Monday, April 09, 2007


Favourite disgusting thing on my bulletin board: Skin. Human skin, belonging to the mammalian species Homo Jamiekins, circa 2004. I had a particularly bad sunburn and enjoyed peeling impressively large sections of my dead flesh from my thighs. One piece, dried up and papery, has been pinned to the board ever since.

Favourite weekday thrill: My wok. I love my wok. I love the sound of sake hitting the hot pan. I love the smell of ginger coming alive. I love the way spinach wilts and shrinks into the stir-fry. I love my wok so much I'm making macaroni in there now, and stew, and fruit salad. Okay, not really. But I would if I could, because I love it that much. I have wok fixation. Woxation.

Favourite food that I don't like: Strawberries. I don't eat berries, because I don't care for them. I am not repulsed by them, or allergic to them. If I come to your house and you serve them to me, I will eat them to be polite, cause that's how my momma raised me. But I don't like them, and not liking them gives me pleasure. Pourquoi? Parce que everyone else loves berries. And when there's a pint of berries, and I don't eat any, that's a pint more for everyone else. During berry season, I'm practically a hero for my unberriness.

Favourite lesson my dog never learned: Not to eat grass. Every day he would race outside, sniff the grass, get all excited thinking man, this stuff sure smells appetizing! and then he'd scarf down as much as his little dog belly could hold. And then he'd spend the rest of the day leaving a steady stream of grass-flecked vomit behind him. But by god, the very next day he'd be back out there eating his grass, happy as can be. And he repeated this eat-grass-vomit pattern every day for 16 years. And then he died. But not because of the grass. The point is, I used to think he was just a dumb dog. But then I thought he was on to something, because the way he approached life with unfailing optimism, every single day giving the grass a second chance, never holding a grudge, just eating it with the same happy-go-lucky abandon even after it had made him retch 1487 times in a row. Man. It's inspiring when you think about it. Little did I know that I would later have a similar relationship with alcohol. But that's another story.

Favourite way to ruin Easter: Have Jason book off 4 whole days to celebrate Jesus turning eggs into chocolate, but just before festivities begin, get sick. But just slightly, annoyingly sick, so you think it's just allergies, and you refuse to take any medication. Sleep 20 out of every 24 hours, waking up only to change the sweat-soaked sheets. Realize it's probably more serious by the time your temperature reaches 104, sit wheezing in a bathtub of ice water, complain for husband to make more ice faster, and when splitting headaches contract your stomach, try to aim the vomit outside of the tub, not in. Lament over the peeps, forgotten in the closet, and the caramelized onions that aren't being savoured. Do not begin to get better until husband goes back to work.

Favourite cover of a cover: Sad Kermit covering Johnny Cash covering Nine Inch Nails. The best thing you'll see all day.

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