because to the best of my recollection, I have never seen a naked woman riding a llama, and second, because I believe the men out in the desert (where I imagine these llamas to be) have rarely seen a woman at all, and they would probably really appreciate such a sight. They might even throw gold coins at me. True, my thighs may get chapped, but that's me, a selfless woman to the core, give, give, give, that's all I do. Of course, I would require a parasol at least, because I am quite fair, and some chapstick, and some daiquiris to keep me cool, and one of those men whose sole purpose in life is to feed me grapes (green, seedless), and someone back home to Tivo me episodes of Gilmore Girls, and a few dozen postcards so I could write to my friends cryptic messages like 'Hey Kelly, I'm still riding the llama. Man it's hot in Saudi Arabia. Wish you were here!'Labels: Randomocity |
| posted by Jay @ 3:09 AM
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| Tuesday, April 26, 2005 |
| Sweet Nothings |
Emails during a workday:
(from Jason, to Jay)
Email me, you fucker.
Love,
J
xo
*********
(Jamie's reply to Jason)
Jesus.
The use of foul language young man is entirely unacceptable.
You should be scolded.
Which reminds me:
-you did not clean the grill
-you did not bring out recycle
So, in fact, you will be scolded.
A major spanking will be inflicted, and whatever other punishments I see fit.
Oh, and no potato salad for you!
J
****************
(Jason writes back)
Dear Jason's Wife,
Clean the grill?!? That's woman's work.
And the recycle, sorry.
I'll take the spanking, but please let me have some of your delicious potatoe salad!
Love,
J
P.S. Yeah, I didn't mean that grill thing. ;)
*********
Dear Jamie's Bitch,
Yeah, you'd better watch your back.
I am not known for my tenderness.
By the way, I did indeed get hatemail from yesterday's post.
Some guy told me my use of foul language was vulgar and unlady-like,
and that I should be struck down by God for saying such things about
the pope.
So there.
J
***********
(to which Jason says)
*pitht*
Oh well, there'll always be people like that. And we don't like 'em.Labels: Romantic Puke |
| posted by Jay @ 2:33 PM
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| Monday, April 25, 2005 |
| Stop Right There, Thank You Very Much. |
Outside this weekend, hooking up the power carwash thingy to the hose at the side of the house.
I can't get the tap to turn on, I try both ways and it seems stuck.
"Jason, which way do I turn it for ON?"
"Righty tighty, lefty loosey."
Whoa.
Did he just say what I think he did?
I collapse to the ground in a fit of laughter. I scrape my knees, my elbows, one cheek. Gravel gets in the cuts, but I can't stop laughing.
Who am I married to?Labels: Life According to Jason |
| posted by Jay @ 5:42 PM
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| Saturday, April 23, 2005 |
| Obey My Authority |
Today I am sharing with you some stuff that I've enjoyed in the hopes that you will reciprocate. Don't worry about whether I'll like it, just tell me that you did, and that's enough. Just try to keep things somewhat off the beaten path (no Harry Potter, for example) and we'll all be happy.
What to Watch:
The Hour (plays in Canada on CBC Monday - Thursday, live at 8pm)
I'm really excited about this show, because it's not just reporting the news, it's talking about it. A newscast gives you the bare bones of a story; The Hour gives us the meat. It gives opinions, biases, points of view. It's a rare commodity, and it makes information seem way less tedious. Mr. George Stroumboulopoulos is at the helm, not just a hottie but an informed source, along with several contributors who make the show a rich, irreverent mosaic. Unlike the blank-faced, straight-laced deadpan feel of other news shows, this one is unafraid to run from somber to sarcastic. It's a show that anyone can watch, and everyone should watch. The Hour is changing the face of the news (thank God). Way to go CBC, I didn't know you had it in ya.
What to See:
The Third Wheel
This was one of those accidental rentals that turned out surprisingly well. I think it went direct to video a couple of years ago, but man, I laughed so hard. I don't even know what it was. It's just one of those ridiculous movies that make no overt sense, you just have to have a feel for it. It stars Luke Wilson (yay!), Ben Affleck, and Denise Richards. I would normally never willingly watch a Denise Richards movie, but she's subdued in this movie, and actually, it's more about Jay Lacopo, a dude you may not have heard of but who definitely deserves some props. You need to watch it to understand, so don't just stand there, bust a move.
What to Read:
Life of Pi, Yann Martel
If you haven't read it yet, just go get it. Don't read reviews, don't even read the blurb on the dust jacket. Just pick it up and start reading. The story itself is fascinating, purportedly "a story that will make you believe in God", but it's in the last few pages that I guarantee you your life will change. You have to worship a book that will do that for you.
What to Hear:
Ostensibly, Our Lady Peace (aka my favourite band ever, hands down, no doubt about it, so back the hell off) was coming out with a new much-anticipated (at my house anyway) album called "Vampires" in March. It didn't happen. The new release date seems to be July, so the bastards are making me wait. I can already guarantee that it will be worth the wait though, because these boys can do no wrong. In the meantime, try downloading Somewhere Out There or Innocent from their last album, Gravity. You'll fall in love. Incidentally, the band's lead singer Raine Maida reigns in all his rock star glory on a permanent spot on my 10 Hottest Men Ever list (I'm thinking of making George a place on the list, think I could swap out the gay guy?) and if you listen to that first song carefully, you'll hear a line dedicated to Moi: "I miss your purple hair, I miss the way you taste." Now, I'm not a girl to kiss and tell, but holy fuck yeah. Of course he's married now (to Chantal Kreviazuk) and so am I actually, but I'll always have that song. :)
Okay, so do your worst. What have you got for me?Labels: Books |
| posted by Jay @ 3:18 PM
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| Friday, April 22, 2005 |
| Friday Fuckfest |
Most Fuckable This Week:
Yup, she's a chick, but damn, she's hot! Take a look. I'd totally do her. I don't know anyone who would turn down a steamy makeout section with the lovely, luscious Miss Keira Knightly.
Fucktard of the week:
Pope Benedict XVI
Even I can admit that putting the Pope in the same category as Britney Spears is a little harsh, but the truth is, any guy who names himself after eggs is an easy target.
Further evidence:
1. He's Catholic and he's conservative. Two big strikes against him. He opposes birth control, women in the clergy, and homosexuality. Which pretty much makes him a bigot.
2. Have you seen his hat?
3. The Pope-Mobile is pretty much a joke in and of itself.
4. Pope merchandise. Okay, maybe I could ignore the t-shirts, the keychains, the posters, the plaques...but here's where the buck stops for me: a CD/DVD of papal prayers including 'performances by n'sync, Britney Spears, and Faith Hill.
Fucker of the week:
The Kabbalah (because I may as well make enemies out of all religious factions, right?)
I'm pretty cool with the Kabbalah from 10 years ago; what I don't like is any fad religion. You know, the kind of religions that are trendy to follow, if following means basically wearing a string and pretending to be spiritual in certain music videos.
I mean, it must be nice to be a skanky ho bag and then have it all absolved just by tying a string to your wrist. Pretty convenient, I'd say. Easier than going to confession, much easier than actually changing your lifestyle. And believe me, when I think 'devout', I definitely think Madonna. Don't you?Labels: Fuckfest |
| posted by Jay @ 1:10 PM
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| Thursday, April 21, 2005 |
| Good Day/Bad Day |
This is an evil little game I like to play with myself, it really brings out my inner masochist.
Exhibit A: I wake up to the sounds of the rusty hinges of the mail box being painfully exercised. "Hmm," I think "it sounds like 11am." 11am!!! I roll over in my luscious bed, and peak through one eye: 11:07am, reads the alarm clock. Shit.
Verdict: Bad. I promised myself I'd be up by 9:30 (while of course taking no precautions to make this so).
Exhibit B: Belly is growling (loud enough for Arkansas to complain), and I contemplate whether it's a good idea to wield a great big bread knife so early in the morning. Imagine my delight when I discover the bagels are pre-cut!
Verdict: Good.
Exhibit C: Time for a shower. For the first time in months, the hot water lasts as long as I do (running time: 36 minutes of soapy, 80s song-belting goodness). However, husband thoughtlessly left me only crumbs of soap (why do man hands crush bars of soap into dust every time?) and I have to use body wash and those damn sissy sponge-on-a-string contraptions that I hate.
Verdict: draw
Exhibit D: Clutching a too-small towel to certain body parts and dripping copiously on the carpeting, I find that I must work pantless today until I've done laundry.
Verdict: Indifferent; nudity is only slightly less professional/formal than the pink Eeyore pajama pants that I normally wear for work.
Exhibit E: Sit down to edit the stuff that I wrote yesterday. In today's light, it all sounds like shit. I decide I'm either being too self-critical or someone slipped me a moron pill, and I'm not sure which I'd rather it be. No work today.
Verdict: Bad.
Exhibit F: My naked thighs stick to the leather chair; when I stand up, it feels like I'm being skinned.
Verdict: Very bad. Ouch, mother fucker!
Exhibit G: Jorge affirms that I hate everything, asserts that he is better at being brown than I am, and cheers me up with haikus. A couple that he wrote, at my request (I supplied the brilliant titles):
Overweight Antelopes
Lounging in the grass
Chewing on Vegetation
Not giving a damn
Inverted Eyelashes That Poke You In the Cornea
Just walking along
Suddenly a flash of pain
Stupid Eyelashes!
Verdict: Good. In a bad kind of way.
Exhibit H: I have a headache. Must take pills and lie down to read (darnabies!). While reading very nice Alice Munro book, I fall asleep for a good 20 minutes.
Verdict: Goodish. It should be bad, but I sleep so rarely (and never nap) that this mid-day decadence just feels too damn good to feel bad about.
Exhibit I: Nothing will cheer me up like a nice stroll outside. I even Fabreezed my running shoes yesterday, so that will be pleasant! Oh wait, it's raining outside. And I'm wearing a white t-shirt.
Verdict: Bad for me, great for my neighbour.
Exhibit J: Gilmore Girls is on. It's a new one.
Verdict: Not goodish. Although it's one of my favourite shows, that Rory is really getting on my nerves. "Wah wah, I had sex with a delicious boy and so obviously I assumed we would get married and live happily ever after but now he's not calling me so I got drunk on two (2!) glasses of punch and puked it up while mummy held my hair." Dear Rory: shut the hell up.
Exhibit K: It's bedtime, the headache is back with a vengeance, my tummy is upset at something, I just drank 2 bottles of water too quickly and will surely be up peeing all night long, and Jason just got home for a 2 day weekend, meaning goodbye personal space and the freedom to drink all day long without judgment.
Verdict: Goddamn shitty asshole wanker of a day.Labels: Classic Jamie, I'm Freaking Out |
| posted by Jay @ 12:08 PM
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| Wednesday, April 20, 2005 |
| Getting to Know You |
Dotbar was kind enough to "lend" me
this format.
Please tell me
a)the name of your blog
b)what that name means (to you)
Mine is
a) Kill the Goat
b) This is a reference to a bit that Adam Sandler does on his albums. As I told Dotbar, and as you should all know by now, Adam is the god of my idolatry.
It started on his 'What the Hell Happened to Me?' album with a bit called simply 'The Goat' but the genius came on the next album 'What's Your Name?' with The Goat Song. Man, every time I hear it, it brings back memories.
Lyrics to The Goat Song (it reads like a heart-wrenching epic, trust me)
I am a simple goat. I live on the back of a pick-up truck. The Old Man tied me here with a three-foot rope. Am I happy? He don't give a fuck.
"Hey Goat! I'm gonna beat your head in with the hickory stick!" Sometimes he uses his fists. He's filled with anger, and filled with rage and tells me I smell like piss.
His drink, Jimmy Beam, his chaser, a beer. After that, various alcohols. That's when the beatings get so severe. Asleep I pray he falls.
But don't feel sorry for me. Things weren't always this bad. Why, when I was a young talking goat the Old Man was just like my dad. I come from the hills of Europe, that's where I met the Old Man. He was lost in the woods, I gave him directions. He gave me a tuna can then he stopped in his tracks and he said "Hey Goat! Would you like to live with me? I've got a house with a pick-up truck in a place across the sea."
I said "Sure, why not? I've got no family. You seem like a nice guy." So we went off to America, the home of apple pie. On the boat the Old Man told me I would be a present for his wife. "A talking goat!" he exclaimed "she'd never seen this in her life." I felt so special! Well, I just couldn't believe it. After all these years I finally had a friend. He trimmed my beard, he scraped my hooves, I prayed it would never end.
But when we got to his house there was no wife, only a short, short letter. It said "I'm leaving you for your brother because he fucks me better." His eyes filled with tears of sadness, his heart was filled with grief. To soothe himself he drank a pint of Old Granddad and beat me like a side of beef. I cried "Send me back to the hills of Europe!" He just shook his head and said "Nope! No one will ever leave me again. To make sure, put on this three-foot fucking rope."
Present day, I've been on the truck for 51 years; my only friend is the AM radio. Sometimes the neighbourhood children stop by but it's always rocks and beer bottles that they throw. At first they're excited to see a talking goat. They gather around to hear what I have to say. But I guess sometimes my stories go on too long so they leave and giggle I need a bidet.
But you know there was a night that I did get off the truck, when the Old Man was passed out drunk. Three neighbourhood kids took me to a rock 'n roll concert, the kind of music: old-school funk. It was the first time I got off the truck, the music made me lose control. The lead singer asked if we were having fun, I said "Fucking crank that rock 'n roll". The women at the show were beautiful as they danced sexily on the soft grass. One of them even petted my fur; fuck me in the goat ass! Then some long-haired guys grabbed me by the horns and threw me in the mosh pit. They passed me around and treated me nice till I nervously sprayed them with shit. Then the music stopped and everything was quiet, and all the rock 'n rollers started a fucking goat riot:
"KILL THE GOAT! KILL THE GOAT! KILL THE GOAT! KILL THE GOAT!"
They chased me under the bleachers, they chased me onto the street. They chased me into an alley and I was dead fucking goat meat. But then I saw a sight that I never thought I'd see: the Old Man swinging his hickory stick, but he wasn't swinging at me. "Fuck you, pot-smoking turkeys! Don't you press your luck!" The long hairs ran away screaming as I scrambled onto the truck.
When we got home the Old Man said "Goat, you broke the sacred law."
"No! Please! Sorry! Shit!"
"I'll let it go this time, but if you leave again I'll break your fucking jaw!"
"Super! Great! Okay! Thank you Old Man, for saving my life. Thank you again and again. You could have let them barbecue me, but instead, you acted like a friend."
"I'm not your friend, I don't even like you, I'm just not drunk" he said. To prove his point he drank a bottle of grain alcohol and beat the fucking shit out of my head.
"Ow ow ow, you're hurting me, Old Man!" That night I suffered a concussion deep inside my goat brain. I still cannot feel my tailbone and I'll probably never walk straight again. I guess you'd call me a scapegoat, a punching bag for the Old Man to mock just because his wife left him for his brother's abnormally large cock. He could have been my buddy but instead he's a crazy old fuck. And once again, I go to sleep in my eternal home, the back of the pick-up truck."
"Good night, Old Man!"
"Yeah, goodnight, Goat!"
....
So you can see why I have such an affinity for the song. :)
If Adam and I are not kindred spirits, the goat and I definitely are.
Okay, now it's your turn. Spill those guts. |
| posted by Jay @ 11:34 AM
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| Tuesday, April 19, 2005 |
| The Excrutiating Minutiae of My Day |
Dear Jamie of the Future: It seems to me the only real reason to keep a journal of any sort is with the intention of one day re-reading it. The idea (frightening as it may be) is that one day you will be old enough to think the things you did when you were younger are interesting but that by this indiscernible age your memory will be so degraded you will be unable to recall them with any clarity and you'll have to read about it. If this is the case, then hello Jay dear. I hope you are happy. I hope you are successful. I hope you've sold some books and bought a home and settled on one hair colour. I hope you're still adventurous. I hope you're not too tame. I hope you still drive Jason crazy, if the old bugger's heart has lasted him this long.
A Day In The Life:
7:15am - Look at the alarm clock through one slitted eye. Groan. Remember that I work at home and go back to sleep contentedly.
9:00am - Feel Jason get out of bed, kiss me on the head, ask me how I slept. Groan so that he knows I'm not interested in being awake yet.
10:30am - Roll out of bed, crazy haired and wild eyed. Read my horoscope. Start producing grunts instead of groans.
11:12am - Turn on the old computer, curse at it until it sputters to a shaky stop.
12:30pm - Read my book while on the treadmill. Lately have been able to do so without falling off (major bonus!).
1:15pm - Shower with water so hot my skin turns an angry red colour. Consider the incredible promises my conditioner makes: "Embracing you like a meadow of fresh flowers, this luxurious conditioner will leave your hair deeply quenched, silky and flowing weightlessly. Revives every strand with essential replenishing moisture, restores suppleness and manageability, and leaves hair luminous and light." I mean, whoa.
1:33pm - Accidentally squeeze out too much moisturizer; spend 15 minutes trying to get some back in the bottle without waste or mess. Fail miserably. Create extra waste and mess.
2:04pm - Laugh uncontrollably at my snack: "Rice chips now made with sunflower oil", and think to myself WTF am I eating?
2:10pm - Consider calling Melly to discuss the above. Get halfway to recalling her number and then realize that I hate the phone and won't be calling anyone if it can be helped.
2:11pm - Loud shrilling ring of phone startles me. It's Melly. We decide to meet for drinks this evening.
2:42pm - Instead of making the bed as per good intentions, I dive right in, roll around, and sniff the sheets for sunshiney goodness.
3:14pm - Find mysterious piece of wood on carpet. Contemplate its existence.
4:57pm - Get new mine in my pencil. Wonder what the hell a 'mine' is in English. Just the lead? I really don't know. Why don't I know this word in English?
5:28pm - Wonder why I kept my sweaty socks balled up in my running shoes. Sure I only wore them for 45 minutes while working out, but even if I just needed socks to walk again, I still don't want to pull on sweaty socks. Throw socks at hamper. Miss. Think hard about going to pick them up, but don't.
6:00pm - Admit that my hair is fabulous, and should stop playing with it.
6:03pm - Submit the stuff I worked on all day long; have a pang of sadness to be sending away a piece of myself.
6:10pm - Sadness washed away with first daiquiri of the day.
6:35pm - Melly arrives. We finish the pitcher of daiquiris as she admires my new shoes. Off we go.
6:50pm - Laugh at all the skanky hos in Cornwall. There are many.
7:30pm - Joined at bar by friend Andrew. He compliments us on our cleavage.
10:00pm - Jason is off work, drops by the bar for 1 beer before he drives all us drunks home.
10:18pm - Freak out because I can't find my purse. Andrew reassures me that I am holding it.
11:00pm - Sway in front of the oven cooking Jason some dinner. Insist that I couldn't possibly eat anything in my condition, but then the chicken looks so delish I continually pick off his plate.
12:04am - Crawl into unmade bed; allow Jason to rub cream on my back and legs.
12:20am - Sloppy, half-drunken, delicious sex.
1:06am - Blissful sleep.Labels: Classic Jamie |
| posted by Jay @ 11:29 AM
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| Monday, April 18, 2005 |
| Weekend Tidbits |
1. I watched Jason wash the car on Thursday. I sat on the verandah flipping through the ad bag and consequently I sunburned one cheek and not the other. The next day a bird shat all over it (the car, not my cheek).
2. I am concussed. I bent over and forgot to clear my head of the great big shelving unit. My head took it on, bravely, and my head lost, big time. After several minutes of panting and cussing and barfing, I was left with a raging red goose egg. Been headachy ever since.
3. On the drive back from Ottawa, I witnessed carnage. Major carnage. Big juicy bugs flew straight into the windshield, their innards splattering heartily right in front of my virgin eyes. It was brutal. It was dirty. It was surprisingly drippy.
4. Had dinner with the mother-in-law and her new boyfriend. It went surprisingly well. She cooked for us. The last and only other time she has ever cooked me dinner was back in 2000, and it was no-name hamburger helper. I tried to swallow a few bites to be polite. This time she really outdid herself with Shake N Bake. Unfortunately she serves wine in soup bowls and I was too drunk to properly operate a fork.
5. Still bruised from seeing Sin City. Why do they make movie theatres so darn cold? Even during the summer I have to bring a hoodie with me so I don't ice over and still I feel like my poor nipples are poking through to say hello to all kinds of staring strangers. So I sit uncomfortably during the movie with my arms crossed across my chest, and this runs a risk. It runs the risk that when watching a movie like Sin City, there will be a scene that takes me by surprise and while letting out a tiny scream I also manage to squeeze the bejesus out of my own arms. And now I have blue fingerprints inside my arms, which is unsightly when wearing a t-shirt, and everyone kind of jokingly and kind of suspiciously asks if Jason's been beating on me lately.
He has, of course, but he's clever enough not to leave such obvious evidence.
6. I was really embarrassed this weekend to find out that my favourite place for a bellini now serves them up straight, and they bring the shots to your table to pour in in front of everyone. This makes it a lot easier for everyone else to count how many you've had. Rats.
7. Gas was about 10 cents cheaper per litre in Ottawa than in Cornwall this weekend, so of course we filled up, but boy did we feel guilty about it. We almost filled the trunk up with gas to bring home to friends and family, and I can't for the life of me remember why we ix-nayed the idea in the end. Jason doesn't have much of a sense of adventure. He was still fretting over Le Festival du Curd and I guess he just didn't have room in that brain of his to mull over ANOTHER of my ideas.
8. I like pineapple tidbits. No other canned fruit, as far as I can tell, comes sold in tidbits. Just what is a tidbit anyway? Discuss amongst yourselves.Labels: Adventurism |
| posted by Jay @ 10:52 AM
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| Saturday, April 16, 2005 |
| Give Your Man What He Wants |
"Mm.
Mm, that feels soooo good, baby. Oh yeah. Like that. Oh yeah. Harder. Faster. Harder. Oh God...
Ahhhhh."
Sometimes, I’m not in the mood.
Sometimes, my arm is still sore from the day before and I just don’t feel like it. But, I do it anyway, because I love him. And, because he likes it so much. In fact, Jason thinks it's the best thing since sliced bread. Actually, I think he would gladly give up sliced bread forever just for 10 more minutes of it. Most men would agree. Most women are a little mystified by it – sure, they like it well enough when it's their turn, but they’re not begging for it round the clock.
Jason sure likes his blow - I mean, back scratches.
Men are simple creatures with simple needs: sandwiches, The Simpsons, a pair of jeans, and most importantly, back scratches.
Yes, back scratches.
Jason will choose a back scratch over a back rub every time. I don't get it. I mean, if there’s an itch in the middle of my back, sure, I’ll take a scratch. But Jason will take a scratch – nay, will beg for a scratch, lust for it – whether itchy or not.
Back scratches are a pastime for men, like football, or channel surfing, or nudie bars. My husband lays out $50 a month to keep my nails pampered in a french manicure. He seems to consider it more a treat for himself than for me (and you bet I’m willing to let him keep thinking that); extra-scratchy back scratches are a great return on his investment.
The Art of Back Scratches
Yes, it is an art. A good place to start is right between the shoulder blades. Rake your finger nails across his skin with moderate amounts of pressure. No need to draw blood – save that for passionate bedroom romps. Combine actual scratching with pressure from the pads of your thumbs for added stimulation. It’s not enough to just scratch up and down, you should alternate with circular and diagonal motions for maximum enjoyment and effectiveness.
The one nuisance of back scratches is the 'a little left...no, my left...now down...down...downer...more down...wait, too far' phenomenon. It can be endless, not to mention frustrating. The best way to fix this is to set a frame of reference, and for this, I suggest making your partner's back into a map of your city. Jason's back is a map of Ottawa – Orleans is on his far right, Kanata is on the far left, with Vanier, Napean, Gloucester, The Glebe, and even Gatineau all making appearances. Sometimes he’ll have me scratch landmarks instead, and I’m scurrying all over his back to find Parliament, or his office, or my sleep lab, and it gets to be almost like a treasure hunt.
Using Back Scratches To Your Advantage
You can pretend to be noble and say "oh, I would never do such a thing", but then you'd be a lying bitch.
· Waking your boy up 'on the right side of the bed' need not be any harder than beating his alarm to the punch and waking him up with a mellow back scratch instead.
· Back scratches make superb rewards. Award them for a job well done at your discretion (but don’t overuse them!).
· They make great leverage too – trade them for foot rubs, making movie night your choice, having your toenails painted, or whatever else tickles your fancy. Conversely, you may also charge a small back scratching fee; don’t be greedy, but do make it worth your time.
· For my money, there’s nothing more convenient or energy-efficient to show your affection than a well-timed back scratch (try it soapy in the shower for an extra layer of entertainment).
Finally, if I ever distractedly give Jason a scratch, he never fails to remind me of the golden rule of back scratches: "Under the shirt, Jay, under the shirt."Labels: Wifery |
| posted by Jay @ 1:07 PM
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| Friday, April 15, 2005 |
| Friday Fuckfest |
Fucktwat of the week:
Okay, so I hate to write about her at all, ever, BUT. But this week she has made it impossible to look the other way.
Fucktwat qualifications:
1. Having a greatest hits album at age 23, consisting of crappy Britney Spears songs.
2. The first marriage.
3. The second marriage.
4. The dog accessory thing.
5. Her blog.
6. Explanation for above album cover: "The reason why Britney's head was superimposed on someone else's body is due to scheduling conflicts." So, her head showed up to the photo shoot without her body? Um, what?
7. She's a skanky whore.
8. Her constant need for a "vacation" from her "really hard" life.
9. Explanation for she and hubby taking separate rooms at hotel recently, flanked by concerned family members: "An emergency meeting was called, but only because Britney was afraid her dog, Bit Bit, was pregnant by [brother] Brians dog, Porkchop and that would be incest." Mmmm, dog sex. Good cover.
10. That she's procreating.
Fucker of the week:
My computer
If I disappear suddenly, never to post again, there's a 10% chance I'm lying dead in a ditch somewhere and a 90% chance my computer just plain old crapped out.
It's leftover from the Cold War, I think, or at least from 1984. This hunk of junk makes Abe Vigoda look like a spring chicken. In a race to do a few simple additions, Britney Spears would outpace this machine by far. By way far. It has no memory, and no capacity for doing anything beyond emitting a wheezy, humming noise that makes the office sound like a helicopter landing pad. K-pro owners turn their snobby noses up at me and my piece of crap.
Basically, this old thing should have been put out to pasture long ago; I'd say it was on its last legs, but truthfully its last leg rotted off and decomposed in the last century. It would be kind to put it out of its misery, pull the plug so to speak, but I am not known for my kindness. At any rate, it does look like it will choke and die a horrible death quite soon, so if you don't hear from me, know that I have enjoyed writing here, and that somewhere, pencil and martini in hand, I am riding into the pinky-orange sunset on top of a very lucky drummer. Ah, bliss.
Most Fuck-worthy of the week:
George!
My fellow Canucks, we know him as George Stroumboulopoulos from Much Music, and now we love him as George Stroumboulopoulos from The Hour.
This guy has me turning on the news again after a disgruntled hiatus. He tells the news the way Canadians see it - tongue in cheek, laid back, (pierced) eyebrow raised.
He's smart, he has excellent taste in music...and did I mention he was incredibly sexy? Because he totally is, and by the grace of Bob Marley, we get to see him 4 times a week. Tuned in, and turned on. Oooh baby.Labels: Fuckfest |
| posted by Jay @ 10:08 AM
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| Thursday, April 14, 2005 |
| Pondering the Imponderables |
1. What if O.J. really didn't do it? Don't protest, just consider it. What if he is an innocent man, wrongly accused, and though acquitted at trial, sentenced to suffer for the rest of his life through media speculation and the public's condemnation? What if we get to heaven, and he's waiting there, and anyone who's ever said a word against him has to file past him and apologize to gain admittance? What if O.J. is a better person than I am?
2. What if fruitcake was never meant for human consumption? What if it was just a practical joke? Who was the first guy to put this concoction in his mouth (because there's no doubt it was a guy)? And how the hell did he think "Mmm"?
3. What if the chicken never meant to cross the road? Maybe she was just stretching her chubby little legs. Maybe she was trying to hitch a ride down to Mexico. Maybe she was content right where she was.
4. What if Elvis has not left the building? What if he's in your building? What if he's standing behind you right now, his hot onion breath tickling the back of your neck as his sweaty jump suit glistens and he reaches his tubby fingers toward you...
What if he asks you to Bedazzle something for him? Will you do it?
5. What are hyenas laughing at anyway? They're skinny, angry, ugly little beasts. They have a bad reputation and a crummy life. What's so funny, bitch?
6. Why is the program called Alcoholics Anonymous? I mean, after you made a fool out of yourself at grandpa's funeral by stripping to the music in your head and tongue-kissing Aunt Gertrude, I think your secret's out.
What? Uncle Nick is a drunk? Why, I never would have guessed it!
7. What if there is no rhyme in reason? Here's a reason: "the dog ate my homework"...does that rhyme? Here's another reason: "No officer, I was just giving her a ride home..." that one doesn't rhyme either.
8. What if you built it, and no one came? I'd be pretty pissed off. I mean, if I get my ass down to the Home Depot, ruin my manicure, get blisters on my precious hands and sawdust in my hair, you damn well better show up to pat me on the back. And that's an order.
9. What if goldfish get cramps after you feed them? What if 90% of goldfish deaths are caused by not obeying the 'no swimming for 1 hour after you eat' rule? Are we humans responsible for this? Should we remove the fishies from their bowls for an hour after dinner? One of you fish owners test this one out for me and let me know how it goes. I'd experiment myself, I used to have a lot of fish, but they all died mysterious deaths.
10. What if Julie Andrews is a dirty, dirty whore? What if all this:
is just a clever facade and she's at home right now wearing a doggie collar and some vinyl boots and she's spanking some hairy lust monkey while shouting "Tell me I'm practically perfect in every way, bitch!" as we speak? How do you know she's not?Labels: Randomocity |
| posted by Jay @ 9:42 AM
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| Wednesday, April 13, 2005 |
| The Difference Between Men and Women |
toiletries
My shaving cream comes out in a pink gel. It contains things like essential oils, vitamin E, tea tree oils, chamomile, cucumber and melon extracts, allontin, aloe vera, and eucalyptus. It costs $7 a can.
Jason's shaving cream comes out as straight shaving cream, and it contains, well, shaving cream. It costs $2 a can and appears to do the exact same thing.
Shaving cream is one of 4 necessary toiletries for a man, along with razor, toothbrush, and a bar of soap. Women can have hundreds or thousands of toiletries, and actually use them all.
Laundry
When I notice the hamper is nearing its capacity, I sort the clothes, pre-treat any stains, divide them into proper wash cycles, set the dial to the appropriate setting and temperature, stick around to throw in fabric softener during the rinse, hang up sweaters, hand wash delicates, and iron the wrinkles out of anything that needs it.
When Jason wants laundry done, he yells "Wife! I have no clean underwear!' and then magically, some appear in his drawer, clean and folded. Jason is blissfully unaware that we even have a laundry room.
Drinks
In a bar, men will order beer. They drink it straight from the bottle.
Women will order a pretty drink that comes in a tall, pretty glass rimmed in sugar. The drink will be frosty and pink, sweet to the taste but loaded with hard liquor. It will come decorated with umbrellas and orange slices and a cherry pierced by a tiny little sword. The woman will slip the cherry off its sword to eat it.
The men will pick up the discarded swords and play stupid pirate games for the rest of the night. They'll also pick at your whipped cream topping and ask for sips of yours, and though they may drink them in the privacy of their homes, no self-respecting straight man will ever order one of these:
Adam Sandler
Jason thinks "Hah, he's funny. Stop looking at me, swan."
Jamie thinks "Mmm, I want to have his babies."
Socks
Men have 2 kinds of socks: black, and white, and they seem to wear them indiscriminately. Men often do not bother to match their socks with their clothes, or even with each other. No matter how big the holes get, men will insist that they are "fine".
Women own more pairs of socks than they can ever wear. They have pink socks, knee socks, slipper socks, socks with pompoms, ankle socks, socks with clouds, socks with teddy bears, theme socks for holidays, socks for working out, socks for dressing up, socks that are cute but not warm, socks that are warm but will never be worn, striped socks, flowered socks, toe socks, novelty socks, socks with ruffles. Women have sock drawers fill with balled up or folded socks. Sock selection is an important part of every morning (unless it's sandal season).
Movie nudity
When a woman sheds her clothes in a movie, a woman watching it will roll her eyes, huff a little, and cross her arms. "No one looks like that in real life, you know" she'll say.
"Huh?" her husband will respond, "I didn't hear that, I was too busy staring at her koochie." Women think about how unnecessary it is, or how degrading it must have been, or that she can spot some cellulite on her thighs - hah! Men think about tits.
Movies only have female nudity. Richard Gere occasionally appears nude, which is why all men hate Richard Gere.
Curtains
Women spend a lot of time finding just the right 'window treatments' for their home. Things to be considered include size, colour, sheerness or opaqueness, amount of use, durability, ease of cleaning, pattern, and how well they match with surrounding paint colour and accessories. A woman knows that curtains will make or break the room.
Men have no opinion on curtains. When asked, they are unable to ascertain whether their home even has any curtains, and are baffled that anyone would care.
Garages
Women park their cars in garages, often the lawn mower as well. Women go to the garage to retrieve the car, or to dispose of garbage.
Men like to turn garages into man rooms. They hang license plates on the walls, keep a beer fridge and a small TV, and several milk crates for sitting around and scratching their balls. Men line the walls with tools they'll never use. They build one lop-sided bench and go sit on it when the wife starts talking about curtains.Labels: I am Woman |
| posted by Jay @ 6:45 AM
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| Tuesday, April 12, 2005 |
| It's 4:20pm, Do You Know Where Your Children Are? |
"Hey man, did you hear about Korn?"
"Corn?"
"No, Korn."
"Yeah sure, corn."
"Like, Korn, the band."
"Yeah, sure. I know. Korn."
"Hey, what's up with that?"
"What?"
"That, over there."
"There's nothing over there."
"Oh. Hahahaha."
"Wait, what?"
"Dude, I'm hungry."
"Yeah, me too."
"So...what?"
"I don't know."
"What?"
"Nothing."
.....
"Am I cold?"
"I dunno, are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Cold."
"Yeah, now that you mention it. It's pretty cold down here."
"Once, my Dad and I went on this fishing trip and we just sat around forever, we never caught anything. The fish were all like 'Hey man, we're just swimming around, minding our own business.' It was pretty rad."
"Yeah man, fishing's awesome."
"You ever been?"
"Been where?"
"Been fishing."
"Oh. No."
"Well, it's pretty awesome."
"I have a goldfish though."
"Dude."
"I know. It got all fat and shit. I think it's going to have a heart attack and die."
"Whoa."
"I know."
.....
"My arms feel so heavy."
"My legs feel so heavy."
"I've been wanting to scratch my nose for like 20 minutes now and I can't move my arms."
"I've been wanting to take a piss for like 30 minutes now and I can't get up."
"It's like: my nose is itchy, but I can't scratch it. It's an itch I can't scratch."
"That's pretty deep, dude."
"Yeah."
.....
"Dude, I'm hungry."
"Yeah, me too."Labels: I think I'm funny |
| posted by Jay @ 11:19 AM
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| Monday, April 11, 2005 |
| "Yes, Dear" |
How much trouble can a 20-something married couple get into? Read and learn.
"Blech, Jamie, what is that smell?"
"That, Jason, is the smell of clean."
"Clean stinks."
*****
Getting ready in the morning.
Jamie: stretch, shower, shampoo, soap, facial, condition, shave, brush teeth, towel off, moisturize body, moisturize face, clean ears, deodorize, select outfit, dress carefully, pluck, comb, part, style, dry hair, mousse, curl, apply makeup, sip orange juice, glance at horoscopes, gather belongings, check weather, put on shoes, switch hand bags, locate keys, put on coat.
Jason: eat 7 slices of toast, put on whatever clothes found on the floor.
"But Jason, you can't go out like that. Your hair is sticking up all over the place."
"Oh, it's okay, I'm going to wear my toque."
"Grrrr...."
"It's okay, you like my toque. I look hot in it, remember?"
*****
Jason has done something stupid. Again. To taunt him, I sing (to the tune of the Oscar Meyer song):
My husband is a moron, M-O-R-O-N
My husband is a -
"Hey, Mormon? I'm not a Mormon. I'm from Earth."
*****
Last summer. Well, make that late spring.
It's been a not-so-sunny Saturday, but Jason wants to go for a swim. He has to test it first (of course), so he peels off his sock and dips in his baby toe. His entire 6'2 frame shudders and he declares "We are NOT going in." He crosses his arms for emphasis.
I kneel down to feel the water. At 72 degrees, it feels nice to me. I've been swimming since 57. "Wuss." After all these years, I still like to boost his ego as little as possible. "Wuss, wuss, wuss." I sing the words over and over as I dance around and wiggle my eyebrows at him.
"Come here and say that to me."
Puffing up to my full height of 5'2 on a good day, I stare him in the eye and repeat "Wuss, wuss, wuss."
The wheels are turning in his head. I know his idea before he does, and I wait patiently while he catches up. I like to let him have his fun every now and then.
He picks me up and jumps right in. I am so proud of him. "You know, I respect you ten times more now."
Wet jeans weigh 40 pounds and memories like that last forever. Later, when we are peeling off our wet clothes, Jason looks pensive. "How is it that you have room to respect me ten times more?"
I smile and kiss him. That's my boy.
*****
(Jamie, pointing at a cake on the internet) "Mmm, doesn't this one look good?"
"Don't touch the screen! I hate it when you get fingerprints all over the screen!"
"But Jason, this is my computer, and it doesn't bother me."
"Well, at work, I keep Windex on my desk at all times. People are always coming over with their greasy fingers and pointing all over my screen. I can't stand it."
"Are you saying I have greasy fingers?" (Jamie is now fondling the screen full-throttle).
"Erm...uh....oh god, let it stop."
And then, with an evil glint in her eye, Jamie takes her 'premium lip protection' out of her pocket. She is prepared to sacrifice it for the greater good. She uncaps it, and proceeds to graffiti up the screen with her chapstick. Jason collapses to the floor in a dead faint.
Jamie squints at the screen through the convoluted, waxy mess for 3 days before Jason finally breaks down and cleans it up.
*****
It's bedtime. The room is dark and cool. The sheets feel good around them. Jason presses himself up against his wife. She puts her arms around him, and breathes him in.
"Mmm, the intoxicating scent of dandruff shampoo," she whispers.
*****
Jason comes home after 11 hours at the office.
"Did you miss me?"
"Enormously."
"I missed you immensely."
"Hey, I said enormously."
"I know, but I said immensely."
"Well enormously is bigger than immensely."
"Okay, then I love you whatever's even bigger."
"Fuck you, Jason."
*****
Jason has been talking to his friends at the bar for 10 minutes now. He has a beer in his hand, and Jamie, who was "right behind you, buddy", is nowhere in sight. He sets down his drink, and has a nice, leisurely search for her. He finds her in the parking lot, chatting up some strangers. This is not unusual.
"They have lovely blueberries at Farm Boy right now," she is telling them. She is gesturing wildly enough to take out an unassuming passerby should one get close enough.
The two women hug Jamie as they depart.
"Call me to let me know how it goes!" she yells after them. They turn, smile, and wave.
Jamie runs over to Jason, ready to play catch-up at the bar. Jason knows she will outdrink all the boys.
"Sorr-rryy", she says, with a grin that tells him she isn't sorry at all.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
"Hey, I figure that no stranger can be half as bad as some of my relatives, and I'm practically obligated to talk to them."
Jason sighs, and opens the door for her.
*****Labels: Life According to Jason, Worst Husband Ever |
| posted by Jay @ 3:19 AM
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| Saturday, April 09, 2005 |
| My Lips Hurt Real Bad |
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Well, mostly the worst.
You know how you go to work all week with only the promise of a glorious weekend to keep you going? The weekend shines like a beacon of motivation, chanting quietly 'you can do it, fuck your boss, you can do it, Monday's over, just keep swimming', and you do keep going, somehow, because eventually the work week is over and with the dawning of the tgif cocktail hour, everything is magic, all is forgotten, and the blissful weekend has descended upon you like a fairy godmother come to whisk you away.
Yessssss.
But then by Saturday morning reality drop-kicks you in the teeth; the fridge is empty, the Hydro people are harassing you, you're pretty sure the dog has fleas and that you just won't make it past noon if you don't replenish your liquor supply stat. And so you reluctantly leave the comfort of your bed (mmm, those perfectly warmed sheets, the pillow you've so expertly burrowed into, the embrace of your lover's arms) and you begrudgingly hit the showers where you get shampoo in your eye and shave the same leg twice, the other not at all. Fuck Saturday. Fuck groceries and bills and the in-laws and the obligations and ballet practice and lawnmowers. All you really have is a few golden hours on Friday night to sustain you. It's not enough.
Can you tell I had a pissy weekend?
It started nicely enough. It had us tricked into thinking it would be quite a delightful weekend, in fact.
I am fortune's fool.
Drinking is my only salvation. Thank god for the boat load of daiquiris I had. When we went for a walk at 2am it was warm enough to walk with my tits out, and we had visions of barbecues and patio furniture dancing in our heads. Good times ahead, we thought, as we walked the darkened streets. We kissed by the water on Montreal Road, and a passing ambulance honked at us, and the EMTs waved. We went to see the empty lots where new houses will be built. I skipped down the middle of the road, my motion setting off sensor detectors on every third house. My head felt full of warm apple sauce as I weaved back towards our house, and as always, the fresh air made me yawn. I thought that for once I would get a good night's sleep, and that the next day I would awaken refreshed and ready for adventure.
And that's almost what happened.
The next day, we decided a trip up to Ottawa was in order. It's not quite Byward Market time yet, but I have always loved that place, I love walking around, seeing Zipper guy, listening to street musicians, checking out the vendors and the farmer's market, watching someone make sidewalk art in chalk, rotting the teeth out of my head in Sugar Mountain, invariably meeting up with friends and sharing brownie sundaes at the Hard Rock Cafe or cocktails at Mother Tucker's. Glenda was up for a trip to SilverCity with us, it was a great day for a drive, and there seemed to be not one hitch in the plan.
Which basically, is when you know you're fucked.
It all comes to a screeching halt when I retrieve an armful of fluffy warm towels from the dryer. I plop them down onto the bed, leave Jason is charge of folding, and double back to clean out the lint trap. I always marvel at the ingenuity of lint, and I was caught up in a reverie when I heard Jason cursing furiously from the bedroom.
"Jesus Jason, what the hell is wrong? You shouldn't fucking swear so much with a lady in the room. It's rude, for fuck's sake."
"You miss, are no lady. Now get me a damn ice pack!"
Jason had managed to turn his ankle while folding laundry. Don't ask. Literally. He gets all sweaty and red in the face every time I bring it up, and believe me, I bring it up a lot.
"What kind of nancy boy twists his ankle folding laundry?"
He really likes it when I call him that. It rings especially true because his mother's name is Nancy. He keeps trying to ring my neck, but he forgets that his sore ankle has him hobbling around like Frankenstein with a pulled groin, and I have plenty of time to run away.
So we had to push back our date in Ottawa a day, and we sat around at home, getting on each other's nerves. He was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper rather noisily, rustling each page as he turned it and whistling through his nose. And then he committed the cardinal sin: he read me the daily poll.
He knows I hate the daily poll. He knows I think the questions are ridiculous right-wing crap, the sample size is incorrigibly small, the method of collection incredibly biased, and the respondents uneducated and ignorant. We go through this every time, but he always reads it out to me. So I yanked that filthy newspaper out of his hands, rolled it up, and beat him with it (and on his bum leg he was unable to get away). You would be surprised how quickly the tube of newspaper turned into a pulpy shredded mess, but I did get in some good bruising around the temples, so it wasn't all for naught.
And frankly, that was the highlight of our weekend.
The next day, his ankle was an angry Barney colour, and swelled to the size of a melon. A big melon. So, Ottawa, and all things fun, were quickly scratched off the list. I was in an even grumpier mood than usual because I felt another sty coming on (I have a stupid condition where I get stys in my eyes all the time...how dumb is that? they're not super painful, they're mostly just annoying and unsightly, so I refuse to take meds for it....and damn, they make me cranky). Of course, Jason has a 'fail-proof' cure for stys every single time they present themselves:
"Think happy thoughts, Jamie."
"Oh, shut your fucking face, uncle-fucker."
Did I mention I haven't been sleeping well lately? It's not true, but I think I should throw it in anyway just to defray my crankpot antics a bit.
Anyway, angry Barney ankle or not, by the second day I was showing no mercy, and I was back to ordering Jason around as usual. I sent him to the kitchen to get me a drink. We have a great system at our house to indicate my thirst. Either I'll yell "THIRSTY!!!", or I'll bang my empty glass on the table until it gets refilled, or I'll grunt. Personally, I prefer the grunt method. Then he has to guess what exactly I want: hungry? thirsty? blanket? pen and paper? foot rub? I enjoy putting him through the ringer, as you can probably tell. I think it's pretty much the only benefit to having a husband, so I get my money's worth.
Jason looks into the fridge. "What do you want? Diet Pepsi? Water? Orange juice? Daiquiri?"
"Garrumph."
"Or how about a glass of crab juice then?" He thinks he's so clever.
"How about a nice tall glass of fuck-you juice?" That's right, bitch.
And that's pretty much how we spent our weekend.Labels: I'm Freaking Out, Life According to Jason |
| posted by Jay @ 1:22 PM
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| Friday, April 08, 2005 |
| The Friday Fuckfest |
Friday's Fucktwat:
Evangeline Lilly (she plays Kate on Lost)
Okay, well, there's a lot about this actress, her role, and this show that really cheeses me off. A lot. But this week she gets the fucktwat award for the work she did before she landed the role of a lifetime on primetime. I'll give you a hint: it airs late at night, involves a 900 number, and includes the brilliant line 'It's not cheating if it's on the phone'.
That's right. This Canadian darling, apparently just moments before being cast on Lost, signed up to do a phone sex commercial, and it airs here all the time. All the time. It has forever ruined that show for me.
"Do you ever get lonely? I know I do. That's why I love to call Live Links. There are always lots of hot girls waiting to talk to friendly guys. Why don't you give me a call tonight?"
Yeah, I'm sure she just needed the money or whatever, but still. I'm sure her mother is real proud.
Friday's Fucker
The thing about James Joyce is, I hate him. Why? Two words: Finnegan's Wake. I have never known a better reason to hate a man in my entire life. It took him 15 bloody years to write the thing, and it took me almost 3 months to read it, so that's at least 15 years and 3 months of wasted life that will never be restored. From what I've heard, I may be the only person to ever actually read the damn thing, thanks to its reputations for being 'incomprehensible, demented, and totally unreadable.' This reputation is not undeserved.
If James Joyce had had even one nice bone in his entire body, he would have burnt the manuscript and eaten the ashes, then jumped off a real high bridge, plunging into a frigid, shark-infested water where he would be devoured and digested forever more. His time, and mine, would have been better served working on a phone sex commercial. Fuck you, Mr. Joyce, fuck you right in the ear.
Friday's Most Fuck-Worthy:
Stephan Jenkins from Third Eye Blind
I think maybe it would be best to just stand back and admire the view: Stephan Jenkins is hot. HOT hot. This guy is like buttah. Can anyone suppress their urge to molest him? Yeah, me neither.
He's sexy as hell, has a degree in literature, drives a motorcycle, writes his own lyrics, and raises money for breast cancer in his free time. I think I lurrrrvvvv him. I'd definitely like to bed him. He plays guitar and drums, so we know he's good with his hands. Plus, I bet he's got a lovely sausage.Labels: Fuckfest |
| posted by Jay @ 8:50 AM
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