What the FUCK was I Thinking?

First of all, let me just say: I blame Kat for what has happened. The kind-hearted Kat was in New Orleans recently where she saw a small glass egg that's meant to bring luck and good fortune when kept in your left pocket, and she sent it to me, because she thought I needed some of both.

I went for a longish, leisurely, 11k walk yesterday (blister count: 7) (foot blisters, not sunburn). My good luck egg was nestled in my left pocket, but I wasn't going to put undue faith in it. In an effort not to get lost or fall down any rabbit holes, I usually walk in really big squares. Don't laugh. It's better than bread crumbs, and I've always come back, haven't I?

So this is what I did yesterday, and I chose Yonge as the far side of my square. I had my earphones in of course, as this is how I protect myself from unwanted advances. When men start hollering, as they do, I either don't hear them, or I pretend not to hear them. I feel bad occasionally, since I'm sure every once in a while some poor schmuck is only asking for directions (but hello! I'm a square-walker! the LAST person on earth you should ask for directions), but on the whole this technique has worked well for me.

Except at some point on Yonge, I saw some guy gesture at me out of the corner of my eye. I kept going, but for a while he matched my pace, then he fell behind, to check out the goods, I assumed, then he caught up with me again, and I slowed down to let him get ahead, at which point he stopped, tapped me on the shoulder, and I was forced to take the buds out of my ears and face the world head on.

Excuse me Miss, can I talk to you?

Talk to me? I stammered...oh great, the only thing worse than some guy hitting on you is some guy trying to convert you to his religion.

Yes, he said. When I saw you walk by, I thought to myself, now there's an attractive young woman...

Oh great. So I am being picked up on the street after all.

He fell into step beside me as I continued on, and he blabbered about how fate had put him on Yonge street since it was the first day of his vacation and he wasn't normally in this part of the city, and how I could call him Prospector and I was his gold mine.

Yes, really, that's what he said. And for the rest of the story, I will refer to him as Tito, because that should conjure up a pretty accurate image for you.

At this point, Tito has asked me to sit down on a picnic bench with him, and I've told him that I'm married, so I don't see much harm in listening to an exceptional character make a fool out of himself for a little while. The weather is gorgeous, and I haven't met any funny, mildly deranged people in a while.

But while we're sitting across from the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, a cyclist is hit and does a face plant on the road before him. He does not get up. People, good people, rush to his aid. I am very upset by this, of course, but feel compelled to move on because the accident-gawking thing doesn't sit well with me.

Tito's reaction? He would like to treat me to a polish sausage.
A bit relieved, I find that he has no polish ancestry, and he's merely hungry.
Still. Polish sausage.

I decline, obviously, but let him buy me a bottle of water because he insists, and because otherwise I was about to get an orange crush, which is one of the least refreshing beverages I can think of.

As he masticates, he expounds on his theory that god has sent him to me, me being variously a "classy young lady", "a lady of very high calibre", "the prettiest thing on Yonge", and so many other cornball lines that I just stop listening.

The fourth time he asks me if I'm sure I wouldn't like a bite of his sausage, I thank him for the company and get up to go. I head up St Clair toward home, and find that Tito is following me.

We can't part yet, he tells me, surely I've noticed how the sparks are flying between us?

Really? I thought that was just gobs of your spit.

Unwilling to lead this man to my house, I sit down in a park, where he tells me I've not only made his day, but his "whole view of the universe", whatever the hell that means. He also tells me that he's the "romantickest" guy I'll ever meet, a true gentleman, would like to see me in a skirt and heels, wants very badly to cook me spaghetti, his specialty (he puts ground beef into a jar of ragu), and that our "first time" would be earth-shattering.

Uh huh.

Probably my fault for using a word as vague as "married". Next time I will arm myself with more concrete phrases such as "my husband has a large gun collection", "the nunnery doesn't like me to be late", "my genitalia are ambiguous", "scorching case of herpes", etc, etc.

I tell him I really have to go, and he tells me that he'll buy my subway ride home if it means I can stay even 10 minutes more. I tell him that I practically have this medical condition that forces me to walk. He says he'll walk me home. I can't think of a good reason why not, so I don't give him one, and just flat-out say no. He asks for my phone number. I tell him I don't have a phone. He gives me his instead, tells me to call at exactly 10 am the next day. He asks where I live, and I point vaguely in the direction (still some 5km away, luckily). I tell him goodbye, and he grabs my hand.

Don't let any guys pick you up on the rest of your way home, he pleads. Give our love a chance.

In answer, I make a splorting noise that is mostly choking with a some suppressed laughter and unavoidable groaning mixed in. As I make my getaway, I walk very quickly, without looking back, and I have to tell myself not to run. I hold it in until Spadina, where I unleash a fit of giggles that actually stops traffic momentarily as the first 3 cars at a green light watch me instead of making their left turns.

The next day (today, Thursday), 10am comes and goes. I do not call Tito.

I poke up my blisters and judge that I can make a trip to the library, the grocery store, the pharmacy. I put on my music and make a firm resolution that even taps on the shoulder will forever more be ignored. Make no eye contact, smile at no one, I tell myself. Before heading out, I grab the egg of dubious luck and give it a second chance. I slip it into my left pocket (note: this is what we call "foreshadowing").

As I walk down the street, a very cute old man is standing on the corner, trying to entice the passers-by into taking his pamphlets. Although the city has issued a "heat warning", he is wearing a suit, with his belted pants riding just below his nipples. He's so sweet looking that I almost want to convert for him, but I am firm in my resolution, so I nod slightly but don't pause.

I keep my music on in the grocery store, pick up my things, and remove my headphones only when I'm standing in front of the cashier. They are luckily replaced by the time I leave, because a man standing outside the door badly wants me to sign up for a credit card, I think. I shrug at him, indicate my music, and just keep moving.

I head for Shopper's Drug Mart because the grocery store sells only Coke products, which is a sin, and I must have my diet Pepsi. I stop for a moment to help an elderly woman who is carrying a heavy load. Her plastic bag has forsaken her, so I throw her groceries into my backpack and walk them home for her. She is grateful and tries to pay me, but instead I give her my number and offer to come help anytime she needs it. I have made a new friend.

At the drugstore, I walk up the foot care aisle and surmise that there isn't a cure on the planet for my many blisters, but since I'm still upright and mobile anyway, I guess I'm tough enough to do without. I head for the heavenly display of Pepsi, but I feel a tap on my shoulder. Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around.

Actually, it's hard to pretend you haven't felt a tap on your shoulder. Not wanting to, I turned around, and there was Tito.

Apparently, he'd grown concerned by 10:08 and resolved to try to track me down. Not knowing my address, he'd spent the past 4 hours walking around the neighbourhood, and lo and behold, he'd actually spotted my blonde head bobbing along.

I ask you, dear readers, does this ring of stalker to you?

Because frankly, I was astonished to see him. And not happy astonished, creeped-out astonished.

I plastered a phony smile on my face while he droned on about how he already feels like my knight in shining armour, and it was his sworn duty to make sure that I was okay since clearly something tragic must have happened for me not to call. Meanwhile, in my head, I was thinking: how the fuck do I get out of this?

I told him I was in a big hurry to get home, and no, he couldn't join me. He wanted very badly for me to get to a payphone so I could prove my ability to correctly dial his phone number (which he'd re-given to me), and I told him that was "crazy", asked him which way he was headed, and said that I happened to be going the exact opposite way, which naturally was the exact opposite direction of my house, but I thought, blisters be damned, I will get down on my belly and squirm my way home, but I will not let this man find out where I live.

So, now I have a "date" to call him tomorrow at 10.
This time I think I will call.
Any choice words that you'd recommend? I intend to be brutal, to make sure that there is no room for misinterpretation.

And as for Kat, giver of the worst luck talisman in the universe, I strongly encourage you to visit her site and boo her into infinity :)

Monday's Dilemma

I was honest-to-goodness being productive today.
Like, cleaning and stuff.
Is there anything worse in the world than cleaning a toilet?
Well, apart from cleaning someone else's toilet, I mean.
Jason, in response to my moans, sometimes offers to just call a service and have a cleaner come in every couple of weeks.
Except I don't mind the light housework, and I would never let another person touch my dirty things.
My dirty sheets are private.
And my toilet, well - that's privater!

I won't begin to tell you the kinds of disgusting things that goes on in there, but suffice it to say: yuck. I hardly want to scrub it myself, but I guess there has to be some downside to having bowels.
But would I ever invite a stranger into my home and ask this person to get down on their knees and get elbow-deep into the worst, most vile place in the world?
That is NOT the kind of relationship I ever want to have with another human being.

So I did it myself, and then I did the dishes, and the laundry.
And then I made myself a sandwich and really enjoyed it too.
And then I thought to myself: did I remember to wash my hands after I scrubbed the toilet

Well, did I?
Did I wash my hands?
Ohlordohlordohlordohlord.
This is not the sort of thing a person should lose track of.

I squirted the bowl full of the blue goopey stuff.
I used the long-handled brush thingie, and tried not to clean so hard that it kicked up toilet water in my face.
I sprayed it down with anti-bacterial cleaner...
and then....
washed my hands?

God I hope so.
Because now I've made and eaten food.
With my hands, my bare hands!

So I sat for 20 minutes trying to remember, and hoping that I didn't just give myself e-coli (how embarrassing...if I have to go to the hospital, I'm blaming Taco Bell).

How's that for a dilemma?
But you know what they say...
when life gives you dilemmas, make da-lemonade!

Haha.
That's so funny.
And I didn't just make that up, either. That's a hardcore Danny Tanner quote for you.
Because if you think sitting around wondering if I've got fecal fingers is bad...yes, I watch Full House reruns too.

The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

I made an important resolution for 2007, maybe not important to you, but very important to me.

It's not something I blog about, or talk about to my friends. I keep quiet about it because I'm embarrassed, I'm ashamed, I hate my weakness when I am strong, and I live in denial the rest of the time.

It's true what they say about the people in your life; some people will criticize you for your flaws, others will enable you. Some people have insisted that there is no problem, that I'm fine the way I am. But on the inside, I have been unhappy. I have felt insecure.

I have coping strategies. I try to hide it when I can, but it's hard, especially first thing in the morning. That's when I have the hardest time facing myself in the mirror.

Hello, my name is Jamie, and I'm an overplucker.

When I was a plucking virgin, I had a pair of hairy caterpillars squirming away across my brow, prompting complete strangers to ask whether I was a blood relation of Martin Scorsese. I felt this was not a flattering comparison, and so, one fateful night I allowed a friend of the family armed with tweezers, scissors, and a license to ill, to change my face forever.

Five pounds of eyebrow hair later, I was a changed woman. She took not only the stray hairs, but pieces of skin and nerve as well (I had a matching pair of black eyes for days). She did a lot of damage, and a lot of it was permanent. But I still somehow felt it was an improvement, and really, it was.

But instead of having oversized brows, I have sported undersized brows ever since. And though I always wished they were fuller, what could I do? Eyebrows do not grow in within days, or even weeks, and after the damage that was first inflicted, there are parts of my brows that just do not grow in at all.

But this year, I vowed to give myself a real gift - eyebrows. The first day was horrible. I stood in front of the mirror for 20 minutes willing myself to put down the tweezers. The hardest part is just to break the habit. Tweezing is my vice. I do it every day. I didn't know how to begin stopping, so I went to the pharmacy around the corner (with my toque pulled down real low), and though they have patches for almost everything else, there is no patch for tweezing. You have to quit cold turkey. There's not even a gum.

So I've been growing them. Every day I looked in the mirror and was horrified by the chaos above my baby blues. I wanted to hide in the house and keep my hairy secret to myself.

The first day I had the shakes. I sweated it out on the bathroom floor.

The second day I vomited until I hallucinated: Groucho Marx sang 'Moon River' to me until he was devoured slurpily by a caterpillar that crawled right off my face.

Withdrawal is a bitch.

But I think it's pretty much out of my system now. I only twitch a little when I see a pair of tweezers, but I JUST SAY NO, take it one day at a time, and all that crap. But I will probably always be an addict. I will always itch to tweeze. But I know now that I can beat this thing.

And you know what?
It's been two months, and I look totally hot.
Hawt.
Why in hell didn't I do this ages ago?

Bad Things Happen to Good People

Well, goodish, anyway.

1. Katie got a place of her own this weekend. It's a very cute little apartment; nearly half the windows face something other than a brick wall, and the orange tiles blend nicely with the gold appliances. She and I mostly busied ourselves hanging curtains and reorganizing her spice rack while Jason did the more "labour-intensive" (but less intellectual, so it all evens out) work, such as actually strapping a couch to his back and lugging it up 3 flights of stairs. He's awesome like that. Now, Katie has a get-out-of-moving-free card for giving birth, and I'm just plain lazy, so this division of labour struck us as incredibly fair. Plus, Jason tends to be over-protective of my back, which, 4 surgeries later, is no longer actually in need of any protection. But after that many encounters with a scalpel, you can imagine the mess of mutilation we call "scar tissue" is - something that Jason gets a nice, graphic reminder of every day in the shower, while I, not having eyes in the back of my head (yet), am able to mostly forget. So actually, nothing bad happened during the move. The baby was her usual non-fussy self, and I was my un-usual non-droppy self, so we were all feeling pretty proud of ourselves, but very tired, by the time Jason and I returned home and I somehow managed to projectile-fall down an entire case of stairs (13 of them). I don't remember slipping, I didn't have that half-second of impending-doom realization. No, I just suddenly said to myself "Self, you appear to be flying", quickly edited to "Shit, self, you appear to be falling!" And without once grazing any 13 of those stairs, I nose-dived directly onto the concrete floor below, where I sprawled impressively, but quietly. Not to worry, though. I'm all bandaged up, and my knee is back in its socket where it belongs.

2. Jason comes home the other night with a ticket. From a cop. So right away I think that obviously some new law has been passed, deeming powder-blue vehicles no longer worthy for the road (secretly, I tend to agree, but missed seeing this in the papers). I assume that this is why Jason has been ticketed because Jason is the most conscientious, safe, law-abiding driver on the road, bar none. When the cop behind him turned on his lights, Jason politely maneuvered to the side to let the police car pass, so imagine his shock when the cruiser pulled up behind him. Apparently, since the Toronto Police Services have nothing better to do, and since Jason was exhibiting such dodgy behaviour as re-filling his wife's prescription, a certain officer decided to run a check on the tags on Jason's plate, which admittedly, were good through the month of October, but. BUT, having run this check, he discovered that Jason's birthday was last week, and even though the tags are good for the whole month, he really should have renewed his license 5 days ago (on the national holiday during which the DMV is most decidedly closed to the public), and according to the officer who obviously had some quotas to fill, it's "technically" a ticketable offence, to the tune of $110. When Jason handed me the ticket, I cried. And as he patted my back and reminded me that I hadn't cried when I cracked my head open on the cement, I couldn't help but feel how unfair the world can be. That there are never any police around when people speed through our residential neighbourhood, how they're not around when I'm kept awake because a rash of burglaries means every second house and car alarm is blaring down the road, how the cops aren't finding the missing little girl, or the rapist, or the woman who killed the pedestrian in a hit-and-run the other day, but they're stopping guys like Jason who spend their days helping new mothers move and broken wives get better.

3. My friend Andy apparently lurks here more than he admits to, because when many of you urged me to give salsa dancing a second chance, he called me up and insisted I accept his invitation to some bar that I'm sure has a name, but I've forgotten it, but was described to me as "Toronto's premiere gay latin dance club", so thanks a lot, guys. In an effort to not duplicate the panty fiasco, I bought a new dress, Verrrrrry sexy, said Andy, who rolls his Rrrr's unnecessarily. And I thought what better way to enjoy my new dress than with some luxuriously soft legs. As you may remember, I have a hate\hate relationship with my razor. Even so, I have resisted the lure of waxing because, well, it's waxing. First, it has a terrible reputation*. True, it's become over-used slap-stick in far too many chick-flicks, or worse, "man attempting to understand women" movies, but still, this reputation is apparently not undeserved. But second, it involves a stranger applying oddly erotic unguents to the most intimate parts of my body, only to then rip out tiny hairs by their roots, thus witnessing my inherent weakness (and probably, some rather foul language). But I went anyway. And clearly, I shouldn't have. After I stoically withstood two flaming, merciless abuses by wax, the woman frowned down at me and said "No good" and left the room. I thought this message to be a bit cryptic, and so I laid there perhaps a bit longer than I should have, waiting, and trying to decipher, until I deciphered that at the very least, she wasn't coming back, and I put my pants back on. In doing so, I caught a glimpse of my poor right leg, which looked as raw and burnt as it felt, if not more. It was covered in tiny, angry red bumps, which gave the effect of a persistent and outrageously contagious rash. It was the receptionist who finally filled me in and sent me home. Apparently I was "the worst case ever", my skin was "violently sensitive" and the entire salon thought me an incredible fool for bringing my "unspeakable" legs to them in the first place. At home the rash had developed into welts and blisters, and worse still, I was unable to take a razor to the rest of my leg because my skin was so broken that it oozed and bled just from having the water hit it. Andy, however, thought that hairy legs were not a good enough excuse no matter how revealing the hemline of my dress was, so luckily I later threw myself down a staircase, dislocating my knee, which makes for a much better opt-out.

4. Jason gets one of those dreaded calls at work the other day - the manager on duty had better get himself to the ladies' fitting room, and quick. These calls are not uncommon, and so he braces himself for the usual outcome: some brassy-haired lady is going to scream her onion-stinking breath at him because her fat ass doesn't fit into their jeans, or some other really good reason for yelling at the poor guy who doesn't even make the jeans, just takes the blame for them. But there is no pear-shaped woman, or there is, but she's not riled up yet, instead, there is a mystery package in the corner of one of the change rooms, and it's exactly this reason why Jason makes as much money as he does. His job, by his own admission is 95% looking handsome and delegating, but there's that tricky 5% that you wouldn't envy for all the paycheques in the world. Today, a woman has taken a dump in his change room. It was evidently a rather orchestrated affair. As she tried on her clothing, she must have had the urge, and so, seeing how the public washroom is within plain sight of the change room, she instead decided to reach into her bag, and remove an ordinary piece of white paper, which she laid on the floor, squatted over, and shat onto. She then wiped herself with the tissues she evidently carries around for just such an occasion, and then she placed a second sheet of paper on top of her nice little pile. And then she took her clothes, and went to wait in line to pay. Now, if for whatever reason you just took a dump in a fitting room, you might be embarrassed, and say, leave the store. But not this woman. No, she left her pile, and stood calmly in line, apparently oblivious to the many employees now crowded around two very unordinary pieces of paper. There is really no hasmat training that prepares you for poop-origami, so Jason had to improvise (or rather, he gave some gloves and implicit instructions to someone else). But he took care of it nonetheless. And then he came home and had more beers than usual before dinner, because after a day like that, he deserves it, goddammit.



*Not that shaving does not. I mean, really, if you aren't familiar with my infamous shaving accident, read about it here. But I was prejudiced against razors even before then....in fact, ever since a friend of the family once described to me how she nicked her nipple while shaving her armpit. Ouch.

You'll never guess what happened to me today while I was sitting still and being quiet.

I was in the car, waiting for Jason, and I thought, He'd better hurry, it's going to rain soon.

And in a matter of seconds, there were swollen rainsplotches wetting up the windshield. I felt proud for a second, like maybe I had caused the rain with my mind. It probably wasn't my mind, though; there was probably some other climatic explanation, but you never know. You just never know.

I looked out the smudged window, searching for the sight of Jason's brown linen shirt hurrying toward me. Instead, I saw something traveling through the air, many somethings, many tiny somethings traveling through the air, aiming slantingly for the ground.

It wasn't rain.

It was thicker than rain, and more opaque. It was lighter than rain, and it was whiter than rain. Quite possibly it was even righter than rain, but I wasn't able to ascertain this for sure.

Pollen?
No, not pollen.
Dust?
No, not dust, you idiot.
Confetti? A trick of the light? Vision problems? Tiny invading aliens in tiny clever disguises?
Please let it be something else...anything else...just not...not....



gulp

deep breaths

Frantic with the need to find any kind of proof to the contrary, I rolled down my window and stuck out my hand. For a fraction of a second, a tiny crystal sat in my hand. They say that every single one in the whole wide world is unique in some way. Every one. But they have short life spans. Soon it was nothing more than a very small puddle sitting at the exact place where one thatched line of my palm intersects with another. Then the puddle spread, subtly following the lines of my hand, and it wasn't long before it had disappeared completely into my thirsty skin, the way much larger puddles will leach into the soil.




Fucking snow.

Accidental Adultery

There's this little bench that I used to sit on while waiting for Jason to finish work. Usually I would read, or just soak in the surroundings. Sometimes I'd have an ice-cap waiting for Jason's post-work ruinous thirst. I loved that bench. It was in the perfect spot - Jason would round the corner, headed for the car, and he'd see me waiting and break into the smile that crinkles his eyes. It was away from the noise, but close to the breeze. And best of all, it was almost always empty. It was like my secret hiding place, a perfect place in the world that only I knew about.

I don't sit on that bench anymore.

My problem is two-pronged, apparently:

1. I am friendly, probably too friendly for my own good.

2. I have the unfortunate habit of always looking the world in the eye.


The guy who owns the sewing store across the way took it upon himself to court me. Unattended females reading quietly to themselves on public benches are fair game. Even when they say no. Repeatedly. Like, dozens of times. And quite firmly. And eventually, disgustedly.

Like I said, I don't sit there anymore.

But I do still go to the gym, where apparently more than half the male members are not looking to get buff, they're looking to get laid. These boys are persistent, and they know they've cornered you in the perfect place: either I let them hit on me, or I give up the one available cardio machine and leave myself vulnerable to overenthusiastic trainers encouraging me to do "mat work" which basically involves painful Cirque du Soleil contortionist shit, by the looks of it.

So I keep sweating away, feeling completely unsexy and unforgiving, while an equally sweaty man attempts to whispers in my ear something about my hot little yoga pants.

Normally, I am a rejection goddess. I can say no in, like, 18 different languages. I have mastered the dismissive smile, the let-em-down-easy wink, the get-the-hell-out-of-here arm pat. But some men just don't listen.

Sweaty Guy at the Gym: So, do you drink coffee?

Me: No, I don't.

SGG: Well, do you eat steak?

Me: Do I eat steak? You're asking me if I eat steak?

SGG: Yeah, you know, like maybe I could buy you dinner.

Me: Well, thanks, but no thanks.

SGG: Oh come on, I promise you'll enjoy it.

Me: I'll enjoy the steak?

SGG: You'll enjoy me.

Me: Yeah, I don't think so.

SGG: Well, why not? I'm a cool guy.

Me: Hmm. Uh, yeah, I'm married.

SGG: I don't see a ring.

!?!?!

Okay, there it is. First, I'm disappointed in myself. I almost never use 'I'm married' as an excuse. I hate that. I know a girl, who, if a man politely holds the door open for her, shouts "I'm engaged!" instead of "Thanks." But sometimes, it spares feelings. I could have (and maybe should have) said:

"You're kind of on the paunchy side for my taste."

or

"I think you should aim a little lower."

or

"I think your funky addidas are older than me."

or

"Go home, trim your ear hair, and better luck next time."


But no, I simply told him that I was unavailable, which met with my favourite line "but you're not wearing a ring."

Seriously. What's up with that? Are you doubting my story? You think secretly I'm single and if you call me on it, I'll be forced to admit my incredible desire to blow you? Or that my failure to wear a ring indicates infidelity potential? Or do you simply believe that a woman unfond of jewelry deserves to be harassed? Because really, "I don't see a ring" is not a great pick up line.


Still, it's a thousand times better than the men who only trick you into dating them.

I mean really, I'm sitting in a coffee shop bent over my "notebook" (Jason assures me this is what they're called now...when did we stop calling them laptops?) and yes, admittedly, there is an empty seat at my table. And when I look up, you are funny and charming, and also interested in seeing the Andy Warhol exhibit at the AGO. But when you pick me up, you bring flowers and kiss me on the cheek because I turned when I saw that you were aiming for my lips.

Um, is this a date?

Because you kinda forget to tell me if it was.

I can't tell you how many men I've dated since marrying Jason. Lots. But rarely intentionally.

Now don't try and tell me I'm the only one committing these unintentional infidelities.

It happens, right?

I mean, it's not unusual for me to meet interesting people on the street. That's how I met Katie. We were both standing in line at Banana Republic, and I commented to the person behind me that the cashier appeared to suffer from some sort of Slow Motion Syndrome, and suddenly I had a friend for life. And it's how I met Patrick, too. We were both at Johnny Bistro with friends, he bought me a drink "Because it looks like you need it", and that was it.

But Anthony was a different matter altogether.

I was sitting in the park one day, stealing secret sips from a concealed bottle of wine, enjoying the fine weather and a great book, when a dog sat down beside me and gave me the goofiest grin ever. Soon his owner joined us, and we were laughing like old friends within 3 minutes.

I accidentally dated Anthony for about a month.

We would meet for drinks, or see a movie, or just walk his dog round and round the neighbourhood. And then one night he called me.

Anthony: Jay, I want you to meet my Mom.

Me: You do?

Anthony: Yeah. I'm really excited about it. We've been together for over a month now, so I think it's time...

Me: Um, what? Together?

Anthony: And you know how much you mean to me. I just don't introduce very many girlfriends to my Mom.

Me: Anthony, what do you mean, together?

Anthony: I mean I really care about you and I think maybe you might be The One.

Me: Yeah, I kind of have a problem with that. I thought we were just friends.

Anthony: Friends?

Me: If you and I were dating, I would have totally put out by now.


And that was the end of Anthony. Too bad, too. He had excellent taste in wine.

But I continue to believe that girls and boys can just be friends, and that not every guy who asks me out is asking me out.


This is a stupid problem to have, but it's a problem. How does everyone else deal with it? How do you know for sure that it's a date? And please, for the love of god, tell me how to turn them down.

Quarter-Life Crisis

When Jason turned 25, I thought to myself, gross.

25 is old (relatively).

It seems old.

It seems like one of those ages that you can never imagine yourself being when you're younger.

I found myself looking at him differently. I noticed his hairy legs, and his broad shoulders, and his beard, and again I thought, gross.

He's a man. Like, a full-fledged grown up. When the hell did this happen?
Here I've been sleeping with an old man and I didn't even know it.
I thought I quit that back in high school.

But no.
25 snuck up on him, and it would try to do the same to me.
So I cleverly resolved not to turn 25, and so far, I've done a good job of evading it.

But I have this uncomfortable, sticky feeling way down deep that one of these days it will catch up with me.

25 is scary because it means I can't keep using the same old excuses.
I'll have to come up with brand new ones.
It's time to reevaluate my life and take stock of what I've accomplished since I got out of school:

....
um
...

oh, that's right. Zilch.
How could I forget?

Well, maybe not nothing. Maybe something teeny tiny somewhere in there, like, replaced my toothbrush. 25 is that age where you have to start asking the big questions, such as:

What the hell am I doing with my life?
Where am I going?
What do I want?
Why did I think I'd look good in bangs?

You're supposed to stop coasting and start panicking. I don't make enough money; I don't know what city I want to live in; I'm not following a logical career path; I suck at relationships; I may never settle down; I'm not where I thought I'd be; green apples make me gassy.

According to wiki, the quarter-life crisis was named in this very city back in 1965, which, coincidentally, was exactly when the world started getting shitty. These days it doesn't matter how well-prepared you were, how educated, how dedicated...chances are, things are going to suck. You'll go into $50 000 worth of debt to get a diploma that earns you a $21 000 job, and that's if you're lucky. When you're 47 you should have enough student debt paid off to start thinking about a mortgage, but job security is low and turn-over is high so even that's a risk. Not that it matters - there's a housing crisis anyway, and unless you like to live with rats, you're out of luck.

Characteristics of this quarter-life crisis are:

• insecurity regarding the near future...check.
• insecurity regarding present accomplishments...check.
• re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships...check.
• disappointment with one's job...what job?
  
• tendency to hold stronger opinions...impossible.
• boredom with social interactions...check.
• financially-rooted stress...check. CHECK.
  

Proof positive that turning 25 is for fools.
For the time being, I can still delude myself into believing that I'm still in my early twenties, still figuring things out, still finding my way. I will remind myself that I love my life, that I enjoy the choices I've made, that I treasure what I do and how I spend my time. My chequing account is almost usually on the positive side, and who needs savings when you've got a husband who surely won't mind working into his 80s anyway?

Forget all this grown-up stuff.
I''m going to take my Jason and go do what anyone going through their quarter-life crisis would:
visit George Jetson and take a ride on Dora Explorer Dune Buggies at Canada's Wonderland.

Age is only what you make of it anyway.

My Feet Fuckin Hurt, Man.

Dear Feet,

I don't think I like you anymore.

I know it's not a glamourous job, but you're feet, for gawd's sake. The stumps of my legs slap you to the ground, and you bear the weight and keep me mobile. Maybe you don't like the system, and maybe I don't blame you much for that, but if this is the case you should file a complaint with the U.F.U. (United Foot Union), making sure to fill out the form in blue ink only, copied in triplicate, mailing the goldenrod copy to head office, faxing the dandelion one to the branch, and retaining the lemon one for your records. Once your complaint has been formally lodged, you can expect a response in 12-68 weeks.

Until then, please know that this strike is illegal.

You, feet, are an integral part in my ability to walk. I know you feel your demands for lighter work and more rest seem reasonable, but my desire to reliably get to the toilet, for example, is also quite reasonable.

I used to depend on you, feet.

You provided me with a great service, walking me across cities, dancing me far into the night, kicking my way through many a fight...and in return, I plied you with the prettiest shoes, I let Jason rub you in all the right places, I treated you to salt foot baths and peppermint foot cream. I thought we had a great working relationship.

I guess I thought wrong.

You have revolted with excrutiating pain. You have covered yourselves with calluses and blisters. You have swollen yourselves to epic proportions. I can't even wear shoes anymore. I hope you're happy.

The muscles ache so much that I spend hours soaking them, and need Tylenol 3 just to sleep. I have been stoned for 12 days straight. Dr. Scholl is not a scab. He's ineffectual, but at least he tried. Jason is at his wit's end from listening to me cry and whimper day after day.

So, feet: step up.

I still have a lot of stomping to do.

I fell apart in a Buick Century.

We went for gouda and grapes, parked perfectly between two faded yellow lines, and there I cracked open my case of insecurities, exposing them to the Mazda to my right, to the chocolate bar wrappers and coffee cups and old receipts swirling in the wind around us, and to my husband, still strapped into the driver's seat, still fondling the emergency parking brake.

I cried, quite accidentally, big fat tears in a grocery store parking lot. I stared ahead at the bulk store, where mounds of tumeric and mounds of jelly beans waited to be taken home in nondescript containers, and I saw none of it, not even my fellow shoppers pushing heavy carts who must have wondered what terrible tragedy unfolded in our parked car.

There was no tragedy. I simply cried for the reality that had taken to following me everywhere, even out for fruit. It talked to me in time: 3 years, it whispered. 3 years since you took your degree, and what have you done?

I've done nothing. I have nothing to show for these 3 years. I put aside that career, the practical life, the sure thing, the safety net, and I did this instead: I wrote. At first I wrote for pennies. I took what work there was, and I wrote words I did not believe, but gratefully. Then I wrote for dollars, writing bigger lies and feeling worse for it. And now I write for nothing, for no audience and for no pay. I write because I don't know how not to. I write because there's a story in me that wants out. I write because I believe it will make me happy, if it doesn't kill me first.

I don't want to work for pay; I want to be paid for my work. I have lofty dreams and no reason to expect that they will ever come true. Every year, thousands of us pursue an unattainable goal, overestimating our talent or appeal. Every year, thousands go hungry waiting for the big break that never comes. In the history of books, maybe 3 authors have made a living writing them. The rest of us will try, and fail.

I will spend the next 18 months putting my soul to paper, hoping it will come back to me as readers liberate it one word at a time, but more likely trapping it forever on the hard drive of my computer. Several years after that will be spent querying indifferent publishers, none of whom are ever thrilled to take a chance on an unproven name. Maybe hundreds of appeals will be made, and my heart will break one rejection letter at a time. Logic tells us that no book of mine will ever see the light of day.

I cried while still buckled into a stationary vehicle, not for the futility of my words, or the wasted years, or the frustration. I cried because this is the future I have chosen for myself. This is my life. And even knowing that failure is the only reasonable outcome, still I write, because I must.

Where have I been, and where am I going?

The phone rang, and I answered it.

I never answer the phone.

I must have known.

Jeff left her. He's gone, and she's all alone in the house they just bought together. She's already destroyed all their pictures and cut up all his ties, and she doesn't know what else to do.

Sometimes love means getting on a Greyhound bus.

For two hours, I watched the gap narrow between she and I. The grass was grey, the patches of snow were grey, the sky was grey. Frankly, I was glad to wallow in someone else's pain for a while.

I despise the ice-cream-and-chick-flicks approach to broken hearts, so instead, we got jacked up on some cheap champagne and went bowling. We flirted shamelessly with anything wearing pants. Someone or someones bought us a lot of beer. We forgot about Jeff, the bastard. We also forgot our middle names, how to properly use keys, and the intended use of blenders.

The next day, we sat out on her deck, our lawnchairs teetering in the piles of snow, and we painted grey landscapes and drank strong mimosas.

I braided her hair and let her cry, and then helped her resist the temptation to watch their wedding video. We went out for steaks and let Jeff's credit card treat us to a very fine vintage.

At night, in our jammies, we listened to Death Cab and fell asleep in a cuddle. I baked her chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, and then broke out the crayons to colour the morning away. We graduated to permanent marker, and adorned the white, white walls of the house that she and Jeff had bought together, but had never gotten around to decorating.

I showed her the joy of a blank canvas, and we drew her future in the dining room first, and then the living room, and then the hall that leads to the powder room. We drew hordes of well-endowed men, piles of riches, martinis for everyone, and trim figures for ourselves. We used enough ink to drown an elephant.

I don't remember falling asleep, but when she kicked me awake, I was still clutching the red, the colour of a heart, whether broken or full.

"What's up with you?" she asks.

"Sorry. I think it was the 17 daiquiris that did me in."

"No, not that. Jason tells me that you haven't been writing lately."

"Um." True enough, though I didn't realize they were in cahoots. "Turns out, I have no response to that. I guess I just haven't felt like it."

"That's lame and you know it. If I could tap the talent that you have in one pinky finger, I would in a heartbeat. But I can't. So I'm going to get up at 8am for the rest of my life to sell watches to surly customers, and I'm okay with that. The stories you told me at dinner last night were enough to make half the authors on the Best Seller's list sick with envy, and yet you sit at home wasting all your words away. I am NOT okay with that."

"It's not that easy, you know -"

"I never said anything about easy. Aren't you the very same Jay who once told me that anything worth doing is going to be hard by default?"

"I was probably drunk."

"Jame (she knows I hate it when people call me Jame), you can't not try. I know you. You can't not try. Just try. I know you're having one of your crises right now, but -"

"I thought I was here to deal with your crisis - remember how your husband just left you?"

"Well, something tells me that I'll get over Jeff long before you get over yourself."

"Ouch."

"Listen, the Jamie I know believes in herself 168%. This Jamie has dipped to an all-time low...like, 98%. And that's just unacceptable. Everyone who knows you knows you're destined to great things. We know you have it. But to me, it looks like you're contemplating failure for the first time in your life, and you're scared. You are so good at holding everyone else's hands, but you won't do it for yourself. So you're quitting before you've even started."

"I just don't know -"

"Yes you do. And so do I. And so does Mac. And Jason. Jesus Christ, even Jeff agreed, and he's a moron! Everyone knows. When my next marriage fails, you'll be too rich and famous to help me barbecue his Godfather DVDs."

"Never."

"I know. You never miss a good BBQ."

"That's what friends are for. They're there when you need them. Thanks, SweetiePotPie."

"You're welcome."

"Wanna go get wasted?"

"You know it."

Last night I had a dream...and in that dream, I died.

Lace trim that chafes. Pink shoes already muddied.

One stick of deodorant worn down to the nub; another on stand-by to replace it.

Singing along in the shower to lyrics I don't believe are true. Time goes by so quickly. Especially when wet.

Grease fires that I am slow to extinguish.

Genius in the details. Rejection as a career. Creating words, destroying words. Pencil shavings and pink gum erasers. Not enough details; not enough by far.

If Jesus rang, I'd let the machine pick it up. And I probably wouldn't return the call.

Book 12 of War and Peace and still no peace in sight. Peace is too rare a commodity.

A carefully preserved leaf between the pages of anguished words, both from last summer, both of which restrict my breathing.

An anniversary I don't care to celebrate - a year without any family.

Chipped polish. Chipped me.

Not even the cheques motivate me.

Rain. Rain in the city. It's no less foreign to me in the sunshine. Don't bother getting familiar. Don't settle in. No roots, no friends...no regrets?

Stabbed myself trying to open the packaging on a new lipgloss. I watched the blood pool. I forgot for a while that it was supposed to hurt. The lipgloss is nice. The bandaid itches.

Discontent. Malcontent. Pas contente. Void of content.

Tired in my bones. Tired of my bones.

Less than an inch. More scar tissue removed. Less than an inch. Two years gone now. Less than an inch.

Brownout. Used batteries. Bank error. Broken promises.


I wonder, is this it?

Who at Hunt Insurance Wants a New Asshole?

So, our auto insurance just went up, like 230% unexpectedly.

I am ripping.

In fact, I am way more than that.

A prize to whomever can best define my anger.

Today I Hate This City

Fuck Toronto.

Well, mostly the people.

Well, mostly the bus drivers.

Well, mostly this one guy who touched me inappropriately and called me sweet heart.
Not cool.
TTC, be prepared to feel my wrath.

Dear U-haul,

You suck.

I believe it takes a pretty soulless person to rent a barely safe truck to a person who has never done you any harm, but to charge an arm and a leg for it, well, there's just no word for that.

Last weekend, I paid $520 for the "privilege" of borrowing a truck for 3 days. Except I did not receive it for 3 days. I was told, when I left a generous deposit, that I could pick the truck up at 9am on moving day. The night before, a nameless individual informed me that I could possibly be driving for up to 1 hour to pick up this truck. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with your business. It's renting truck to people who are moving. People who are moving have other things to do than to chase after the thing you have already promised to provide for them. But on the moving day itself we were given the "good news" that a truck would be available for us right here in town - but. Ah, BUT. But, we'd have to wait several hours before we would have access to it.

Now, when I rented the truck, someone immediately said to me "Are you sure you want to go with Uhaul? 80% of their fleet just got pulled from the road for being unsafe." Funny that you didn't mention this when you were counting my money. But when you did mention that our truck was in the shop that very morning, I found it worrisome instead of comforting. After all, we would be driving this thing, packed to the gills with our beloved belongings, and towing our car behind it, nearly 600km. I shouldn't have to worry about the road-worthiness of a truck that we just broke the bank to rent.

Now, perhaps if I had received the truck as soon as it was done in the shop, our story would have ended there. That didn't happen. It didn't happen because u-haul is a greedy beast, and they thought, 'hey, we're already getting $520 out of this old clunker, why not try for more?' And so you rented out the same truck twice in one day. And you let the other lady have it first. And when she returned it 7 hours after it was promised to us, and on empty, it was our problem because "pick up times cannot be guaranteed". Right. Tell me, wherever did you find print tiny enough for that clause? Does it really seem reasonable to you that some other person's move ate into ours?

Luckily, thanks to some back-breaking labour, we were able to load the truck up in the dark that night and our move was not much delayed. However, it was when we hit the road that nightmare really began.

Before we pulled out of the u-haul parking lot, the lady told us, nay, swore to us, that the transmission had recently been fixed, and that for some odd reason the clunking noise persisted, but that the mechanic had guaranteed that "it would not fall out on us." Obviously, this made me feel much, much better. Until we got onto the highway. And then, for the next 7 hours, we were treated to the lovely sound of metal grating against asphalt at high speeds. Mmm. Just what my u-haul induced migraine needed. But I thought to myself, no problem, I'll just sleep on the way up since I had to pack long into the night and thus did not get nearly enough sleep to feel up to unpacking when we arrived. But did I sleep? No, I did not. Not a wink. You see, it is almost impossible to get comfortable when you are fighting to breathe. The thing is, when a seatbelt is crushing your windpipe it does not allow for optimal sleep conditions. Interesting, isn't it? I thought so. Especially since the truck, which was rusty, dirty, older than me, and probably wouldn't pass a safety test despite the sparky transmission job, did not look very trustworthy in the first place, rendering my seatbelt pretty much my last line of defense. All kinds of worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind.

Thanks to my husband's patience and good driving, we reached our destination more or less safely. Jason had a crick in his neck from ducking to see under the chips in the windshield, but what the hell, it's not like you need to see very well to drive 30 feet of machinery through downtown Toronto.

We unloaded the truck as quickly as our arms and legs would allow us, mindful of the growing dusk. Normally we would be more kind to our muscles and take things slowly, but the lady at the u-haul place had frowned on our driving the thing after dark since there were no lights on the back of the trailer and shockingly, she had no replacement bulbs on hand. Shucks. I credit my husband for pulling us through. He was strong and quick and encouraging even when I thought I would throw up from being exhausted. By 8 o'clock we were done. The truck was empty, and ready to be returned.

All we needed to do was to hitch the trailer onto the truck, and drive it to the depot. Or so we thought. Turns out, the hitch was broken. Fancy that. It only tooks 2 hours in the pitch black in a new city where we knew not one soul to figure out how to make do with defective equipment. We were quite pleased with this new development, as I'm sure you could imagine.

So, blackened with grease and tired to the bone, we climbed into the cab of the truck, back to the seatbelt that actually chafed a layer of skin off my neck to the point of bleeding, and headed for the return point. As mentioned before, we had just moved. I think this is worth repeating because u-haul apparently has no idea to whom it is renting its trucks. We moved. To a new city. Therefore, it would have been nice, helpful even, if the u-haul lady would have been willing to tell us where exactly to drop the thing off. However, it was Friday, and as I said, we had been put off until quite late, so I guess she was itching to get home. She was unwilling to look it up, so she told us to just bring it anywhere. So, despite the fact that the good people of u-haul had already delayed us by more than 8 hours, we had to cut into our loading time to research a u-haul place in a foreign city, and plot it out on an unfamiliar map.

Since the broken hitch had set us back 2 hours, we were infact driving down unknown streets without tail lights. Is there a patron saint for unlukcy u-haul renters? It would have been nice to know. But finally, we saw the u-haul signs, and we pulled the truck into the lot. Jason ran inside to drop off the key, but he came back out shaking his head.

The man inside informed him that this location did not accept equipment. In fact, it wasn't a u-haul place at all, never had been, despite the signs and ad in the yellow pages. It was listed as one, but wasn't one.

Sorry, my bad. I obviously should have just assumed that u-haul just lists some red herrings just to butt-fuck their customers a little more.

Of course this guy is unable to provide us even with directions to a new place, so we had to drive around Toronto, in the dark, with a 30 foot truck and trailer, looking for a phone book. It was after 1am before we found an appropriate location and believe me, if words and wishes came true, anyone who has ever been affiliated with u-haul would be pushing up daisies today.

rental for a truck that almost killed me: $520
gas for the truck that almost killed me: $180
knowing that that which does not kill you only makes you stronger: priceless? I think not. We paid $700 for a harrowing, stressful experience, and I am NOT happy about it.

Here's hoping that the following search terms will help spread the u-haul hate: I hate u-haul, u-haul almost killed me, Toronto uhaul, u-haul hell, don't rent from u-haul, boycott u-haul, u-haul is unsafe, uhaul sucks, u-haul is the worst thing that ever happened to me, u-haul is evil, George W. Bush owns u-haul, Ontario uhaul, u-haul can kiss my ass, u-haul is dangerous, u-haul rents damaged trucks, Canada uhaul, uhaul is bad, renting from u-haul is like renting from Hitler.

p.s. As dearest Ian points out, the most impressive feature that u-haul boasts of is its luxurious cloth seats, which I bet are not that luxurious on the best of days, but in our case, the truck was so old that the stencilling was actually reduced to "clot eats". Yummy, eh?


Other angry u-haul customers (because you know I'm not alone):

http://www.dontuseuhaul.com/



Update!!!!

After a month of communication, this is what I receive on November 21st:

Dear Mrs. Jay,

Thank you for your communication received.

We apologize that your move did not go as you planned.

This is to inform you that we will not be reimbursing you for any part of this rental.

Based on the feedback provided, we consider this matter resolved.

Sincerely,
Donna Sweeney
U-Haul Company Scarborough, ON


I'm sure you all can imagine my pleased response to this email.

And that's all you'll hear from me - lawsuit pending.

Peroxide Dependent

Blame the blonde, or the pills, or Jason, but my mind has really been jumpy lately:

Why do Americans always say they're "having BBQ"? That's pretty much the dumbest thing I have ever heard. If you are having steak on the BBQ, then you are having steak. That goes for whatever else you might be having: shrimp, chicken, salmon, kebabs, etc. Barbecues are merely appliances. We don't have "stove" for supper, or "oven" or "crockpot."


Logic, in my opinion, is taking the easy way out. Notice how the "logical" answer is always the easiest. Logic is clearly for the unimaginative.


It has come to my attention recently that my Friday Fuckfests follow a pattern. Oh my. Looking over them, I see that this is true: tall, dark, handsome. Basically Jason, only with more money. This makes me sadly predictable, and shallow, and superficial. Actually, I'm okay with the superficial part, because that gives me the freedom to also add fat wallets, summer villas in Tuscany and a working knowledge of fine wines on my list of Qualities I'd Like In My Second Husband.

Also, I just remembered what is currently most offending me: The Wishbook is here! What the fuck.

WHAT THE FUCK!

The wishbook...as in, the Sears Christmas Catalogue, has landed on our doorstep. This is August, people!!!!! It's not even 'back to school' yet, and the Christmas catalogue is here? Personally,I threw mine right in the trash. Well, right after I checked it out for all the presents I can't wait to get. And made my list. And checked it twice. A coin purse shaped like a watermelon! Superman undies! A pink parka! New jammies! Oh, who am I kidding? I want presents! Gimme gimme gimme.

I have never hated Tuesday as much as I hate it today.

I should write. All kinds of potential topics are swirling about in my head, in a mucky whirlpool just waiting to be flushed out onto my blog, including:

1-August is almost over and I can't believe it. And not just in the way that people always say they can't believe it, but in the way that I truly cannot believe it because I barely remember it turning June.

2-The weather was crappy yesterday, so I painted indoors and dripped Royal Purple on the couch. And I can't even flip the cushion, for reasons that I don't care to remind myself.

3-I got this terrible blister on my thumb from mowing the lawn on Sunday. It actually didn't hurt while I was getting it, and only hurt a little once it swelled with fluid but I still used that thumb for raking, whipper-snippering, and sweeping the driveway of my neighbour because I thoughtlessly pointed the mower the wrong way, but then when it popped yesterday, oozing yucky puss everywhere, it suddenly because EXTREMELY SORE. And still is right now.

4-My grandparents got back from their trip to Vancouver B.C. to visit my uncle (their son) and his family, and so I heard the abbreviated summation of events. Which basically means that I tried to understand what the hell my Nanny was talking about. When she tells a story, you have to decipher as you go along, because the words get tangled up in her head. Like for example, when they went to ride the condos up Swizzler's Mountain, by which she of course meant ride gondolas up Whislter Mountain, and so if you're not doing some heavy mental work the entire conversation, you get left behind the dust rather quickly. But generally she leaves you time to catch up, like when she was telling me about the beautiful view out of my uncle's new office, and the room where he makes coffee, and the room where his secretary sits, and the offices for his lawyers - LADY LAWYERS - she corrects herself. Right. And of course, there's the fact that she mixes up names like crazy - mostly she called my uncle by my other uncle's name, and her daughers -in-law were reversed, and she kept calling my cousin Jeremy Jamie, which is me, but she didn't catch herself even though I was right there. This is really my mom's fault for calling me Jamie in the first place, because she named me after my uncle James, whom my Nanny called Jamie up until I was born, at which time he became Jim. Which is confusing for all of us. For years she called my aunt Tammy Pammy. I mean years. And she calls Jason Dave, and calls Dave Kevin, because all the boyfriends get muddled in her head, but it's awfully cute that she tries. But what is there to discourage her? She never knows she's wrong.

5- Betty was interred on Saturday. We didn't go. We didn't go because no one told Jason until Friday night. All of the rest of the family was there; they came in from all around the province. Everyone else knew weeks in advance. We did not know because Jason's dad cannot be bothered to write down our telephone number. We barely found out that his grandmother had died in the first place. Jason's dad is upset at Jason for not magically being able to get the time off. Jason doesn't bother getting upset at his dad, because this is how he is. He was so awful to Jason when Betty died I had to refrain from punching him in the teeth several times.

But actually, I won't write any of that. I have a million words in me today, but no direction. I started new medication. Did I forget to mention that? I started new meds and they're making me crazy because I cannot hold on to a single thought. Side effects: nausea, vomiting, severe headaches, heart palpitations, hot flashes, sheets of cold sweat, feelings of disassociation, agitation, panic attacks, mood swings, irritability. "The first week you'll think you're dying" says my doctor, "but you'll feel much better after that. And if you start to feel like your throat is closing, get to the ER immediately." Meanwhile, I'm making friends with my bathroom floor. I feel like I'm running in a race, and it's vitally important that I win, but everyone else gets to run on pavement while I am running underwater. And we can't tell how many of the side effects I'm really having because I'm generally irritable to begin with. But I did yell awfully loud at the turkey I was roasting yesterday for claiming to be pre-basted, whatever that means. So maybe that's a clue.

A Call To Arms

It was an innocuous day; a day like any other in June: warm, and sunny, and bright. It shall go down in history as THE DAY PEDESTRIANS FOUGHT BACK. Your children will deface my picture in history texts as they sit bored and stiff in the classroom. The History Channel will air one of many unauthorized documentaries in my name, and when my next door neighbour is interviewed, with her hair in curlers, and a cigarette with drooping ash fastened permanently to her lips, she will tell them I was a nice girl, always got my garbage out on time and such. U2 will write a song about me entitled "Monday, Floody Monday". And you, my friends, will be able to say that you first read about the movement from the very first day of its inception.

As I was saying, it was indeed a beautiful day. I sat outside on the swing, Dostoyevsky in my lap (frisky bugger that he is), watching a mommy bird feeding her baby bird in the old wooden bird feeder that they now call home. The day was passing by slowly, each moment making its presence known like individual grains of sand as they pass through an hour glass. I got it in my head that I should go for a walk before the sun set on me completely, and so I headed out upon one of my many favourite haunts.

I didn't remember loading R.E.M. into my mp3 player, so it was a nice surprise to have them serenade me as I tripped along the neighbourhood. Children, enjoying their first real day of summer vacation, played in sprinklers and munched on Freezies.

I heard a honk from behind me, and a man in a red pickup truck waved at me as he drove on by. I did not know this man, and he only mistakenly thought he knew me. I wondered who else in this fair city looked like me from behind - the fat ass, the blonde ponytail, the tattoo on my back, all of which I like to think are fairly distinct. Maybe not.

Passing through neighbourhoods, I observe that though all adults are tucked safely away in the cool recesses of their homes, their evidence is apparent. Every second or third lawn sports a sprinkler, which is watering not only their lawn, but the sidewalk upon which I trod. Every second or third house, I must dart into the road to avoid an errant spray. Every second or third house, my peaceful walk is disturbed. Jamie is not happy.

I don't know why people water their lawns. Is green grass really so desirable? How exactly does it affect your life? Clearly, these people do not even appreciate their lawn as they are all indoors, basking not in the sun, but in the air conditioning. Grass is pretty tough. It doesn't need any additional watering. Sure, it may get turn less than emerald green. You may even have patches. But why should you care?

Almost every city in North America suffers from over-consumption of water. Many city newspapers publishes warnings to the public: please do not water your lawns, do not waste water, etc, etc...and these reports go unread because the stupid public is outside turning on the taps full blast.

And here is the result: young women get blisters all over their feet because sidewalks are flooded and their Sketchers get wet. Pedestrians feel like they are playing Frogger with their bodies instead of having the nice walk they intended. Every time I encounter a sprinkler, I must risk my life by walking into the road, with traffic, to avoid getting wet.

This vexes me. I walk purposely in areas where there are sidewalks because I prefer not to get hit by cars. This is why sidewalks exist. The sidewalk is not part of your yard, it is public property. It is also a safety feature. I value my life way, way, over the green grass in your yard. You should too.

I feel fingers of anger creeping up my spine every time I have to take evasive action on a sidewalk. Is it not my right to protect my life? I think it is.

Now I'll admit that I have a somewhat different mentality than most. I grew up in the country. We lived off of a well dug in our backyard. Every drop of water was precious to us; we never wasted though we often wanted. Our sump pump would get prissy and we would be left without any running water or functioning toilets. We never, not once in our lives, watered the lawn, and yet we had over an acre of it, and even if it wasn't as green as yours, it served its purpose.

Every time I see a sprinkler, I think of children dying elsewhere in the world because they don't have potable water. It breaks my heart. And yet, people have a right to water their lawns, and be HUGE DICKS if they so please.

But I for one, will not die in the street with parts of my body clinging to the grille of a Honda. No way. So, my fellow pedestrians, this is what I propose:

Tomorrow I will bedeck myself in rainboots and raincoat, and I will scour the city for sprinklers. Any of them that drip onto sidewalks, I will pick up, and launch through the front window of that person's house. Perhaps then they will realize just how annoying a sprinkler can be when it gets in the way. For once, it will be kitchens and living rooms flooded, and not my running shoes. I will not be surprised in the least to turn on the news tomorrow night and find that this very act has been perpetrated in cities all over the hemisphere. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I have taken vengeance upon myself, and I will be ruthless. The city will tinkle with the sound of breaking glass. Watch out, Cornwall, here I come!

Scaredy Cats

This morning an Ottawa area newspaper revealed Canadians' greatest fears. Terrorism didn't make the list; common fears were unemployment and loneliness. This makes sense to me. The threat of violence is meaningless if you're hungry and alone. In fact, it can even be argued that some terrorism is carried out in the name of these basic needs.

Since I am happy to report that hunger and unemployment are not really concerns of mine, I asked myself what my greatest fears really are. It's hard to admit to fears, that gives them credence and leaves you vulnerable. But everyone fears something; some people have tangible fears and phobias while others worry in the abstract. Coming from a strong background in psych, I embrace fears. They make us human, and humans are indeed fragile creatures. But that doesn't mean we like to dwell on our fears, or even own up to them. So, having swallowed my fear of confessing, here is what I can come up with about myself:

I'm afraid of being ordinary. I'm afraid of not being special in some way, of failing to distinguish myself through actions and accomplishments. At the end of my life, I hope to have left some small part behind.

I'm afraid of becoming complacent. I'm afraid of growing comfortable and not challenging myself as I know I should. I'm afraid of falling prey to the status quo.

I'm afraid of not living up to my potential. I know that I can do anything. I have been blessed with ability and ambition and the thought of squandering it terrifies me. I know I would disappoint lots of people if I fail to rope in the stars, but most of all, I would hate to disappoint myself.

I'm afraid of giving voice to my greatest hopes and dreams. I think big, I dream big, and much of the time I keep it quiet because I risk embarrassment if I aspire to something and fail.

I'm afraid of trying, and falling short.

I am afraid of waking up one day and being transparent: that everyone would know that my confidence is largely an act, and a very shakable one at that; that I'm not invulnerable to outside opinions; that I am sensitive and thin-skinned.

I am afraid that my difficulties with trust will result in me pushing everyone who cares away. I'm afraid of being an orphan while both my parents are still technically living.

I am afraid of losing my mind piece by piece, to Alzheimer's. I'm afraid of being trapped in a body that can't respond. I am even more afraid that it will happen to Jason, and that one day he won't even know who I am.

I'm afraid of running out of ideas. I am terrified that I may one day have nothing to write, and with that, lose my identity, my sense of self.

I am afraid that someone may catch me crying.

I'm afraid of losing control. I'm afraid that my anger will eat away at anything that is good in me, and that one day I will look in the mirror and see my father. I'm afraid I couldn't live with that.

I'm afraid to know the answers to all of my questions because I may not like them. No, not just dislike them, but abhor them. I'm afraid that life and my faith may be incongruent.

I am afraid of being judged at the end of everything, and coming up empty. I'm afraid I won't even be able to defend myself. I am afraid it will all mean nothing.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof Is On Fire

Fire: the lick of flame can devastate us, entertain us, keep us warm,
or sexually excite us. All it asks in return is that we respect it,
and in its smouldering, ashy aftermath, it's hard not to.

How many lighted candles on a birthday cake does it take to set off a
fire alarm? How many of us are slowly inching closer to the age where
we will have a definitive answer to that question? As my sister-in-law
celebrated her birthday this week, I couldn't help but wonder why it
is that we light sticks of wax on fire, and shove them into a cake to
mark the anniversary of our births. Maybe there's meaning to this, a
symbol (fire is often equated with life-I did watch season 2 of
Survivor), or maybe someone just thought it looked neat. I do think
the candlelight flickers beautifully in the birthday girl's eyes right
before she blows them out. My sister-in-law has added more fire to her
cake - another year older, another year wiser. She turned 13.

During the course of my years I have been burned many times. The whole
palm of my dominant hand was covered in a thick black scab after I
picked up a curling iron by its barrel. I am so often in the kitchen
that I have long since lost count of those burns, although I still
carry the remnants from a bad burn I gave my wrist last year from the
steam of turnip. But the worst burns I have gotten have been from the
sun. I am what my mother generously calls "fair" but others have
cruelly or jokingly called me "translucent" or "albino". Just writing
about the sun makes my skin turn pink. I wear an SPF of 50 all winter
long to shield me, but in the summer I am a hopeless case. But I
refuse to hide from thee sun. I love heat, I love the outdoors, and so
I get burned. Badly. I can assure you that the worst sunburn you have
ever seen has nothing on me. My close friends and family know better
than to touch me during the summer, but a well-intentioned
acquaintance will accost me with something as simple as a hug, and
that can break several of my burn blisters at once. I wish I didn't
know that blisters could fit on the tiny tops of my ears, or that my
scalp could burn so badly that the part in my hair would glow red and
make brushing my hair a near-death experience, but that's life. Well,
that's my life. I arm myself with aloe vera and try to assure myself
that I am not just smearing myself with lime jello.

My biggest pet peeve is when someone says "Hey, looks like you got
some sun!". Oh really? Funny, despite the angry red hue, bubbling
blisters , and the searing agony of every single movement, I hadn't
noticed. Thanks for pointing out my defects, asshole. Only I don't say
any of that. I just smile tersely, and nod. Then I drown my sorrows in
Solarcaine.

Sunburns so far this month: 3
Assholes who commented on it: 7
Funny sunburn moment: Jason burned his receding hairline! Hehe! Okay,
okay, it's not technically a receding hairline, "he just has a high
forehead". Which is true, it's not receding, it's pretty stationary.
But still funny.

In other fire-related news, my mother's house caught fire. She was out
mowing the lawn, and looked up to see smoke billowing from the house.
She ran back to find that the washer and dryer had caught fire. She
yelled at my sister to call 911, but being my sister, she flatly
refused.

Jason drove at break-neck speed to the scene. Every neighbour was out
gawking. The firefighters thought my mother was awfully calm for a
woman watching her home burn down. My grand-mother, forever missing
the point of things, made these insensitive observations:

1. Isn't it embarrassing how all the neighbours are watching?
2. Did they have to send so many trucks? It's making a scene.
3. It's embarrassing how everyone can see the dirty laundry. (the
firefighters were passing out flaming towels and dousing them in the
ditch).

Had my mother not thought to close the bathroom door, the damage would
have been much worse. The firefighters tried to convince her she's
lucky, but she doesn't see it that way. She had led a hand-to-mouth
existence raising 4 daughters on her own (all but me are still at
home) where her deadbeat ex-husband informed the courts he'd rather go
to jail than pay child support (in the end, he did neither). Finally
after 20 hard years, she had just paid off her mortgage. She'd just
scrimped and saved to replace a leaky roof and the thread-bare
carpets. No, my mother doesn't feel "lucky" at all, but in a way, she
is.

The neighbour to her right rubbed her back while the neighbours to
the left offered coffee or "something stronger", much to our
amazement. Said neighbour is a Jehovah's Witness, so we can only
assume it wasn't alcohol being proffered, but espresso, or Red Bull at
best. At any rate, the small kindnesses did not go unnoticed. And I
thank goodness that it didn't happen at night while they slept. By
all accounts, the smoke was immediately thick, black, and
overwhelming; the "what ifs" are the scariest part of all.

But, everyone is fine. The house will be repaired, though we have
forever lost the mirror where I primped for my first date, the tub
where all 4 of us would take baths together when we were young (one of
my sisters loved to shit in the tub, and to this day if I yell "Mom!
Ones touching me!" my mother will erupt in giggles), we've lost the
counter where I would sit to have gravel removed from my scrapes, and
the toilet where Jess, Sarah and I learned we could all sit and pee at
once, and the dryer where my first tube of lipstick, apple blossom
rose, forgotten in the pocket of my jeans melted all over the clothes
and ruined the whole load (my lifetime ban on lipstick has still not
been lifted).

If I have learned one thing this week, it's that a burned-out charred
dryer on the front lawn is a sight to see, but a melted jacuzzi tub is
even funnier.

And now, as if fires have not traumatized us enough this week, I bring
you the real reason for this post: my computer exploded. That's right,
it finally went kaput, and so I am writing to you from the Public
Library, a beautiful and majestic building I wish you all could see.
We almost had a bona fide fire of our own. Personally, I think the
computer just had a fit of jealousy. Just this weekend we came home
with a new computer, so the old one knew its fate (having seen I,
Robot several times). But the new computer hasn't been hooked up yet
because we're waiting on a part that's coming "soon". So we were still
relying on the old one to do its job, albeit painfully slowly, when we
heard a POP!

"Oh real mature, Jay", Jason said, shooting me a look, then noticing
with some confusion that I wasn't holding the remains of the balloon I'd
just popped.

"Jason, it wasn't me, it came from the computer" And we looked over to
see plumes of smoke coming from it, and seconds later our nostrils
were filled with the acrid scent of, well, burning computer. So Jason
yanked out the wires and got the thing outside. Rest in peace
computer.

So, that explains my upcoming absence, but rest assured that I will be
back "soon", and as always, thanks for reading.

Oh You Wicked Wednesday

Ugh. This new "up at 5am" schedule of Jason's is killing me. Well, actually, it feels good to have a semi-normal schedule, I'm actually sleeping, seeing daylight, and believe it or not, I have so much accomplished by 7am that I actually feel a little less slothlike. But I imagine that this kind of lifestyle is surely killing me softly, and one day soon I'll wake up dead, at 5am.

This morning I barely rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and I was on the treadmill, pounding out a few miles (damn sticker says made in Canada, but then why does it not measure in kilometres?) to the tune of crappy "Hits!" radio stations filled with insipid DJ talk, and I thought to myself: Jay, you are retarded.

My reasoning:

Reason #27 why I don't go to the gym:
My workout ensemble this morning consisted of
1-pink plaid pants
2-yellow tweety bird socks, with orange pompoms
3-purple sketchers...well more like lavender
Clearly no other human should have to see me in this getup.

Reason #94 why I don't go to the gym:
I curled my bottom lip upward, so that I could blow up towards my own face in an order to dry the sweat on my brow before it fell into my eyes. It didn't work. I looked like an arse.

Reason #568 why I don't go to the gym:
I find it impossible to run normally when I am listening to music. My movements turn into some sort of demented dance, which complicates matters since I am atop a moving surface (and I know from previous experience that you do get "road burn" on your face when you fall on your treadmill). But alas, I ain't no holla back girl.

So anyway, I had a good workout, and look Ma, no shin splints! Woohoo! And I also made a funny discovery: the new Will Smith song Switch (I didn't even know he had a new song, but anyway...) is great for doing bicep curls. Oddly so. I was mastering my triceps and bopping all over the place, quite a sight I'm sure, but whateva. No, I am not too cute to dance!

And all of this before 7am. It's criminal.

And then I hung out the laundry, which means I am playing chicken with mother nature. It's supposed to rain today. "Scattered thundershowers", in fact. Hah. I laugh in the face of weather. That's right, bitch. Wanna rain on my laundry? Come on, I dare you.

Oh, and I had the privilege of being the 29 999th visitor to my blog. That was exciting for about half a second, and then the Will Smith song came on again, and I grabbed my dumbbells to knock myself down a few pegs.

Now I just have a pain in my ovaries. I think I sprained them. It feels like when you overwork your abs and end up with that ouchy crampy feeling...only it's lower than my abs, it's down in my abdomen, so with my rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, I have labeled it my ovaries. Perhaps I have just been kicked in my invisi-balls, and am feeling the pain. I could be wrong about that, but that's the fun of self-diagnosis. You just never know.

All I have to do now is steer clear of Phizz because he has an innate talent for spoiling the Gilmore Girls for me. He watches it on Tuesday, I don't see it until Wednesday, and somehow he finds a way to ruin it every time. He's like the Polkaroo. Except not really.

So I went for a walk. And ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you all the 3 most beautiful words in the English language (or any language), said in my sultriest, most knock-em-dead voice:


WINTER IS OVER!

And screw you spring, this is summer weather we're having! Of course this means that all the old people are out washing their driveways and watering their laws... which in turn poses an awkward situation for pedestrians like me. Invariably, I come across a patch of sidewalk in the direct path of a sprinkler. I can either try to dart under the water's spray, or walk around it, in the sodden grass thereby muddying my shoes. I choose to chance it on the sidewalk. I get wet. Ah well. That's still 2 straight days of gorgeous weather, for which I am eternally grateful. I keep meaning to just get out for 30 minutes and end up awol for an hour and a half. Today I snaked up and down streets because I figured it would give my shoulders the opportunity to sunburn more evenly that way. Ingenious, yes?

I reentered the house with some reluctance, only to remember that I still had clothes on the line. I took them down in a hurry, and noticed my arms were getting sore. I felt quite out of shape if the mere act of hanging laundry could deplete the strength in my arms...and then I remembered the vigorous dumbbell dancing to Will Smith, which I have heard half a dozen times so far today. What is it with radio? There are more than 14 songs in the world you know!!!! But no, let's hear that crappy J-Lo song one more time! Don't you know it by heart yet? Everybody now!!!! Gawd, I wish I was a good radio tuner. Usually it's on The Bear, a much more palatable choice.

Anyhoo, sore arms and ovaries aside, I was having a pretty good day until THE DREADED ZIPPER INCIDENT. Notice the capital letters here.

So a few months ago, I bought these pants, cute I thought, light gray, with a pink and white pinstripe, and a pink velvet ribbon around the waist. I wore them once. And then the pull of the zipper broke off. Crap.

Jason "fixed" them for me, by attaching a keyring. I wore them once more. Could not manipulate said zipper to save my life. Almost pissed myself. It was bad.

In the closet they went, and stayed, until this morning, when in the optimistic sunlight, I thought they would look adorable with my pink knit tank top. So I pry off the stupid keyring (only a boy would put a keyring on pants), and came up with my own "fix": a paperclip. Don't worry, it was coated in pink plastic, totally cute! Fast forward several hours, and I'm on the verge of pissing myself yet again in these pants because the damn paperclip would not go down! Not for anything! Finally, in an act so frantic you would have laughed to see it (and quite possibly will laugh just imagining it), I poked a hole in my pants with my tweezers, then I reached inside and ripped the whole zipper right off my pants. It was as intense as it sounds. Stupid pants. I blame Jason of course. He's the one that said "Your ass looks hot in those pants", so of course I had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them, which hurtled me down the conflicted lifecourse that has led me to this day. Damn him.

So now I've got my breasts marinating in a Greek concoction (my chicken breasts, you perv). Tune in tomorrow to find out what can possibly go wrong with that.