I was in the last months of that glorious age called 17 when I landed my first and last job as a waitress. It wasn't so much a restaurant as a bar, and not so much a bar as a seedy little hole in the wall of a trailer park.
You can probably guess where I'm going with this.
The clientele was what you'd expect - lots of cheap bastards, oily drunks, and old folk. The proprietress was a crazy old woman never seen without a snifter of brandy in her hand. She sped around her trailer park in a pimped-out golf cart, and it was whispered about her that she'd run over her share of small dogs, and once, a not-so-small child. The nicest thing I can say about her was that she was the very definition of an Old Bat, with never a single nice word to say about anyone, though she flattered herself constantly, or at least she did in her more lucid moments.
The bar was open only seasonally, this being Canada, during the summer months when people could actually live in trailers without freezing to death. Sarah, a college student, supervised the bar during her summer break. She was an alumna of my high school, just old enough so that we'd never crossed paths there. The bar had one of the highest turnover rates possible: the Old Bat reduced employees to tears on a daily basis. Each day's schedule was cushioned in case of firing or quitting, both of which happened constantly. Those of who stayed, stayed for Sarah.
The work was awful. Old men would leer. Some would attempt to touch, and then as more beers were consumed, grope. Many of them considered themselves masters of sexual innuendo, each believing that he was the only one to dazzle me with such "wit". I did this work for $5.35 an hour; waitresses receive less than minimum wage because their income is supposedly supplemented by tips. The tips I received at the trailer park were often nickels and dimes, and more often than that, nothing at all. Trailer park drunks are not the most generous of souls, as it turns out.
Wednesday night was Wing Nite, wings at 10 cents apiece. The bar would be filled to the gills and chaotic as hell on Wednesdays, and all the very best that a trailer park had to offer would come worming out of the woodwork on those days. Customers would order 50 wings, and an empty glass. We would find people shamelessly filling their glasses at the bathroom sink.
Friday was Fajita Nite, and fajitas being much more expensive, the night was much less successful. As we carried the sizzling platters from the kitchen to the dining room, we were made to yell "Hot Fajitas!" for reasons unknown to the staff. To this day, my forearms still bear tiny pin-prick scars from the splattering of hot grease.
The wait staff was all-female. We wore little blue shorts and a golf shirt that we were forced to pay $45 for out our own pockets. After our first shifts, every one of us had permanent grease stains in the boob area of our shirts, providing convenient targets for the stellar and upstanding clients. The bar was unairconditioned. The kitchen was so airless that they often cooked with the door wide open, allowing all kinds of interesting insects to come right on in and make themselves at home. The Old Bat was so stingy that we waitresses had to take turns scrubbing toilets and prepping salads. This is illegal of course, since we were paid below minimum wage, but illegal was not a word in this woman's vocabulary. She thought Canada had too many "crazy" labour laws to begin with. "Back home..." she'd say, and we'd tune her out. This is how I first became acquainted with urine cakes.
Each waitress had a paper cup in which we collected our tips. We plunked in our nickels and dimes, sometimes even pennies, and at the end of the night, someone would cash them in for us, and we'd go home three whole dollars in our pockets, on a good night. The first time I actually made enough to go home with paper money in my pocket was the night my mom and her friend came for dinner, generously leaving a tip on my table, which embarrassed me and delighted me at the same time.
It sounds like the job from hell, and it was, but I did not have a bad summer. I was 17, and the world is made for 17 year old girls. I remember going to Edgefest or the Warped Tour, one of those big outdoor concerts, and getting lost in the moshpits and feeling the hands of strangers move me along as I crowd surfed to Finger Eleven for the first time. I remember being at work the next day, the golf shirt slicing into my sunburned back, the blisters oozing, but eager to finish my shift and start over again.
Somebody tried to set my mother up that summer, with a man 10 years her junior. He and a friend showed up at a bonfire we were having, and while they didn't hit it off with my mom, they did with me. Having friends a decade older meant that I didn't even need a fake ID to get into trouble. Trouble was ready-made. They had cars and boats, and the makings of all the summer fun a girl could want. The first time they came to see me at the bar, I had gone home early. The next day, a fellow waitress told me that my father and a friend had been looking for me. No, that's not my dad.
But they did keep me company on a lot of quiet shifts. They would sit at the bar, drinking beers and leaving me disproportionately large tips. Sometimes Sarah would suggest staff "constitutionals" after work, which meant crossing the border into Quebec and drinking lots of cheap beer. We would go to Riviere Beaudette, or else to Ste Eustache, which she pronounced La Moustache. I was underage no matter where we went, but surrounded by older friends, it never seemed to matter. I didn't lose touch with my school friends that summer, but it did mark the beginning of a distancing that seems inevitable at that age. When we all left for university, we all went down our separate paths. Nothing gold can stay.
That summer opened up a lot of possibility. I did things that I was not supposed to experience for a number of years yet. I was also propositioned by more dirty old men than I could shake a stick at, and believe me, I needed more than a stick to shake some of them off. In fact, on several occasions we had to call in the OPP when fights would break out, supposedly over the affections of an indifferent waitress, although when you're a lonely old drunk, you only need a superficial reason at best to swing your fists.
One hot July evening, I stayed in the family pool until just minutes before my shift. My mother drove me to work in the van, and I, still dripping and smelling slightly of chlorine, changed into my uniform in the backseat, and smudged on some eyeliner in a bumpy, moving vehicle. I knew it would be a long night at the bar, sweaty and gross in the stale air, and particularly so since that night was Elvis Nite. Oh yes, Elvis Nite.
Now, I wouldn't say that this particular impersonator looked much like Elvis. He was 50 if he was a day, short and squat, but he did have the rhinestone jumpsuit, and I guess that's what matters. The bar was packed. Standing room only, in fact. The Old Bat was in fine form, stumbling around in her gypsy dress, finally spilling brandy all over our interac machine, short-circuiting the thing on our busiest night of the summer. The bartender quit on the spot. Sarah sent me in as a replacement.
Yes, it was illegal to have an underage person preparing or even serving alcoholic drinks, but like I said, this wasn't exactly a lawful establishment. The crowd was hot and thirsty, and Sarah had no choice. That was the first time I ever shook up a martini. I made caesars and white russians (ew!), singapore slings, and many drinks that I essentially had to improvise, not having the faintest clue as to what went in them. But Elvis was there, so my paltry skills were hardly noticed. Elvis threw scarves at screaming blue-haired ladies. He sweated so much I feared he might have a heart attack. I sliced so many limes that night that the sight of them made me sick for several months afterward, but it was the sight of Sarah grinding with Elvis that got me through the night.
When last call was announced, we realized suddenly that we had actually survived, and the staff treated themselves to many celebratory drinks. We danced ourselves silly, long into the night, and at one point, sitting sloppily in my lap, Sarah said to me "You can never forget this night. This is it. 17. You won't ever be 17 again."
And she was right. I turned 18, went back to school for my last year there, and felt surely that I had changed. Sarah went back to college, got drunk one night, and fell into a deep sleep on the second floor of a loft. Sometime during the night, she fell to her death.
In the front yard of my high school, a tree is planted in her honour. A nice gesture I guess, but a tree seems like not enough to really represent a bubbly, happy light that burned out much too early. I remember being at the tree-planting ceremony. I remember it being October already, the air cooling around us, summer gone as surely as Sarah was. I don't remember the somber words that must have been spoken, but I remember feeling that it was my own mortality being planted there in the grass.
Sarah was right. You can never be 17 again.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Unhand Me.
He presses our hands together often, though the results are always the same. His hands are bigger than mine. This we know. He laughs about it every time.
***
I remember when I was small, my mother came home with a stack of papers in her brief case. All of her fellow educators had photocopied their hands, palm-down, and they had spent the week trying to guess each one's identity. My mother laid each black and white copy on the dining room table, making a tableau more beautiful than she could know; every hand similar and not similar at the same time, every hand the same basic shape and the same finger count, yet every hand made distinct by the whorls and lines that demark us as unique.
Each hand says this is me. With these hands, I live my life.
My young eyes quickly identified my mother's hand amid 20 or 30 others. There was no doubt: those were the hands that had fed me, bathed me, held me. I remembered those hands from when she coloured beside me at the kitchen table. Oh how I envied the beautiful way she stayed inside the lines, choosing the most sumptuous colours, richly shading in each of her drawings. I remember those hands from when she showed me how to bait your own hook, even while the worm still squirmed about. Those hands had cracked eggs for my pancakes, braided my hair until they were arthritic, warmed mine when they were cold. Those were my mother's hands.
I was right. First try. No doubt.
Each of my three sisters was just as successful.
My father, however, was not. He declared that the game was stupid, made 6 attempts and failed 6 times before stomping away in frustration. For 15 years those hands had worn the rings he'd given her, but he did not know them.
***
I am always astounded that moments after a tiny red blob of a human being comes hurtling out of a too-small canal, its little bald head still pointy from the adventure, the cooing adults around the bed are immediately able to pronounce that He looks just like his Daddy, or, He's got my eyes, or, She takes after her mother, thank god.
I have never seen it. I don't see it in other people, and I have never seen it in myself. Do I look like my parents? No one has ever told me that I do. In fact, I could never see that any of my sisters were actually related to our parents, or to each other. But as my youngest sister grew into a woman, I was taken aback at how often I felt I was looking at picture of my mother when she was first married. I began to search my mirror more earnestly for signs that I shared genes with the people who'd made me. I found none.
Well, that's not entirely true. I found one, no, two.
My thumbs.
My thumbs are my father's thumbs.
They're short, they're squat, they look deformed. They look less out of place on his hands, his hands being man hands. On my hands, they look quite absurd. (Go ahead, I know you're dying to scroll up to that picture again, so you can point and laugh at the freak on display.)
I could wish that my hands had taken after my mothers', the way she rubbed my back as I sat sick and hunched over the toilet, the way they turned jump ropes so expertly and packed lunches so lovingly. But what I have inherited instead are my father's ugly thumbs. Any time I sit and think of all the things my father has given me over the years, I come up with this:
1. An unsightly red tablecloth that he won at a company Christmas party and didn't want.
2. His thumbs.
The tablecloth is long gone; for a time, it lined the crate where my dog took her dumps.
Tablecloths are easy to dispose of, but genetics are a bitch. You can't return them, you can't regift them. They're gifts that keep on giving (at least until I have an unfortunate table saw accident). They are a souvenir from my father, and every time I play Grand Turismo and fail to make a turn, or play thumb wars and lose my lunch money, I curse him for this awful gift.
***
Palm to palm, our hands say I love you even when our lips do not. We hold hands while we sleep, together even in our dreams.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
For Us, There Is Only The Trying.
I remember walking up the crumbling steps to my grandparents' home, into the sloping porch where the horrendous gold-and-green vinyl-covered glider always sat, and finally into the familiar kitchen that always smelled of Grandma's cookies.
My grandfather was always seated near the door, at the head of the kitchen table. He'd take the cigarette out of his mouth with his tobacco-stained fingers, look up from his evening paper and say to me "Did your Daddy do your hair?"
I would giggle as I removed my shoes and tossed them into the corner. Sometimes I would be brave enough to shout "No!" in his general direction as I ran to the relative comfort and safety of the living room, where my sisters and I would play quietly on the floor and not get in the way until Grandma said it was time to open up the tin canisters and divvy up the cookies.
My grandfather believed that children should be seen and not heard...and seen very little, for that matter. He was a farmer transplanted from the old country. He believed himself to be the patriarch in a disappointing dynasty that had only produced one male grandchild to carry on the name. No matter how full his house would be, he only left his reigning seat in the kitchen to watch a hockey game with his oldest son. He spoke little. He rarely showed interest in anything but his crops or anyone other than the son who had inherited the farm, piece by piece. He did not show emotion or affection. I have no memory of ever touching or hugging my grandfather, or even of being in close proximity of him, save for his usual greeting - Did your daddy do your hair? This was partly my own fault - I was deathly afraid of the man, and I thought, with good reason. He was an imposing, impenetrable figure on his best day.
The only contact I ever had with my grandfather was indirect: usually too shy to respond to his greeting in any way, my sisters and I would nervously break for the living room, filled with dusty rose furniture and an old television set that lacked cable, and that we would hesitate to turn on anyway. My grandparents had 11 grandchildren, and only 2 toys to speak of - an ancient edition of the boardgame Payday, missing most of its original pieces, and a plastic horse that was too big for our Barbies to ride successfully. The bulk of our entertainment on these Sunday visits would therefore be left to the ritualistic raiding of the couch cushions. My grandfather, traditional to the core, unfailingly took a nap on the couch while my grandmother got his dinner ready. The coins from his trousers would roll from his pockets and get lost in the couch, hidden treasure for my sisters and I to unearth during our visits.
My sisters and I received no allowance, and the family had little money to spare. These dimes and nickels were precious to us; a rare quarter was something to be marveled at and discussed with passionate whispers. These coins that had fallen from a farmer's green overalls were as close to my grandfather as I would ever get.
I was 11 years old when he died suddenly, though not suddenly enough in the end. He had contracted a Strep A bacteria that would become known as flesh-eating disease. My proud grandfather was felled, eaten alive. He was betrayed by his own body, the body that had reaped, reared, planted and produced. His grown children saw his anguish and watched his deterioration while his grandchildren were denied entrance to the intensive care unit and denied the opportunity for goodbye.
Would I have said goodbye? I know the answer. The answer is no. I lacked the words. He was a stranger. There was no precedent in our relationship for any kind of intimacy at all. I doubt that it would have made a difference.
As my classmates cut heart shapes out of red construction paper, and decorated doilies with glitter, my family sat in the second hard-backed pew of a church that seemed to be as imposing as my grandfather had been. Strangers stood and talked of a man who, to me, was completely disconnected from the man I had known. A bagpipe blew us out of the church, into the cold air, and into an irrevocably changed life for my family, though we hardly knew it then. On the way back to the old farm house of sloping floor and outdated furniture, my mother suggested that it would be kind to give my grandmother a hug.
When I stepped into the kitchen and struggled out of my black patent leather Sunday shoes, my hair was indeed fancified, but no one asked who'd done it. My grandmother sat stoically in the seat where she'd always sat, whether writing on flowery stationary, trimming green beans, or pasting obituaries of people she'd known into a yellowed scrapbook. She sat there still, as if nothing had changed, but my grandfather's chair sat empty. Awfully empty. Conspicuously empty in a house crowded with relatives and not enough seating. It remained empty the whole day.
I did not hug my grandmother that day. I remember thinking about it, I remember trying to muster the courage, and I remember being defeated by bashfulness and my inability to remember having hugged her before. And I know that we did, when I was small. But also that we hadn't in any of my memories. I couldn't do it. I didn't know how to go up to this woman who must have been mourning but never showed it. I didn't know how to hug my own grandmother.
Years later, I would wonder if this non-hug had changed the course of our lives. If, perhaps, it had made it easier for her to reject me in deference to her son, my father, who no longer had a place in my life. If the non-hug had facilitated her descent into non-grandmotherhood.
After my grandfather's funeral, I began to include him in my nightly prayers. Soon, I was engaging him in full-blown conversations. During my prayers, I kept him abreast of family goings-on, told him all the trivial details of the life of an 11 year old catholic schoolgirl. I talked to him in death the way I never did in life. A year later, I felt extremely close to a man I had never really known on earth.
Somewhere along the way, I lost faith in religion. My prayers dropped off, and with them, the closeness I shared with my dead grandfather. But I had made my peace, and I had said goodbye.
When my grandmother died, I didn't belong to the family, and I was acutely aware of not belonging at the funeral. I didn't go. I chose not to go. While Jason and I toasted quietly to our first wedding anniversary, the rest of my family sat on the same hard-backed second pew.
This time, I ached for the easy rapprochement that prayer had offered, but I could never get it back, not in the innocent way of an 11 year old girl who simply believed. Goodbye has been a longer journey this time around. I'm still trying. We're all trying: the living, the dead, the yet unborn. We're trying, and we're getting closer, but we're not there yet.
My grandfather was always seated near the door, at the head of the kitchen table. He'd take the cigarette out of his mouth with his tobacco-stained fingers, look up from his evening paper and say to me "Did your Daddy do your hair?"
I would giggle as I removed my shoes and tossed them into the corner. Sometimes I would be brave enough to shout "No!" in his general direction as I ran to the relative comfort and safety of the living room, where my sisters and I would play quietly on the floor and not get in the way until Grandma said it was time to open up the tin canisters and divvy up the cookies.
My grandfather believed that children should be seen and not heard...and seen very little, for that matter. He was a farmer transplanted from the old country. He believed himself to be the patriarch in a disappointing dynasty that had only produced one male grandchild to carry on the name. No matter how full his house would be, he only left his reigning seat in the kitchen to watch a hockey game with his oldest son. He spoke little. He rarely showed interest in anything but his crops or anyone other than the son who had inherited the farm, piece by piece. He did not show emotion or affection. I have no memory of ever touching or hugging my grandfather, or even of being in close proximity of him, save for his usual greeting - Did your daddy do your hair? This was partly my own fault - I was deathly afraid of the man, and I thought, with good reason. He was an imposing, impenetrable figure on his best day.
The only contact I ever had with my grandfather was indirect: usually too shy to respond to his greeting in any way, my sisters and I would nervously break for the living room, filled with dusty rose furniture and an old television set that lacked cable, and that we would hesitate to turn on anyway. My grandparents had 11 grandchildren, and only 2 toys to speak of - an ancient edition of the boardgame Payday, missing most of its original pieces, and a plastic horse that was too big for our Barbies to ride successfully. The bulk of our entertainment on these Sunday visits would therefore be left to the ritualistic raiding of the couch cushions. My grandfather, traditional to the core, unfailingly took a nap on the couch while my grandmother got his dinner ready. The coins from his trousers would roll from his pockets and get lost in the couch, hidden treasure for my sisters and I to unearth during our visits.
My sisters and I received no allowance, and the family had little money to spare. These dimes and nickels were precious to us; a rare quarter was something to be marveled at and discussed with passionate whispers. These coins that had fallen from a farmer's green overalls were as close to my grandfather as I would ever get.
I was 11 years old when he died suddenly, though not suddenly enough in the end. He had contracted a Strep A bacteria that would become known as flesh-eating disease. My proud grandfather was felled, eaten alive. He was betrayed by his own body, the body that had reaped, reared, planted and produced. His grown children saw his anguish and watched his deterioration while his grandchildren were denied entrance to the intensive care unit and denied the opportunity for goodbye.
Would I have said goodbye? I know the answer. The answer is no. I lacked the words. He was a stranger. There was no precedent in our relationship for any kind of intimacy at all. I doubt that it would have made a difference.
As my classmates cut heart shapes out of red construction paper, and decorated doilies with glitter, my family sat in the second hard-backed pew of a church that seemed to be as imposing as my grandfather had been. Strangers stood and talked of a man who, to me, was completely disconnected from the man I had known. A bagpipe blew us out of the church, into the cold air, and into an irrevocably changed life for my family, though we hardly knew it then. On the way back to the old farm house of sloping floor and outdated furniture, my mother suggested that it would be kind to give my grandmother a hug.
When I stepped into the kitchen and struggled out of my black patent leather Sunday shoes, my hair was indeed fancified, but no one asked who'd done it. My grandmother sat stoically in the seat where she'd always sat, whether writing on flowery stationary, trimming green beans, or pasting obituaries of people she'd known into a yellowed scrapbook. She sat there still, as if nothing had changed, but my grandfather's chair sat empty. Awfully empty. Conspicuously empty in a house crowded with relatives and not enough seating. It remained empty the whole day.
I did not hug my grandmother that day. I remember thinking about it, I remember trying to muster the courage, and I remember being defeated by bashfulness and my inability to remember having hugged her before. And I know that we did, when I was small. But also that we hadn't in any of my memories. I couldn't do it. I didn't know how to go up to this woman who must have been mourning but never showed it. I didn't know how to hug my own grandmother.
Years later, I would wonder if this non-hug had changed the course of our lives. If, perhaps, it had made it easier for her to reject me in deference to her son, my father, who no longer had a place in my life. If the non-hug had facilitated her descent into non-grandmotherhood.
After my grandfather's funeral, I began to include him in my nightly prayers. Soon, I was engaging him in full-blown conversations. During my prayers, I kept him abreast of family goings-on, told him all the trivial details of the life of an 11 year old catholic schoolgirl. I talked to him in death the way I never did in life. A year later, I felt extremely close to a man I had never really known on earth.
Somewhere along the way, I lost faith in religion. My prayers dropped off, and with them, the closeness I shared with my dead grandfather. But I had made my peace, and I had said goodbye.
When my grandmother died, I didn't belong to the family, and I was acutely aware of not belonging at the funeral. I didn't go. I chose not to go. While Jason and I toasted quietly to our first wedding anniversary, the rest of my family sat on the same hard-backed second pew.
This time, I ached for the easy rapprochement that prayer had offered, but I could never get it back, not in the innocent way of an 11 year old girl who simply believed. Goodbye has been a longer journey this time around. I'm still trying. We're all trying: the living, the dead, the yet unborn. We're trying, and we're getting closer, but we're not there yet.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Happiness is Not A Fish That You Can Catch
One of the last things my mother said to me was You're not as happy as you pretend to be.
It really made me think.
I remember when I was 3 years old, my mother had a weekly ritual called Craft Night. Half a dozen ladies (I call them ladies, though I realize in this moment that my mother would have been younger than I am at the time) would congregate at someone's house to do some needlework and gossip. Today this is called a stitch-n-bitch, but in the more prurient days of the early 80s, Craft Night it was. Every so often it would be my mother's turn to host. I remember she would buy fancy little cheeses, and serve chips and dip in a ceramic sombrero she had glazed herself.
Before the ladies started ringing the bell, I would be tucked into bed, supposedly fast asleep though I was not. In the summer months, nothing would excite me more than the sound of a chip truck's bell and our screen door slamming as someone chased down the street with money in hand. On those nights I would be lured down the stairs in my Rainbow Brite nightgown, where I sat in my tiny rocking chair and did cross-stitch (the plastic "needle" was the size of a crayon; the holes into which I would stitch my craft were big enough to fit my wrists).
I suppose it was inevitable that such a group of women could not stay friendly forever. One particular Craft Night, while one of the ladies was moaning about her impending divorce, she pointed the needle at my mother and wondered aloud why it was that she never "aired her dirty laundry."
Words were exchanged; my mother never talked to them again. The Craft Ladies broke up, allegiances were made and then broken, the rift never repaired.
And here we were 20 years later, and my mother was basically accusing me of the very same thing. I do not air my dirty laundry.
Well, at least not to my mother. My mother already tells me that I am "filled with hatred and negativity" which, perhaps I just watch too much Gilmore Girls, is not a very nice thing to say to your daughter. Especially your daughter who dances in her kitchen like it's a national sport, declares it a good day when seedless green grapes are on sale, and finds joy in the liner notes of her CD collection.
Filled with hatred and negativity? Does my mother even know me at all?
But I do know my mother. And I know that she is constantly looking for cracks in the foundation. Maybe because her foundation was smashed to smithereens, she has to find evidence of fissures in others' as well. So I admit that I was guarded with her. I didn't send her monthly bulletins of every fight I'd had with Jason. I didn't know they were necessary.
I don't think I pretend to have the perfect marriage. I don't even believe they exist.
Do Jason and I fight?
Um...
HELL YES.
When my mother and father would fight, my father would be loud and violent, and my mother would shut down. Even when angry with her children, she would always use the silent treatment. I remember once when my father stormed out of the house, my mother locked herself in the bedroom. Time went by. I knocked and she didn't answer. I was maybe 7 at the time. The baby was crying. I worried about dinner - I wasn't even allowed to use the stove. I don't know if she was in there several hours or 20 minutes, but it felt like eternity. I felt abandoned. And when she did finally come out, I felt angry.
I have resolved to live my life at a louder decibel than she did. When I'm upset, people know it. I'm not afraid of my emotions. They get expressed, and sometimes quite loudly. In fact, if my mother really wanted to keep tabs on my fight record, all she'd have to do is keep her windows open. Jason gets yelled at, and is learning to yell back. And it feels good. It feels good to have everything out in the open. Generally, our fights get resolved in 5 minutes; 10 for the really tough issues. This is probably why people think we're so goddamned happy - we don't waste time being unhappy. Life is too short. Sure, we could grumble for 4 days, then hold grudges for another 10. But that's not the way I choose to live.
My mother disapproves, of course. Any time I voice my opinion I am "filled with hatred and negativity." It's exhausting to live in a fishbowl, knowing that your family is watching, and hoping that you'll fall.
Will I fall?
I don't know. But if happiness is a fish, I can tell you this:
Jason and I are in the stream, jeans rolled up to our knees, net stretched between us, and we're trying like hell to catch him.
It really made me think.
I remember when I was 3 years old, my mother had a weekly ritual called Craft Night. Half a dozen ladies (I call them ladies, though I realize in this moment that my mother would have been younger than I am at the time) would congregate at someone's house to do some needlework and gossip. Today this is called a stitch-n-bitch, but in the more prurient days of the early 80s, Craft Night it was. Every so often it would be my mother's turn to host. I remember she would buy fancy little cheeses, and serve chips and dip in a ceramic sombrero she had glazed herself.
Before the ladies started ringing the bell, I would be tucked into bed, supposedly fast asleep though I was not. In the summer months, nothing would excite me more than the sound of a chip truck's bell and our screen door slamming as someone chased down the street with money in hand. On those nights I would be lured down the stairs in my Rainbow Brite nightgown, where I sat in my tiny rocking chair and did cross-stitch (the plastic "needle" was the size of a crayon; the holes into which I would stitch my craft were big enough to fit my wrists).
I suppose it was inevitable that such a group of women could not stay friendly forever. One particular Craft Night, while one of the ladies was moaning about her impending divorce, she pointed the needle at my mother and wondered aloud why it was that she never "aired her dirty laundry."
Words were exchanged; my mother never talked to them again. The Craft Ladies broke up, allegiances were made and then broken, the rift never repaired.
And here we were 20 years later, and my mother was basically accusing me of the very same thing. I do not air my dirty laundry.
Well, at least not to my mother. My mother already tells me that I am "filled with hatred and negativity" which, perhaps I just watch too much Gilmore Girls, is not a very nice thing to say to your daughter. Especially your daughter who dances in her kitchen like it's a national sport, declares it a good day when seedless green grapes are on sale, and finds joy in the liner notes of her CD collection.
Filled with hatred and negativity? Does my mother even know me at all?
But I do know my mother. And I know that she is constantly looking for cracks in the foundation. Maybe because her foundation was smashed to smithereens, she has to find evidence of fissures in others' as well. So I admit that I was guarded with her. I didn't send her monthly bulletins of every fight I'd had with Jason. I didn't know they were necessary.
I don't think I pretend to have the perfect marriage. I don't even believe they exist.
Do Jason and I fight?
Um...
HELL YES.
When my mother and father would fight, my father would be loud and violent, and my mother would shut down. Even when angry with her children, she would always use the silent treatment. I remember once when my father stormed out of the house, my mother locked herself in the bedroom. Time went by. I knocked and she didn't answer. I was maybe 7 at the time. The baby was crying. I worried about dinner - I wasn't even allowed to use the stove. I don't know if she was in there several hours or 20 minutes, but it felt like eternity. I felt abandoned. And when she did finally come out, I felt angry.
I have resolved to live my life at a louder decibel than she did. When I'm upset, people know it. I'm not afraid of my emotions. They get expressed, and sometimes quite loudly. In fact, if my mother really wanted to keep tabs on my fight record, all she'd have to do is keep her windows open. Jason gets yelled at, and is learning to yell back. And it feels good. It feels good to have everything out in the open. Generally, our fights get resolved in 5 minutes; 10 for the really tough issues. This is probably why people think we're so goddamned happy - we don't waste time being unhappy. Life is too short. Sure, we could grumble for 4 days, then hold grudges for another 10. But that's not the way I choose to live.
My mother disapproves, of course. Any time I voice my opinion I am "filled with hatred and negativity." It's exhausting to live in a fishbowl, knowing that your family is watching, and hoping that you'll fall.
Will I fall?
I don't know. But if happiness is a fish, I can tell you this:
Jason and I are in the stream, jeans rolled up to our knees, net stretched between us, and we're trying like hell to catch him.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
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."
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."
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Behind the Blog: Elvis Kisses With His Eyes Open and Other Observations
My friend Kim, the lucky bitch, was whisked off to Hawai'i by her loving husband Jeffy (hint, hint, HINT!!!) and during her enviable absence, she asked several blogging buddies to take over for her. I was assigned the much-coveted 8th day, and so today the post on my site is a clever (?) look behind the scenes at The Making of the Blog.
As I said, I had the pleasure of covering the 8th day of her vacation. If you haven't read it yet, then please do so here. Feel free to leave Kim a comment and let her know that we all hate her for being in Paradise while the rest of us put up with spitting ice rain. And then get your asses back here to find out just how I was able to channel Kim and write about a vacation I know nothing about.
Writing this post posed a couple of problems for me, because:
a) Being the 8th day poster, 7 other esteemed bloggers have gone before me. So far on her vacation, Kim has been violated at the airport, arrested and jailed, taken up cheerleading, and gotten stuck in a compromising position for all the world to see. Seemingly, there aren't many other angles to cover. One vacation can only contain so much hilarity, right?
b) I've never been to paradise. In fact, I'm not even sure that I 100% believe that Hawai'i is a real place.
So what's a girl to do?
The only hint that Kim offered was that she'd be golfing it up in Maui. So to simulate the world- class golf courses on a majestic island, Jason and I went mini-putting at Crazy Al's hot dog shack and driving range. Good times.
I shaved my legs so I could wear a skirt and some flipflops. I found a plastic lei at the dollar store (sacrilegious I know, but hello, it's winter in Canada for crying out loud!). Oh sure, my toes turned blue before I even got into the car, and I got some pretty spiffy looks from other people, but this was not the first time, nor the last and Jason copes fairly well with this stuff by now.
In fact, he even bought me some fresh pink flowers to put in my "hair."
So we golfed, or we putted, or we goofed around and made out and moved our balls from hole to hole, and I won even though I totally held back in an effort to feed Jason's ego for once.
At home we made slushy drinks out of real Hawaiian punch, and then we ate seafood and had pineapple delight for supper. I took turns dancing to Jason's stylings on the ukelele, and then to my Lilo&Stitch soundtrack.
Did that deter me?
Well, if you read my post, you'll probably agree that it should have.
I wrote the thing anyway.
I always do.
As I said, I had the pleasure of covering the 8th day of her vacation. If you haven't read it yet, then please do so here. Feel free to leave Kim a comment and let her know that we all hate her for being in Paradise while the rest of us put up with spitting ice rain. And then get your asses back here to find out just how I was able to channel Kim and write about a vacation I know nothing about.
Writing this post posed a couple of problems for me, because:
a) Being the 8th day poster, 7 other esteemed bloggers have gone before me. So far on her vacation, Kim has been violated at the airport, arrested and jailed, taken up cheerleading, and gotten stuck in a compromising position for all the world to see. Seemingly, there aren't many other angles to cover. One vacation can only contain so much hilarity, right?
b) I've never been to paradise. In fact, I'm not even sure that I 100% believe that Hawai'i is a real place.
So what's a girl to do?
The only hint that Kim offered was that she'd be golfing it up in Maui. So to simulate the world- class golf courses on a majestic island, Jason and I went mini-putting at Crazy Al's hot dog shack and driving range. Good times.
I shaved my legs so I could wear a skirt and some flipflops. I found a plastic lei at the dollar store (sacrilegious I know, but hello, it's winter in Canada for crying out loud!). Oh sure, my toes turned blue before I even got into the car, and I got some pretty spiffy looks from other people, but this was not the first time, nor the last and Jason copes fairly well with this stuff by now.
In fact, he even bought me some fresh pink flowers to put in my "hair."
So we golfed, or we putted, or we goofed around and made out and moved our balls from hole to hole, and I won even though I totally held back in an effort to feed Jason's ego for once.
At home we made slushy drinks out of real Hawaiian punch, and then we ate seafood and had pineapple delight for supper. I took turns dancing to Jason's stylings on the ukelele, and then to my Lilo&Stitch soundtrack.
And then, completely by coincidence, MuchMoreMusic was playing Blue Hawai'i, which we watched for 4 whole minutes before I was so impressed with Elvis' smooching with his eyes wide open, and staring in fact at another woman all the while, that I had to practice the Elvis kiss on Jason, and pretty soon we were putting the lime in the coconut, if you know what I mean.
So we had a great day, but in the end I was largely uninspired. I mean, we spent a giggly day living the cold Canadian versions of several Hawaiian cliches, but I was pretty sure it would all pale in comparison to the real thing.
Did that deter me?
Well, if you read my post, you'll probably agree that it should have.
I wrote the thing anyway.
I always do.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
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. ;)
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. ;)
Monday, February 13, 2006
Oh the things that I put up with.
1. I bought Jason a crest spinbrush for Christmas. I admit this was a mistake. But every time this little battery-operated toothbrush came on TV, he oohed and aahed, and I couldn't resist. So I found a Spiderman spinbrush and matching Spiderman toothpaste, and they fit perfectly into his stocking, and for some strange reason that I blame on too much eggnog, I bought it for him and actually thought it would be okay.
But it hasn't been okay. Because for the past month I have witnessed him using that spinbrush every morning in the shower...and he doesn't just use it on his teeth. He likes to experiment with it on all of his various body parts. And he tries to involve mine as well! I have to be constantly on the defensive or else I might get violated. Does anyone else have this problem?
2. Last month I gave Jason a final warning: if you can't wash the sink after shaving, you can't shave anymore. He has this "great" beard trimmer that shoots whiskers all over the bathroom so you literally might think that my decorating theme is "furry". It is not.
Jason continued to leave the bulk of his beard all over the bathroom, so I made good on my threat. No more beard trimmer. If he wants to shave, he must do so with a razor, in the shower. Don't worry though, he's found a way to piss me off with that too: he refuses to replace the cap on the shaving cream, which prevents the can from rusting. So now my bathtub has psychedelic orange rings all over it - unwashable, of course. And I can't decide which is worse - a rust pattern on my bathtub, of living knee-deep in man fur.
3. I ask him sometimes, Will you still love me when I'm old?
How old? he'll ask.
Old old, I'll say. Saggy and wrinkly and stuff.
Yes, I'll still love you.
Will you still want me, though? Will you still find me sexy?
Of course I will!
Even when I look like my grandmother?
Sure.
Do you think my grandmother's hot?
Um, no.
So you won't think I'm hot? These are my genes!
Well, okay, it's granny-hot. Hot for an old lady.
So you do think that Nanny's hot?
Yes. For an older woman.
Hahah, you just said that Nanny's hot!
And then we wrestle.
4. Where have all the forks gone? One of the great features of modern-day cutlery is its reusability. Just wash, and it's good to go again! But somewhere between the pickle jar and the kitchen sink, hundreds if not thousands of forks have gone missing. Where do they go? Why do they stray? Why is my husband such a moron?
Yes, the obvious culprit is Jason, and the mysterious black hole into which forks disappear - the work lunch. I pack him a fork so that he can pretend in front of his colleagues that he has some sort of table manners, and then the fork immediately falls off the face of the earth. I literally go out of my mind trying to set the dinner table at night because I am faced with a constant lack of forks. I have to cook meals that can be eaten entirely using spoons and knives. Piercing things is out of the question. And you can't buy just forks. Cutlery comes in sets. So I have 7 drawers full of spoons and knives that I'll never use, and still no forks.
In a fit of frustration, I tied a piece of string to Jason's wrist, and hung a fork from it. This is the only fork he will ever be trusted with. When that one goes to fork heaven, fuck him. He can eat with his beard trimmer.
Actually, I'd kind of like to see that.
But it hasn't been okay. Because for the past month I have witnessed him using that spinbrush every morning in the shower...and he doesn't just use it on his teeth. He likes to experiment with it on all of his various body parts. And he tries to involve mine as well! I have to be constantly on the defensive or else I might get violated. Does anyone else have this problem?
2. Last month I gave Jason a final warning: if you can't wash the sink after shaving, you can't shave anymore. He has this "great" beard trimmer that shoots whiskers all over the bathroom so you literally might think that my decorating theme is "furry". It is not.
Jason continued to leave the bulk of his beard all over the bathroom, so I made good on my threat. No more beard trimmer. If he wants to shave, he must do so with a razor, in the shower. Don't worry though, he's found a way to piss me off with that too: he refuses to replace the cap on the shaving cream, which prevents the can from rusting. So now my bathtub has psychedelic orange rings all over it - unwashable, of course. And I can't decide which is worse - a rust pattern on my bathtub, of living knee-deep in man fur.
3. I ask him sometimes, Will you still love me when I'm old?
How old? he'll ask.
Old old, I'll say. Saggy and wrinkly and stuff.
Yes, I'll still love you.
Will you still want me, though? Will you still find me sexy?
Of course I will!
Even when I look like my grandmother?
Sure.
Do you think my grandmother's hot?
Um, no.
So you won't think I'm hot? These are my genes!
Well, okay, it's granny-hot. Hot for an old lady.
So you do think that Nanny's hot?
Yes. For an older woman.
Hahah, you just said that Nanny's hot!
And then we wrestle.
4. Where have all the forks gone? One of the great features of modern-day cutlery is its reusability. Just wash, and it's good to go again! But somewhere between the pickle jar and the kitchen sink, hundreds if not thousands of forks have gone missing. Where do they go? Why do they stray? Why is my husband such a moron?
Yes, the obvious culprit is Jason, and the mysterious black hole into which forks disappear - the work lunch. I pack him a fork so that he can pretend in front of his colleagues that he has some sort of table manners, and then the fork immediately falls off the face of the earth. I literally go out of my mind trying to set the dinner table at night because I am faced with a constant lack of forks. I have to cook meals that can be eaten entirely using spoons and knives. Piercing things is out of the question. And you can't buy just forks. Cutlery comes in sets. So I have 7 drawers full of spoons and knives that I'll never use, and still no forks.
In a fit of frustration, I tied a piece of string to Jason's wrist, and hung a fork from it. This is the only fork he will ever be trusted with. When that one goes to fork heaven, fuck him. He can eat with his beard trimmer.
Actually, I'd kind of like to see that.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Friday Fuckfest Does The Nerd Boy
Way back in June 2005, I confessed a secret crush on Adam Brody, the world's most lovable geek. What is it about nerd boys that is suddenly turning our heads?
Chick claimed it was the desire to help him out with his algebra homework...and we all know what follows that.
Molly seemed to think that snarky wit and "nerd curls" played a part.
But whatever does it for you (the shy blush? the stammering way he speaks to you? the grateful way he'll look at you for the rest of his life?) I present to you the very best in nerd pride, or shall we say for today's purposes...geek chic. Because even losers can get lucky sometimes.
Live from Kill the Goat, it's the Friday Fuckfest!
Fred Armisen, cast member of Saturday Night Live, masks his insecurity by making us laugh.
He's not afraid of embarrassing himself to get the laugh either - if you've ever seen him do Prince, you'll know what I'm talking about.
Maybe you have to be geeky to be an SNL player - it takes more than a mild obsession with pop culture to keep the comedy hounds fed, and if we take our cues from head writer Tina Fey, the nerdy glasses go a long way.
At first glance, Martin Freeman is exactly the
kind of guy no one would play with back when we were in school. He has little in the way of
conventional good looks, he's doughy, skittish, and his ears stick out.
The first time I saw Martin, he was a porn stand-in in Love Actually, and I couldn't help but find him charming and irresistible, no matter how awkward and dorky he was. In fact, it's the lack of polish that makes him an appealing everyman.
Roles in The Office and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy have probably helped cement his nerdy image, not that Martin seems to mind. He's taking his nerd-dom all the way to the bank.
When you're tall and slim, you adopt a certain gawkiness that lends instantly to the label of geek, and the goody -two- shoesiness in his twinkling, downcast eyes does little to dilute it.
Nerd Alert! Not only does Topher Grace admit a certain affinity for Star Wars, he'd also prefer to stay in and play Monopoly than hit the clubs with other playboy actors his age.
Okay, so almost anyone would look like a geek standing next to Ashton Kutcher...still. This guy has a smirk that saves him from going overboard on the S.S. Pathetic.
Rivers Cuomo brings back the nerd glasses for its second appearance on today's list. As the head Weezer guy, he writes the songs that make us nod in appreciation.
Nerd quali- fications: a nose that's always in the books, both at schools like Harvard, and in his own creation, the Encyclopedia of Pop; his bowl cut; his love for the clarinet.
However, it's probably his famous vow of celibacy that earns him the nerdiest fame of all. When most rock stars are sifting through groupies with 10-fool poles, Rivers has managed not only to achieve his 2-year hiatus from sex, but has actually (and apparently voluntarily) extended it as well.
Neuroses seem to come as second- nature to Zach Braff. He plays dreamy and ruffled just a little too well for us not to notice the nerd underneath his clever facade.
After the release of his "emo" movie, Garden State (in which he cast every nerd's dream girl, Natalie Portman, as his leading lady) he has recently been noted for voicing the big-headed bird, Chicken Little, and for dating squeaky-clean pop princess Mandy Moore.
Whether or not these nerds have their revenge, they appear to have the last laugh.
So if this is your Nerd Nomination Form...which geek gets your vote?
Chick claimed it was the desire to help him out with his algebra homework...and we all know what follows that.
Molly seemed to think that snarky wit and "nerd curls" played a part.
But whatever does it for you (the shy blush? the stammering way he speaks to you? the grateful way he'll look at you for the rest of his life?) I present to you the very best in nerd pride, or shall we say for today's purposes...geek chic. Because even losers can get lucky sometimes.
Live from Kill the Goat, it's the Friday Fuckfest!Fred Armisen, cast member of Saturday Night Live, masks his insecurity by making us laugh.
He's not afraid of embarrassing himself to get the laugh either - if you've ever seen him do Prince, you'll know what I'm talking about.
Maybe you have to be geeky to be an SNL player - it takes more than a mild obsession with pop culture to keep the comedy hounds fed, and if we take our cues from head writer Tina Fey, the nerdy glasses go a long way.
At first glance, Martin Freeman is exactly the
kind of guy no one would play with back when we were in school. He has little in the way of
conventional good looks, he's doughy, skittish, and his ears stick out.
The first time I saw Martin, he was a porn stand-in in Love Actually, and I couldn't help but find him charming and irresistible, no matter how awkward and dorky he was. In fact, it's the lack of polish that makes him an appealing everyman.
Roles in The Office and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy have probably helped cement his nerdy image, not that Martin seems to mind. He's taking his nerd-dom all the way to the bank.
When you're tall and slim, you adopt a certain gawkiness that lends instantly to the label of geek, and the goody -two- shoesiness in his twinkling, downcast eyes does little to dilute it.
Nerd Alert! Not only does Topher Grace admit a certain affinity for Star Wars, he'd also prefer to stay in and play Monopoly than hit the clubs with other playboy actors his age.
Okay, so almost anyone would look like a geek standing next to Ashton Kutcher...still. This guy has a smirk that saves him from going overboard on the S.S. Pathetic.
Rivers Cuomo brings back the nerd glasses for its second appearance on today's list. As the head Weezer guy, he writes the songs that make us nod in appreciation.
Nerd quali- fications: a nose that's always in the books, both at schools like Harvard, and in his own creation, the Encyclopedia of Pop; his bowl cut; his love for the clarinet.
However, it's probably his famous vow of celibacy that earns him the nerdiest fame of all. When most rock stars are sifting through groupies with 10-fool poles, Rivers has managed not only to achieve his 2-year hiatus from sex, but has actually (and apparently voluntarily) extended it as well.
Neuroses seem to come as second- nature to Zach Braff. He plays dreamy and ruffled just a little too well for us not to notice the nerd underneath his clever facade.
After the release of his "emo" movie, Garden State (in which he cast every nerd's dream girl, Natalie Portman, as his leading lady) he has recently been noted for voicing the big-headed bird, Chicken Little, and for dating squeaky-clean pop princess Mandy Moore.
Whether or not these nerds have their revenge, they appear to have the last laugh.
So if this is your Nerd Nomination Form...which geek gets your vote?
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Polaroid Picture
Jason and Jay have a new puppy!!
This is our new puppy-wuppy. I found him. No one reported him missing. I grew attached. And now he is ours.
I named him Toby. Jason named him Cinnamon. The jury's still out on which one Toby likes better. I found him between the pages of a library book. I was quietly reading away, and he fell out onto my lap.
I wondered where he came from, who he belonged to, if he was missed...but of course, dogs can't talk.
Toby appears to be a pug, and a rather portly one at that. He seems to like hardwood flooring and either barstools or step-ladders, depending on your interpretation.
Toby is a very good doggie. He's well-behaved, often sitting in the same place for days on end until I tell him he can move. He's extremely quiet and clean, and doesn't shed much.
Like most dogs, he has an attraction to our shoes. However, he's not much of a chewer. Mostly he just cuddles up next to them. Jason's suede running shoes probably feel and look a lot like Toby's mummy; he spends a lot of time nestled next to them.
Toby-Cinnamon is a great dog for people who aren't allowed to have pets, according to their rental agreement. Landlords have an extremely hard time detecting dogs like Toby as they are very low-maintenance and don't shit on carpets.
The one problem with Toby is that he is most definitely an eater. Dill pickles have made him a real chubster. I think he's a little self-conscious of his figure, but I keep telling him that many pugs are "rubenesque". He's not buying it. Every time Kirstie Alley comes on the TV, he knocks the phone of the hook with his snub nose and begs me with his eyes to call Jenny.
Personally, I think he and I are both going on the Eukanuba diet. It's certainly cheaper than Jenny Craig, and it can't taste much worse.
Whether Toby's sniffing butts or begging for snausages, I think it's safe to say I've fallen in love.
Now only one thing remains, and it shall go down in history as the great Name Debate. Toby? Cinnamon? Is Cinby a suitable compromise?
I rather think that Cinnamon is inappropriate since he's a BOY and Cinnamon is obviously a girl name, but Jason insists that since Toby's genitals are cut off and it's impossible to verify for sure whether we have a girl dog or a boy dog, his is just as valid.
So anyone passing by this blog today, NAME MY DOG! Cast your ballots in the comments section:
a) Toby
b) Cinnamon
c) Cinby
d) Other (well, we won't name him Other, you have to supply your own name here)
Cause if dogs weren't man's best friend, democracy would be!
This is our new puppy-wuppy. I found him. No one reported him missing. I grew attached. And now he is ours.I named him Toby. Jason named him Cinnamon. The jury's still out on which one Toby likes better. I found him between the pages of a library book. I was quietly reading away, and he fell out onto my lap.
I wondered where he came from, who he belonged to, if he was missed...but of course, dogs can't talk.
Toby appears to be a pug, and a rather portly one at that. He seems to like hardwood flooring and either barstools or step-ladders, depending on your interpretation.
Toby is a very good doggie. He's well-behaved, often sitting in the same place for days on end until I tell him he can move. He's extremely quiet and clean, and doesn't shed much.
Like most dogs, he has an attraction to our shoes. However, he's not much of a chewer. Mostly he just cuddles up next to them. Jason's suede running shoes probably feel and look a lot like Toby's mummy; he spends a lot of time nestled next to them.Toby-Cinnamon is a great dog for people who aren't allowed to have pets, according to their rental agreement. Landlords have an extremely hard time detecting dogs like Toby as they are very low-maintenance and don't shit on carpets.
The one problem with Toby is that he is most definitely an eater. Dill pickles have made him a real chubster. I think he's a little self-conscious of his figure, but I keep telling him that many pugs are "rubenesque". He's not buying it. Every time Kirstie Alley comes on the TV, he knocks the phone of the hook with his snub nose and begs me with his eyes to call Jenny.
Personally, I think he and I are both going on the Eukanuba diet. It's certainly cheaper than Jenny Craig, and it can't taste much worse.
Whether Toby's sniffing butts or begging for snausages, I think it's safe to say I've fallen in love.Now only one thing remains, and it shall go down in history as the great Name Debate. Toby? Cinnamon? Is Cinby a suitable compromise?
I rather think that Cinnamon is inappropriate since he's a BOY and Cinnamon is obviously a girl name, but Jason insists that since Toby's genitals are cut off and it's impossible to verify for sure whether we have a girl dog or a boy dog, his is just as valid.
So anyone passing by this blog today, NAME MY DOG! Cast your ballots in the comments section:
a) Toby
b) Cinnamon
c) Cinby
d) Other (well, we won't name him Other, you have to supply your own name here)
Cause if dogs weren't man's best friend, democracy would be!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Hodge Podge: a "mixture" or "medley" of things.
Lesbian Erotica is not that hot.
Jason finds it quite repetitive: "You just can't be original in 6 pages" he says.
"Six pages!" I yell. "To write about good sex, you need 2 paragraphs at most. Everything else is just cuddling."
Porn is porn, as it turns out, only in this case, there are 2 pairs of wet panties. Big freakin deal.
Also, is it really considered "lesbian erotica" if a woman fucks a wolf? When I was a kid, we called that beastiality (zoophilia at best). I guess times have changed. I was also surprised to read a story of a sexual encounter between a "femme" and Monica Lewinsky, which, quite frankly, we also used to call Beastiality. I mean really, is Monica hot now? Have I missed something?
Remind me not to read my husband's hot lesbian porn anymore. It just upsets me. I mean, last night I learned that my new hair cut qualifies me as a "butch", whatever that means, and that despite the number of google hits I get per month for goat sex, I may not be the foremost expert on the subject.
Oooh baby, oooh baby.
Anyway, it really makes me miss big, hard, pulsating cocks, as cliched as it is. Gawd I hate myself for saying that.
***
Jason loves when I don't sleep at night, because not only does he get the bed to himself, he gets extra hours of productivity out of me too.
For example, he thinks it's the perfect time for me to load his ipod with really jazzy play lists. This is a major tactical error on his part because obviously I am doubly cranky when I'm Sleepless in Toronto.
So I give him a little Weezer, a little Foo...but gawd do I ever want to sneak in some Cher or something so that in the middle of shipment, his whole crew will pause and rethink Jason's sexuality.
***
This past week, both Sting and Garth Brooks have approached me with exciting offers to save up to 20% on adobe software and promising new pharmaceuticals, respectively.
Obviously I am flattered that they would think of me. I didn't know I had such a savvy reputation as an investor. I mean, here I am, whoring out my written words, writing greeting card shit just to make my student loan payments, and apparently building myself a reputation as someone who knows a good deal when she sees it.
However, according to that same junk mail folder, I must admit that my reputation has also suffered this little ditty:
too shy to fuck with your tiny gun...
Ouch.
***
I hate Best Buy. Like, really, really hate it, and its creepy little employees.
Apparently when they screen employees, they rate them according to their answer to these all-important questions:
Do you hate women? Are you afraid of vaginas? Do you think females and electronics should be allowed to mix?
Acceptable answers: yes, yes, and god no.
And then the training consists of these easy-to-follow rules:
1. Never approach a female customer.
2. Turn your back and/or pretend not to notice a female customer, even if she hovers around you plainly looking for service for upwards of 45 minutes.
3. If a female corners you and asks you a question about a product in the store, scowl at her, and then proceed to give her short, and not particularly accurate, answers until you can run away.
4. Do what you can to discourage her from returning to Best Buy ever, ever again.
If you have a vagina, your money is no good at Best Buy.
Okay, so I know when I'm not wanted. If it was up to me, all the little fuckers at Best Buy could circle-jerk themselves into oblivion, and I would bring my business elsewhere.
But. But my husband is a nerd.
Well, okay, he's not a nerd. But he likes crappy things like absurdly big-ass TVs (which I have thus far outlawed) and "gaming consoles" (which I have been less successful at shaming him into avoiding...but trust me, I'm working on it). And since he follows me into stores so I can check out napkin rings and slutty shoes, I cut him a little slack.
So we go into Best Buy, a regular joe and a bald chick wearing a rude button collection and big pink rubber boots, and every single employee smells Jason a mile off, pants in his direction, licking their lips in commission anticipation....and yet, they cannot see me. I am completely invisible. I don't exist.
So when I wanted to buy Jason an ipod for Christmas (christ I hate ipods), I said fuck you to Best Buy and walked in a blizzard to Future Shop.
And you know what?
Same damn thing.
Jason finds it quite repetitive: "You just can't be original in 6 pages" he says.
"Six pages!" I yell. "To write about good sex, you need 2 paragraphs at most. Everything else is just cuddling."
Porn is porn, as it turns out, only in this case, there are 2 pairs of wet panties. Big freakin deal.
Also, is it really considered "lesbian erotica" if a woman fucks a wolf? When I was a kid, we called that beastiality (zoophilia at best). I guess times have changed. I was also surprised to read a story of a sexual encounter between a "femme" and Monica Lewinsky, which, quite frankly, we also used to call Beastiality. I mean really, is Monica hot now? Have I missed something?
Remind me not to read my husband's hot lesbian porn anymore. It just upsets me. I mean, last night I learned that my new hair cut qualifies me as a "butch", whatever that means, and that despite the number of google hits I get per month for goat sex, I may not be the foremost expert on the subject.
Oooh baby, oooh baby.
Anyway, it really makes me miss big, hard, pulsating cocks, as cliched as it is. Gawd I hate myself for saying that.
***
Jason loves when I don't sleep at night, because not only does he get the bed to himself, he gets extra hours of productivity out of me too.
For example, he thinks it's the perfect time for me to load his ipod with really jazzy play lists. This is a major tactical error on his part because obviously I am doubly cranky when I'm Sleepless in Toronto.
So I give him a little Weezer, a little Foo...but gawd do I ever want to sneak in some Cher or something so that in the middle of shipment, his whole crew will pause and rethink Jason's sexuality.
***
This past week, both Sting and Garth Brooks have approached me with exciting offers to save up to 20% on adobe software and promising new pharmaceuticals, respectively.
Obviously I am flattered that they would think of me. I didn't know I had such a savvy reputation as an investor. I mean, here I am, whoring out my written words, writing greeting card shit just to make my student loan payments, and apparently building myself a reputation as someone who knows a good deal when she sees it.
However, according to that same junk mail folder, I must admit that my reputation has also suffered this little ditty:
too shy to fuck with your tiny gun...
Ouch.
***
I hate Best Buy. Like, really, really hate it, and its creepy little employees.
Apparently when they screen employees, they rate them according to their answer to these all-important questions:
Do you hate women? Are you afraid of vaginas? Do you think females and electronics should be allowed to mix?
Acceptable answers: yes, yes, and god no.
And then the training consists of these easy-to-follow rules:
1. Never approach a female customer.
2. Turn your back and/or pretend not to notice a female customer, even if she hovers around you plainly looking for service for upwards of 45 minutes.
3. If a female corners you and asks you a question about a product in the store, scowl at her, and then proceed to give her short, and not particularly accurate, answers until you can run away.
4. Do what you can to discourage her from returning to Best Buy ever, ever again.
If you have a vagina, your money is no good at Best Buy.
Okay, so I know when I'm not wanted. If it was up to me, all the little fuckers at Best Buy could circle-jerk themselves into oblivion, and I would bring my business elsewhere.
But. But my husband is a nerd.
Well, okay, he's not a nerd. But he likes crappy things like absurdly big-ass TVs (which I have thus far outlawed) and "gaming consoles" (which I have been less successful at shaming him into avoiding...but trust me, I'm working on it). And since he follows me into stores so I can check out napkin rings and slutty shoes, I cut him a little slack.
So we go into Best Buy, a regular joe and a bald chick wearing a rude button collection and big pink rubber boots, and every single employee smells Jason a mile off, pants in his direction, licking their lips in commission anticipation....and yet, they cannot see me. I am completely invisible. I don't exist.
So when I wanted to buy Jason an ipod for Christmas (christ I hate ipods), I said fuck you to Best Buy and walked in a blizzard to Future Shop.
And you know what?
Same damn thing.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
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?
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?
Friday, February 03, 2006
Friday Fuckfest Does 80s Hair Bands
20 years ago you needed 3 things to make the ladies swoon and your album sell: Aqua Net, bared chests, and spandex. Hot!!
The Contenders:
Van Halen were the trail-blazers in Glam Metal: peek-a-boo nipples and tight leather, what more could a girl ask for?
Those were the days, back when 8 inches referred to the height of your bangs.
You'd think it would be hard to act macho while looking like a girl, but these guy showed us how it's done. And when they sang Jamie's Crying, we got the message: you girls had better put out, dammit. And we did, in the back seats of Chevettes, with the tape deck blaring away.
The guys of Def Leppard appear to have shared a bottle of bleach, and are rocking the "business in the front, party in the back" look with their long, luxurious locks.
However, it's probably the impossibly-tight denim, highlighting the package area, that's really turning you on right now. I mean, you might have been confused with the hair and the tank tops, so here's something that screams Hey baby, I'm a MAN, Rooowwwr.
So, did you getcha rocks off yet? Huh? Did you?
Haven't you always wanted a boyfriend with whom you can share makeup tips and jewelry? The boys of Poison are betting you have - and the thousands of screaming girls who once filled stadiums to seem them strut and hear them caterwaul into their mics seem like pretty good evidence of this.
I mean, those big pouty lips, the perfectly teased hair, the sensitive power ballads...just don't say I didn't warn you, every rose has its thorns.
Ah, Motley Crue. The eyeliner says maybe I'm a girl, the grease smudges say maybe I'm a guy, but the sex tapes - now they're definitive.
They call it cock rock for a reason, and the reason is Motley Crue and their love and exploitation of girls, girls, girls. Tommy Lee is the ultimate bad boy, but the dude still knows how to accessorize - he definitely knows that bigger does mean better. And Nikki Sixx, well, what else should be said of a man who parties hard enough to occasionally be declared dead? Image is everything, so when you pose for the cameras, grab your crotch, your Playboy Bunny wife, and pour some Jack D's on your chest, and you're set - for life.
Same big hair, same approach to applying blush, but Guns N Roses introduced the sleaze factor to glam rock, and changed it forever.
Nobody does sex, drugs, and rock&roll like the boys from GNR - I mean when you call yourself Axl Rose because it's an anagram for Oral Sex, you know you're hardcore, right?
Honourable Mentions: Whitesnake, Quiet Riot, Cinderella, Twisted Sister, Ratt, Britny Fox.
Most Fuckworthy:
After due consideration, I have to hand it to Bon Jovi, whether or not they truly belong in the Hair Band category or not. It was the 80s, they rocked the big hair, I say it counts. Totally.
If you doubt, just refer to the sophisticated layering of billowy jackets, and yes, even the fringe.
Told ya.
Plus, these guys have enough hair to make their own llama, should they so choose.
Anyway, I'm not sure how embarrassed I should be to admit this, but I don't ever remember a time when I wasn't a Bon Jovi fan.
In my defense (?), underneath all that hair was hiding a true hottie.
Ladies (and certain gentlemen) of the jury, may I present the evidence:
The Contenders:
Van Halen were the trail-blazers in Glam Metal: peek-a-boo nipples and tight leather, what more could a girl ask for?Those were the days, back when 8 inches referred to the height of your bangs.
You'd think it would be hard to act macho while looking like a girl, but these guy showed us how it's done. And when they sang Jamie's Crying, we got the message: you girls had better put out, dammit. And we did, in the back seats of Chevettes, with the tape deck blaring away.
The guys of Def Leppard appear to have shared a bottle of bleach, and are rocking the "business in the front, party in the back" look with their long, luxurious locks.
However, it's probably the impossibly-tight denim, highlighting the package area, that's really turning you on right now. I mean, you might have been confused with the hair and the tank tops, so here's something that screams Hey baby, I'm a MAN, Rooowwwr.
So, did you getcha rocks off yet? Huh? Did you?
Haven't you always wanted a boyfriend with whom you can share makeup tips and jewelry? The boys of Poison are betting you have - and the thousands of screaming girls who once filled stadiums to seem them strut and hear them caterwaul into their mics seem like pretty good evidence of this.
I mean, those big pouty lips, the perfectly teased hair, the sensitive power ballads...just don't say I didn't warn you, every rose has its thorns.
Ah, Motley Crue. The eyeliner says maybe I'm a girl, the grease smudges say maybe I'm a guy, but the sex tapes - now they're definitive.
They call it cock rock for a reason, and the reason is Motley Crue and their love and exploitation of girls, girls, girls. Tommy Lee is the ultimate bad boy, but the dude still knows how to accessorize - he definitely knows that bigger does mean better. And Nikki Sixx, well, what else should be said of a man who parties hard enough to occasionally be declared dead? Image is everything, so when you pose for the cameras, grab your crotch, your Playboy Bunny wife, and pour some Jack D's on your chest, and you're set - for life.
Same big hair, same approach to applying blush, but Guns N Roses introduced the sleaze factor to glam rock, and changed it forever.
Nobody does sex, drugs, and rock&roll like the boys from GNR - I mean when you call yourself Axl Rose because it's an anagram for Oral Sex, you know you're hardcore, right?
Honourable Mentions: Whitesnake, Quiet Riot, Cinderella, Twisted Sister, Ratt, Britny Fox.
Most Fuckworthy:
After due consideration, I have to hand it to Bon Jovi, whether or not they truly belong in the Hair Band category or not. It was the 80s, they rocked the big hair, I say it counts. Totally.If you doubt, just refer to the sophisticated layering of billowy jackets, and yes, even the fringe.
Told ya.
Plus, these guys have enough hair to make their own llama, should they so choose.
Anyway, I'm not sure how embarrassed I should be to admit this, but I don't ever remember a time when I wasn't a Bon Jovi fan.
In my defense (?), underneath all that hair was hiding a true hottie.
Ladies (and certain gentlemen) of the jury, may I present the evidence:
I rest my case.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
The Freckle.
You taste like nothing in this waking world
Your lips paint a dreamscape I'd gladly melt into
Until you take me by the wrist a little roughly
Lead me to the room where you've made a nest
Out of old familiar satin sheets
And then you cover me to uncover me,
Discover me and rediscover me,
Reacquaint yourself with curves you've not forgotten.
Eyelashes on my stomach; hot breath at my nape
In what's left of dying light
I see your irises iridescent with greedy intent
Your body bathed in shadows
That hide in all your hallowed hollows.
Your mouth, already swollen from crushing kisses,
Brushes my ear as you hold yourself against me
Remember when I moved in you, I hear,
And I shiver savagely at the memory
The fire licks between my legs and I combust.
But though I ache with all the wanting,
Though the very marrow of my bones sings for you,
You take time for adulation
At the chapel of my chest
The Centre of the Universe, you call it
While the rest of the world calls it freckle.
As you slide across my skin again
I lose myself in a swoon of surrender
I wrap my legs around you
I keep you close, and closer
I part my lips to taste forever
You trace them with responsive fingertips
And like waves breaking on the sandy beach of my soul
You slip inside against my molten current.
You reach inside of me, so deep inside
And when I gasp you know you're golden
And silver in the moonlight
I sway my hips as if I'm dancing
We dance together in the dusk.
Only my shoulders still touch the bed
As you slam into my senses
I am punch-drunk with your lust and my lust
But when your fingers find my sweetest spot
I am sobered by the stimulation.
And then we shout into the darkness
Together, two frantic voices, two arching bodies
We collapse and lay panting like satiated animals
In the bed where we've embraced for years
Where we sleep and suck and screw
Where you pray to The Centre of the Universe.
Your lips paint a dreamscape I'd gladly melt into
Until you take me by the wrist a little roughly
Lead me to the room where you've made a nest
Out of old familiar satin sheets
And then you cover me to uncover me,
Discover me and rediscover me,
Reacquaint yourself with curves you've not forgotten.
Eyelashes on my stomach; hot breath at my nape
In what's left of dying light
I see your irises iridescent with greedy intent
Your body bathed in shadows
That hide in all your hallowed hollows.
Your mouth, already swollen from crushing kisses,
Brushes my ear as you hold yourself against me
Remember when I moved in you, I hear,
And I shiver savagely at the memory
The fire licks between my legs and I combust.
But though I ache with all the wanting,
Though the very marrow of my bones sings for you,
You take time for adulation
At the chapel of my chest
The Centre of the Universe, you call it
While the rest of the world calls it freckle.
As you slide across my skin again
I lose myself in a swoon of surrender
I wrap my legs around you
I keep you close, and closer
I part my lips to taste forever
You trace them with responsive fingertips
And like waves breaking on the sandy beach of my soul
You slip inside against my molten current.
You reach inside of me, so deep inside
And when I gasp you know you're golden
And silver in the moonlight
I sway my hips as if I'm dancing
We dance together in the dusk.
Only my shoulders still touch the bed
As you slam into my senses
I am punch-drunk with your lust and my lust
But when your fingers find my sweetest spot
I am sobered by the stimulation.
And then we shout into the darkness
Together, two frantic voices, two arching bodies
We collapse and lay panting like satiated animals
In the bed where we've embraced for years
Where we sleep and suck and screw
Where you pray to The Centre of the Universe.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
G.I. Jay
You know the saying "You can never go home again"?
This is one of those stories.
I didn't make a new year's resolution this year, but clearly I should have.
I should have said: This year, I promise to be less impetuous.
I should have said: This year, I will think before acting.
I should have said: This year, I will not make major decisions on a lark.
And I sure as hell should have said: If for some reason, I decide to shave off all my hair, I really, really shouldn't be so generous as to let my husband hold the clippers.
Now my Grandma is totally gonna think I'm a skinhead.
That is all.
This is one of those stories.
I didn't make a new year's resolution this year, but clearly I should have.
I should have said: This year, I promise to be less impetuous.
I should have said: This year, I will think before acting.
I should have said: This year, I will not make major decisions on a lark.
And I sure as hell should have said: If for some reason, I decide to shave off all my hair, I really, really shouldn't be so generous as to let my husband hold the clippers.
Now my Grandma is totally gonna think I'm a skinhead.
That is all.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Party Animals
Day Five: Plague of the Mother-In-Law Continues
It's been a long 5 days at this point. She's not a bad person, but she has two major flaws that make spending time with her a little less than bearable:
a) She tells bad jokes. Very bad jokes. The kind of jokes that you can hardly even tell are jokes because they're so unfunny, except for the fact that she raises her eyebrows at you in just such a way that conveys that she expects lots and lots of laughter. For example, at the CN Tower she went on and on about the job of the elevator operators having its 'ups and downs'. Har har. As if that joke hasn't been around since the invention of the elevator itself.
b) She whines and complains about everything. She seems to think that everyone is delighted to hear her health updates every 30 seconds. She is constantly tired, hungry, and headachy.
Every second thing out of her mouth was beginning to grate on our nerves, and we had no real way of alleviating any of our annoyance, so we'd just squeeze the hell out of each other's hands when we were hearing about yet another complaint or cornball joke.
And yes, I did sprain a couple of fingers when Jason crushed them as his mother told us that Toronto had too many friggin stairs.
Anyway.
Since Sunday was complainy day, we cut it short and went home, which sucked. Our brilliant plan was to keep her occupied at all costs...also, wandering around museums gave us the chance to get "lost" in exhibits, and steal some moments to ourselves.
Monday was zoo day.
We were there at 9:30 in the morning. The air was brisk, but otherwise it didn't feel much like a Canadian wintery day. However, the zoo website did assure us that visitors and animals alike were invited indoors during the cold months.
But when we got there, we walked 10 minutes through the deserted grounds, just to find 2 lazy polar bears who didn't seem to understand that we'd paid $75 to gape at them. Surely for that price we were entitled to some activity?
But no. These bears wallowed in their case of the Mondays and I immediately began to sweat, even in the barely-above-freezing temperatures. I mean, we'd allotted at least 3 hours of zoo time, and if it continued to suck this much, I would have to pull out some other activity from my ass to keep us all from killing each other.
Finally, luckily, we found the Americas pavilion, and headed in where I hoped that either we'd become highly entertained, or there'd be a badly-supervised bear den where I could test my pushing skills.
The biggest problem with the Americas pavilion at the Toronto Zoo is that to get to see anything cool, you always have to walk through a leafy area that houses loose birds. And I am afraid of loose birds.
I won't even go into pet stores for fear that there will be a parrot with an open cage. The idea of a bird, even a very friendly one, swooping at my head just stops me cold. So if this picture of Jason with the Victoria Crowned Pigeon looks blurry, it's because I was keeping my eye on the scarlet-headed blackbird. That guy looked shifty.
After the Americas, we visited Australasia, where I was left alone with this guy: a tree kangaroo. He looks kind of cute and cuddly, but I was pretty sure this was just a cleverly deceptive facade and that since there was no cage or glass between us, he could pounce on me at any moment.
I was fully prepared to unleash my sweet, sweet ninja skills on him if need be, but I was pretty sure that his tail would spell my defeat. I just can't compete with shit like that.
Anyway. He never did attack, as it turns out. And I relaxed a bit for the other guys...I liked this wombat. I wouldn't want to run into one in the bush, but as long as he's enclosed and I'm enclosed, I was feeling pretty good about things.
And I saw a very sweet looking wallaby, who I feel a great kinship for since my marsupialization surgery. The wallaby had his own pet - a bunny. Actually, the bunny seemed freakishly large to me. I think I would feel safer with the tree kangaroo than the bunny.
Jason made friends with a lot of animals. I know that supposedly humans come from an apish ancestry, but I think this picture makes a very strong case for us coming up from out of the water. If you're having trouble distinguishing, that's Jason on the right, and the jumbo gourami on the left. I think.
So by this time I was feeling a bit better with the zoo, even though I kept a healthy fear in me the whole time. When we'd walk up to an exhibit, you'd really have to look for the animals. So I knew that I was looking for lions, but when I actually realized I was looking at lions, it startled me. Every time. Dude, lions. Those fuckers are huge! Plus, it was a bit disconcerting that the zoo is less than 10 minutes from my house. If they ever get out, they're coming for me, I just know it.
We did not see any actual grizzly bears at the zoo, because as you know, they're hibernating right now. We also did not see any zebras because if the sign is to be believed, they are currently "under construction."
Shucks.
We saw the cheetahs at play (remind me to never play with cheetahs) but we were unable to spot Chloe, the one-eyed cheetah. We also saw the giraffes, who were being kept separated because apparently the boy giraffe will smell the girl giraffe's pee to check for "fertility" and then want to jump her giraffe bones.
Actually, a lot of animals were getting a little sumfin sumfin at the zoo on Monday morning. We saw some randy turtles. They look like they're playing a weird stacking game when they mate. Apparently they blow bubbles under water to seduce each other.
Mr. and Mrs. Warthog, pictured here, have obviously been married a long time because there were no candles or rose petals when we interrupted them mid-coitus. And apparently Mr. Warthog is one of those guys who finishes no matter what comes up - even with the appearance of unexpected guests.
Actually, the most disturbing part is realizing that all it takes is half a bottle of wine before we dissolve into our warthog selves, noises and all.
And unfortunately, I can't even blame this picture on any wine. Animals just make Jason excited, I guess. This hippo was located near the African Savanna exhibit, where I was surprised to learn that "traditional" African fare comprises of Pizza Pizza and Beaver Tails. All these years my mother's been telling me that poor African babies are starving, and finally the zoo tells me the truth! Oh the things you learn when you leave the house.....
Okay, so the Savanna was good, but the African Rainforest was great! That's where we met Charles, a very dignified lowland gorilla.
I could have paid my money just to sit and watch him all day long. He had very soulful eyes. Charles shares his habitat with other gorilla friends, but Monday morning must be his alone time. He just sat right in front of us and stared right back.
So now I have 2 favourite monkeys!
One of these guys is highly educated and a brilliant artist.
Unfortunately, I'm married to the other one.
Charles not only paints in his spare time, but he sells his artwork for charity. Does that maybe make you feel just the smallest bit inadequate? Inferior?
Charles is something else.
I could have stayed in the monkey house for ages, but I'm glad we left enough time to visit the Indomalayan exhibit, where we met this tapir.
Now, I admit that I had never even heard of such an animal before this visit. He has a small trunk like an elephant, and his toes click like a tap dancer when he walks. He's quite large, and he sprays piss like a hose, which we witnessed over and over until suddenly I began to wonder if perhaps if he so directed it, the spray might actually reach us....and so then we left. But I shall always remember the tapir, although not fondly.
I liked the marmosets for sure, and the macaques.
I was pretty relieved that the hyenas slept through our visit.
I was thoroughly creeped out by the komodo dragon, who can apparently take down horses, goats, and water buffalo!
And I was sad to know the story of Kartiko, a gentle orangutan who met his end because a thoughtless family threw cookies into his exhibit.
In the end, we spent more than 4 hours at the zoo, and had it been slightly warmer (or had Jason and I not had Miss Complainy 2006 in tow) we would have spent loads more time making the longer treks to other domains.
But I must say, I really liked the zoo, even if it did smell "poopy" an awful lot - the rhino is not a considerate host. I even took home a monkey of my own (well, besides Jason I mean).
Then we raced to the train station to make sure MIL got the hell out of Toronto right on time - and of course the subway system encountered 3 separate problems, forcing us to ditch it halfway there, flag down a death-car (aka, taxi) and risk death just to be mother-free.
It was totally worth it.
We had 5 whole days off, but I have never been so lonesome for my husband. It's kind of shocking really, how much we like it to be just the 2 of us. No wonder we won't have children! We hate sharing our time with anyone else. We went home, totally tuckered out, and I immediately had a drink and did not put the glass into the sink. I peed with the bathroom door wide open. Jason took off his pants, and we sat on the couch so I could hold his penis and let out the string of swear words that I have been holding inside of me for far, far too long.
Ah. That's better.
It's been a long 5 days at this point. She's not a bad person, but she has two major flaws that make spending time with her a little less than bearable:
a) She tells bad jokes. Very bad jokes. The kind of jokes that you can hardly even tell are jokes because they're so unfunny, except for the fact that she raises her eyebrows at you in just such a way that conveys that she expects lots and lots of laughter. For example, at the CN Tower she went on and on about the job of the elevator operators having its 'ups and downs'. Har har. As if that joke hasn't been around since the invention of the elevator itself.
b) She whines and complains about everything. She seems to think that everyone is delighted to hear her health updates every 30 seconds. She is constantly tired, hungry, and headachy.
Every second thing out of her mouth was beginning to grate on our nerves, and we had no real way of alleviating any of our annoyance, so we'd just squeeze the hell out of each other's hands when we were hearing about yet another complaint or cornball joke.
And yes, I did sprain a couple of fingers when Jason crushed them as his mother told us that Toronto had too many friggin stairs.
Anyway.
Since Sunday was complainy day, we cut it short and went home, which sucked. Our brilliant plan was to keep her occupied at all costs...also, wandering around museums gave us the chance to get "lost" in exhibits, and steal some moments to ourselves.
Monday was zoo day.
We were there at 9:30 in the morning. The air was brisk, but otherwise it didn't feel much like a Canadian wintery day. However, the zoo website did assure us that visitors and animals alike were invited indoors during the cold months.But when we got there, we walked 10 minutes through the deserted grounds, just to find 2 lazy polar bears who didn't seem to understand that we'd paid $75 to gape at them. Surely for that price we were entitled to some activity?
But no. These bears wallowed in their case of the Mondays and I immediately began to sweat, even in the barely-above-freezing temperatures. I mean, we'd allotted at least 3 hours of zoo time, and if it continued to suck this much, I would have to pull out some other activity from my ass to keep us all from killing each other.
Finally, luckily, we found the Americas pavilion, and headed in where I hoped that either we'd become highly entertained, or there'd be a badly-supervised bear den where I could test my pushing skills.
The biggest problem with the Americas pavilion at the Toronto Zoo is that to get to see anything cool, you always have to walk through a leafy area that houses loose birds. And I am afraid of loose birds.
I won't even go into pet stores for fear that there will be a parrot with an open cage. The idea of a bird, even a very friendly one, swooping at my head just stops me cold. So if this picture of Jason with the Victoria Crowned Pigeon looks blurry, it's because I was keeping my eye on the scarlet-headed blackbird. That guy looked shifty.
After the Americas, we visited Australasia, where I was left alone with this guy: a tree kangaroo. He looks kind of cute and cuddly, but I was pretty sure this was just a cleverly deceptive facade and that since there was no cage or glass between us, he could pounce on me at any moment.I was fully prepared to unleash my sweet, sweet ninja skills on him if need be, but I was pretty sure that his tail would spell my defeat. I just can't compete with shit like that.
Anyway. He never did attack, as it turns out. And I relaxed a bit for the other guys...I liked this wombat. I wouldn't want to run into one in the bush, but as long as he's enclosed and I'm enclosed, I was feeling pretty good about things.And I saw a very sweet looking wallaby, who I feel a great kinship for since my marsupialization surgery. The wallaby had his own pet - a bunny. Actually, the bunny seemed freakishly large to me. I think I would feel safer with the tree kangaroo than the bunny.
Jason made friends with a lot of animals. I know that supposedly humans come from an apish ancestry, but I think this picture makes a very strong case for us coming up from out of the water. If you're having trouble distinguishing, that's Jason on the right, and the jumbo gourami on the left. I think.
So by this time I was feeling a bit better with the zoo, even though I kept a healthy fear in me the whole time. When we'd walk up to an exhibit, you'd really have to look for the animals. So I knew that I was looking for lions, but when I actually realized I was looking at lions, it startled me. Every time. Dude, lions. Those fuckers are huge! Plus, it was a bit disconcerting that the zoo is less than 10 minutes from my house. If they ever get out, they're coming for me, I just know it.
We did not see any actual grizzly bears at the zoo, because as you know, they're hibernating right now. We also did not see any zebras because if the sign is to be believed, they are currently "under construction."
Shucks.
We saw the cheetahs at play (remind me to never play with cheetahs) but we were unable to spot Chloe, the one-eyed cheetah. We also saw the giraffes, who were being kept separated because apparently the boy giraffe will smell the girl giraffe's pee to check for "fertility" and then want to jump her giraffe bones.
Actually, a lot of animals were getting a little sumfin sumfin at the zoo on Monday morning. We saw some randy turtles. They look like they're playing a weird stacking game when they mate. Apparently they blow bubbles under water to seduce each other.Mr. and Mrs. Warthog, pictured here, have obviously been married a long time because there were no candles or rose petals when we interrupted them mid-coitus. And apparently Mr. Warthog is one of those guys who finishes no matter what comes up - even with the appearance of unexpected guests.
Actually, the most disturbing part is realizing that all it takes is half a bottle of wine before we dissolve into our warthog selves, noises and all.
And unfortunately, I can't even blame this picture on any wine. Animals just make Jason excited, I guess. This hippo was located near the African Savanna exhibit, where I was surprised to learn that "traditional" African fare comprises of Pizza Pizza and Beaver Tails. All these years my mother's been telling me that poor African babies are starving, and finally the zoo tells me the truth! Oh the things you learn when you leave the house.....
Okay, so the Savanna was good, but the African Rainforest was great! That's where we met Charles, a very dignified lowland gorilla.
I could have paid my money just to sit and watch him all day long. He had very soulful eyes. Charles shares his habitat with other gorilla friends, but Monday morning must be his alone time. He just sat right in front of us and stared right back.
So now I have 2 favourite monkeys!
One of these guys is highly educated and a brilliant artist.
Unfortunately, I'm married to the other one.
Charles not only paints in his spare time, but he sells his artwork for charity. Does that maybe make you feel just the smallest bit inadequate? Inferior?
Charles is something else.
I could have stayed in the monkey house for ages, but I'm glad we left enough time to visit the Indomalayan exhibit, where we met this tapir.Now, I admit that I had never even heard of such an animal before this visit. He has a small trunk like an elephant, and his toes click like a tap dancer when he walks. He's quite large, and he sprays piss like a hose, which we witnessed over and over until suddenly I began to wonder if perhaps if he so directed it, the spray might actually reach us....and so then we left. But I shall always remember the tapir, although not fondly.
I liked the marmosets for sure, and the macaques.
I was pretty relieved that the hyenas slept through our visit.
I was thoroughly creeped out by the komodo dragon, who can apparently take down horses, goats, and water buffalo!
And I was sad to know the story of Kartiko, a gentle orangutan who met his end because a thoughtless family threw cookies into his exhibit.
In the end, we spent more than 4 hours at the zoo, and had it been slightly warmer (or had Jason and I not had Miss Complainy 2006 in tow) we would have spent loads more time making the longer treks to other domains.
But I must say, I really liked the zoo, even if it did smell "poopy" an awful lot - the rhino is not a considerate host. I even took home a monkey of my own (well, besides Jason I mean).
Then we raced to the train station to make sure MIL got the hell out of Toronto right on time - and of course the subway system encountered 3 separate problems, forcing us to ditch it halfway there, flag down a death-car (aka, taxi) and risk death just to be mother-free.
It was totally worth it.
We had 5 whole days off, but I have never been so lonesome for my husband. It's kind of shocking really, how much we like it to be just the 2 of us. No wonder we won't have children! We hate sharing our time with anyone else. We went home, totally tuckered out, and I immediately had a drink and did not put the glass into the sink. I peed with the bathroom door wide open. Jason took off his pants, and we sat on the couch so I could hold his penis and let out the string of swear words that I have been holding inside of me for far, far too long.
Ah. That's better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)