Thursday, August 31, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Gym Etiquette?
Yeah, yeah, we can all agree: the only thing weirder than Jamie and the word 'etiquette' is Jamie and the word 'gym'.
But if you will, grant me the benefit of your doubt for just one moment.
The shocking truth is that I have in fact been pumping some steel lately.
(even though he's currently in a different city, I can hear Jason groaning Iron, Jamie, we're pumping iron)
(parenthetically, he's still wrong...I have not been pumping any metal, nor even an alloy, metalloid or compound...not even an nonferrous metal...the most I've pumped is my hand lotion dispenser, and I'm pretty sure that's a polymer)
But I have been going to the gym.
Oof, I know, I know, it's so not me.
But I've recently been expelled from physical therapy. Which is good because I was starting to feel like one of those 6th graders with mustaches...you know...held back. But now that I've been released, I realize that maybe the 6th grade wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun being the big fish, all the other kids were envious of my peach fuzz.
And it's kind of scary being out on my own, nobody telling me to touch my own toes just one more time, come on you big pussy, just one more time, dammit, you can do it.
Plus, the post-operative Jamie is not the same as pre-op Jamie. I haven't had occasion (or ability) to use certain muscles in a very long time. So now that I've got the big OK, I realize that what used to be muscle now resembles something more likely to be found in a can of chicken noodle soup. Not good.
So I joined Jason's gym. In my defense, I was mostly pressured into joining. Jason's trainer is this big mountain of a man who used to play for the Raptors, apparently (is that basketball? I don't even know)...the point being, the man is huge, and his bigness is very persuasive (by which I mean intimidating...which is an excellent sales tactic, incidentally). So I was coerced (not at gunpoint, mind you, but with the explicit though unspoken understanding that he could crush me like a grape that's been run over by a heard of elephants on amphetamine) into signing my name on the dotted line, promising them that they will be able to take heaping amounts out of my chequing account from now until the day I go cold in my grave.
It's a big commitment, so naturally I showed my serious intent by stopping by a mega sports store to drop some serious cash on some cute new shoes and some gym-worthy clothes. Now, at first I worried that sports stores were like church in that if I was within 100 feet of one, I might spontaneously combust. Not so. In fact, if you have a major credit card, they are happy to see you.
So now when I go to the gym, if I don't quite look like I belong, at least I look like a walking billboard for Nike. I still feel like a damn fraud on the inside though.
It probably doesn't help that on my first day there, I had to read the instructions 3 times before I could figure out how to properly mount the bike. I mean, why do they make these things so complicated anyway? If they made these machines half as easy to use as couches are, I bet a lot more people would join a gym. Instead, I'm fairly sure I look like a complete arse all red-faced, knees knocking, feet pedaling like mad, beads of sweat leaping off me at all angles, me grappling for water, gasping for breath, asking for the love of god...meanwhile thinking, gee, I sure am glad I've paid $50 for this privilege when I could be, say, enjoying a nice, leisurely, stroll around the neighbourhood instead....for free.
But don't worry. It got better from there because, you guessed it, I got a very long, very graphic look at old man penis. Because obviously if you do your stretching right in front of me when I am trapped on this bicycle-of-death, wearing itty bitty shorts that I'm pretty sure aren't even legally sold anywhere so you probably sewed them yourself with like, 2 stitches because that's literally how little material there was...fuck. Of course your old withered junk is going to fall out. It's not like you were wearing underwear. I mean, good for you, old man. I see that though you've gone gray, ahem, down there, it's still thick and luxurious. One might even say...alarmingly abundant. It almost dwarfs your, um, old man appendage, which looks like it's been cured, or pickled, or left out in the sun too long.
Of course I looked away in a hurry.
Of course it's permanently burned onto my retina anyway.
Of course I've had a series of nightmares ever since.
So as if I didn't already look retarded trying not to fall off a bike that's not moving, I now have to do it with my eyes closed. And I just know that all these hard bodies are looking at my soft body and judging me, eating their powersauce bars, flexing their twitchy muscles in the mirror and thinking she doesn't belong.
Of course I don't belong! I'm an artist! I'm a thinker! I'd rather be drinking wine and making jewelry! God, I'd rather be giving pedicures to state prisoners than putting my anti-persperent to the test at the gym!
You think I don't know that I don't belong?
Oh for fuck's sake.
And there's Jason, looking perfect and golden, not even breaking a sweat heading into his 5th mile on the treadmill, and there's Jamie just trying not to meet her maker while jogging for 26 consecutive seconds. Way to show me up, dude.
And I haven't even gotten to the part about the UNSPEAKABLE thing that I saw in the sauna...but that will have to wait until next time. Until then, pray for me. Pray damn hard.
But if you will, grant me the benefit of your doubt for just one moment.
The shocking truth is that I have in fact been pumping some steel lately.
(even though he's currently in a different city, I can hear Jason groaning Iron, Jamie, we're pumping iron)
(parenthetically, he's still wrong...I have not been pumping any metal, nor even an alloy, metalloid or compound...not even an nonferrous metal...the most I've pumped is my hand lotion dispenser, and I'm pretty sure that's a polymer)
But I have been going to the gym.
Oof, I know, I know, it's so not me.
But I've recently been expelled from physical therapy. Which is good because I was starting to feel like one of those 6th graders with mustaches...you know...held back. But now that I've been released, I realize that maybe the 6th grade wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun being the big fish, all the other kids were envious of my peach fuzz.
And it's kind of scary being out on my own, nobody telling me to touch my own toes just one more time, come on you big pussy, just one more time, dammit, you can do it.
Plus, the post-operative Jamie is not the same as pre-op Jamie. I haven't had occasion (or ability) to use certain muscles in a very long time. So now that I've got the big OK, I realize that what used to be muscle now resembles something more likely to be found in a can of chicken noodle soup. Not good.
So I joined Jason's gym. In my defense, I was mostly pressured into joining. Jason's trainer is this big mountain of a man who used to play for the Raptors, apparently (is that basketball? I don't even know)...the point being, the man is huge, and his bigness is very persuasive (by which I mean intimidating...which is an excellent sales tactic, incidentally). So I was coerced (not at gunpoint, mind you, but with the explicit though unspoken understanding that he could crush me like a grape that's been run over by a heard of elephants on amphetamine) into signing my name on the dotted line, promising them that they will be able to take heaping amounts out of my chequing account from now until the day I go cold in my grave.
It's a big commitment, so naturally I showed my serious intent by stopping by a mega sports store to drop some serious cash on some cute new shoes and some gym-worthy clothes. Now, at first I worried that sports stores were like church in that if I was within 100 feet of one, I might spontaneously combust. Not so. In fact, if you have a major credit card, they are happy to see you.
So now when I go to the gym, if I don't quite look like I belong, at least I look like a walking billboard for Nike. I still feel like a damn fraud on the inside though.
It probably doesn't help that on my first day there, I had to read the instructions 3 times before I could figure out how to properly mount the bike. I mean, why do they make these things so complicated anyway? If they made these machines half as easy to use as couches are, I bet a lot more people would join a gym. Instead, I'm fairly sure I look like a complete arse all red-faced, knees knocking, feet pedaling like mad, beads of sweat leaping off me at all angles, me grappling for water, gasping for breath, asking for the love of god...meanwhile thinking, gee, I sure am glad I've paid $50 for this privilege when I could be, say, enjoying a nice, leisurely, stroll around the neighbourhood instead....for free.
But don't worry. It got better from there because, you guessed it, I got a very long, very graphic look at old man penis. Because obviously if you do your stretching right in front of me when I am trapped on this bicycle-of-death, wearing itty bitty shorts that I'm pretty sure aren't even legally sold anywhere so you probably sewed them yourself with like, 2 stitches because that's literally how little material there was...fuck. Of course your old withered junk is going to fall out. It's not like you were wearing underwear. I mean, good for you, old man. I see that though you've gone gray, ahem, down there, it's still thick and luxurious. One might even say...alarmingly abundant. It almost dwarfs your, um, old man appendage, which looks like it's been cured, or pickled, or left out in the sun too long.
Of course I looked away in a hurry.
Of course it's permanently burned onto my retina anyway.
Of course I've had a series of nightmares ever since.
So as if I didn't already look retarded trying not to fall off a bike that's not moving, I now have to do it with my eyes closed. And I just know that all these hard bodies are looking at my soft body and judging me, eating their powersauce bars, flexing their twitchy muscles in the mirror and thinking she doesn't belong.
Of course I don't belong! I'm an artist! I'm a thinker! I'd rather be drinking wine and making jewelry! God, I'd rather be giving pedicures to state prisoners than putting my anti-persperent to the test at the gym!
You think I don't know that I don't belong?
Oh for fuck's sake.
And there's Jason, looking perfect and golden, not even breaking a sweat heading into his 5th mile on the treadmill, and there's Jamie just trying not to meet her maker while jogging for 26 consecutive seconds. Way to show me up, dude.
And I haven't even gotten to the part about the UNSPEAKABLE thing that I saw in the sauna...but that will have to wait until next time. Until then, pray for me. Pray damn hard.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Pillow Talk
Jamie: Wow, you were really good. Like, wow.
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Vacation By Numbers
7: the number of smores consumed by Jamie.
18: number of marshmallows caught on fire by Jamie trying to make above smores.
5: number of perfectly toasted marshmallows dropped in the grass trying to get them from the fire to the graham cracker in order to make the above smores.
2: number of consecutive hours spent reading on the beach, catching some sun.
24: number of times Jason begged Jamie to apply solarcaine to his pink back.
24: number of times Jamie laughed cruelly at Jason.
47: number of times "Ack! I've got sand in my crotch!" was yelled throughout the campsite.
1: number of blue hammer-head shark-shaped shovels we brought with us to the beach. The other was alligator-shaped.
0: number of pails we brought with us to the beach. We did bring 2 planters, thinking they were pails. They mostly got the job done, except for the holes in the bottom.
14: number of children who looked at us enviously as we built our castles in the sand.
54: number of children who smirked at us as we built our castles in the sand.
21: number of times I said "Not now, everyone will hear."
21: number of times we did it anyway.
62: numbers of alcoholic beverages consumed by Jason.
8: number of times alcohol and lighter fluid were somehow combined.
1: number of hammers I broke with my brute strength chopping firewood.
6: times I woke up Jason because I heard strange noises on our site, and worried that we had uninvited guests.
6: times Jason reassured me it was "just the wind" and went back to sleep.
70: dollar amount of groceries stolen from us by raccoons (steak, bacon, cheese, cinnamon toast crunch cereal). Just the wind, eh?
2: number of "funny-tasting" poptarts I ate before identifying the funny taste as citronella.
4: number of poptarts thrown out uneaten after said discovery.
8 billion: number of mosquito bites I scratched until they were scabs, and then I scratched the scabs.
705: times I laughed at Jason's french pronunciation of the word 'fudge' while we were high.
81: number of waves that knocked me over.
79: number of times Jason took advantage of me being knocked over to pull down various parts of my bathing suit.
2: hours at home before we wished we could do it all over again.
More vacation photos here.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Family Reunion
It's been about 7 months now since an innocent visit from my mother-in-law shook us up for good.
Jason grew up an only child. His mother became accidentally pregnant with him when she was 19. She quietly married his father a few months before he was born. She turned 20 3 days before giving birth, and while on the table having her son, she informed the doctor that she would like to have her tubes tied.
She hasn't even met her son yet, she has her whole life in front of her, and yet she knows with certainty that she'll never want another child.
I think it's safe to say that Jason was not terribly wanted.
However, I will attest to the fact that it is impossible not to fall in love with Jason. Even if you resist, he draws you in eventually. His mother was drawn in. She brought him up and loved him, no doubt about it. He may have been a mistake, but she never held it against him.
And then 7 months ago, we had her up for a visit. We brought her to see the sights, we fed her good food, marinated her in good wine, let her have the good bed.....
and then the bomb was dropped.
Jason, it seems, is not an only child at all.
He has a brother.
A brother he never knew about until just 7 months ago.
Jason, always an affable guy, was a good sport about it.
I remember just being stunned over the resemblance.
I mean, you hear about "long lost twins" and "separated at birth" on soap operas, but you never imagine it will happen to you, to your life. Real life.
It's shocking really, but when you see Jason and his brother side by side, there's no denying it. The family resemblance is incredible.
It's been a strange few months. In many ways, life goes on. Not much has changed, on the surface. But we've all been gravatating toward the date in late July that was set for them to meet once again.
Jason grew up an only child. His mother became accidentally pregnant with him when she was 19. She quietly married his father a few months before he was born. She turned 20 3 days before giving birth, and while on the table having her son, she informed the doctor that she would like to have her tubes tied.
She hasn't even met her son yet, she has her whole life in front of her, and yet she knows with certainty that she'll never want another child.
I think it's safe to say that Jason was not terribly wanted.
However, I will attest to the fact that it is impossible not to fall in love with Jason. Even if you resist, he draws you in eventually. His mother was drawn in. She brought him up and loved him, no doubt about it. He may have been a mistake, but she never held it against him.
And then 7 months ago, we had her up for a visit. We brought her to see the sights, we fed her good food, marinated her in good wine, let her have the good bed.....
and then the bomb was dropped.
Jason, it seems, is not an only child at all.
He has a brother.
A brother he never knew about until just 7 months ago.
Jason, always an affable guy, was a good sport about it.
I remember just being stunned over the resemblance.
I mean, you hear about "long lost twins" and "separated at birth" on soap operas, but you never imagine it will happen to you, to your life. Real life.
It's shocking really, but when you see Jason and his brother side by side, there's no denying it. The family resemblance is incredible.
It's been a strange few months. In many ways, life goes on. Not much has changed, on the surface. But we've all been gravatating toward the date in late July that was set for them to meet once again.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Camping without Booze is Just Sleeping Outside.
Camping is not for the feint of heart; it's basically the most work you can do and still call it a vacation. And for some reason, we love it. Truthfully, it's probably the tantalizing mix of cheap booze and lawn chairs that draws me in. For Jason, it's the excuse to play with fire.
I hate to say it, but while you are reading this, I am maxing and relaxing at a campsite somewhere north east of here. Oh yeah. I've probably got a sweaty drink in one hand...it's probably just about to slip out of my grasp because although I've got a book in the other hand, I'm not-so-secretly napping in the sun, burning the one shoulder I forgot to put sunscreen on (don't worry; I got the other one twice). I've got my drink on. I've got my lazy on. I'm probably only moments away from getting my swerve on. Not to make you jealous or anything.
All right, well, if you insist, be a small amount of jealous. Don't drown yourself in it or anything. Just a pinch. I mean, sure, I probably haven't worn actual pants in days. Sure, the only traffic jam I've seen was when my canoe was within 100 meters of some other dude's canoe. Sure I've slept under the stars and breathed fresh air and toasted marshmallows on an open flame.
Like I said: a small amount of jealous.
If it makes you feel any better, they are calling for "extreme" weather this week. Possibly I'm being pelted with hail and blown to and fro (preferably fro) right this very moment. Possibly it's raining, so I'm cuddled up to my husband, reading a good book, sipping some wine, listening to the drops hit the forest floor. Possibly we've taken cover at a cute little ice cream stand or an old fashioned drive-in movie theatre.
But maybe the sun in shining, and I'm floating down a cool river, dreaming that heaven is just like this.
Damn I love vacation.
I hate to say it, but while you are reading this, I am maxing and relaxing at a campsite somewhere north east of here. Oh yeah. I've probably got a sweaty drink in one hand...it's probably just about to slip out of my grasp because although I've got a book in the other hand, I'm not-so-secretly napping in the sun, burning the one shoulder I forgot to put sunscreen on (don't worry; I got the other one twice). I've got my drink on. I've got my lazy on. I'm probably only moments away from getting my swerve on. Not to make you jealous or anything.
All right, well, if you insist, be a small amount of jealous. Don't drown yourself in it or anything. Just a pinch. I mean, sure, I probably haven't worn actual pants in days. Sure, the only traffic jam I've seen was when my canoe was within 100 meters of some other dude's canoe. Sure I've slept under the stars and breathed fresh air and toasted marshmallows on an open flame.
Like I said: a small amount of jealous.
If it makes you feel any better, they are calling for "extreme" weather this week. Possibly I'm being pelted with hail and blown to and fro (preferably fro) right this very moment. Possibly it's raining, so I'm cuddled up to my husband, reading a good book, sipping some wine, listening to the drops hit the forest floor. Possibly we've taken cover at a cute little ice cream stand or an old fashioned drive-in movie theatre.
But maybe the sun in shining, and I'm floating down a cool river, dreaming that heaven is just like this.
Damn I love vacation.
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