This One Goes Out To The One I Love

Dear Jason,

You're still the one. You're the only one.
You're the man who matters in my life.

Loving you is a physical sensation, like rocks in my chest, rubbing against each other, throwing off sparks. My heart is an organ I can actually feel when I think of you; it grows larger when you're around, swollen with all the good times and the bad, both equally precious because it's you.

Sometimes you are so quiet you scare me, but when you do speak, your words are like gifts. Your compliments are meaningful; when you say I'm beautiful, I flutter. When you say you love me, I know I'm the luckiest woman in the world.

I still choose you every single day, and I want to be the person you keep choosing too. You are the wisest choice I have ever made, and I will spend the rest of my life living up to it.

I never thought I could be with just one person, but from the moment I put my heart in your pocket, I knew it couldn't be any other way. I want always to be beside you, where the world makes sense to me just before it melts away.

You kill me with your kindness, you always have. It makes me proud to be attached to your goodness. You are without a doubt the best part of me, and when you put your arms around me and tell the world I'm yours, I can't imagine that anything else exists.

You are the strongest man I will ever know. You love me so fearlessly, even when you don't understand me, even when you don't know the best course, even when you think I've lost my fucking mind. I know what you've given up, I see the sacrifices you continue to make. If I am to be successful in this life, it will have been to make sure that I am worthy.

I remember the first time we kissed. Your lips were so soft, you tickled mine with yours and I was instantly on fire, and then you crushed me with them, and I wished that they would never leave my body, and they never have. When my lips are bruised from yours, I wear the bruise like a badge of honour.

You are the only protection from the world I will ever need. I see that you hurt when I hurt, and it touches me. You will always have my back, you will always defend me, you will always put me first. I don't think I really understood trust before there was you, but now I feel it as firmly as I feel your hand when you guide me through a crowded room.

I lose hours of my day just thinking of you, devising new ways to get your hands on my skin, wanting to belong to you, and be longed by you. I want to feel your breath in my ear and smell your scent on my sheets and see the lines around your eyes when you smile.

Your laughter is the only reward I will ever need to earn. No amount of money, no awards ceremony will ever compare.

I didn't know what I had at first, but I sure am glad you talked me into loving you. I am a strong and independent woman - I could live without you, but I know with certainty that I wouldn't want to. You make every day worth getting up for. I laugh more, I sing louder, I have more joy than I know how to fit in our little apartment. I know it overflows, I can tell by the way other women look at me when we're walking arm in arm. I don't blame them. Seven years later and I'm even more attracted than I ever was before. It still thrills me to touch you, and be touched by you. I wasn't looking for you, but I found you anyway, and though you know I'd do anything to keep you, I'll never have to, because I'm already the only one you want.

You are the reason I know god exists. Love like this is no accident. But it is overwhelming sometimes. I think about the past 7 years, and how lucky I've been, and then I marvel that we might share another 70, and I can't begin to imagine what they'll bring, but I know that as long as we're together, life will be an adventure worth having.

I love you. I know I don't say it often enough, I hate the mush, I hate to cuddle, I hate being a sop. But I do love you, immensely. Bigger than there are words to describe.

I love how you prop my book up on a special pillow so I can read in bed without taking my arms out of the nice warm blanket.

I love how you always ask if I want seconds before emptying the pot onto your plate.

I love your broad back, the muscles in your shoulders, and how tender you can be despite how strong you are.

I love how you make your decisions according to the pout of my lips.

I love how you yell at the cable company so I don't have to.

I love that my love is still razor-sharp, that we still share adventures and repel the dullness that often comes with time. I know it hasn't always been easy. I hope it never will be because these are the happiest hurdles of my life. I want to share them, and everything, with you.

xx

I've Got A Strange Disease: Her Name is Jay.

A guest post by Jason.

I knew before I nailed her that Jamie was something else. I knew she was probably the funniest, smartest and loopiest person I would ever meet, and most of the people around her seemed to know it too. We all wanted to be close to her back then; we were all just there for the ride.

And what a ride it was.

Of that time, I remember how all the boys were in awe of her, and afraid of her at the same time. She dated mostly older men. I didn't think too much about why she scared the lesser men away. I didn't think too much about anything other than how much I wanted to touch her freckled shoulders. In retrospect, I'm glad I was such an ignorant fool.

If I had considered for one moment what life with Jamie would be like, I might have shied away.

Man. That's tough to say. But it's true. I doubt that I would have had the confidence in myself. I might have thought it too hard, I might have wished for her a stronger man.

But thank God for the stupidity of youth - when I got my chance, I rushed right in, not thinking about anything beyond those first 5 minutes: the proximity of her pink lips, the candy smell of her shampoo. She made it easy for me - I never thought about the future because we had none. She made it clear we were just friends having an extra special good time, and that the affair was short-term. I believed her, but I fell in love anyway.

I loved the storms of her emotions, I loved being the guy with a pen when she had a fit of brilliance, I loved being the one she called when she wanted to feel grass on every inch of her skin. I fell in love with this unknown entity because it made my life feel more exciting just to live it next to hers. And I'm glad now that that my heart left no choice for the rest of me - I was in over my head from the start.

Living with Jamie is like living in an alternate universe. It's definitely worth it - she's worth it - but it's the hardest thing I will ever do, and I'm still learning, and I think I always will be. I've had bad moments. I wonder if I can take it, if my nerves are up to it. Once, shortly after our engagement, a friend of mine took me aside and told me not to marry her. Forcefully told me not to marry her. But that's the thing with Jamie, you either love her, or you hate her. And after many years of careful, intimate study, I still have no idea what makes her tick, I have no idea what she'll come up with next, I don't even know where she is right now, but I can predict with stunning accuracy those who will love her, and those who will hate her.

In fact, I have a pretty good idea of what the people who read her blog must be like. They're not necessarily like-minded people; Jamie prefers people who can argue rather than agree. She hates fence-sitters. Curse the day when I don't have a firm opinion for something that Jamie is ranting about - then I'll get a lecture on both sides of the issue and learn enough about them to be an expert panelist on a game show that doesn't exist. I wonder if she always leaves long-winded, preachy comments on other people's blogs, or if she shows some restraint (no, that's not likely). Anyone who reads this on any basis is probably more of a free-thinker, and more than likely artistic in some way. I feel so ordinary compared to lots of her friends - she gravitates toward people who are driven to create, and they obviously pick up the same vibe on her.

She doesn't believe in conventionality, but she doesn't disbelieve in it either, because she doesn't believe in disbelieving in things. Every single aspect of life is a story. She tells it like it is - without embarrassment, but with embellishment. She drives me absolutely crazy with her contradictions. Some days I feel like I will never really know her because seems to exist on some form of hopped-up evolution that exists only on her own frequency.

She is absolutely manic sometimes. I'd have to become a speed freak to even come close to keeping up. She has highs that I think most humans are incapable of replicating, but to be fair, she has lows lower than anyone should ever sink, too. It's hard to see her like that, it's hard to wake up in the middle of the night to a sobbing woman who is crying "Because" - and those eyes of hers implore me to understand, to instantly agree that yes, because. And there's nothing I can do to soothe her because I have never in my life come close to feeling things as deeply as she does. She is so sensitive, and so passionate, and so sympathetic. She is moved to tears daily. I have to keep those tissues with the lotion built in around because otherwise, her little nose gets raw. But she's not afraid of sadness. To her, real sadness, great sadness, is just as good as great joy. As long as she feels strongly, it's a good experience to her.

That baffles a lot of people, including myself sometimes. She's just not afraid of emotion. All the things that the rest of us ignore, or suppress, or hide, she displays. It's remarkable that even the bad ones - the ones that we're not supposed to admit to having, the ones that cast her in a bad light - those are right there for all to see as well. Every flaw she has, she magnifies, and she magnifies so she can embrace it. I have a hard time understanding it, but she often says "I'm a bitch, but I love that about myself," or "(fill in the blank), but I love that about myself. Even the worst parts, she cherishes. How can she do that?

I was so proud of her for joining my gym. She could have gone to the women's club across the street, but she didn't, and I know she worried that people would look at her, and judge her. But in reality, there's my Jamie, singing "Shout!" on the treadmill, and playing air drums on the stationary bike, and of course people are looking at her, and judging her. And she doesn't care. She is comfortable in her world, she is oblivious to anyone else's opinion, and she head bangs on the stair master without a shred of self-consciousness. But if you hold her up to normal societal standards, she starts to itch, it's not her comfort zone. It's not even in her universe. But the truth is, even at the gym, my gym, she shows me up. Did you know that she can pres 333 lbs with her legs alone? Do you have any idea how much that is? Can you imagine the awesome things that woman can do with her thighs?

The other day, I asked an innocent question: "What did you do today?" You know what she did? She spent it dreaming/worrying about the inevitability of inorganic nanobots violating their rules of self-replication and literally eating us all alive. That's what Jamie did on Tuesday.

On Wednesday I asked her for a striptease (shut up, it's almost my birthday, I'm allowed). And you know what she did? She gave me a striptease. Of all the sultry, sexy songs she could have chosen, she picked ACDC's If You Want Blood, and then proceeded to put on a fucking rock & roll show in our bedroom. I mean, we're talking strutting and pursed lips, the whole damn thing. And yeah, she ended up naked in the end, but I just kept thinking, where the hell did this come from? It pretty much violated any notion of stripteases that I've ever had, but it was the greatest, sexiest thing I have ever seen. But where does it come from?

And last week, I spent an hour of my life dressing her. It's a somewhat common occurrence in our house: Jamie will insist she doesn't want to leave, and thus, refuses to dress, prohibiting us from leaving. So she lies inert on the bed while I try to force clothes on her body, and she'll wriggle like a baby, and eventually overtly fight me, and we'll end up wrestling for an hour and she'll end up no more dressed than when we started. For 6 years of our relationship, I have had major guilt over these episodes. I hate to be so contrary. But recently, I've learned that this is one of her favourite games, a good way to get attention and have me touch her. Leaving and dressing have nothing to do with it. Imagine my surprise! This discovery literally changed my life. But that's the thing with Jamie - she loves to push my buttons, and I have never met anyone who is more adept at finding your buttons than she is. But then I asked her in passing if I "looked okay" -meaning gray pants with a cranberry sweater - and evidently, this pushed one of hers. She started crying, and crying, and crying. And finally choked out that she wasn't crying because what I was wearing looked bad, but just because I was wearing it. Because "there are 3 whole days left of summer!" and my wearing a sweater was apparently my attempt to rush the seasons and not appreciate each moment for what it is. So, a quick change into a t-shirt and gray skies are going to clear up, it is once again a happy day.

You know, all things considered, this is an incredible life she has, and I get to be a part of it. Sometimes I wonder if we're secretly being watched, if we'll end up in the history books, if she isn't maybe surreal. I suspect that I have a national treasure, or the missing link, or the secret of the universe, right here in my home...but if that's the case, I hope to keep it under wraps for just a little while longer. I don't know what I ever did to be a part of this, but I can't help but want just a little while longer of having her to myself.

Jay - I know you won't like this post. I know you'll want to delete it like you've deleted so many others. But I also know that if only I can distract you for 30 seconds, our lives will go hurtling down a completely different path, and maybe, just maybe, this small truth will slip out.

Thwarted.

So, it's my ("our") anniversary.

Which explains why I'm home alone.

Jason took last Tuesday off; Jason always believes that our anniversary is 5 days before it actually is.

Typical.

So I thought it would be charitable of me to at least send him to work this morning with a little something to remember me by. I planned to bake a one-layer replica of our wedding cake. I was dreaming about buttercream for 2 days in advance. I even bought a new featherweight piping bag just for the occasion.

And then, just as 2 perfect rounds of batter were slid into the oven, I discovered that said oven was broken. Broken real good.

Will not heat about 200 degrees.

The cakes were doomed.

Of course, I've already prepaid a florist to order some unsprayed roses for cake adornment, as well as the exact same boutenier that Jason wore at the Canadian version of our wedding.

Without a cake, the cake flowers were pretty pointless, but I was still at least mildly disappointed to see that the florist's was "closed due to flood" and that any and all flowers that I'd ordered were unavailable.

So Jason went to work like it was any other day, and instead of spending his anniversary with his wife, he's spending it with The Other Woman.

Remember when I mentioned that Jason was being lusted after (or should I say coveted?) by some Christian girl at his work? Embarrassingly, every single employee and their uncle seems to know about this crush, and many have already reminded her that Jason is married (you know, in case she missed a certain ring on a certain finger of his). But that didn't stop her from inviting my husband out on a date this week.

Apparently she'd really like to go see Superman with him this weekend. She slipped him her number and everything. Jason, in his awkwardness, threw the number out. Was it burning the inside of his pocket? On his end, he's already ruled out even the possibility of friendship. According to him "Jame, she reads The Bible on her lunch hour. It would be like dating my Grandma."

Ooooh, that's hot.

So while Jason fends her off, I'll sit at home twiddling my thumbs. I can't make the dinner I'd planned with the oven out. I can't even make the dessert I'd planned because when I returned home deflated from the florist, I searched the house high and low for my loaf pan. Yes, I found it. I found it greasy and grubby in the bottom of Jason's toolbox holding nuts and bolts and other things I could not identify. It's totally been bent out of shape. Now I'm totally bent out of shape.

Deep breaths.

I think that I can safely say that all anniversary celebrations have been deferred until some other date - possibly the one next year, or the year after that.

Or is that even far enough away?

Sometimes, I Feel Sorry For You.

Yes, you.

Late at night (or early in the morning, if you prefer to call it that), when the house is very still and the neighbourhood is as quiet as it can be what with all the demented motorists racing down Steeles (I'm not sure where they're all going at 3 am, but they're going there fast) - I sit around and feel sorry for everyone who is not me.

When I was younger, I had a rule about dating: 3 weeks, and kiss him goodbye. It was a strict rule, and it served me well. I never had a real boyfriend; I never had a real relationship; I never had a desire for either. Instead, I met a lot of people, let a lot of boys buy me drinks, and kissed more than I should have without knowing their names. I never saw anyone exclusively, and every single one of them got the boot at that all-important 3 week line. After 3 weeks, you either get attached, or you get bored (and sometimes you get both). I couldn't decide which I abhorred more, so I aimed to avoid both. And I absolutely did, except once.

And once is all it took. Although I assured him about a month into our dalliance that I was not the marrying kind, I soon after accepted his proposal. I didn't look for him, I didn't particularly want him, I sure as hell don't deserve him, but I've hoarded him all to myself just the same. And poor you - poor everyone who doesn't have a Jason. Poor everyone who is not me.

It's been 3 months already since Jason wrote a glowing if hyperbolic post about me, and I'm just now retaliating (you'll notice that punctuality is not among my listed qualities). I think that when he sat down to write it, he ended up revealing more about himself that about his intended subject (moi).

The undeniable fact is - I am the lucky one.

Jason is the man who made me realize that love is actually a physical sensation. Because of my insomnia, we don't often share a bedtime, but we try to share a lot of bed time. Toasty under the duvet that we purchased together, between the sheets that we washed together, nestled on the bed that we assembled together, we connect, and reconnect. Sometimes we trade massages, sometimes we read aloud to each other, and I always give him a kiss on the nose before I tuck him in and wish him sweet dreams. On a bad day, it can take him up to 36 seconds to fall asleep, but those are rare. Usually, he is snoring softly before I can even turn out the light, and in the dark, I stay to watch him sleep. And while he sleeps, that's when I get the feeling. It's a constriction in my ribcage, it makes breathing a bit harder, but each laboured breath is all the sweeter because it's I love him on the inhale and He loves me on the exhale. Literally, my heart hurts to look at him. I ache over his long, dark lashes, and I know it's time to go. If I stay long enough to brood over his luscious lips (the top one is always pale, the bottom is always pink, the pair is always kissable) or any other of his body parts, I know I won't be able to stop myself from shaking him awake so that I can love and be loved all over again.

And the thing about Jason, the thing that slays me every time, is that if I did wake him up (and yes, I sometimes do), he'll just get up. To be with me. He goes in to work on 3 hours of sleep so that he can spend the darkest hours of the night at the kitchen table with me, colouring pictures of purple elephants wearing tiny hats.

He totally indulges me.

If I look sad, he turns on the Jimi Hendrix and does the "Foxy Lady" dance from Wayne's World.

When I yell "Oops!" from another room, he always comes rushing in with a rag.

When I'm ready to move again, he won't ask why or how far, he'll bring me empty boxes and some new magic markers - but not black, he knows I don't like it.

He always lets me retrieve the lint from his bellybutton. I think he secretly stores it up for me.

He refuses to believe that I smell, or could ever produce anything but "the sweetest smell in the world." Really. He also does not notice if I've gained weight, and if I jerk my leg away from his hand screaming "I need to shave!" he always runs his hand over it as if it were smooth, and tells me not to bother.

He's never looked at another woman. He has no celebrity crushes. He's only been to the strip clubs I've dragged him to, and the only boobs he looked at on those excursions were mine. He's not just loyal, he's not just faithful. He's completely blinded to anyone else. And it's crazy because women sure as hell aren't blind to him. Women flirt with him constantly, and he has no idea. He has to be told.

That being said, he's never minded when I look at another man. Most of my friends are male. He has no qualms. He humours my many crushes. He has learned confidence because he knows I'm attracted to it. But if I occasionally get into a scrape with a man I haven't already kneed myself, I know Jason will handle it for me. Though he's the most docile man I know, he's not above throwing around his very large fist to protect his Jamie.

He took out a bunch of books from the library to learn about writing style and form. Now when I present him with a new chapter from my book, he gives me actual feedback. I always thought that his encouragement was more than enough, but he always wants to do more for me.

He has this amazing laugh, and once you've done something to deserve it, you want another and another. They're addictive. They fill up your soul. He has the most adorable laugh lines around his eyes, and I know that when I see them, I've really achieved something. Those lines make my life meaningful.

He has infinite patience. I cannot even tell you how much in awe I am of this. He is so even tempered that everyone falls in love with him. He's probably the easiest person in the world to get along with. There is not one bloody thing about him that's annoying about him (which annoys the hell out of me, as a matter of course). But he really is just one of those down-deep good guys that you don't believe exist anymore until you meet Jason.

And as great as he is, he's always getting better. It's astonishing to me how much he's changed since we first met. I think about how straight-laced he was and how every day he gets a little bit closer to being bohemian like me. He's slept under the stars, felt the sweat of 10 000 people mingle with his own, he's been permanently inked, he even ate brussel sprouts without the safety net of cheese sauce for gawd's sake. He tries. He puts himself out there. He's so brave about going along with my whims. He never tells me to turn down the music or to stop drawing on the walls. He encourages me.

It has been a privilege to wake up beside him all these years. I take a tally of my faults, my quirks, my bad habits, and I have to admit that he does not love me despite these things; he loves me because of them. In 6 years of extremely intimate living, he has had exactly 2 reasons to complain:

1. 4 years ago, I bought him a sweater that was "scratchy" - it was exchanged for another.

2. 5 years ago, he grew tired of the chicken pot pie I made him for dinner. I haven't made it since. Now he says he misses it.

And that's it. That's it in 6 years. He has never, ever been mad at me. Not ever. There are things about me that annoy me, but not Jason. My voice, my awful scratchy voice that sounds like the noise a record makes when you put the needle on the wrong track, he loves it. Asks me to sing to him, even. I talk through movies and television shows constantly. Neither of us has been able to follow a plot from start to finish in years because of this. Still, he listens to me like my insipid commentary is more entertaining than this $50 million blockbuster, and he'll even put it on mute. When I'm in a 'difficult' mood, he humours me. If I don't know what I want for dinner, he will name things for half an hour straight if that's what it takes. He'll even say things like Poor Jamie, while he strokes my hair, when I myself am screaming Fuck that bitch on the inside.

In many ways, we are opposites: he is calm, kind, and level-headed. I sometimes wonder how it is that we get along, but mostly I just wonder how I'd ever get along without him. Because he's my rock. When I need a good cry, he buys me the tissues with lotion built in; when I need to be comforted, he takes me for a shower and washes my hair like I am the most fragile thing in the world and he the most tender; when I need to let off steam he fucks me like there's no tomorrow, until one or both of us collapses. He's always been there for me, but more importantly, he always will be.

It's crazy to live in such a tumultuous, crazy world and know with 100% certainty that there will always be a Jamie & Jason. We both come from broken backgrounds, neither of us has ever seen a successful marriage up close, and yet we're living it every day, even if we are making it up as we go along.

Jason is the reason why I believe in God. Jason is undeniable proof that God exists, not because he's perfect (though other more objective sources assure me he is), but because I found him. I found, in a world of 6 billion other people, the only one who was made just for me, the only one who could put up with my shit, who could adore me for my weaknesses, who could be the only family I'll ever need, and could hold me in his arms in a way that leaves no room for doubt about how much he loves me.

And he does.

And I do too.

Always a Bride, Never A Bridesmaid

Do you know who's getting married this year?

Everyone, that's who.

Literally everyone EXCEPT me.

:(

That face is not happy or smiley. It's frowny. I hate to be left out.

But seriously. Everyone.

It's pandemic.

I have been in the Sears wedding registry department so often they started issuing me a paycheque.

What the hell is in the water this year?

Ohmigod, DO NOT answer that. I may have to die a raisin's death, dehydrated and withered due to the fact that I will never again swallow a single drop of water that may or may not contain...well, you know. Ew.

But weddings are not just about hideous dresses and shoes dyed to match. They're not just about new toasters and dancing the chicken.

Underneath all the tulle, all the sugared almonds and kisses from Aunt Myrtle, lays the true meaning of weddings: cash. Er, I mean, love.

Yes, love.

Two people meet, enjoy screwing, and throw a huge party to celebrate this fact.

Take my grandparents, for example.

This is them on their wedding day in 1951, with confetti in their hair.

They met on a blind date, arranged by her sister. Pa was instantly attracted, I imagine. Nanny was a dish! Nanny always said it wasn't his height that attracted her (note her flats...a point of contention for over 50 years now!), so it must have been his motorcycle.

Motorcycle? My grandpa? My Pa drives a Buick. He often wears slippers to do so. He has a big beer belly and needs suspenders to keep his pants up. He wears little sweater vests and peaked caps. He sings songs about mares eating oats and doesn't eat steak because his dentures are too dull. Nanny and Pa cheat at cards and fight over cribbage. They make pickles together. They volunteer at Meals on Wheels and bowl together every Tuesday afternoon. I cannot imagine them zipping around town on a motorcycle. It makes me blush to even try.

They never really got engaged. My Pa pointed at a bunch of rings in a store and asked which one she wanted. They were married 3 months later; my Nanny was 19 years old, and Pa just a little older. They honeymooned in Niagara Falls.


We took this picture on their 50th anniversary, 3 kids and 9 grandkids later. 50 years is a long time, but this summer they'll be celebrating #55, which is even longer, if you hadn't noticed. They're beyond gold (in fact, they're "emerald"). And all because of that motorcycle. Would I even be here today if my Pa hadn't upped his sex appeal with a Harley? This is one of life's mysteries.


These are my parents on their wedding day in 1979, also with confetti in their hair.

They met at Tim Horton's; my father was a trucker, and my mother served the coffee. She was attracted to his quiet demeanor, especially in comparison to the much cruder sorts that mill about in coffee shops. My mother was 16. She saw that this suitor was much more serious about the relationship and broke it off, but not for long.

Like my grandmother, she is still waiting for her proposal. He simply showed her a ring in the parking lot of Tim Horton's, and at the ripe old age of 18, my mother became a beautiful bride. She was a baby. They too honeymooned in Niagara Falls.

But my father wore a ruffled tuxedo, hexing the marriage from the very start. They were not destined for happiness. She wanted 12 kids, he wanted 2. They "compromised" and had 4 (note to young couples: this is a shitty compromise), and probably only that many because my father badly wanted a boy. They never got him.

Instead they got 4 girls, who despite the divorce, loved to try on their mother's bridal gown and sigh over themselves in the mirror, imagining how bells would chime in their own futures.


My parents never rode a motorcycle. I only remember them in mini vans. What's the difference? Both couples look happy in their wedding photo. I find the shy smiles on both my mother and grandmother to be strikingly similar. Did my mother wear flats, or not? Did they carry the same flowers? Did they both dine on chicken? After the births of many babies, what causes one marriage to fail where another succeeds? This too is one of life's mysteries.

This is me on my wedding day, 2002. No confetti, just a lot of hairspray called "Cement".

We met when I was 14, in high school. We were just friends despite a few intense moments that never should have happened as we were both seeing other people, or lots of other people, as the case may be. Then I hated him. Then I fucked him. Then we got married. It's a love story for the ages.

We got engaged not because we ever intended to marry, but because I wanted the ring. He proposed to me in bed. I said "of course I will" and a year later, we did, surprising everyone, but most of all ourselves. I was 20 when we married...practically an old maid by my family's standards. We married in the sunny tropics and did not honeymoon in Niagara Falls. I did not wear flats. We did not eat chicken. We do not ride motorcycles. We did not bear children.

What will the future hold for us? Will we dance the funky chicken at our 50th wedding anniversary? This too is one of life's mysteries.

But I can tell you what we will be doing this summer: we'll be lugging around gaily wrapped toasters and toasting our friends, hoping that they too will beat the odds, that they will have happy marriages, that they will have the life together they imagine when they say "I do."

My Funny Valentine

Valentine's Day has never been a must-celebrate holiday for us. Some years we shower each other with gifts, other years we exchange kisses. This year Jason bought me a right front break pad. I bought him the left. We're romantic like that...well, we don't wish fiery car crash deaths on each other, at least there's that.

Otherwise, we stayed in and enjoyed ourselves the same way we always spend quality time together - by cooking.



On the weekend I let Jason do the choosing, which is his favourite part. And Jason, as Jason does, chose the most expensive thing on the menu - beef tenderloin. If you haven't cooked with tenderloin before, it is indeed the choicest cut of the cow; when you slice it, it makes chateau briand and filet mignon. When you buy the whole tenderloin, you have to take out a small loan. Which we did.

But Jason didn't want just any tenderloin, no, he wanted lobster-stuffed beef tenderloin in a white wine sauce. So basically, you take the most expensive meat, stuff it with the most expensive seafood, tear up a $20, sprinkle it over the meat, and hope for the best.

Jason isn't terribly good at making foods "match." He picks his main course first and then just adds side dishes that he likes, but don't necessarily go together. If we're having company, I try to steer him on the right path, but when it's just us, I give him free reign and I only worry a little. This time he picked an accompaniment of Greek salad (which was kind of him, I know he picked that for me, not that I would have picked that to go with tenderloin, but...), and stuffed baked potatoes (butter, sour cream, green onion, bacon, shrimp) and garlic cheese shrimp cocktail to start. Oy.

We were very lucky to get a good deal on the lobster tails, actually...the Gourmet Garden Basket happened to have a nice price. Of course, we still had to go to 4 different stores to accumulate the rest of the ingredients. Most shockingly, I let Jason pick the wine. I told him to find a "nice" Chardonnay, but I know Jason's wine selection criteria: coolest/funniest label. Inappropriate name a bonus. Actually, he picked some decent stuff to my taste (which isn't that discerning anyway), and in the end it didn't matter much because after 11 solid hours of cooking and cleaning prep work, I was feeling no pain after the first 3 sips.

Poor Jason. He only worked 9 of those 11 hours, but I made him stay at work the extra 2 because I just wasn't ready yet. When I finally let him in the door, the stage was set: candles flickered, the carpets were sprinkled with a trail of red hearts, the music was actually soft for once...and the moment he looked into my eyes, I crumpled to the floor, convulsed in laughter.

We're just not the cornball romantic types. He took one look at my "romantic" efforts and said "Oh Jamie, you're so witty" and I love that he so totally gets me.

Then I let him help me with the finishing touches of the meal, and then we sat down to a romantic meal that could have fed a romantic army, and I watched Jason find room for more food than you would have thought anatomically possible. I could have cried over how well everything turned out.

I am, however, a little miffed about this photo. I let Jason take a picture of the cake because I was too full to even look at it, and the picture sucks! You can't even tell that it's heart-shaped, and there's berry juice on it! I'll never be able to use this in my portfolio now, the bastard. Ah well. Jason assures me that it tasted delicious, and he was so surprised at the pinkness of the cake inside that he lost his balance and almost fell over (remember: roaring drunk by this point).

We capped the night off with some naked slow dancing, which is all you really need to make any occasion special, in my opinion, and then we went to bed to reminisce about the first Valentine's, and the many more to come.

And if you were thinking that all this sounds a little too easy to be an adventure in the life of Jay, well, you're right. Good eye. There was one small little incident where I almost burned the house down, but see how easily I glossed over it in the retelling?

Meet my shelf. It's just an ordinary shelf...it shelves things and whatnot. It holds pictures and candles and other crap that I have no real use for.

And it catches fire a little too easily, if you ask me. I mean, it was a small flame, and it was at least an inch or two away from the surface! Goddamn candles. They should come with a warning!

My Pineapple Princess

Guest post by Jay's husband, Jason.


Happy Valentine's Day to everyone, but especially to that one special girl named Jamie. I don't often get the chance to write a post for Kill the Goat, this is often due to the fact I don't have interesting topics to write about. But today, boy oh boy, Jamie is a topic worth writing about, and frankly, reading about too!

It's been 6 years to the day that I put that inappropriate gift in her cute little hands. For those who haven't heard the tale, I was far too shy to tell Jamie that I wanted to be more than just friends so instead I went to the jewelry store and bought a shiny something wrapped in a velvet box. I'm the King of Subtle.

And on to the Wonderfulness....

Jamie is the perfect woman. That seems like a bold statement, but consider the evidence and I'm sure you will agree. Sexy, funny, intelligent AND she's all mine. Those 3 adjectives occur to me on a daily basis because she is always being all three, at the same time, and that takes talent.

Here is a list of the many things I love about my wife (in no particular order).....

Jamie does not wear a watch. She usually doesn't even like me wearing one either. Jamie knows the world will wait for her so there's no need to rush.

I'll admit that I should buy flowers more often, but no matter how often they are in the house, Jamie makes me feel like they're the best ones she's ever seen.

Jamie loves one thing more than great music, and that is sorting it and giving the Playlist a really great name (currently on tap: "Fuck Yeah!", "Summery Goodness", "Taco Fest", "Songs I Wouldn't Kick Out of Bed").

Jamie doesn't like to be bound by the usual constraints when working with the English language. If there's a word she's imagining that is exactly what she needs, she'll invent it, right then and there. Examples include: Bubby, disengable, suspish, and the ever popular No-Nee (which she defines as no raised the power of pi).

Jamie tests my limits and I love that about her. Sometimes it's seeing how many times in a row I can lose at Trivial Pursuit, sometimes it's writing on the computer screen with pencil to see how long it will take before I wipe it down.

Note: About the pencil on the monitor, it's been over 3 weeks now and I've still not cleaned it. I think I can make out the word "John" or "Johann". Who knows?

Lists everywhere. Jamie loves lists. I love this about Jamie because she takes so much satisfaction out of making one, but never follows one. Jamie doesn't like being bound by rules.

We got Jamie the model of MP3 player that has the rubber around the edges and is waterproof. Why? Because oopses happen. Often.

Jamie sings like an angel. But sadly for you, she only sings to me.

Jamie's self-proclaimed "most productive hours" are between 3 and 5am. She sees those hours more than you might think. Jamie once stayed awake for 92 consecutive hours, by the end she thought she was Grover.

Jamie has a very particular way of sleeping. The blanket needs to lie accordingly: cold shoulders, at least one cold toe, and warm everything else.

Jamie has an obsession with Diet Pepsi. The only 2 things about Diet Pepsi that have ever upset Jamie are the following.
1. Running out of Diet Pepsi.
2. The new Pepsi campaign slogan of "brown and bubbly."

Jamie will be prime minister one day, mark my words. She will save the world. Her name will be known. I will be a kept man. There aren't too many people you can say that about, but with Jamie, if you've ever met her, you just know it's true. She has so much fire in her that you can't help but feel the world was made to fit into the palm of her pretty little hand. And she's so fucking cocky about it too. She knows it. I have never met another human being who is so self-possessed and confident in herself. She makes you believe. She has so much enormous talent that it really seems unfair almost. She's musical, and she doesn't even know it, but there isn't a day that goes by that she's not singing in the car, and shaking her bum in the aisles of the grocery store. She writes lyrics so brilliantly it breaks my heart that she considers it only a hobby. She has an incredible sense of aesthetics that almost everyone comments on eventually - the way she pairs artwork in our home, or puts together some of her famous outfits. She paints and has an amazing knack for colour. She scrapbooks for everyone, and gets others hooked on it as well. She designs and decorates her own cakes so well that people actually pay for her creations. She builds menus and meals that put the best restaurants to shame because Jamie makes her food with so much passion and love inside that you can taste it, and it's wonderful. And all of these things are just pastimes of hers, just things she does on a lark!

If I'd never laid eyes on Jamie, I'm sure I would have fallen in love with her just based on her true calling, her writing. Some of you may read her blog semi-regularly, which means you have no idea what she's actually capable of. This blog is just a journal where she burns some energy. It's her recycle bin of writing. None of her best scraps even come close to here. The real stuff is amazing. She can rip your heart out in 3 sentences or less. It's so natural to her that it's crazy. She is so unafraid to put herself out there and write about subjects that I know must be hard for her. Her writing is her real art, and I am in awe of it. She lets me read it, which shames me. I wish I was half as smart as she is. I wish I could appreciate it the way it deserves to be. I wish I could read and know the right words to tell her how amazing she is.

But I can't. Jamie married beneath her. She deserves to be with 8 times the man that I am, but she's not, probably because such a man as would befit her does not exist. No one is smart enough. Jamie is brilliant. Yeah, her IQ is officially off the charts, but the point is not how much she knows, and constantly learns, the point is how she makes you think about the world. She constantly plays devil's advocate just to make me think. She has really strong convictions. She has opinions about everything. She doesn't believe in beliefs. Beliefs are too constraining, she says. Better to have strong ideas and a thirst for knowledge. And take it from me, she does.

I was there while she was in school. I saw her type out 10 000-word papers like they were nothing, and not even bother to pick them up from the prof because it was universally understood that they were all A papers. I sat in the audience when she graduated and set the record for most awards received by a single student. I traced her engraved name on every single edition of the Dean's List. I saw the cheques for "scholarships" that were worth more than I made in an entire year. This stuff just comes to her.

Everything comes to her. If I leave her in a room for 2 minutes, she'll have made 8 more friends for life. She's outgoing. She's the life of the party, but she'll make you think that you're the only one she's noticed. She has the most disarming smile and sparkly eyes to match. People are drawn to her. When we go out to eat, everyone is looking at us because of her laugh. She doesn't have a tinkling laugh like most women. If you are lucky enough to amuse her, she lets out this incredible belly laugh and it feels like the greatest reward of your life. She really laughs like she means it.

She lives everything like she means it. She's the only person I know who enjoys a good cry as much as a good laugh. And I really do mean enjoys. She lives her life at full tilt, she's always searching for the big emotions. And yeah, that means our fights are red-hot. She has a fury in her that is frightening and sexy at the same time which is probably why I've never been able to be mad at her.

Jamie IS entertainment. She's the funniest person I know. Like, really, honestly funny even though she's never told a joke in her life. She hates jokes and believes that people should be able to come up with their own "original material", as if we're all capable of her heights. On Sunday my jaw was literally sore from laughing so hard. She has so many voices in her head, she can make up a song on command, and her wit is without comparison. If you were hard of for cash, you could literally sit her on a bench in a mall and be entertained by her all day long. She could disparage every single person who walked by. She has cynicism and sarcasm that bite back, which is one of the things I will never understand about Jamie because though it's literally one of her hallmarks, it's not even really her.

Truly, she is a kind person with an enormous heart. She's helped me through some of the toughest days of my life and I will always be indebted to her forever for that. She's also done more charity work than the average 100 people will do in their whole lives. She always finds time for others. She really believes that she can change the world, and I've seen it. She's right. She can. She has so much joie de vivre that she infects everyone around her with it. I am constantly amazed at how much pleasure she takes from the small things in life. She refers to mushrooms as "gifts from God." Every single day is another opportunity. She finds adventures where normal people only find boredom. On my last day off, she declared it "Mexican Day". I asked why, and she looked at me funny and said "We need a reason?"

And that's the greatest part of Jamie - she doesn't need a reason. She just has fun. She embraces the parts of herself that most of us try to block out, the good and the bad. The best date nights that I can ever plan involve the grocery store. Sometimes I come home from work and find her 19 sheets to the wind, standing naked on a chair, music blasting, and her dusting the cobwebs in the corner, and I truly believe that she's never had any more fun that she is having in that instant. She makes me want to dust right along with her. I call her The Cuteness because really, you've never met anyone as cute as Jay. She'll be a smouldering seductress one minute, and then have a child-like innocence that I find irresistable the next. She's so adorable that you want to pet her, and yet, she is the strongest person in the world. Maybe it's being both the cutest and the strongest that make her the very best. Incomparable.

She has us be tourists in our own hometown. She "discovers" things that most people take for granted. We tour museums and she combs them for crumbs of knowledge. Most of the time she tells me more about the exhibits than the museums themselves. She's read so much and seen so much and lived so much that sometimes I can't believe that so much information fits inside her small head. Ancient Egypt excites her. She knows how to write hieroglyphs (I couldn't even spell that!). Different cultures are what she lives for - among her tattoos, she has some from China, and Greece. They really mean something to her.

She is in love with the world around her. Since I have known Jamie, she has always walked several kilometres a day. She loves what her body can do. She loves walking, and skipping, and dancing on speakers, and climbing up mountains. She doesn't wait for good weather. She doesn't wait for anything. The rest of us just try to keep up. The only time she ever slowed down was when she was sick. It turned out to be more severe than we'd anticipated. I was afraid I might lose her. When I was sick with worry, Jamie would come out of her drug-induced haze to roll her eyes at me. She could barely move. There was a crater in her back the size of 2 golfballs, and yet I found her in her room fluffing pillows, sticking them under her, and grimacing with the pain. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I'm trying to have sex with you!" she yelled at me, and yup, she really was. There is no surgery in the world (she's had 4 now) that will stop her, even when I think it's physically impossible, she proves me wrong. I can't tell her no. She will rip stitches to get her way, and has. Nowadays, in the shower, I touch the scar tissue on her back. She can't feel it, her nerves have not regenerated, but it reminds me that incredibly, this girl is not as invulnerable as she believes.

I wish I could write a post that would do her justice, but I guess it's not possible. I look over what I have already written, and I know that it doesn't convey one ounce of what it's really like to live with her, to love her. Because the best part is how she makes me feel. I was just a regular Joe before I met her. But having literally the most incredibly woman in the universe choose me as a mate, well...it's beyond words. My life will never be boring. She knows me better than I know myself. She knows what I need before I do. I love that we will always be together. I can't imagine a world that doesn't have Jamie in it, I would be lost and heartbroken and hungry. She is the best, and if you read this list you have a small idea why.

Happy Valentine's Day to you Jamie. I look forward to coming home tonight and cooking together. Remember: I like my ovens hot and my chefs nude. ;)

Sweet Nothings

Emails during a workday:


(from Jason, to Jay)


Email me, you fucker.

Love,
J
xo


*********

(Jamie's reply to Jason)

Jesus.
The use of foul language young man is entirely unacceptable.
You should be scolded.
Which reminds me:
-you did not clean the grill
-you did not bring out recycle

So, in fact, you will be scolded.
A major spanking will be inflicted, and whatever other punishments I see fit.
Oh, and no potato salad for you!

J


****************

(Jason writes back)

Dear Jason's Wife,

Clean the grill?!? That's woman's work.

And the recycle, sorry.


I'll take the spanking, but please let me have some of your delicious potatoe salad!


Love,

J

P.S. Yeah, I didn't mean that grill thing. ;)


*********

Dear Jamie's Bitch,

Yeah, you'd better watch your back.
I am not known for my tenderness.
By the way, I did indeed get hatemail from yesterday's post.
Some guy told me my use of foul language was vulgar and unlady-like,
and that I should be struck down by God for saying such things about
the pope.
So there.

J

***********

(to which Jason says)

*pitht*

Oh well, there'll always be people like that. And we don't like 'em.

Bells will ring, the sun will shine, I'll be hers, and she'll be mine

We had a great time on the rest of our honeymoon. Except for almost not getting our wedding documents back. And the plane trouble on the way home (do we have the worst luck or what?). It still miffs me to think that we missed out on a whole day of our wedding-moon, and how were we recompensed? Complimentary earphones! We do not recommend Air Transat, but at any rate, we couldn’t dwell on any of that, because after our delightfully laid-back wedding, we arrived back in Canada to have a big party with friends and family. We sent out about 300 invitations, and about 180 actually came. A whole family was divided, but I won’t get into family politics. Suffice it to say that I was broken-hearted at the time, but I’ve moved on.

It was a wedding reception, but a pretty relaxed one. I didn’t want to suffer through a sit-down dinner, or hours of speeches, or any of those normal trappings. We had buffet, and lots of dancing.

The manicure this time around held up much better. My mother and I were fussed over and pampered while Jason did the errands. There are no caterers in our small town, and unless you have your reception at a hotel (which were too small a venue for us), you have to do it yourself. So Jason had to go to one place to pick up 15 dozen dinner roles, and another place for the pastas, and another place for the deli...my mother’s van smelled like meat for a week! Bringing home the leftovers after the reception also proved to be a nightmare; my mother had to borrow the freezers of 50 neighbours just to store it all!

The morning of the reception we went to decorate the hall. We did a super-cheesy theme that kind of reincarnated the Dominican for us, with fish floating everywhere, and seashells, and palm trees and the like. The DJ was there setting up, and he played us some really great tunes that got us all pumped up. The lady set up our cake, the florist delivered our flowers on time, the 'balloonist' came, and warned us all about the wire she was using to string together the balloon arch. How many of us tripped over it anyway, you ask? Oh, about 8 I think, but only one of us got a bloody lip from it, and who that was, I’ll never tell. I was so, so nervous this time around. It was a quiet wedding, but a great big reception, and somehow, it rattled me. My youngest sister did a good job keeping me calm.

My sisters and I went to get our hair and makeup done together. I sat in the chair for over three hours; apparently I had a very anal-retentive stylist, but it got done. All the while, my cell phone rang off the hook (well, not that it has a hook, but you get the idea). Now here’s a lesson in etiquette: when you want to cancel out on a wedding, do not call the bride herself just hours before the shindig begins! As if I wanted to be dealing with that! Grrr. I almost could not believe that people would be so rude. Almost.

The poor photographer had to chase us around to get any pictures, and I found that I couldn’t find my white wedding thong and had to substitute with a pair of lime green panties – eep! Jason did such a rush job shaving that you can see a slight razor burn on him in every photo. Also, I had a slight crisis when I was in the washroom, trying to get all my dress over my hips but not into the toilet bowl, and somehow hover in the right direction and tinkle without getting any on my dress, or my leg, or my shoe, when suddenly I realized the window was open, and Jason’s grandparents were sitting out there, having a drink, and probably hearing my attempt to pee.

We took some great photos outdoors, but it was a hotter day in Canada for the reception than it was in the Dominican. Plus, in the Dominican we put our toes in the ocean to cool off, and during our horse-drawn carriage ride, I hoisted my dress up, and though I probably gave quite a show to all the native Dominicans we passed, it sure felt good on my skin.

We made it to the hall on time, which is completely baffling. Unfortunately, we were the only ones to do so. The rest of the guests trickled in slowly, very slowly. It was agony for me because I just wanted to get things started. I was tired of smiling and shaking hands. My feet were already killing me, and I hadn’t even had the first dance yet (I danced barefoot, as it turns out; in the Dominican I'd eventually traded in my heels for my Sketchers). I wanted to cry, but before I melted completely, someone saw my distress and we started things whether people were there or not. Another lesson in etiquette: it's the most important day of her life, I'm pretty sure the bride would appreciate it if you could show up on time. My sister had an asthma attack after a brutal two-step, and missed me throwing the bouquet (a girl who was there to serve the food ended up catching it, much to my dismay). Once, when I was getting all 'footloose', I realized that I had a nice breeze on my back, and then to my horror, realized that my zipper had worked its way down! I made a mad dash to the bathroom where I was reassembled and back out dancing in no time.

We luckily got a lot of great candid shots of the reception because as luck would have it, the brand new camcorder Jason had given me as a wedding gift crapped out halfway through our beach poses in the Dominican. Turns out, sand and motors don't mix. So, we were out of a video, but we don't like to dwell on the bad stuff, right?

The entire reception, I had one eye on the door, and I suspect Jason did too. There was a very good chance that we would have wedding-crashers, and I was nervous. We made sure not to even publicize the exact date or location in the papers, but we knew that certain information was available, and we didn't want any irate family members showing up and making a scene. There were no crashers, thankfully, but plenty of uninvited guests. Said guests invariably came dressed like they were going to the gym, ruined my seating plans, and one woman made such a scene she had to be escorted out. Funny how I'd almost blocked that one from memory completely!

When dinner was announced, my grandfather took off running at a speed none of us knew he was capable of. He was upset when the lady told him that the bride and groom were to go first, but I gave him my space because, hello –white dress! I stayed on the dance floor with my Mom and didn’t miss a single second of the fun. We stayed later than our contract stated, no one wanted things to end. But even when it was over, it still wasn’t over. I hadn’t sung yet. Many of our friends stayed the night with us, camped out in my Mom’s backyard. I changed out of my dress and into some pjs, and went out back to find Jason building a raging fire in his tux. We taught our city friends the art of making smores, We talked and got drunk, and didn’t go to bed until after the sun came up. The next day, we opened hundreds of presents on 30 minutes of sleep, but the whole thing was fabulous. There were a lot of ups and downs, but in the end, it was worth it, and I wouldn’t have changed anything. Except maybe the herpes.

Today's the day we'll say "I do" and we'll never be lonely any more

Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is a veritable up-close and personal WEDDING DAY GONE WRONG post. I don’t know if it qualifies as a wedding disaster, because we did get hitched in the end, but it’s close.

Background: Jason and I got married in one of those get-the-hell-away-from-our-crazy-family weddings out of the country and brought only a select few with us. We later had a big wedding reception back here in Canada. In the photos, you can tell we’re in the Dominican if my hair is somewhat disheveled and my flowers are white. In Canada, the flowers are red and my hair is held firmly in place due to a mah-velous invention called CEMENT hairspray.


We had the usual gripes that most couples go through: demanding family, a reply rate of only about 10% on our RSVPs, stressful dress fittings, nutty travel agents, blah, blah, blah. The real fun started when I came down with herpes.


Yeah, you heard me right. Herpes. Okay, so it wasn’t the 'blisters in a bad place' kind of herpes. It was a much more special kind called herpes zoster, otherwise knows as shingles in your eye. IN YOUR EYE! In my eye, which is even worse, and all this just a week before the wedding. Basically, half of my face was swollen and sore, my eye was a frightening thing to behold, red, and puffy, and the surrounding tissues were 80 times their normal size. It hurt like hell and looked even worse.


Flash forward one week. We’re in the airport, I’m trudging around with an 80 pound dress and wearing the wedding eye patch that my mother made me. It was your standard pirate patch, only my mother got out her glue gun and added lace trim, false eyelashes and a great big googly eye. I wore it to show what a good sport I was, but do you think it made me feel better? More bridal? Less like a wedding freak? Nope. Plus, the fact that this was just months after 9/11 didn’t help because they confiscated my weapon-like eyebrow tweezers and I now my big bushy eyebrows would match my herpes. Anyway, I was in the bathroom having another nose bleed (that’s standard for me) when I heard the announcement: plane delayed. Again. No one likes to get delayed. But when you’re carrying a dress that cost more than your car, and you’re on your way to your own wedding, and your honeymoon, and this is your first trip to pretty much anywhere, it’s a big deal. Boo-frickin-hoo, right?

So our 6pm flight turns into a 2am one, but we get on the damn plane, take off, and I’m impressing seasoned-flyer Jason with how calm I am on my first flight. Sure, I’m tired and hungry and upset that I’ve already missed out on several hours of an open bar at my own week-long wedding, but at least now we’re on our way. Or at least that’s what I thought, until the pilot says “We’re having engine trouble, so we’re dumping fuel over New York City, and heading back. ENGINE TROUBLE! I do my best to keep Jason calm as we head back toward the airport, but the passed out flight attendant behind us is not helping. We do land safely, back where we started, and still with no food in our distraught tummies. The airport’s cafeteria does not have enough food for all of us, so we have muffins and Doritos, I think some people got nothing. Jason stakes out a piece of carpet for us to lie down on while I blubber in the bathroom, the tears stinging my herpes. Finally they herd us to the airport hotel, and you know how those are. We’re not impressed. We’re supposed to be enjoying our 5-star resort in the Dominican right now. We sleep a couple hours, are fed those same damn muffins for breakfast the next morning and are encouraged to board a new plane, one that doesn’t have engine trouble. Supposedly.

A day late to our wedding-moon, we land in the Dominican, and are met by a crazy woman named Lou. While an even crazier driver careens us toward our resort hotel, Lou, in her thickly accented voice, gives us the usual spiel: livestock on the buses, don’t drink the water, look out for "natural" laxatives, etc. At the resort, we scarf down our first vodka punches and our first real meal in 48 hours. Exhaustion and drunkenness seep down on us quickly, but this is our wedding-moon, dammit, and we’re committed to having a 'fun' time.

The next day we meet our wedding coordinator, Sendy. She looks over the legal documents we brought with us, her country’s requirements to marry us that incident cost us over $500 and even more in effort. She tells us they’re not valid and we cannot get married in the Dominican Republic. Suddenly, I wished I was dumping fuel over NYC again. We are sent back to our pretty room to drown our sorrows in banana mamas. And that’s a total crock: depression requires jd, not a fruity drink with a girly name and a tropical umbrella spouting out the top. Meanwhile, I discover that sunscreen and manicures don’t mix: my nails are now full of the red fuzz from my towel, and that paired with my jungle-like eyebrows and herpes in the eye are not making me feel very bridal anyway.


The resort was beautiful, the buildings were completely open with plants growing right in the middle of pretty much everywhere. We were right on a white-sand beach with the ocean lapping at us all languidly and sparkly. There were bars in the pools, for goodness sake! And still, I moped. I traveled all this way for nothing. My dress would hang, unused. I would never get a tan line from my brand new wedding band. It just felt wrong, and I guess it showed on my face, because the staff would continually tell me "The problem is, you have no drink", which was rarely even true. But it’s not enough to have a drink, and a back up drink. You should always have three or four or thirteen lined up when you’re on vacation. I really liked that policy, and if nothing else, I was determined to at least get my money’s worth in liquor. Late in the afternoon, the sun and the drinks were getting to me. I also realized that it should have been just 24 hours before my wedding, I should be enjoying some sort of bachelorette-type cavorting, but instead, I headed shakily back to our room. And there it was, on the bed, a memo from Sendy: the wedding was back on. Woo hoo!

The day of my wedding, I woke up, went down to the pool, and put back a few vodka punches. I bought some $32 nail polish remover and fixed my manicure. I borrowed tweezers off of someone. And magically, just magically, the herpes had completely cleared up (I will never know how, nor do I care to question it…it did come back the next day, probably aggravated by the salt water, but at the point, I didn’t care one blessed ounce). Things were looking up for me, which means that Jason…well, Jason spent the morning on the bathroom floor, making friends with the porcelain throne. If I had stopped to think about it, I might have been insulted that he was nervous about marrying me, but he was mumbling things about 'too much buffet', and I just forged on ahead.


Jason and I got ready separately. In true bride fashion, my hair took longer than expected, and poor Jason paced alone. Finally, it was time to go. The photographer came to retrieve me. As I made my way from my room to the gazebo where we’d be married, the entire resort blasted the wedding march through its speakers. All the naked beach-goers came to clap and shout their congratulations. I made my way through a sea of naked boobies and tried to be nice to my feet (note: you know how things expand in the heat? Feet are no exception!), and at the end of the path: Jason. I remember how the wind blew my veil over to one side, and how handsome Jason looked in his tuxedo, and how I all of a sudden realized that the guitar trio were singing my name "Ohhhh Jamie Lee", over and over. I giggled at them, at the marvel of the situation, and from relief of having made it.

We got married at 3:50pm on a Tuesday afternoon. The ceremony was funny. I swore I was taking Jason as my ‘host’, but was later assured that the lady was indeed saying hose-band as best she could. Sendy and one of the guitar players became our new Dominican godparents. We sliced into a jam-filled cake. We drank strange Dominican champagne. They threw rice at us. Oh yeah, the rice. Let’s just say that what goes up must come down…down you’re the front of your dress. Each grain making its way down into your bustier, into every crevice imaginable. Then, bake at about 88 degrees for the rest of the day. Right. Under the dress, the crinoline, and the bustier, it was hot. Sweaty, even. I cooked the rice. When I took my bustier off that night, cooked rice fell out all over the floor. All over the bed. We found it under my boobs, in my hair, and some unmentionable places too. The maid came in every day of our honeymoon, but never quite got rid of all that rice.



Still to follow: the follies of our Canadian reception.

Love Turned 5 Today

It was 5 years ago today that my life took a sudden turn, and I went barreling down a path that led to this moment, right now. Valentine’s day 2000 was spent like a lot of other days: I got up, went to school, probably slept through algebra and geometry, got gumballs from Liz on break, played euchre with Mel and Steve and Jamie on spare, munched on a bruised green apple for lunch, and passed notes during writer’s craft. I probably gave out 30 valentines (I think Toy Story was that year’s theme), and treat bags filled with goodies. At home, I probably locked myself in my room, turned up the Smashing Pumpkins real loud to drown out the Spice Girls, and ignored the homework that I’d probably left in my locker anyway. It was a Wednesday, and it was snowing awfully hard by the time I was home from school. It was starting to look like the next day would be gold: a snow day. It meant being trapped indoors because the roads around our country home were unnavigable, but that was okay by me, because my best friend lived in the same neighbourhood, and no snow ever kept us apart. Hump days were good to me back in high school, for the first part of it, it meant Party of Five night, a time to get together with friends, and have a good cry. When Party of Five was cancelled, Wednesday nights became Dawson’s Creek night.

By the white-out conditions outside, I assumed that I would be watching Dawson’s Creek alone this particular Wednesday night, and that was if I was lucky enough to have the power hold out that long. But after dinner came a familiar phone call from a good guy friend of mine, with a plea: Wednesday night just wouldn’t be the same without me, he’d saved a seat on his couch just for me, yadda, yadda, yadda.

So, silly girl that I was, I got in my Mom’s van, and slowly made my way across town just to watch Dawson’s Creek. I didn’t really think about why this friend of mine was so insistent that I risk my neck to get to his house, I just turned on the radio and tried not to get stuck in any ditches. The episode that night, Valentine’s Day Massacre, was probably very satisfying to me since it’s when Pacey first admits he likes Joey (yay!), and I’d like to say that I remember everything about it, and everything about that night, but I don’t. As far as I knew, it was a night just like any other. I brought him a Valentine, and a bag of candy.

What I didn’t know was that on this day, February 14, 2000, my friend Jason had mustered up the courage to make a confession a la Pacey. But he didn’t do it in words. He didn’t tell me he liked me, or that he wanted to go out with me, or any of those logical choices. Instead, just as I was about to head home, he put a box in my hands. A velvet box. The kind with jewelry inside.

This flustered me, and probably for the one and only time in my life, I was without words. I think I tried to refuse it. I felt it was an inappropriate gift between friends, and he wasn’t making any ‘more than friends’ statements. He insisted that it was for me, that he’d picked it out himself and wanted me to have it. So, I kissed him on the cheek, and left. The drive home was probably more shaky than just the snow would allow for. The wheels were set in motion.

The next day, he copped to wanting to be more than friends. We had our first kiss and our first sexual encounter, and probably our first fight, and all before the next week’s Dawson’s Creek had aired. We still haven’t had an official date, but I think we’re doing okay. Now it’s been 5 years and I can’t believe how much has changed, and how much has not. No more Dawson’s Creek, although Wednesday nights are Gilmore Girls nights now: Kirsten&Charlie-Pacey&Joey-Luke&Lorelai, and all the while, Jay&Jay. In these past 5 years, we’ve had 16 jobs between us, 3 homes shared together, 1 University degree, a foreign wedding and a familiar reception, dozens of good friends, only 2 small fires, 37 hair colours, 3 surgeries, more good times than bad, and a lot of luck.


Happy anniversary, Jason, and here’s hoping we survive another 5 years of this crazy, kamikaze-style love that we’ve got going. xo

I've Got Friends In Low Places

So there's this minty chickita who buzzes around this blog on occasion, named Becky. And a few days ago, she made this astute comment: "Really? You make friends easily? I would *never* have guessed that about you, Jay. ;)" And yes, that attitude is exactly why I love her. But anyway, I am a lover of people. I count myself lucky to have a great stable of friends. They make life interesting.

I am a friendly person by nature. Definitely a talker. Approachable, apparently, because I'm always having funny encounters with complete strangers. But I am definitely NOT of the Kathie Lee/Kelly Ripa perky persuasion. Ew. I have a scathing sense of humour. I can be a smidge sarcastic. I'm opinionated. I'm boisterous (which I think is a kind word for obnoxious). I say what's on my mind, and I don't agree with people just to be polite. I'm stubborn and I stick to my guns. I'm very tolerant of other people's opinions, but I'm very sure of myself and I don't back down. So the effect I have on people is that they either love me, or they hate me.

And do you know who tends to hate me the most?

Jason's friends.

It's gotten to be funny, in a way. They just don't like me. They think I'm a bossy bitch (well, to be fair, I am). They think I'm snarky and critical, and once that conclusion is reached, I'm a goner. They never see through to my soft, chewy centre (okay, well, we all know I have no inner softness...but I must have some redeeming qualities...like, um, punctuality, and um, good hygiene...right?). The only time I made a somewhat favourable impression, I was hopped up on demorol and percocet, and I just sat on the sofa, smiling like an idiot.

Now, I suppose to outsiders, Jason and I do have a strange relationship. I am not the mushy, loving type. I don't smile and nod in deferential agreement to every third syllable to fall out of his mouth. I give him a lot of sass. I talk back all the time. I disagree just to disagree. I yell at him all the time (though, ironically, not when I'm mad...I just think it's funny to yell stuff like "PASS THE CHEESE!" and "HAVE YOU SEEN MY SHOE?"). And Jason thinks it's pretty funny too. He knows that between us, 'you big nard' is more of a term of endearment than 'sweetie pie'. When I get quiet, Jason gets worried.

And it's not like Jason plays it straight either.

Jamie: I think I'm ready for bed
Jason: Well fuck you right in the ear.

We crack each other up. We think we're funny. And for the most part, we exist in our own little bubble...and when our friends come over, they think we're very entertaining. Karen used to always say that she could listen to our banter for hours and hours. So we don't censor ourselves. I'm not really worried about what others think; as long as we're happy, it's all good.

But every once in a while, Jason will invite a work buddy over, and within an hour, this guy thinks Jason is a battered husband or something.

Anyway, a few years ago, we were having a little get-together, and two guys show up that I haven't met before. Due to my delicious Irish brownies and an abundance of jello shots, I have no recollection of what I could have possibly done to make such a piss-poor impression, but before long, Chris had Jason out in the hallway, and he said "Look, dude, you CANNOT marry that woman! What can you possibly even see in her?"

And Jason, without missing a beat, said "Well, mostly, it's the blow jobs."

And that, my friends, is why we'll be married for 50 years.

Thank you and good night.

The Heart-Warming Tale of how Jamie and Jason Got Together, Part II : The Ever After

This is a follow up to Part I: The Hook Up

Jason and I are the couple that never should have been. After that fateful day back in February of 2000, he drove me home, offered to take me out that night in fact, but I already had plans. And I had plans the next night too. I went to a concert in Ottawa, to see my favourite band, and I had the most exciting thing happen to me: the lead singer came down off the stage, held my hand and let me sing with him. So when I got home that night, I was bubbling over with the news. I even called Jason, though it was 2 am, and I’m sure he was expecting to have ‘a talk’, but my concert experience eclipsed whatever had happened between us, so poor Jason was lef in the dusty aftermath.

During the next few weeks, I managed to fit Jason into my schedule here and there. Our time together usually consisted of watching the first 10 minutes of a movie, having sex, and then I would go home. Not typical girl behaviour, I know, but if it bothered Jason to have this kind of arrangement, he never said a thing. Actually, that’s pretty much the long and short of it: 5 years later, he still hasn’t even asked me out on a date! He’s a quiet guy. After about 3 weeks of this, we should have broken up. And we probably would have…I would have stopped returning his phone calls, been unavailable: that was my M.O. I didn’t want anything long-term; I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was in high school for goodness sake! But then something happened that would change the course of things: I got mono.

Ah, the kissing disease. And yes, I totally got it the fun way. I was a party girl, I went out every weekend and a lot of week nights. I had a good time and made a lot of friends (wink, wink). When I got mono, I thought ‘Hey, great, now I won’t even have to bother with letting him down gently…I’ll be out of the picture for 6 weeks and we’ll forget all about it.’ But that didn’t happen. Instead, Jason visited me, pretty much every day. We would make grilled cheese for lunch and watch Wedding Story on TLC. I don’t remember very much of this time together, I was delusional and on very heavy medication, but I still looked good enough for Jason to fall in love. I know I know: puke! I just hate this mushy stuff, but bear with me.

When I came out of the whole mono thing, Jason was still hanging around. He asked me to stop seeing my other ‘friends’, and I did. We had a lot of laughs and we went on adventures and had good times. He was a good friend, but I was still resisting the word boyfriend, even though by this stage in the game, Jason was already professing his love for me.

Sidebar: the first time he said I love you, we were on the phone, and it
went like this.
Jason: I love you, Jamie.
Jamie: Goodnight! (slams down the phone)

And it continued on like that for a loooong time. Why the hell did he stick around?

My friends started teasing me that I had a boyfriend. I never had boyfriends. I hated the whole boyfriend thing. Yuck. I preferred to keep it simple, have fun with a guy for a couple of weeks, and part before any attachments are made or anything has time to go wrong. It was a nice system, but somehow I couldn’t do it with Jason. It was different right from the start.

And then it was time for prom. I did not ask Jason to be my date. I wanted to go alone, because alone is fun. Alone means potential! But then Jason broke down and invited himself (Remember, he wasn’t a student at this time, and really had no business inviting himself, but he was desperate…when Jamie’s alone, she comes home with mono. Or worse.). So, we went. As the Queen, I had to dance the first dance with someone else, but after that, it was all Jason. Lucky guy.

The next big event in my life was choosing a school for my post-secondary. By this time I was fed up with living at home and looking to get far, far away. I was looking at schools between 3 and 7 hours away from my hometown. Jason moped through all of my campus visits. He knew that by being so far apart, I was likely to get up to my old tricks again. He had no faith in me, isn’t that awful? I’m suuuure I would have behaved. Really I would have. But in the end, I decided on the closest school, good old Ottawa U, a mere 100km away (about an hour’s drive), and I did it for Jason. It could have turned out to be a horrible decision, (my mother was very vocal in telling me this) but I think it turned out all right. The first month I was away, Jason visited pretty much every day, which is a crazy amount of driving, but he did it. And after exhausting himself that first month, he got smart and found himself a new job, moved up to Ottawa, and rented us an apartment. We went from drug-induced sex to living together in 6 months flat.

A few months later we were engaged ( I was 19, he was 20) and by the next year, in June of 2002, we were married. Our parents at first were shocked and outraged. Our friends thought we were crazy. But everyone agreed, we make a great couple. My former roommates from University would spend their Friday nights at our place, because just being around us is entertainment. We are charming, and funny together. We tell the best stories, although this one rarely gets told…when Jason’s Grandma asked how it was that we first got together, he blushed and I said we were high school sweethearts. That’s not exactly a lie, and everyone knows we did go to the same high school…it just puts a more positive and socially-acceptable gloss on the actual truth.

We got married down in the Dominican Republic. That in itself is a whole nother story, one I’m sure you don’t want to hear. Every 4th couple seems to have a wedding-disaster story, and ours is no better and no worse. But it got the job done, and in the end, after some clever mental editing, I remember mostly only the good parts.

Back in Canada, we had a big reception for friends and family. It was a great party, but then, all our parties are great. We danced the night away, spent great time with friends from all over (Jamie came from Alberta, Melissa from Quebec, my uncle from B.C.). I danced with my mother. People ate meatballs (I stayed away from these people in my white dress…hehe, white dress, that’s a good one). My sister Jan took some amazing pictures. And there you have it, we were official (even though our marriage certificate is in a language we don’t speak).

None of our friends have caught up yet, none are even engaged. Neither are any of our parents, for that matter. We’re still the only married couple around, a constant source of amusement to many. And as far as happily ever after, only time will tell, but so far, all signs point to yes.

The Heart-Warming Tale of How Jamie and Jason Got Together, Part I: The Hook Up

I have actually known Jason since my first year of high school, when he was just some guy who walked in the same halls as I did. Eventually, the circles we moved in drew closer and closer over 2 or 3 years, until we existed in roughly the same circle, though I assure you it was a pretty big circle. We were friends, we went out for coffee, we went to movies. We had Party of Five nights, during which he would help me with my trig homework. We had roles in the same murder mysteries at school. He was dating a girl that I had known (and hated) since I was 4, who I’ll call Danielle. Actually, most of his friends hated her, and told him that repeatedly, but he was smitten.

Nothing happened between us then. The first time I met Jason’s mom, she told him that he’d better never break up with Danielle because she liked her sooo much. I think that she still feels the same way, but oh well. Jason and I were ‘close’, but not that kind of close, thank you very much. I never even thought of him that way, mostly because he had a really bad haircut back then and I had very high standards. There was one incident involving his bed and some touching, but I was a touchy-feely kind of girl and didn’t think much of it.

Jason eventually moved to Toronto, 500km away, to be with Danielle. He would visit us on the weekends, but it was during this time that he and I had a blow-out fight and I decided to never talk to him again. And I didn’t, for a year.

And then suddenly he was back in my hometown. The first time I saw him, I was pulling into my best friend’s driveway, and it was totally unexpected (I was in the habit of refusing any invitation that might involve him at the time). I thought really hard about just backing right out and avoiding the whole situation, but I didn’t, for two reasons:

1. I knew that since he was back, I couldn’t possibly avoid him for much longer. It’s a small town.
2. I was never much good at driving in reverse.

So, my best friend Jane, Jason and his friend Toni, and I, all drove off for coffee at a great little place called Of One Earth. Sadly, that place is closed now, which makes us feel old. Jason pretty much ignored the other girls and fired one question after another at me. I was used to getting a lot of attention, so it didn’t really occur to me that this meant anything. That day, we all left messages in the coffee shop’s guest book, and I would do anything to be able to go back and take a look at it now.

The time was not right for us to hook up: Jason was busy cheating on Danielle with Toni, and I was busy testing my theory that sleeping with lots of men was fun (it was). So, I tolerated him in my life again. He had a great haircut, he filled out…he looked good. Plus, he seemed more mature, and was actually interesting to talk to.

Then came the fateful New Year’s Eve party at Toni’s house. Jason was there, no Danielle in sight, and the thing between him and Toni solidly ended. I was there, without any of the 3 boyfriends that I had at the time. I drank a whole bottle of Crown Royal by myself that night, so I was as socially lubricated as it gets. I got more tongue action at midnight than I cared for, and was touched inappropriately by at least 2 male friends, so it was a great night, all in all. When we all went to sleep that night, Jane and I would both come into some strange contact from unexpected corners.

The next day, she told me all about it: Jason had kissed her. He wanted to go out with her. What did I think? Very defensive of my fragile friend, I told her all the reasons why Jason was a scumbag and why she should not even be considering this. Hello, once a cheater, always a cheater! Not to mention that he seems to be serially sleeping with all of our friends. She agreed, and he received a very nasty phone call from Jane that night.

But as for our friendship, we seemed to be on the slow and steady path. He was single, and I was the kind of single where you say you’re single, but you have some good friends with benefits (that’s the way I liked it: no strings). He would call me up and lament his single status, and ask my advice. I was a good friend, although busy.

And then it was Valentine’s day. As you can tell by my Christmas card post, I love to do cheesy stuff like that for my friends, so I must have had 30 treat bags filled with heart-shaped candies, and little Valentine cards made out to all my friends, male and female alike. Valentine’s was on a Wednesday that year, which just a few years prior would have meant Party of Five night, but in this case, it was Dawson’s Creek night. There was a big snow storm that night, so I almost cancelled on Jason…but he insisted.

I got there, we watched the show (I probably cried, I cried every Wednesday night for 6 years straight back then). I gave him his little treat bag, he gave me a gift. A velvet box. With jewelry inside.

And I thought ‘…hmmm….Did he give this to all his friends this year?’ It made me a little uncomfortable to think too much about it, I think I tried to say it was too much, we probably argued a little about it, and then I kissed his cheek and said thank you. (Jason to this day thought that jewelry would merit more than a kiss on the cheek) But I was oblivious: we were just friends!

But the next day, I told Sarah about it, and she agreed that it didn’t seem like a ‘just friends’ thing to do. But when I called him that night to discuss plans for the weekend, it was business as usual. Weird, but whatever. Weird things happen every day when you’re in high school (yup, I was still in high school…Jason wasn’t, if that makes it any better for you).

That weekend, we went tobogganing with a couple of our friends. They were being all lovey-dovey, so that left the two of us pretty much on our own, and things were not awkward or weird at all. Horray!

We grabbed some hot chocolates afterward, and he and I headed back to his house to smoke a joint. And then we had sex.

Yup, that's how it happened. We were listening to some crap music, Underworld I think, really loudly, cramped on his bed, and I was so stoned that I could hardly move my arms. Sexy, eh? We never talked about it, we never went on a single date. One day we just got high and had sex. And that's the romantic story we will someday tell our grandkids. Or not.

Stay tuned for Part II: everything else!

Jason is wonderful

If you know me even a bit, you know that this heading is not really my style. In fact, Jason has coerced me to write an entry under that title, and being the "wonderful" wife and "good" sport that I am, here goes.

The truth is, I do love Jason. I've loved him for about 4 years now, fairly continually, and someday I will be saying that I've loved him for 54 years. And that's nice to know. What's not to love about Jason? He pretends to enjoy rubbing my feet, he tells me my singing voice is lovely, even if we both know he's lying, he brings me chips and dip when I'm feeling crampy, he says Nanny and Pa are "funny" when most people would call them "weird", he makes me laugh (he'll even embarrass himself to make me laugh), he has a great ass, and best of all, he puts up with me.

Everyone knows that I'm not easy to live with. I'm loud, demanding, self-centered, bossy, and basically the center of my own universe. Anyone one else must essentially agree to orbit around me. So when Jason got down on one knee and actually asked to spend his life with me, lots of people thought he must be joking. I was one of them. But no, he was serious, and we did end up getting married. So now the poor bastard is stuck with me. I make him hold my purse when I'm in a change-room at the mall. I make him watch Gilmore Girls, and like it. I serve him broccoli and cauliflower without any cheese sauce (Jan, I know you are feeling faint at the very thought). I wake him up at 3 am because I'm lonely, and expect him to sing me songs. He gets sucked into the life of an extrovert after 20 years of being a confirmed introvert. We go to the store in our pajamas, take long walks in the pouring rain, we sing our favourite songs at Pizza Hut, and browse the produce section of every grocery store we can find on a cloudy Saturday afternoon. And the amazing thing is, he's always right there, comfortable or not, holding my hand. It's sickening really, but he's just a nice person. And somehow, despite all the bitchiness that I can throw at him, he's in love with me. And yes, when pressed to admit it, I am in love with him.