tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87690262024-03-13T15:28:48.213-04:00Kill The GoatJayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.comBlogger630125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-50480704088867440942020-05-21T03:26:00.001-04:002020-05-21T03:26:47.545-04:00PaTwo years ago<br />
I bought a black dress<br />
For my grandfather's funeral<br />
But the old bugger's<br />
Still going.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-46228442630603967862015-11-17T07:46:00.000-05:002015-11-17T07:46:26.154-05:00ShameI am so full of disgust that I can't even write.<br />
Of course I am mad at the doctor for refusing to treat me. Mad but not entirely surprised, because hasn't this been the theme of the entire course of my disease? Haven't I always been made to beg, hasn't being chronically sick and riddled with pain stripped me of all dignity?<br />
Of course I am mad at him, but I am even angrier at myself for sitting there and taking it. For not storming out of his office when I needed to. I am angry that I let him see my pain, that I came to him with a tiny bubble of hope in my hands, and shed tears when he ruthlessly popped it, but still shook his hand on my way out.<br />
My mother raised me to be polite, and I think she was wrong. I tip stylists for bad haircuts. I thank customer service representatives for their time when they've just wasted mine. And now I'm letting doctors kill me with their carelessness. <br />
And I fucking shook his hand.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-48047889528572107862015-06-30T22:27:00.001-04:002015-06-30T22:27:57.450-04:00Uncontrollable PervertHave you ever known the shame of having to register as a sex offender every time you move to a new neighbourhood? Or had to haltingly explain why there's a big black mark on your criminal record? Or had to make excuses every Sunday night when you slip off to the meeting that (hopefully) keeps your dirty compulsion in check?<br />
<br />
Yeah, me neither. But that doesn't stop LegoLand from assuming I'm a pervert and barring me from their property.<br />
<br />
Now, I do not having a burning need to visit LegoLand, thank god. I didn't grow up playing with it and haven't picked up the habit as an adult, which is a good thing because LegoLand doesn't want my kind. In fact, they prohibit me, and others like me, from entering?<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because I don't have kids.<br />
And you know what they say about a couple of adults with no kids...they have lots and lots of disposable income.<br />
Just ask Disney World, who recently got a whole truck load of cash from us when we travelled down to Florida and spent a week visiting their parks, eating their food (and yes, drinking what booze they have), and even buying souvenirs for the littluns back home. In fact, and this will come as a shock I know, we even paid a visit to the Lego store in Downtown Disney, where we bought, among other things, a big, expensive container that you can fill up with all the little pieces your heart can possibly covet. We have ten nieces and nephews AND COUNTING. Some have already been the recipient of Lego gifts (especially of the Marvel variety, if memory serves), but don't worry, Lego. We'll go spend our money elsewhere so you don't have to take it from our dirty, molesting hands.<br />
<br />
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Look away! I apologize for the graphic nature of this photo. Sean is pictured with a dragon made of Legos and there are NO CHILDREN IN SIGHT. You can practically see the beads of sweat on his forehead from keeping his hands to himself when really he can't wait to accost some little kid coming out of the bathroom. He's desperate! What a despicable human being. Thank god he can't get into LegoLand. Your children are safe from Uncle Sean, giver of amazing piggy back rides, pretend eater of all the pretend pie you can pretend serve him, contortionist willing to shove his 6'6 frame into a tiny plastic house built for those 3 feet and under.<br />
<br />
<br />Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-5255358644216186272015-06-09T12:08:00.001-04:002015-06-09T12:08:26.659-04:00IntrospectionThank you to<a href="http://this%20is%20a%20weirdly%20loaded%20word%20for%20me./" target="_blank"> Adi</a> who challenged me to the Freestyle Writing Prompt. She gave me 5 minutes to write about introspection, and so I did:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a weirdly loaded word for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First, as an insomniac, and as someone who believes that
happiness is a choice, I feel my thoughts turn inward at all kinds of quiet
times. Am I happy? Where are the weak spots, and what can be done about them? I
might also use meditation to take introspection deeper, to get beyond the
superficial questions about myself and explore my soul. This is the level where
I might be able to touch my physical pain, to do the work required in
sublimating it. It works for as long as I’m able to stay in this deep thought,
and then vanishes all too soon when I’m pulled out. At what point am I
experiencing happiness and pain at the same time? And how can I continue to
make those two things coexist, since they must? Introspection can be a trap. It’s
a dangerous hallway to follow because soon you’re opening up all kinds of
doors, some which may be better off staying shut. And somewhere in there is the
reason I don’t sleep. It’s never been easy for me to turn it off. I have taught
myself a lot of relaxation techniques to flip that switch, but introspection is
difficult to avoid. I think TV was probably invented for just this reason. And
I don’t watch TV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Second, as a therapist, I caution my clients against this
time and again. A little is good, but way too many of us overdose on it, and
that’s toxic. There is a fine line between introspection and rumination, and we
must find it and respect it. Err on the safe side. We cannot live inside
ourselves. Start a conversation with a real person instead, someone who can
offer a different perspective. Preferably someone who could even be impartial.
But don’t rely solely on your own thoughts. Magical thinking. Pessimism.
Miscommunication. Negative thoughts. Identity issues. Traps. All of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Words: 324</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm posting it at Saint Vodka rather than <a href="http://assholeswatchingmovies.com/" target="_blank">Assholes Watching Movies</a> because it seems a better fit over here. Plus this old blog gets lonely...</span></div>
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-33635373302856215602015-06-05T13:03:00.002-04:002015-06-05T13:08:04.117-04:00Absolutely Necessary Dog Pictures<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vD5WZVULUbs/VXHXVpL3AqI/AAAAAAAABgM/OH-gm8G9H58/s1600/IMG_9347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vD5WZVULUbs/VXHXVpL3AqI/AAAAAAAABgM/OH-gm8G9H58/s400/IMG_9347.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet little Fudge<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mPtvh-njobY/VXHWNOdFBUI/AAAAAAAABgA/gbMx4_MKwws/s1600/IMG_2626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mPtvh-njobY/VXHWNOdFBUI/AAAAAAAABgA/gbMx4_MKwws/s400/IMG_2626.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gertie in her pearls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ywoEnPGRqjg/VXHVZczuckI/AAAAAAAABf4/HXM3K_I5Wzs/s1600/IMG_9404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ywoEnPGRqjg/VXHVZczuckI/AAAAAAAABf4/HXM3K_I5Wzs/s400/IMG_9404.JPG" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bronx in a box</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yp47CvM6c8U/VXHVHTuuWuI/AAAAAAAABfw/8MxRpkuUypM/s1600/IMG_9381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yp47CvM6c8U/VXHVHTuuWuI/AAAAAAAABfw/8MxRpkuUypM/s400/IMG_9381.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gentleman Herbie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cE91on7cILQ/VXHUWA8NcSI/AAAAAAAABfg/Etti-ksN_8g/s1600/IMG_9323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cE91on7cILQ/VXHUWA8NcSI/AAAAAAAABfg/Etti-ksN_8g/s400/IMG_9323.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiley Gertie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kU4bVATmxr0/VXHTzki453I/AAAAAAAABfY/JPXINGqvE5A/s1600/IMG_8968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kU4bVATmxr0/VXHTzki453I/AAAAAAAABfY/JPXINGqvE5A/s400/IMG_8968.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fudgie in the WILD</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Wji4JOQ-Kc/VXHTVnOe4JI/AAAAAAAABfQ/uIjCgK6gQZk/s1600/IMG_9079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Wji4JOQ-Kc/VXHTVnOe4JI/AAAAAAAABfQ/uIjCgK6gQZk/s400/IMG_9079.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bashful Herb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-viiDIR9rB0M/VXHTAf5RW4I/AAAAAAAABfI/wBPHrQDij_k/s1600/IMG_8976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-viiDIR9rB0M/VXHTAf5RW4I/AAAAAAAABfI/wBPHrQDij_k/s400/IMG_8976.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fudgie and friend</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vE7rvdhuz4I/VXHSK0WBgKI/AAAAAAAABe4/rnwS5EHaS6k/s1600/IMG_8788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vE7rvdhuz4I/VXHSK0WBgKI/AAAAAAAABe4/rnwS5EHaS6k/s400/IMG_8788.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bronx-a-saurus Rex</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XzoxBQ2vnzQ/VXHSbnIJcPI/AAAAAAAABfA/PvGL1DBQ4us/s1600/IMG_6887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XzoxBQ2vnzQ/VXHSbnIJcPI/AAAAAAAABfA/PvGL1DBQ4us/s400/IMG_6887.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herbie<br />
RAWR<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-1103171050101946562015-05-28T20:59:00.002-04:002015-05-28T20:59:36.814-04:00Dear Lebron James,Congratulations on making the finals. I wish I could be happier for you, but the truth is, I'm holding a grudge.<br />
<br />
Last summer, I happened to be in Cleveland having surgery when you announced your return. Literally in the operating room, my doctor and nurses couldn't shut up about it. The whole town was on fire because of your impending return, and my husband, as big a basketball junkie as there ever was, was stoked about the timing of our visit and your news.<br />
<br />
It was a no-brainer that in December, for his birthday, I would get him the gift to end all gifts: tickets to see his two favourite players go head to head - Lebron James vs Kevin Durant. The tickets weren't super easy to come by, as you can imagine (epic match up!), and as soon as we bought them, Durant got injured. And then Westbrook got injured too. We thought about selling the tickets, but the team doctors estimated that Durant MIGHT be back in the game by the time we (and you) were there. Might. Injuries are tough things to gamble on but my husband wanted so badly to see you both play that he put it all on the line and kept the tickets. We booked flights and hotels and prayed that KD would be in. And he was! But we still had the toughest part ahead - the trip. We're from Canada, you see. A whole other country. Which means that to see you play we have to take a plane, cross a border, go through customs, all that mega fun stuff that makes people hate travelling. And to make matters worse, there was a big bad Canadian snow storm on the day of our departure, so even though we'd given ourselves plenty of extra time to make the game, the not-so-nice lady at the counter was telling us that actually, our flight was cancelled, and the next one wouldn't get us there in time. I broke down in the airport when I realized that my gift would be ruined (not to mention that the very expensive non-refundable game tickets would now go to waste). My husband, an optimist and champ, insisted that we try anyway. He asked if we could fly to Dallas, or Tulsa - he went through dozens of cities, calculating the amount of time it would take to then rent a car and race to OKC. No go, she told us. <br />
<br />
While waiting for the flight that would get us there too late, my husband got someone on the phone who was a little more helpful. He switched us to a flight where we wouldn't get there in time for tip-off, but if we were very lucky, and everything else went smoother than smooth, we'd maybe get to see the last quarter. It was a paltry, paltry thing, but we took it. Even a glimpse of Lebron would maybe salvage this failed vacation! First we flew to Chicago, and while there my husband noticed a curious thing: another flight! Could we get on it? He ran the whole length of that damn airport trying to get us on the flight. Our tickets were not transferable, they told us. No problem. We'll pay. We can't do it at this desk, they told us. No problem, we'll run to the other end and get it done there. We only have one ticket, they told us. No problem. I can wait. Just please, for the love of god and the game, get my husband there in time. We can't help you just now, they told us, we have another flight to board. The flight we so desperately wanted onto ourselves was also boarding, without us, as we watched. And yet somehow, I don't know how and I'm not going to question it, we got on, just in the very nick of time. Both of us. We were wobbly and exhausted, be we were on a plane that was going to land in Oklahoma City in time to see you play.<br />
<br />
Can you now start to appreciate how much this game meant to us?<br />
So imagine our disappointment when we arrived in OKC only to hear that Lebron James wasn't there. <br />
You didn't play in that game.<br />
We came all that way, spent all that money, and you didn't play.<br />
If I was a weaker person, I think my sanity may have broken in that moment. <br />
But we went to the game. Tried not to be too disappointed since we'd come all this way.<br />
Oklahoma won, Westbrook bringing in a lot of points, and Durant making a strong showing, especially in the second half.<br />
But there was no Lebron. No epic match up. As far as birthday gifts go, it was an epic fail, a very costly, 2500 km fail.<br />
The next day we rented a car and headed to Dallas, where we saw Golden State beat the Mavs. and extended their winning streak to 15. Great game.<br />
And now you're playing them in the finals.<br />
So here's what I'm thinking.<br />
I'm sure you don't like disappointing your fans, and my husband is a big fan, not on their birthdays, not on a once-in-a-lifetime trip, that's for sure.<br />
I've heard you're a nice guy.<br />
So if you wanted to make it up to us, we wouldn't say no to playoff tickets.<br />
If you had a couple to spare, we'd be there in a heartbeat. No hard feelings. That's just the kind of dedicated hard-travelling Canadians we are, basketball fans to the last, and always ready to forgive...and maybe, just maybe, even cheer.<br />
<br />
Love and kisses,<br />
Jay<br />
<br />
<br />
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-41093139130163007872015-04-07T22:43:00.003-04:002015-04-07T22:43:54.153-04:00The older I get, the more I realize my life is not about searching for love, or finding love, or falling in love. It's recognizing all the barriers that I've built up against it and learning to tear them down.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-42405164206364214282015-03-16T16:59:00.002-04:002015-03-16T16:59:55.342-04:00Out with the Old, In with the NewI have been making fun of Sean's car since approximately 46 seconds after he first picked me up in it. It wasn't horrible. It wasn't falling apart. It was paid for. But it also looked they way a child of four draws a car: a box, with wheels.<br />
<br />
And over the years, we've laughed about how his car kind of suited him, the way mine suits me. I drive a Beetle (I'm on my 3rd Beetle since I met Sean 5 years ago, in fact). My car is fun, cute, curvy, and full of zip. I like to think it says something about me. It's not super practical. It's a two door with nearly no trunk. It's also a convertible, though this fact is irrelevant for 9 Canadian months out of 12. I love it to pieces.<br />
<br />
Sean's car is more like Sean himself. It's big and comfortable and practical in every sense. He got a good deal on his Nissan Altima, paid it off quickly, and has driven it reliably for 8 years. But it's gray. And boxy. And what I would call "nondescript" meaning sometimes when I'm waiting for Sean to pick me up, I accidentally get into other, similar cars.<br />
<br />
I get it. A car's a car. If it gets you from A to B, then who cares, right?<br />
I think I used to believe that, but that was before.<br />
Before I used to have a significant commute, for one thing.<br />
And before I used to own a car, or even a driver's licence, which is probably telling.<br />
Now that I have all of those things, I realize a car is not just a car.<br />
<br />
It's a place where I'll be spending lots of time. There are some days I spend more time with Ruby (my car) than with Sean, or my dogs. So it needs to be comfortable. But it also needs to be something I feel proud about driving - this has helped turn a dreaded commute into something more enjoyable. I like driving my car. I like being able to scoot in and out of spots before other drivers can even get their signals on. I feel safe in her. I love how quickly she warms up in the winter, and I love how summer drives in to work can be repurposed into time in the sunshine. I love matching my lipstick to my car, letting my hair tangle in the wind, turning the volume up to 11 and taking a slightly longer route so I can drive by the water and feel the spray on my skin.<br />
<br />
And I wanted the same for Sean. Not the exact same, maybe, but I wanted him to drive something worthy. And fun. And sexy, goddamnit. No more nondescript.<br />
<br />
Because that's not my Sean. Yes, he's changed. And maybe some of that's because of me. But I think he's learned that there's more to life than being practical. We deserve to treat ourselves! <br />
So I finally got him into a new car. A lovely new car. Which means his old one, which, defying family tradition, he did not drive literally into the ground, or have it gasp its last breath just as it chugs into the scrap yard, was up for grabs.<br />
<br />
There are a couple of good options for donating your old vehicle. You've probably heard of <a href="http://www.kidney.ca/kidneycar" target="_blank">Kidney Car</a> - they will come to your home, tow away your car, and leave you with a tax receipt and a warm fuzzy feeling knowing that proceeds go directly to the Kidney Foundation of Canada, helping to fund research for kidney disease and bring awareness to organ donation.<br />
<br />
Another good option is your local fire department. Fire department trainees use your old car to practice using the jaws of life. I had a <a href="http://saintvodkaofthemartini.blogspot.ca/2013/05/scar-tissue.html" target="_blank">serious car accident</a> a couple of years ago, and I had to be cut out of my car. It's kind of a nice feeling to be able to give back to that - obviously, you hope you'll never need those services, but just in case, isn't it good to know they're prepared?Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-33478816241732339212015-03-06T14:09:00.002-05:002015-03-06T14:09:33.870-05:00The Hidden Cost of Being a WomanA curious thing happened in Paris - in the <a href="http://saintvodkaofthemartini.blogspot.ca/2015/02/guilty-as-charged.html" target="_blank">fanciest of places</a>, I was presented with a menu. A menu I did not suspect was any different than the one being held by my husband but was, in a very important way.<br />
Mine had no prices mentioned whatsoever; his did.<br />
<br />
I didn't always notice this occurring, and perhaps sometimes it did not (my stomach doesn't vote by price, so I don't usually bother to check). But once I cottoned on to what was happening, I was intrigued.<br />
<br />
What piece of tradition is this?<br />
<br />
They're called blind menus or "Ladies' Menus" and operate under the assumption that since dinner is obviously the gentleman's treat, the lady need not worry her pretty little head over the vulgarity of price. This is a little silly since there are in fact prices listed on the man's menu, since presumably he may worry, but if his dinner companion doesn't know and goes ahead and orders the astronomically priced item, what is he to do about it except break out his credit card, pray that payment goes through, and order a salad for himself?<br />
<br />
This sparked a little debate amongst my friends. Some felt it was a nice send up to chivalry. After all, you would remove the price tag from a gift that you give. Why not treat your special lady to dinner while doing the same? Of course, this places stress upon the woman too, because generally we'd like to be able to estimate the value of the gift so we know whether or not to accept it. We might, considering our companion's status and our own values, prefer to be able to make a choice in full knowledge of what it will mean to the bottom line, and not just at the bottom of our bellies.<br />
<br />
And what happens if I've decided to treat him? What if we're splitting the bill? What if we're friends, or colleagues? How do you explain to HR a meal that goes way over budget -"Oh sorry, I'm just a girl and I didn't know!" And in the age of dual incomes and joint bank accounts, what does it even matter?<br />
<br />
I suppose there are some people who couldn't enjoy a meal knowing its true cost, so maybe there's value in having one handy upon request. But when you're given one automatically, because you're a woman, what does that assume? What judgements are inherent? Obviously that I'm not paying. Maybe that I can't pay? That I'm not the head of household? That I don't have access to our financial statements? That I don't participate in budget making or breaking? That high prices would intimidate me? What is the line between chivalry and chauvinism?<br />
<br />
Have you seen these menus? Do they insult you at all?<br />
<br />
<br />
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-30643615301649039992015-02-03T20:21:00.001-05:002015-02-03T20:21:16.396-05:00Guilty As ChargedSean and I are soon indulging in a sinfully decadent trip to Paris. All of our trips tend to be on the more sumptuous end of the scale, and I don't usually find myself apologizing for it. We've been to the best restaurants in New York, Miami, Las Vegas and Chicago, glutted ourselves like fools, paid with plastic having barely cracked open the billfold. But one place we're planning to visit in Paris has me sweating. Truth be told, it will cost us as much as our plane tickets did, maybe more. And I don't really balk at the price. We've done tasting menus all over the world now (2 very good ones locally - Atelier, and Le Baccarat), and they don't come cheaply, but the ingredients and service and the EXPERIENCE make it feel worthwhile. <br />
<br />
It's not the dollars that concern me (or the Euros, in this case). It's the concept. It's the thought that a decade ago, that money, money for just one meal, would have seemed like a literal godsend to me. At a time in my life when I worked two jobs and still struggled to make rent, this one meal would have kept me housed for 3 months or more. It's more than I earned in one (two week) pay cheque for a long, long time. <br />
<br />
And I don't know why it's this meal that's making me feel so wretched. We'll probably be at the restaurant for a good four hours, and we'll remember it for the rest of our lives. I've spent as much or more on excellent basketball tickets and didn't think twice. But maybe that's the difference - although I accompany Sean to see Lebron & Durant, the tickets are obviously for his enjoyment. But the restaurant? That's for me. We're <em>both</em> going to fill our bellies with caviar and champagne and black truffles. I'm going to look at that bread cart, with over a dozen selections waiting to be paired with just as many courses, and I'm not going to feel the guilt that I feel today. I'm going to feel joyful. I'm going to be happy and hungry and I'm going to heap it all on my plate in embarrassing amounts. And I'll do this knowing, in the back of my head, that some people, many people, don't have even a scrap at that exact moment, while I have so much.<br />
<br />
Inequality is a strange and sickening thing and I wonder sometimes, worry really, what kind of person I am, morally, to take such part in it. Particularly since I've been on the bottom (realizing that the bottom for a Canadian is still a relatively cozy place). Fuck. I don't know if I've just talked myself out of this treat. Maybe I should. I don't know where the line exists. I don't always know how to enjoy something I feel I've earned while also feeling that many others work just as hard to earn far less. <br />
<br />
Thoughts?<br />
<br />
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-36556235557693051552015-01-21T09:22:00.001-05:002015-01-21T09:22:34.094-05:00Unintentionally and Maddeningly SexistLast Sunday, we, like many couples, spent the day watching football. Notice I wrote couples. We still tend to think of sports as something a man watches alone, just him, his pork rinds, his beer, and his favourite recliner, or else with a bunch of buddies and half a dozen pepperoni pizzas. But those days are evaporating. Families do things together now, including watch football, and the NFL is the first to take note. They are actively courting female viewers and female fans because - shock! - that's a huge demographic, isn't it? If you want to keep expanding, you'd better not ignore the woman holding the remote. So they're making jerseys in smaller sizes, and making the players wear pink during breast cancer awareness month, and pretending to be mad when players hit their wives.<br />
<br />
Football was never my thing, but it's one of Sean's favourite sports, and Sean is a sport junkie. He has no idea what's going on in the world unless I tell him, but he scours the internet for every written word about games played competitively. We don't watch a lot of TV, but he uses every spare moment to watch highlights on his phone or on his tablet. So I make an effort to watch the big games with him, and to bring him to see some of these games in person, a splurge he never considered before we met. And this year, to further bridge the gap, I joined a football pool.<br />
<br />
Which means that last weekend, the conference championships, was a really big weekend for us. If you watched that first nail-biter of a game, Seattle vs Green Bay, well, I don't have to tell you how awful it was to watch. Sean and I both had our money on the Seahawks so of course they were down 16-zip at the half and didn't start playing football until the last 5 minutes of the game when they somehow came back but left too much time on the clock, allowing the Packers to tie it up and force it into overtime. Seattle rallied with a touch down to win the game, but not before wringing out just gallons of sweat from all the viewers at home. <br />
<br />
Later that night, after the Patriots had deftly defeated the Colts, we got into bed to check out our standings in the the pool. Since I'd put my bets on all the right horses, I'd had an excellent week, topping off a pretty excellent season. Out of 186,077 players in our league, I somehow have managed to come out in the 99th percentile. 99th percentile, bitches! And I owe it all to Sean, who taught me everything I know about football, and who has struggled to remain somewhere between the 25th and 35th percentile throughout the season himself. Ouch. Why am I so goddamned good at this? I have no idea. I read what I can and I have no allegiance to players or teams. In fact, I drive Sean bonkers with my player assessments. He knows how good a guy is, what his stats are, how he played last year, and the year before that. I know if he's done a spread for GQ or dated Jessica Simpson. And I'm the one in the 99th percentile.<br />
<br />
So the next day, Sean goes to work and inevitably ends up discussing the games with a male coworker who also was watching them enthusiastically. Sean was able to regurgitate to him some stats he'd read about the game - that the Packers had had a 96.1% chance of winning with 5:04 left in the fourth quarter (leading 19-7). They discussed the historic, unprecedented game in minute detail, and the season more generally, and the upcoming SuperBowl with glee. In fact, over the course of the conversation, the only thing that curiously did not get a mention was that Sean's very own wife had a super-stellar football pool record.<br />
<br />
I've worked hard at that stupid pool, making picks every single week, and I'm proud of my record, which is way too good to be due to just chance, or beginner's luck, so when Sean failed to give me my props, I called him on it. He insisted that he'd just "forgotten" but I know damn well that if it was Sean's brother who had that kind of record, or his father, or his friend, or best of all, himself, he'd be boasting to everyone and might even consider reprinting his business cards. But his wife? She didn't get a mention. In fact, his wife doesn't come up when he discusses football with any other men, period. But forget about me? Forget about that 99th percentile? The guy who remembered that the Seahawks had just a 3.9% chance of winning that game? I don't think so.<br />
<br />
But he assured me he didn't forget about me completely. In fact, during that same day of work, while heating up his lunch of leftovers, a female coworker commented on how good it smelled and he proudly told her that I'd made him a very nice meal the night before (during the first half of the Patriots game in fact) and that he was glad to have the remnants for lunch. So he remembers to tell people (or female subordinates, at least) I'm good in the kitchen, just not that I'm also really good at picking winners.<br />
<br />
I told him that was a pretty sexist thing to do, and of course he balked. I will be the first tell you that Sean doesn't hate women, or want to keep them down. He's actually a pretty forward-thinking guy and doesn't mind when I out-earn him or out-run him or out-think him. But apparently there's a limit. <br />
<br />
He thinks it's not sexist unless it's overt, but that's the worst kind of thinking there is. In fact, the worst kind of sexism is the kind you can't quite put your finger on, but happens all the time, to good people unintentionally keeping women "in their place", and that includes complimenting them on gender-stereotyped things, like cooking, and not on unstereotypical things, like football pools. This is called "benevolent sexism" and is a pretty dangerous thing considering people don't even realize when they're guilty of it. <br />
<br />
So I'm calling out my sweet, sensitive, equality-for-all husband. It's not harmless just because it isn't intentional. And maybe individually these things don't mean much, but all of these slights add up culturally to a huge discrepancy that still exists today, in 2015. It's way too easy to reinforce a stereotype, and if Sean is any kind of barometer, it's hard to get someone from the dominant group to confront his own biases. We're all defensive about these things, but as citizens of this time period, and this shrinking earth, I think it's our job to be vigilant and aware.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-90043315565664215102015-01-13T00:15:00.001-05:002015-01-13T00:15:03.271-05:00Does anyone else feel as guilty as I do that our dogs have better lives than 80% of children? That's a pretty shitty thing when you think about it. My dogs are loved and well-fed. They sleep in warm, cozy beds, and have great medical care. They benefit from air conditioning and puffy vests and parks built just for them. We hire people to care for them when we're away, walk them when we're busy, groom them when they're gross. And I wouldn't even say my pets are spoiled! They just live in a North American home with a fenced yard and a mountain of squeaky toys. They're lucky, and so am I because they bring a lot of happiness to my life. But when I think that there are probably millions of children going to bed tonight not only without the luxuries, but without the basic standard of care that we deem necessary for our pets - because in Canada, we have laws not just against cruelty, but against neglect - that kills me.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-50478262533323715672014-12-30T11:15:00.000-05:002014-12-30T15:55:31.628-05:00How to Talk to Your Loved Ones About Your Upcoming SuicideI am in the business of preventing suicide. I'm a special kind of therapist who intervenes in a "crisis" which is a nice way of saying I talk people out of jumping off a bridge. Ideally. So the fact that I'm also secretly a suicide advocate I keep firmly on lock down.<br />
<br />
You've no doubt heard the maxim "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem" - it's true in a lot of cases. Lots of people who commit or attempt suicide are also depressed, which is a nasty disease that colours our perception of things and distorts our thinking. Still, lots of people struggle with the decision to live or die for weeks, months, and years, because most don't really want to die, they simply want to escape - from an untenable situation, or from recurring thoughts, or both - and can't think of another way out.<br />
<br />
I believe in the right to die. I'm not depressed but I do have a <a href="http://saintvodkaofthemartini.blogspot.ca/2014/03/now-you-see-me.html" target="_blank">chronic condition</a> that makes me not want to live. It's called pain.<br />
<br />
If the pain in my body suddenly transferred to yours, you would probably die of the shock. But if you have suffered from chronic pain for years and years, you've built up a tolerance, which doesn't mean you don't feel it, it only means you don't die from it. Your body can keep going but your mind may not want to. There are days when mine does not.<br />
<br />
Pain is the first thing I experience when I wake up, the last thing I feel before I fall asleep, if I can fall asleep, and the thing that prevents me from achieving real rest when I am asleep, and real joy when I'm awake. The pain is always first.<br />
<br />
I'm in pain first, and at work second. I'm in pain first, and in love second. I'm in pain first, and sometimes I'm in pain second and third too. If I was being chased by a bear, I'd be in pain first, and terrified second. I haven't experienced a moment of pure anything in years. Not pure joy, not pure sorrow. I was in pain on my wedding day. I was in pain at my best friend's funeral. I was in pain the day my nephew was born. I can recall random days by describing the geography of my pain, the quality of my pain, the severity of my pain.<br />
<br />
I've just survived the holidays, and holidays are hard. I dread them. There's too much travelling, which exacerbates pain, too little sleep, which exacerbates pain, too much company, which means that I have to cover up my pain and do a lot more pretending, which is draining and yes, painful. There's so much pain around the holidays that I can't even manage to place friends or family or food or fun in second or third or fourth. Pain starts to take over my experiences completely. Holidays are misery.<br />
<br />
There is wonderful medication available that eradicates pain, and if you've just been injured or had surgery, this option is a blessing. It allows you to get your body through a difficult time without feeling the true consequences. For me, however, it's not a realistic option. I am not having a difficult time, I am having a difficult life. I have a chronic, incurable disease, which means I will never get better. It also means that if I were to take enough medication to blunt my pain every day, I would never get out of bed. I wouldn't legally be allowed to drive, I couldn't work. I'd be too stoned to really enjoy life, and eventually I'd develop impossible to control tolerance levels, and an addiction, and years of drugs would lead to organ failure and probably new pain. I stay away from medication as much as possible because I'd rather feel pain than stop living my life, which, believe me, is a daily testament to how much I love life. Every day I choose agony just in case there might also be a little ecstasy. I still believe. But to get me through, I also need to know that when I'm done, when I can't take anymore, I can let go.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly when that will be. How much pain can my body really take, and more importantly, how much can my mind withstand? I already have days when I'd rather have not woken up. I think it about how sweet it would be to just keep sleeping, to not wake up to The Pain. I try to analyze my days: was today 40% pain 60% life? Or 60-40 the other way? I need to know that when the scales tip in a way that I find insupportable, that I can choose to end it. Because otherwise, the 80% days start to feel like 100%. Heck, the 40% days do, because I feel trapped and ignored. I need to know there's a way out.<br />
<br />
But discussing this with my husband Sean has not been easy. It's never been easy for him to live with someone in constant pain. He is not in constant pain, and he can never really understand what it's like. I'm constantly forcing myself to higher and higher levels of pain just so that I don't slow him down too much, and he's constantly slowing himself down so that I don't burn out. So we're both making compromises and we're both getting burned. But he likes me a lot and he doesn't want to lose me, can't really think about me leaving him on purpose. And I get how he'd see that as a betrayal. When we first started talking about my suicide, he felt it as a reproach and thought he wasn't making my life "good" enough. That simply wasn't true. He's made my life so much better than I ever would have thought. He's the reason I still get out of bed in the morning. It's just that, no matter what great thing is in front of me, I can't appreciate it the way he can. I'm always babysitting the pain. Sean knows my life better than anyone. He sees my dark days, he sees the tears, the many doctors, the many surgeries, the many scars. He sees how hard I work just to be a normal person, and he knows that while I'm doing my best to look like a normal person, I'm screaming with pain inside. Every single moment of every single day. He knows my smile is never really genuine. It's 10% fake and masking pain or it's 90% fake and masking pain. He knows. Lots of people in my life know but forget. I do too good a job at pretending and they don't realize how hard I'm working just to stand upright, just to keep my breaths even, just to not pass out. I'm good at hiding, I've been pretending for a decade, but Sean knows. And he's told me lately that he has been lucky to spend any time with me at all, that he'll be grateful for whatever I can give him, and that he'll understand when I cannot. I can only hope that stays true the closer we get to the end.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we soldier on with our suffering. The end is not today, and I hope not tomorrow. I'm still making short-term plans and still believe that I will be able to honour the commitments I make. I'm still trying. I'm still living.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-5318481923548650022014-12-09T13:33:00.000-05:002014-12-09T13:33:00.335-05:00As a child packing for our horrid family camping trips, my mother would always tell us to "pack more underwear than you'll need."<br />
This seemed like reasonable advice and so I've always heeded it.<br />
Packing for an upcoming trip to Texas, I realized that in fact, I've never once needed an emergency pair of underwear whilst on vacation, and good lord, I hope it stays that way.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-7950995321842068202014-12-05T09:26:00.000-05:002014-12-05T09:26:00.033-05:00Confessions of a Shoe PervertI sort of hate the whole "women love shoes" trend that's been foisted upon us. I'm going to blame Sex and the City. It made women feel like they should love shoes, and it made men think that any woman who owned more than 3 pairs was a Carrie.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, I have heard many a woman declare "I love shoes" while wearing evidence to the contrary on her feet. In fact, the shoes she was wearing might be evidence of having given up, or of something she found on sale at Giant Tiger after Octo-Mom picked through the bin, of something worn for comfort and bunion-support rather than fashion. But of "love of shoes"? No.<br />
<br />
So I kind of hate that I myself feel a definite pull toward shoes. I really wish I didn't, but I always have. Even as a little girl, I'd refuse to play Barbies with my sisters unless my Barbie had shoes. Now, only someone who was once herself a little girl would understand this: every Barbie comes with shoes. Pretty high-heeled shoes, necessarily, because her feet are molded in an upward arch that will only accomodate very high heels. But those shoes are teeny tiny and they get lost about ten seconds after you open the box. So even in our house of 4 girls and probably 200 Barbies (no joke), you'd have to search forever and be lucky to come up with a single pair. So before any Barbie playing could commence, my sisters would oblige my demand and spend probably 30 minutes to find me one pair. One stinkin pair. And every other Barbie went through life barefoot.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to high school, which for me, was in the 90s. Ugh. So many regrets. Platform Candies. Cowhide. Those stupid shoes that were like cowboy boots but without the leg. Patent leather MC Hammer shoes. 90210 hightops. Oh yeah. And, embarrassingly, shoes that my friend Kelly once declared were "so ugly they're kinda cool" as if that was the point, although up to that moment I'd seen only the cool and none of the ugly. But with that one comment I could suddenly see them for their brown orthopedic gender-neutral ugliness.<br />
<br />
Now I have money and taste (I think. I hope.). And closets full of shoes. Three closets, and still my shoes bleed all over my house. Both my car and Sean's have pairs of my shoes in the trunk, and in the backseat (it's hard to drive in heels!). I have shoes in the garage. Shoes in my gym bag. Shoes at work. I have shoes in various animal prints. Shoes that have equal parts neon and bad-assness. Shoes that are glitter AND gold. Shoes so high that my nose bleeds. Okay, no it doesn't. But I do have tonnes of very tall shoes. I have a very tall husband, and still he has to stoop to kiss me. And I hate myself for the excess, even as I get a little thrill in my down-south parts just to try on a new pair.<br />
<br />
And my poor feet. I've been very hard on my feet, which were shoe-resistant from the start. I have horrendously flat feet. I'll never have to go to war, but I also can't do anything without having extreme pain in my poor little tootsies. Like, crazy pain. It's absurd even to me that a lack of arches could cause such profound pain, but it's true. Add to that a terrible fall down a flight of stairs wherein I managed to sprain my foot in 3 different place, and then take off for Vegas just a few days later, leaving my crutches behind at the Bellagio because the casino floors just don't have a lot of room for disabilities (although they got me through airports like nobody's business). So needless to say the foot didn't heal. In fact, after a night of quite literally dragging it behind me as we made our frenzied way up and down the strip, I had to buy a pair of soft near-slippers, because my foot had swollen so much that my ballet flats had cut a ring all the way around my foot, I had this perfect bloody halo that was starting to look infected, and the congealed blood was starting to stick in the wrong places, and give me blisters. But I went back to the hotel that night to ice my foot in order to cram it into sky-high sparkly shoes because we renewed our vows at the Graceland Chapel and a girl cannot get married in flats. It's a sin. So that foot is now misshapen. Small price to pay, right?<br />
<br />
And then I had a bike accident that resprained that foot and the truth is, it's now more of a club than a foot. It gets me around, but barely. My foot is somehow hump-backed. So most of the shoes in my closet, all those purchased pre-foot-deformity, don't really fit. So I have to force the bones of my foot to reconfigure in order to jam the shoes on. And then I sweat and swear and send up mental SOS flares all night long, deeply regretting my choices, but never ever making the right one because the outfit looks so much better, not to mention my legs, when I wear the crazy heels.<br />
<br />
Yup. I really, really hate this about myself.<br />
<br />
<br />Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-34306258503715264482014-12-03T09:21:00.004-05:002014-12-03T09:21:34.871-05:00How many assholes does it take to review a movie?Started a movie review blog with some friends:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.assholeswatchingmovies.com/">www.AssholesWatchingMovies.com</a><br />
<br />
Please visit and join us in our sometimes thoughtful, sometimes thoughtless discussion.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-42466406184261388082014-11-18T12:06:00.002-05:002014-11-18T12:06:29.582-05:00Something's in the water.I sometimes have a love affair with water.<br />
I mean, I always like it, and I definitely always need it.<br />
But sometimes it's just so damn good.<br />
Like, sometimes I can literally feel it nourishing my body as I drink. I can physically feel it plumping up the cells on my cheeks.<br />
Is that just me?<br />
And I've really learned the very pleasurable sensation of ice water post-hot tub. The cooling sensation spreads out in your flushed body and brings you back to life. It's so good.<br />
<br />
Can you tell that I gave up Diet Pepsi a while ago?<br />
It wasn't that hard to stop and I don't really crave it, so much as miss it, if that makes sense.<br />
Like, I miss having an option besides water. Because I don't like the taste of regular Pepsi, and wouldn't want to drink that much sugar\calories anyway. And I don't care for juice. So it's water and then of course alcohol, and that's about it. It's given me an even deeper appreciation for water, but also sometimes a dispassion for it. Water just doesn't feel like a treat, whereas a Diet Pepsi I could bring with me to work and wait until the exact moment I needed it most and pop it open and immediately be flooded with relief. It was a pick-me-up, my only source of caffeine since I don't drink coffee or tea.<br />
<br />
I'd been meaning to give up Diet Pepsi for a while, because of the whole brain cancer thing. But every time I gave it up for a while, I'd drift back because Diet Pepsi is so pleasingly sweet, and brain cancer is not an imminent threat, I don't think. Easier to ignore, at any rate, than a certain emptiness around 8pm where a frosty can of DP would do me an enormous amount of good.<br />
<br />
Then my naturopath asked me to give it up. Asked me to trade it for regular Pepsi, even. Take the sugar, she said, give up the aspartame. And I knew she was right. In my readings about my disease, aspartame was listed as a potential cause of destroying the healthy bacteria in my stomach. So it was time to go. I thought I'd seriously have to detox from it. I thought I'd get the sweats, or visions. And really, I just stopped. So I wasn't as addicted as I feared I might be. I just really liked the stuff. Brain cancer tastes good to me.<br />
<br />
So now I'm on water. Lovely water. Sometimes I try to dress it up. Fancy ice cubes, glittery highball glasses. Bendy straws. Carafes intended for imported wine. And most of the time, water really does get the job done. It's the perfect beverage in many ways.<br />
<br />
Until it starts giving me brain cancer too.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-62452610966306662122014-11-11T20:08:00.001-05:002014-11-11T20:08:20.180-05:00I live my life avoiding bedtime. Like, not only do I avoid it, but as it gets darker and Sean's eyelids get droopier, I start with distraction techniques. Like a marathon of the latest must-see, cliffhanger-heavy non-network TV series. All 6 seasons! And sex! And chicken nuggets! And hot tub! More sex! <br />
<br />
But not reading. Reading is bad. Reading makes other people fall asleep even quicker. Reading is a sleep aid to a frustrating number of people. Me? I can never have less than 3 books on my nightstand. I never travel with less than 7. When I'm not sleeping, it's not uncommon for me to read a book a night. A whole night of tossing, turning, snapping on the light, picking up the book, reading, feeling a sliver of hope, turning out the light, pretending it's working, hoping it's going to work any minute, and then tearfully admitting defeat, turning on the light to read and repeat. But Sean? Four pages and he's out. OUT.<br />
<br />
And it leaves me alone. And there is no lonelier thing than another night of not sleeping. Nights are long, and I dread them. I truly dread them. They make me sad, and every minute that ticks past 8pm makes me sadder, because I know what's coming: abandonment, frustration, anger, sickness.<br />
<br />
It's hard not to feel resentment toward the person sleeping peacefully beside you. I know it's wrong. It's not their fault. They're doing what bodies do, and what life and health require. But it sucks, when you are in the depths of sleep failure, to have a perfect, shining example lying beside you, teasing you, accusing you. It's awful.<br />
<br />
It's also incomprehensible. Like, why is my body refusing to do the thing it needs to do? And why me? I pay my taxes. I take warm baths, keep a bedtime routine, don't drink caffeine, exercise, keep my bedroom a "sleep shrine", practise yoga and mediation and deep breathing and drink bad sleepy time tea. I do all the right things. All of them. Sometimes for 72 hours straight. It's not fair, and that hurts.<br />
<br />
It's almost funny how quickly frustration at sleep in general (or unsleep in general) turns into anger toward myself. Like, real hatred. I beat myself up for not sleeping. I get down on myself. The negative self-talk starts and then escalates, because it's the middle of the night and your thoughts are the only thing keeping you company so of course they go bananas. And it's all your fault for not controlling them! I start punishing myself. I'm not allowed to have a snack, or even water, because I don't deserve it. I can't watch a movie or check Facebook. I keep myself in strict isolation because if the alternative is bad enough, maybe I'll learn to just sleep already. Except I never do.<br />
<br />
And I never will. I know that now. I've been a bad sleeper since day one. I couldn't sleep at night as a baby either. My grandfather summersaulted me over his head because flipping the baby would flip my schedule. Except all I did was barf on my grandfather and went back to not sleeping.<br />
<br />
School was the worst. It starts so goddamned early and I would be lucky to fall asleep minutes before I needed to get up. Alarms are an extra layer of pressure for an insomniac. They keep exact count of your failures and count down to your misery. The pressure is this awful weight and every minute is full of rage. Setting an alarm will always trigger my insomnia. Always. But 3 days a week, I have to be at work for 7am which means I have to be up in the vicinity of 5am, which means I won't be getting any sleep that night. AT ALL. So for those three days a week, guaranteed I'm a zombie, and every day I get closer to collapse, but I collapse into a nauseated, achy, head-hurting puddle of CONSCIOUSNESS. I never collapse into sleep. Because it doesnt' work like that. Insomnia doesn't cure itself, it only feeds on itself. Eventually I'll need to give myself a blank space of time where it doesn't matter when I sleep or for how long. But that means carving up pieces of my life, or my work. Because I don't get to be productive or sociable when I'm up by myself in the dark hours of the night. I spend my days barely lucid, and in a great deal of physical pain because the wear and tear accumulates and the muscles never get their needed rest and replenishment. <br />
<br />
People can't really understand the toll it takes on your body. Doctors always gasp over your blood pressure. I push through crazy stuff. I keep going. Sometimes I hit a wall, randomly, and have to call to be driven home because I just can't anymore. Which doesn't mean I'll sleep. It just means I'm useless. And that's how I feel half the time. Just completely useless. And I can't do anything about it, nobody can. All I can do is lie there and think good thoughts. Maybe it'll be tonight.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-76734899423096713282014-10-07T21:02:00.000-04:002014-10-07T21:02:02.753-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
A million years ago I read somewhere that a perfect breast should fit into a champagne glass.</div>
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Oof, I thought. No way. I mean, not even on my best day, not even if I'm sucking in. </div>
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I made my peace with it a long while ago. Some cups runneth over.</div>
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But then I came across a champagne coupe and thought - ah.</div>
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I'm still not cramming myself into that thing, it might just sit upon me like a little yarmulke for my tits, but I can at least get over the Madonna-like proportions of the last one, and I can stop smirking every time I pour myself some bubbles.</div>
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I've always enjoyed the elegance and sense of occasion inherent in the flutes, but the coupe just seems to wink at me and lately I'm winking back.</div>
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-34786130359380040892014-10-02T09:05:00.002-04:002014-10-02T09:05:43.520-04:00Sean is full of shit.<br />
All good husbands are, so I don't really hold this against him.<br />
My suspicions are raised every time he insists I have a good voice.<br />
This is patently untrue. And a "good voice" isn't really all that subjective. It's not just that I could never make a career out of it, it's that I probably shouldn't open my mouth, ever. Oh, I'm sure it's not the worst voice in the world, but it's definitely bottom third. And I know it. I can't stand to hear my own voice (and my laugh is so much worse), so if you ask me to sing, I will flat-out refuse. However, if that same song were to come on the radio mere moments later, you'll probably catch me singing along. And I do apologize. I wish my voice were better. Or that I could resist a good sing along. But it's not and I can't, and them's the breaks. There are worse afflictions to be saddled with and I can't say I mourn this one all too often.<br />
Just don't tell me it's nice. Why do guys do that? Sean is not the first man to insist, not just that my voice is fine, because maybe fine I could understand, in the rose-coloured glasses sort of way, where you overlook certain flaws in your loved ones because you must in order to remain sane.<br />
But nice? No, sir, it is not.<br />
<br />
Similarly, I was recently contemplating selling my guitar. Yes, this is tragic. I mean, not starving children tragic, or even selling a guitar you love and use tragic. I bought my guitar with good intentions, and I even took lessons, but I'm not good at persevering at something I'm not immediately good at. And I'm immediately good at most things, which only reinforces my pathetic inclination to quit things that are hard. What am I, eight? Anyway, it just kind of sits there, taunting me, reminding me of that thing I can't seem to learn. I mean, I got the chords straight. I practiced enough to get some baby calluses. I worked on strumming patterns. I even put strung some notes together enough to make out bits of songs. But I sucked and got frustrated and quit. Which Sean rosily remembers as me "having a good sound."<br />
I mean, can you believe this guy?<br />
He has to compliment me and encourage me on EVERYTHING and it's exhausting. Especially the stuff I feel are blatant lies. I know he's into me, but after enough years of marriage to have stopped counting, I think we get the point, Sean. But can we agree that I have enough actually great qualities that we don't need to make any up? I actually told him the other day that when he gives me false compliments, parts of my brain melt.<br />
<br />
But it's the butt compliments that really convince me that Sean has Stockholm Syndrome. I mean, yes, if my radio is to be believed, butts are really big right now. Literally and figuratively, I guess. But no matter how many lyrics are devoted to this body part, I'm afraid I'm not getting any more bootylicious. And that's fine. I think I make up for it in other departments. But if that's what you're into, then move along. There's no junk in this trunk.<br />
But Sean is forever engineering ways in which to walk behind me, and appreciate the view. He tells me I have a nice ass just like he tells me I look beautiful when in fact I've made no effort, or that I smell good when I'm not even particularly clean.<br />
I think I would appreciate the compliment more if it was based in fact. Tell me I have great taste in music, that my legs are startlingly soft, that I have the most disturbing sense of humour, that I'm the best you've ever had. That, I'll believe.<br />
But this ass? This ass is whack.<br />
<br />Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-39412157600698536722014-09-25T12:58:00.002-04:002014-09-25T12:58:41.701-04:00So there was this repugnant Katy Perry song on the radio yesterday (I realize that may not narrow it down very much) during which she dedicated it to everyone going to bed with a 10 and waking up with a 2 - caveat! - not her, though.<br />
<br />
Because the truth that is not contained within her dazzling lyrics is that she goes straight to bed with the 2s. I mean, John Mayer? Russel Brand? Girl wouldn't know a 10 if he fell in her lap and sucked her cock.Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-21728953070207847462014-08-29T10:21:00.006-04:002014-08-29T10:21:51.750-04:00Pants on FireSean and I were in the car for no more than 6 or 7 minutes - long enough for me to have fiddled with my hair and my sunglasss, checked my phone, found the right song. And then the itch. I fought it. Fought it. Resisted. Nonononono. But who am I kidding? It's a miracle I've lasted this long, and most of my "triumph" is due to poor memory. So I blurt out to Sean - has he noticed any weird clanking noises coming from my car? Is it driving weird? Because I accidentally backed over a pilon a couple of days ago and dragged it a bit of a distance. <br />
<br />
<br />
I hadn't really meant or wanted to confess this. In fact, at the time of the little incident, I told myself quite firmly that this would stay between me and Ruby (my car). But secrets have always chafed. As soon as it was out in the open, Sean assured me that my car was fine and that it would take so much more than a little nob of orange plastic to upset Ruby, and that I needn't have confessed. But he knows better. He knows that it wasn't about the car. I'm just pathologically incapable of holding things back, which is weird considering I have no problem whatsoever abiding my vows of confidentiality at work. But in my own life? I'm not a secret keeper. I tell Sean EVERYTHING. Everything. Poor kid. He knows my worst thoughts and doubts, he knows the things I dislike most about myself, he's well-acquainted with my demons. And I wish it was just that, but I can't keep anything from this kid. I might take weeks to find the perfect gift, wrap it lovingly, hide it expertly, but about 10 seconds later, even if it's still days or weeks or months before the occasion, I'll send him to retrieve and open the present just to ease the tension. Because for those 10 seconds, the secret was KILLING ME. And it's not even a bad secret! Even things that aren't lies or secrets get spilled. I don't omit, either. It might be harmless and witness-less, but if it happened, then I'm owning it. All the clumsy, stupid shit that I wish no one knew or even guessed - but then, if I truly wished that, then couldn't I find a way to keep it to myself? Or is Sean such an extension of my own self that I don't even distinguish the boundary between he and I?<br />
<br />
I know not everyone has this problem of oversharing, but what I really want to know is, am I the only one? And the great thing about asking is knowing that if you're like me at all, you'll have to speak up. To hide it would be impossible.<br />
<br />
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-43607331213902952472014-08-11T15:49:00.000-04:002014-08-11T15:49:38.837-04:00Medical Tourism<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We "wasted" our summer vacation on a painful surgical procedure in Cleveland, but we're not bitter :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Destination: Cleveland, Ohio.
The kind of city that makes border agents raise their little eyebrows
and ask "Why?" and then red flag you anyway for your return trip. Because
they know what we now know: there is no good reason for going to Cleveland.
It's a gritty city, mostly forgotten by time and progress, abandoned in places
that should be built up, untended by its elderly population who still fly
tattered flags and display sun-bleached, cat-scratched lawn gnomes, but where
youth have fled, no grasses are mown, no
cracks repaired, no cars purchased this century. It's the kind of place where,
if you deign to use a public restroom, you make sure your travel companion stays
firmly within "screaming distance" and then you don't sit, you hover,
and hope you're up to date on your shots. It's the kind of place where hotel
staff don't feel pressured to conform to normal hygiene standards, or use the
proper contraction for "is not."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Ohio is a drunk-uncle state. Not particularly wanted or
respected or remotely useful, but for reasons no one can now remember, part of
the family, and kind of hard to eject. Everyone else is rightfully embarrassed
that Ohio keeps showing up to Christmas dinner, as it were, and asking for
handouts while they're there. You see, Ohio has no shame. Its major exports are
begging and pleading, with imports of all the pity it can muster. "Please
let us build the Pro Football Hall of Fame," it will whine, "no one
visits us unless they're forced to!" And so America the great occasionally
throws Ohio a bone - the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a booming Olive Garden
franchise, and a couple of world-class medical facilities just to round out the
experience. They've crunched the numbers, and it turns out people who are
suicidal with back pain are more likely than healthy people to be willing to
come to Cleveland, and now they've built an industry to support it. There are
private clinics springing up between boarded up pawn shops, and dirty
"extended stay" motels and neighbourhood Applebees to go along with
them, because patients usually bring a caretaker, and so a beautiful thing
called "medical tourism" is born, and Ohio is all over it like a
tramp on chips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-72164800865512438632014-07-31T17:06:00.002-04:002014-07-31T17:06:28.479-04:00There's Nothing Wrong With Ohio.<div class="MsoNormal">
When travelling, it is of utmost importance to obey the laws
of the land upon which you enter. In Qatar you can't expose your knees or
shoulders. In Thailand you must wear undies at all times. In Blythe,
California, you are forbidden from wearing cowboy boots unless you actually own
at least 2 cows. Use of or even just
possession of confetti is illegal in Mobile, Alabama, and in Los Angeles, silly
string can earn you a fine of $1000 and\or up to SIX MONTHS IN JAIL. You can be
fined in Australia for swearing. You can do hard time in Arizona for shooting a
cactus. I don't know why you'd shoot a cactus, or even wish it harm, and I
certainly don't want to find out what happens when you tell your hulking
cellmate that you got 25 years for cacti-related offenses. At the very least,
your prison nickname is going to be pretty lame.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So in a way, Ohio is doing the courteous thing by providing
helpful poems to help tourists obey the laws of their land. "Drive sober
or get pulled over" being a popular one quoted over and over along highway
billboards. Getting pulled over actually seems like the best-case-scenario when
driving non-sober, so it's a funny consequence to emphasize, but it gives you
an idea that they don't really approve. And in fairness, it's hard to find
something that rhymes with "a steering column through your solar
plexus!" (drive sober in your lexus? praise god you're not in texas?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Another favourite was the ubiquitous "Click it or
ticket" buckle-up campaign, although it's hard for me to imagine that we
still live in a world where stating this is necessary. You may as well have
declared "murder is frowned upon here" because honestly, in 2014, who
the hell is driving without a seatbelt? Anyone? Actually, I think I personally
would get more use out of the murder-is-bad reminder because I don't think
there's any event in the world that would cause me to drive unbuckled. You get
in the car, and without even thinking about it, you're just buckled, it's that
automatic, happens in less than 3 seconds. Even if there was a dire emergency,
it would take longer to think "Will I save time by not buckling up?" than to just do it
already and get on with it. Even if you
had a large piece of scrap metal protruding from your chest, making the seat
belt strap less than comfortable, you gotta think: a) why didn't I call an
ambulance? b) I'm already in pretty serious condition, so let's make double
sure we don't add a steering column to the problem! c) I'm already bleeding
out, so I suppose a little seat belt chaffing isn't the end of the world d) it
would be really silly to get pulled over for this while doing 178km\hr to the
hospital. So I think it's safe to say that we're all buckling up, and if there
truly is some moron out there who isn't, I'm guessing a snappy poem isn't going
to enlighten him (and neither will a ticket). But murder? Well, I consider
myself basically a lamb and only sometimes a lion, and rarely ever a homicidal
bitch. But I suppose I can imagine a scenario in which case I am feeling like
someone needs to die. I've been angry. I've been chip-deprived on day 3 of a
heavy flow. I've made pie crusts by hand. So yes, the feeling is not unknown to
me. I don't think I'll ever act on it, but every now and then, a gentle
reminder wouldn't hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769026.post-34486952253870951982014-07-17T13:17:00.000-04:002014-07-17T13:17:14.907-04:00Love and Dirty Bandages.<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in the shower, but not under the spray, howling like a
crazed, feral animal caught in a trap. Big, gasping moans, guttural screams,
panicked sobs. I was fresh from an agonizing and mutilating surgery and was
paralyzed in pain. My husband, Sean, stood holding my towel, unable to help. My
body, overwhelmed with hurt, was shutting down.</div>
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We should have been in Paris. We planned to arrive in time
to imbibe champagne for my birthday, and then to walk along the Seine in
summer, eating buttery food by day and watching the city twinkle around us
at night. </div>
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Instead we went to Ohio, "medical tourism" we're
calling it, to see a specialist who carved me up, and left me looking like a
Walking Dead victim. In bleak moments I wonder where those hunks of flesh have
gone. Burned up, I suppose. Meanwhile, I am a half-eaten burn victim, screaming
with every step, trying hard not to let anything touch any of my exposed parts,
trying to stop the angry blood vessels from spilling, trying to soothe the regenerating nerves, trying not to catch
glimpses of myself in the mirror. Instead of the Eiffel tower, I have my own
bloodied sheets and not much else.</div>
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Except. Except I have discovered this new side to my
husband. Sean has always been a very sweet and patient man, but the truth is,
when it comes to love, we don't speak the same language. Sean is a man of few
words and no emotion. Strike that. <i>Seemingly</i> no emotion, we'll say, because I know if he were here, he'd protest that he does feel. I just don't see it. It seems that he
is not moved by anything, not particularly passionate. He never cries, but he's
also never overcome by joy. I am his opposite in every way. So though I never
doubt that he loves me, we sometimes struggle to really express it to each
other in ways that the other will recognize. Sean loves me by filling my car
with gas and giving me the good parking spot and emptying the dishwasher. I love him by planning elaborate, romantic trips. And when I spring them on him, practically panting with excitement, he can often muster an "Oh, neat" but it always falls short of what I'm expecting. Which is just my way of saying: I do the things that I'd want, and he does the things that he'd want. It
has taken time, but we are learning each other's language. We're becoming
bilingual. He's not much for sentiment.
He's a doer, but those things that he does are translatable: I love you, Jay. </div>
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Now I have been reduced to being his dependent, and his
patient, and a terrible patient at that. Sean has become my nurse, one more
gentle and delicate than I ever would have guessed. We could easily have a
nurse visit the house to take care of my wounds. The bandaging is a
never-ending battle, but Sean insists on doing it all himself. He winces when I
wince. He soothes me when I'm hyperventilating. He waits me out when I can't
take anymore. He never flinches. The sight unnerves me, makes me horrified and
sick, but he looks in my eyes and tells me I am beautiful. The smell, he
assures me, is the bandages, not me. I worry that I haven't shaved, or plucked
my eyebrows, and he tells me that I am natural and lovely. And I believe he
believes it. He hasn't lost his temper with me, not when I've lashed out, taken
the pain out on him. He calls me brave and strong. </div>
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He's gone back to work - a lawyer you don't hear about in
jokes, the kind that does true and honourable work - and he worries over me
constantly. It is I who must reassure him. I am managing with the apples and
the drinks and the pills that he has left. I lie very still, pray for sleep, and count the hours til he is home. I assume that work is a reprieve for him, a small breath of fresh air, but he's still coming home, happy as ever to see me, to spend time with me, even if it means browsing Netflix again, and watching as I fall asleep halfway through a 22 minute episode of god knows what. He brings me gifts, big and small,
so I know that he has been thinking of
me. Recently I unwrapped a piece of costume jewelry from a store he knows I
love. It is a pendant that I already own. I laugh. Maybe someone else would be
annoyed that their husband hasn't noticed this piece hanging on her wall (if
not her neck), but I know the truth: he saw it and knew instinctively that it
was me. Perhaps subliminally he remembered it, but at the very least, he knew I
would like it, and clearly I have. Twice.</div>
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We have this thing, he and I, a mutual distaste for schmaltz. We can never be too mushy. If he says I love you (which is rare unless post-orgasm), I typically respond with "You better." Now I hear myself saying "You must."</div>
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<br />
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So it's not France. But it turns out to be kind of romantic,
if you look at it a little cock-eyed. We have discovered new ways to love and
be loved. And there will always be Paris.</div>
Jayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13158409505328990008noreply@blogger.com4