Thwarted.

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

Which explains why I'm home alone.

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

Typical.

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

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

Will not heat about 200 degrees.

The cakes were doomed.

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

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

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

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

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

Ooooh, that's hot.

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

Deep breaths.

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

Or is that even far enough away?

Things That Make You Go Boo.

-One nickel short.

-Puffy eyes from too little sleep.

-Uneven sunburns.

-Lettuce shortage.

-Missing opening night.

-Dry, peeling hands.

-Waiting in the rain for someone to open the door when you had keys all along.

-Losing an important receipt.





Thank god for mandarin slices; looking forward to them really got me through the week.
What got you through yours?

Defined.

Healthy:

1. Possessing good health.
2. Conducive to good health; healthful.
3. Indicative of sound, rational thinking or frame of mind.
4. Sizable; considerable.

1. Some days, it feels like I am falling apart at the seams. Epsom salts and pedicures don't do much for improperly fused bones in your feet. Between Jason and I, we've covered many multitudes of ridiculous diseases, including but not limited to mono (which is how we met), herpes zoster (just in time for our wedding), appendicitis, vitamin deficiencies requiring needles the size of my thigh, and unforgettably, a 2-year on-going ordeal involving my back and a "relatively simple" procedure that has now become ludicrous in its dogged pervasiveness. But all of these things amount to mere annoyances in the grand scheme of things.

These days we tend to look back on our hospital stays as good stories. How many couples can say that they've seen each other's insides? We know we're lucky. Youth and health are easy to take for granted when you have them, but neither can last forever.

2. It's one thing to be healthy; it's another to stay that way. And when life gets chaotic, all too often the first thing to be sacrificed is the healthy lifestyle.

I'll be the first to admit that Jason and I indulge ourselves: bottles of wine, restaurants with friends, chocolate-covered delicacies by candlelight. When we have people over for dinner, I get crackin in the kitchen, which usually results in at least one person wondering how Jason eats this way every night without putting on the pounds.

Here's our deep, dark secret: we don't eat that way every night. That's how we treat guests, and ourselves, but it is a treat. When I bake, we might nibble and sample a bit, but the bulk of it always gets sent away, either to the soup kitchen, or the residence where I volunteer, or to Jason's work where many of his colleagues are deprived of home-made anything. Most nights our meals are vegetable-heavy (I can't help it, I'm addicted). It helps that I like to cook, that way we don't do take-out very often, although on nights when we've both been out late and neither of us feels like working in the kitchen, I admit it's mighty tempting to settle for a Big Mac.

That's why tomorrow, on my treasured day off, I will be slicing and dicing in the kitchen so that we have some good meals prepared in advance.

We need to have fuel because we're busy people. Physical therapy is still hard work for me, but it's paying off: when I chase Jason up the side of a bluff, I can manage a few shouts of triumph before giving in to the urge to find breath, fast. We hike, and we walk, and we swim, and we laugh about how terribly we play tennis.

But the one area where we could stand some definite improvement is in the sleep department, which is where I think a lot of people suffer. We do need good sleep to stay healthy. It's astonishing how quickly your immune system is compromised when you're not well-rested. Unfortunately, insomnia doesn't really care whether I've had my 8 hours, and selfish pig that I am, I don't always care that Jason has, because I want company, dammit!

I've been trying to be better about that. I try to let him sleep. I try to sleep myself, but the fact that I've read 69 books in the 6 months so far of this year probably is a good indication that I've had a lot of extra time on my hands. Obviously, I would have no probably reaching the 100-book quota for 2006, but thus far it looks like Jason, who is actually trying to meet this challenge, is having a bit of trouble. I've explained to him the benefits of having those extra 8 hours a day (the ones he keeps wasting on sleep), but he turns right around and lectures me about consequences (consequence #1 - cranky bitchiness).

3. The other side of health is the mental side.

Mental is right.

For me, finding good head space is often as easy as taking a break from the computer and working on my projects in the park for a couple of hours, just me, a notepad, a pencil, and some SPF 874.

Jason likes a nice backrub in bed (okay, honestly, who doesn't like that? anyone?). Sometimes life starts zooming past us, and we have to make the concerted effort to pause. It's not easy, but who are we if we aren't putting ourselves first?


4. Healthy? I think so, yes. I mean, I'm definitely chubbier than I should be. I gained weight after my back surgery, and then continued to gain after the next one and the next one, and though I've stopped gaining, I'm not losing because of the medication I'm on. But according to my physical therapist "underneath all that fat, you're in the best shape of your life!"

Erm, was that a compliment? You gotta love this guy's enthusiasm, eh? Especially at 8am, believe me. Good stuff. Just 8 more, you say? Well fuck you!

So I try not to be depressed by the number on the scale. I feel good, I look good. Jason claims he's barely noticed any weight gain at all (men are such awful liars). And when it comes right down to it, weight and health are not synonyms anyway.

Health is a choice, and it's not always the easiest one to make. But I love the life I lead, and I love my husband, and I'd like to enjoy both for many moons to come. And with that in mind, the choice is easy.

But that doesn't mean I'll deny myself a healthy slice of chocolate cake tonight...after all, I do deserve it.






So tell me, what neat-o things are you doing to stay healthy, in any sense of the word?

So Little Time, So Many Martinis

Hello, exhaustion, my faithful friend. How've you been?

It's been 18 days since Jason and I last had a day off together. I called him at work yesterday to ask him how many freckles he has on his inner thigh. I'd forgotten, and it upset me that I'd forgotten. I love those freckles. I miss those freckles. He put me on hold and went to the bathroom to check.

He was home by 7 last night, but by 7 I was at the retirement residence where I volunteer, calling out bingo numbers in a faux-british accent that the residents really love. Then we all ate the bran/chocolate chip muffins that I'd brought (ew) and I chatted with Mrs. Harrington about a cat named Sprinkles that's been dead for 37 years. The good thing about the Golden Palm is that last call is always 9pm, at which point the residents start insisting that "It's way past my bedtime, dear" and I can make an early exit, having played only 18 games of checkers and a dozen hands of gin.

The only quality time I spend with Jason anymore is when he keeps me company in the bathroom while I soak my screaming feet. I sit in the too-hot bath, trying not to cry, and he sits on the toilet facing the bath, trying to distract me with funny stories, such as the Christian girl at work who has an enormously public crush on him (to which I reply, how Christian can she be if she wants to jump the bones of a married man? to which Jason replies, I think she mostly just wants to hold hands or something).

Every day is the same, but different.

I "teach" a class on creative writing, and spend most of my time trying to come up with non-lame assignments. I come home with sore feet and ink-stained fingers, and my head in the clouds.

I spend several afternoons a week at a group home for the developmentally disabled. I have now made so many arts and crafts out of popsicle sticks that if I ever come across the person responsible for white craft glue, I will knock their teeth out. The only thing white glue will bond together is fingers. I teach them french songs and make pizza pinwheels and spend a quarter of my time there running warm water to unstick fingers.

On the weekends I lead a class on digital photography for "golden agers". Considering how lacking my skills are, I am pleased to note that the group, once they learned where the ON buttons were, was only too happy to just follow me around interesting parts of Toronto, clicking away until our batteries are depleted.

Jason, meanwhile, stays late at work out of the goodness of his heart because mothers let their kids roam wild at the mall, and then become upset when they can't find them. Jason now rivals milk cartons in missing child action. He's been pulling double duty lately because his colleague brought her white husband home to Korea for the first time ever to meet her family, and you can imagine what kinds of fun they're having while Jason combs patiently through racks of clothing looking for small, devious children hiding amongst the hangers.

And as much as I miss my husband, I have to give time to my friends. None of us are static anymore. As we passed our thai orders up and down a long table to accommodate us all, I realized how quickly things are changing, how quickly we are changing. Of course, I was too busy trying to absorb all the wedding news, baby news, career news, family news, that I neglected to pick the chili peppers out of my food. I swallowed several, whole. I burnt off the left side of my throat and tongue. I think the mucus layer of my throat literally peeled off (and I subsequently swallowed it, of course). Days later, it's still so raw that I've been existing on a diet of fruit juice and milkshakes. When Jason picked me up, I really appreciated how hard he tried not to laugh at me. He tried really, really hard. I could tell.

But Jason is battling demons of his own. His mother is threatening to get married again, and though she hasn't yet found a man who will comply, Jason is quaking as he gets his favourite suit pressed and ready for stand-by.

And though today is my day off, I have already spent the morning battling Gilad. Gilad is the task-master assigned to "build my core strength", whatever that means. I'm still battling back from several back surgeries, and Gilad likes to see me pay in sweat.

What Gilad doesn't know is that I left the masochistic world of aerobics to come home to dozens and dozens of cookies, which I have promised to send with Jason to his work. I'm making white chocolate macadamia cookies, which are sinfully delicious, because with each bite I am reminded of the $72 I paid for the nuts alone. $72 for nuts! But damn are they good.

It adds up, though. It all adds up. I'm tired. I took a small break from laundry to sit down and say hello to all of you but all I can think is: nap, nap, go nap, bed is empty, Jamie tired, must nap, go nap. And the urge for napping is so strong that I have to pinch myself to remember the real order of the day: laundry, cookies, post office, library, NO time for naps. In fact, the only thing we seem to find time for these days is claiming an empty table at Jake's for some very cold, very alcoholic drinks. We're both so tired that we drink mostly in silence, neither of us fully capable of forming complete sentences. But we hold hands, and when he looks into my eyes, I know he is thinking the same exact thing as I am:

Why the fuck did we book our holidays all the way in August?

Jamie to the Rescue

Some time ago I expressed my sheer and utter delight at having become the internet's leading source on goat sex. Since then, I have made impressive gains in the fields of grandma sex, fuckfests of all kinds (not just the Friday variety), morning erections, and last but certainly not least, the inflatable date category, otherwise known as blow up dolls.

Ah yes.

And as always, I am inundated by questions that people ask (read: Google anonymously) in earnest, but probably find unsatisfactory answers, judging solely by the absolute crap offered up sneakily disguised as truth on Kill the Goat.

Out of guilt, and possible libel suits, here is my attempt to rectify the situation:

1. I'll start today with whomever had the pressing need to know about who "rimmed her mistress."

First, let me highlight the fact that it wasn't me, no matter what you've heard.

And that's assuming you mean rimming as in applying coarse salt to a margarita glass.

If you're talking about old Colonel Angus, I'm afraid I'll have to plead the fifth. I mean, remember when we found out about President Clinton and the black kiss he supposedly shared with Monica? That didn't go over so well for him, now did it? So I'm thinking that pornos aside, the whole anal-oral thing exists mostly behind doors (and hopefully, mostly behind dental dams). So the only advice I can offer you is this: if your mistress is having a series of "this one time, at bandcamp" moments, well, maybe you should pick up your rusty trombone and join her.

Just stop looking at me like that.


2. Another oft-repeated question is "Do women hate hosiery?"

Clearly, these are all google hits from males. I don't think there's a female over 11 who would have to ask that. If you don't believe me, just ask whoever bluntly googled "pantyhose makes your crotch sweaty." Does that sound nice to you?

No, I thought not. The truth about nylons is this: they were invented to counter the feminist movement.

With such fragile, finnicky things as the only barrier between our untouchable skin and the big, bad world, men thought that surely they could keep us daintily in the home, doing nothing more streneous or adventurous than ironing on the highest setting.

But they were wrong. We ditched the nylons; now we're wearing pants and the whole world has gone to hell, and there's not a single woman left who doesn't curse the rare occasions that she tries to contort herself into lycra-induced purgatory.

3. Another young, naive individual happened upon Kill the Goat searching for "what makes men irresistible."

There is only one thing that makes a man irresistible: money. Preferably, lots of it. No matter what your moma tells you, no matter how many issues of Cosmo you've read, no matter how addicted to Dr. Phil you are, everything else is just pluses and minuses.

Cash is foolproof.

4. To the deluded individual who wondered "do straight men wear thongs?":

the answer is an unqualified and resounding no. Just no. That's all you need to know. If you need convincing, you can look here, but note, it's for the strong of stomach only.

In fact, my good friend L. assures me that gay men don't wear them, either. So who is wearing them? Just the trannies? Do we want to know?

No. No, we don't.

5. And finally, let me address a growing concern that has hit the internet like a storm:

Ben Affleck's long toenails. Now, I don't know Ben Affleck, or his feet. I don't even remember having seen a picture of his uncovered foot. But the internet runs on the fumes of rumours, not facts, and who am I to say I'm better than the internet?

Ben Affleck, shame on you. May you be cursed with drinking problems and low box office returns and shotgun weddings for possibly (but maybe not) inflicting your gross toes on the world at large.

Because whether you're Ben Affleck or not, here's the thing: if you leave your house in sandals, you have a duty to humanity to have presentable feet. No one's toenails should ever be anything but extremely short. Even a woman with the french-pedicure thing going on makes me throw up in my mouth a bit. Trim, people, trim!

My Feet Fuckin Hurt, Man.

Dear Feet,

I don't think I like you anymore.

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

Until then, please know that this strike is illegal.

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

I used to depend on you, feet.

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

I guess I thought wrong.

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

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

So, feet: step up.

I still have a lot of stomping to do.

Canadians Draft Beer, Not Soldiers

So.

Wednesday already? How did that happen?

Somewhere between Jason being mistaken for a burglar and me having a good cry in a dressing room, this week has really flown by.

But I did manage to watch half of Memoirs of a Geisha, and half of Donnie Darko, plus I've read half of Canterbury Tales, and half of Beautiful Losers. So I've attempted an awful lot - completed nothing, mind you, but attempted plenty.

And that's to say nothing of the half-sunburn I've got going, not to be confused with Jason's frostbite, which is now half peeled away (thank goodness), or the problem with my tender tootsies that has got me better than halfway to disability.

So we were sitting on a busy little patio the other day, having food and drinking drinks, watching traffic go by while Jason tells me the story of how he apprehended some shop lifters, sadly, a family of four, the mother using her 2 young children as camouflage as she stuffed all kinds of merchandise into their strollers. When they were stopped, they'd stolen items from all over the mall - American Eagle, Shopper's Drug Mart, Toys R Us, Winners, literally thousands of dollars worth of stuff. So the mother and father comforted their restless children while they waited for the police to arrive; no one was surprised to learn that the mother has a long list of previous charges. When the police arrived at Jason's store, another shoplifter got nervous and dumped his H&M haul into the nearest dressing room and hauled ass. I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, but in the end, I didn't have to choose.

We were interrupted, by some dude doing card tricks.

A magician, if you will.

Thank goodness I don't eat ribs or wings; he kept asking to use "the lady's magic hands", which is possibly sexual harassment, I'm not sure. Anyway. We let him do a couple of tricks and then he wandered away to bother/entertain another table. But we wondered: are you supposed to tip a magician? So, internet, what's the consensus? Tip the guy? Pull a quarter out of his ear? What's the deal? I mean, it's not like we were there for the magic. We were there because they pour beers so big it takes Jason both arms just to yank the giant mug off the table.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hot date with The Cake Bible...Jason ordered it from Amazon for me; I've lusted after it for a long time, but wouldn't spend the $60 myself. Paired with some loud Madonna and a couple of generous glasses of red wine, and I'd say I have an enviable afternoon ahead. And if the result is something decadent and chocolate, all the better.

Only God Knows Why

Thank you, Mary Lynne, for reminding me how short, and how precious, life really is.
I woke up this morning a very different person because of you.
You can never know how much it hurts me that you had to die for me to learn this lesson, that you did not wake up this morning, and never will again.

She was 26 years old. She died in her sleep of a heart condition she didn't know she had.



To Angela, as she watches her son slip away from her, slowly but surely, draining them both of light and health and happiness.
I'm sorry that there's nothing I can do; sorrier still that there's nothing you can do.
I know you die each night of heartache, and would rather not wake up at all than to wake up to reality.

She never thought she'd have to bury her child. He's 25, and he's counting down his final days.




And for Barb, who mourns for a baby she never got to meet.
We have to believe that it was for a reason, that it was for the best.
That you will get a second chance to be a mother.
That you are stronger than you think.

It was a girl. She just stopped growing.




With much love, Jason and I are thinking of you all.

Doors Wide Open

So after the sore feet of Saturday, Sunday dawns just as bright and beautiful.

Instead of free beer, we go for free chocolate.

The lineup at the Cadbury Factory on Gladstone is impressive. To me, it feels like a 45 minute wait, which we hope will be worth it, but the small boy behind us, who dubs Jason "Mister Glasses" (kindly, since he has dubbed another man "Mister Potato Head"), excitedly points out that we are the caboose - and suddenly I am touched at his ability to make the end of the line seem like the most prestigious place. But soon we are not the end of the line; in our 45 minute wait, the line more than doubles behind us. When our tour is completed, the line exceeds 2 city blocks.

We see fashions painted in chocolate, the ever-evolving wrapper of Crispy Crunch, experience hair nets galore, rub cocoa beans between our fingers and "enjoy" their bitter flavour, and sit in on a "chocology" session where we learn the well-kept Caramilk secret, but since we'd have to kill you if divulged, I'll keep my lips sealed.


All of Canada's Caramilk stock is made in the basement of this very factory, which does emit a noticeable chocolate smell into the air in the whole block surrounding it. Of course we cannot leave the factory without a visit to the gift shop, apparently not usually open to the public. Jason is the proverbial kid in a candy store, carrying as much as his arms can handle, and he's got big arms. We do find a few rarities and hope that they don't melt during the rest of our day. Proceeds go to charity, so we feel less guilty, but entirely guilt-free.

We cover many more kilometres on our trip to Todmorden Mills, where we traipse through a confusing mix of antiquated old buildings, the world's shortest wildlife preserve (don't blink or you'll miss it), and renovated buildings now housing art shows. The best part of Todmorden Mills is the bathroom. While not the prettiest, it was clean, and I had the best pee of my life, which I had been holding at that point for about 3 achy kilometres. We also had the unique experience of hurtling our bodies down the Don Valley Parkway to get to Todmorden Mills. I much prefer uphill, even if it is more of a strain; downhill always makes me feel like a runaway train. I get wild-eyed and panicky, and I look as foolish as I sound. After thoroughly exploring Todmorden, Jason impels me to stop for something to eat. He sees that my blood sugar is dipping constantly, and we all know what that means.....

The Bitch is close. Poor Jason. When I run out of fuel, my mood suffers. I become far more irritable and cranky, and at that point, I am unable to say that I'm hungry and often I will even refuse to be fed. Jason has learned to force-feed me without me noticing, which is as difficult as it sounds....but if you had to be around The Bitch, you'd probably learn to adapt real quick too.

We get some relief from the heat when we head down to The Beach. The heat is nice, the humidity a bit oppressive, but the closer we get to the water, the more we feel the most welcome breeze we've ever known. Sure we get harassed by homeless guys, and drunk guys, and homeless drunk guys, but the feel of cooling wind on our cheeks is worth it.

I collapse onto the grass at the Beaches Library, where we're meeting the rest of our walking group. I don't even care if my new white skirt becomes my new grass-stained skirt. I gaze up at the sky through the branches of a tree, and I have to look an awfully long time until my brain confirms what my eyes are seeing -


This poor raccoon had climbed up a tree earlier in the day, possibly the night before, and had remained there, clinging desperately for dear life. He was terrified to fall, but even more terrified to take his chances coming down amongst so many humans. He was so paralyzed with fear that at first I was sure it was a dead animal lodged in the branches, but no, he was alive and displaying oodles of enviable patience.

Anyway, soon our walking tour of the beach was off and marching alone with a vengeance, disobeying dozens of traffic laws in the process, I'm sure. The guide was so enthusiastic about the area that he brought us to admire spots that were not very admirable at all. Soon Jason and I broke off the group, watched some old ladies beat the shit out of each other over some lawn bowling, avoided stepping on dirty discarded needles in the sand, and made our own tour of the beach, mainly consisting of looking, with a little bit of sitting mixed in.



And that was our crazy weekend, followed by a week so crazy that I'm only now posting about last weekend just before the new one is about to begin. Since Jason works full-time, I try to schedule my deadlines and meetings around him, but this week was too hellish for any of my old tricks to work. Jason spent his day off yesterday without me (he pretends to be sad about this), and only picked me up at night, during the worst storm ever, and Toronto's first tornado warning of the season. I'm now thinking that perhaps our weekend would have been more restful if we had gone into hibernation instead of hitting the pavement, but unfortunately, you can't take mulligans on weekends. And now we've got our fingers crossed that Jason's next day off, which is not until next Tuesday, will also be my next day off.

So if you've got any fingers to spare, think of us.

Open Sesame: Doors Open Toronto

The weather was my bitch this weekend - it submitted so completely that I rarely had to unholster my cat-o-nine-tails.

And boy did we take advantage.

Toronto kindly opened its doors to all sorts of unsavoury characters this weekend, Jason and I among them. Supposedly we were to admire the city's impressive architecture, but we secretly toured only the cool places. Of 144 sites with doors wide open, we managed to visit 7. And we did good. All told, we walked nearly 40km in 2 days, and while this sets no records, it did take my 10 day old sandals and age them to approximately 16 years. And for a flat-footed soul like me, that's saying a lot.

Early starts were no problem since I've "conveniently" been waking up about 4:30. This means that by 10:30 on Saturday morning, Jason was chugging back beer at the Steam Whistle Brewery. Tim, the hottie tour guide, or Good Beer Folk, encouraged us to "smell the hops" which I'm pretty sure is a euphemism that I just wasn't getting. Despite the free samples, we left pretty cranky between the two of us - Jason wanted to toot the steam whistle, and I wanted to ride the little trains, but oh no, "This is for children only, ma'am", I was told, which I'm pretty sure is code for "Get your fat ass out of here." Either way, Jason was quite bemused that the tiny trains were actually powered by coal - the kind you buy at the grocery store for you grill, but still. Underneath this historic roundhouse now converted into a micro-brewery sits 10 levels of unhistoric parking garage...and possibly a top secret CSIS lab...or not.

The brewery sits in the shadows of the CN tower and the Rogers Centre so we squeezed between them (and about eleventy billion sweaty tourists) to get to the CBC building for an exciting tour of television studios. In reality, what we saw was a not so exciting tour of big empty rooms where cool stuff happens only when they're not open to the public. In fact, the big empty rooms were only distinguishable by the tour guides who assured us that they were either slightly bigger, or slightly smaller, or slightly to the left of all the others. They were all empty except for lights, but the guides really talk a big game. Royal Canadian Air Farce is sometimes here! Olympics coverage is sometimes here! Elephants and helicopters are sometimes here! (sometimes meaning not now...never now). And we tried our best to look impressed. I think we failed. But we were sufficiently grossed out to learn that the donuts from the coffee shop set are a year old and still going strong. They've basically pickled themselves at this point.

In the lobby there was a 'meet & greet' of CBC "celebrities", none of which we'd ever heard of before. Admittedly, we're not big TV people. But upon closer inspection, I realized that in fact, Strombo himself, maybe the only person worth turning on the boob tube for, was sitting on the panel. I have loved George Stroumboulopoulous since well before The Hour, and some woman with a headset was very insistent that I not be shy and go on up to collect some autographs. Despite the fact that Jason almost swallowed his tongue over this remark, the woman apparently had no idea how close she came to the famous Jamie Tongue-Lashing. In the end, I chose to neither greet nor meet George. No disrespect, but I think autographs are just signatures. It's just a name on paper. Who the fuck cares? And should I stand in line to say "Hey, I like your show" so he can say "Thanks" with as much sincerity as he can muster 80 dozen times in a row? Okay, so I'm a total cunt....the whole thing just leaves me a bit cold. However, I did stick around long enough to come across a pair of celebrities that would melt the frigid cockles of my heart.

Next we went to the distillery district where we toured a very old building that seemed only moments away from collapsing on us, and which smelled distinctly of hundreds of years worth of spilled whiskey. Not too bad at all.

And then off to Greek Town on Danforth, where we were summarily marched past and told to admire storefronts which apparently were extras in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, or something like that. Then we sat our wearied souls at "the house of shish kebab" where we did not order shish kebabs, but did enjoy Greek salad and spanokopita while we watched cars on Danforth get expensive parking tickets. Har har har.

We had some drinks. And then we basically had some more drinks.

The good news is, we did get home, and safely. And a bit sunburned.

Friday Fuckfest Does Sex and the City

{For Jen, who arrived with her library of SATC DVDs and knew without a doubt that I'd have a fridge full of cosmos, and who needs to remember that life, like the show, is only superficially about men (the loving AND the hating of them) - in the end, it's your friends that count.}


He's suave, moneyed, and debonair, and I hope to god they called him Mr. Big for a reason...

Still, Mr. Big was never my favourite.

I know, I know, I can hear the boos all the way from here.

But while it may be true that Big and Carrie were meant to be, it has to be said that he's not good enough for me, and he sure as hell ain't good enough to make the Most Fuckable cut.

Chris Noth's impish smile might dazzle me for a moment or two, but to make my list, you need to be more than just handsome. Big is a womanizer. He's elusive and ambivalent. He wants her the most when he can't have her. Sound like anyone you know? Yes, most likely: why do we women always fall for the men who are no good for us?

And why do we push away those that are?


Kyle MacLachlan is much handsomer off the show - as Charlotte's husband Doctor Trey, I could never get past the stick up his ass to like him much.

I did, however, love the exercise my eyebrow got (you know, the one I cock slightly to show disdain) when we found out he was impotent. Few of us had any pity on him - he was so smug that my smugmometer nearly exploded.

But his character did allow us all to vent about the impossibleness of mothers-in-law, and it taught us how to achieve the very best that divorce settlements have to offer.






Steve, on the other hand, was easy to like. I was pulling for Steve and Miranda from day one, probably because they're complete opposites. But he's also one of those unfailingly good guys that any seasoned dater has ceased to believe exist.

He's funny and endearing, and touchingly handsome with a baby cradled in his arms, and even a cynic like Miranda couldn't help but see his merits in the end.

Bottom line: he's actually there for her when she needs him.


Jerry Jerrod....Jerrod Smith....Jason Lewis...a hottie by any name.

And, when the cards were down, a pretty decent fellow.

I mean, it was fabulous to see any man actually not giving in to temptation.
Fabulouser still when he stuck by his girl in sickness and in health.
But most fabulous of all when you see one person bring out the best in another.





Aiden! Who didn't love Aiden? Well, except for Carrie, who clearly is not only blind but retarded aswell.

I have always had a soft spot for John Corbett, but as Aiden, he was IT. Pre-heartbreak, he was a free spirit, an artist, tender, respectful....just yummy.

But when he came back to the show, scarred and shorn, he was a new man, but entirely still worthy. In fact, when your biggest problem with a guy is that he's too faithful, that he's not just there for you, but also for your friends, and he's not afraid of intimacy...I think the problem actually lies with you.

But while I love Aiden, I can forgive Carrie. Because even if he's a good guy, even if he's good to you, it doesn't mean he's good for you. He wasn't the one. She gave up 'good' and found her 'perfect'. And that's what it's all about.


But the real success of SATC is not the men and their various charms.

It's the women, the girlfriendliness, the gossip and disclosure.


So for a moment, let's discuss:


a) The goodie drawer: Do you have one?
We have a goodie nightstand. When the mother-in-law came to visit, I cleaned it out, put everything "questionable" into a locked safe in another room. On her second night's stay, she asked me why we had an empty nightstand by the bed. I tried my best not to blush. I mean, my fears were founded - she did look.

b) Farting in front of the boyfriend/girlfriend: end of the world? end of the relationship? the beginning of intimacy?
If you've been here before, then you know that Jason doesn't fart. Damn him. I'm actually pretty unembarrassed by bodily functions. I accepted his proposal only on the condition that he could learn to pee in front of me (he did). I just can't stand the thought of a permanently closed door. That being said, I do remember the first time I farted in front of Jason. Everything went quiet for a moment, and then I laughed uncontrollably.

c) Faking it: have you? would you? could you?

d) Circumcision: necessary?

e) Ugly sex: have you ever slept with an ugly man or woman? Did you admit it to anyone?

f) Bad breakups: Carrie was dumped via a post-it note. What is the worst you have done, or received?

Warning: Stupid Man Alert

So, canned air, eh?

No, he wasn't huffing it.

He legitimately uses it to clean things at work.

Well, he used to, anyway.

Until a coworker, in a fit of retail-induced rowdiness, sprayed it on his leg.

Despite the fact that the warning label insists that you not do this, that you avoid all contact with skin, that you never tilt the can, that disuse can cause injuries or fatalities....

Despite the fact that the can's label is thick with those little red triangular symbols showing stick men in various forms of disability, dismemberment, and death....

Despite the fact that the label also includes such ambiguous statements as Danger!, Caution!, and Warning!.....

My husband came home with frostbite.

In May.




We're not sure if the worst of the burn is from the frostbite itself, or from having to separate denim from flesh where the two had become one.

Who knew the mall had become such a hazardous workplace?

Kissing Cousins

Happy Long Weekend, Canada

Ah, Victoria Day. Despite Google's best efforts to convince us of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legitimate claims on the day, good Canadians spent the day saluting the monarchy.

Or not.

Actually, I'm thinking very few Canadians even remember Queen Victoria, for whom the day is named. This is understandable since her reign ended upon her death in 1901. She was born to the King of England, but he died when she was just 8 months old. The crown was passed on to her uncles, but "luckily" King William IV had 10 bastard children and none fit for royalty, so Victoria became Queen just after her 18th birthday.

So what exactly did she do to deserve a rare stat holiday in her honour? Well, one of the first things she did was marry her first cousin. Apparently, this was a "happy" marriage, and if "happy" means "gross", then I'm sure it was. There's nothing like a little royal incest to prompt celebrations in May. They had 9 children, and as we all know, the poor bastard children are tossed out on their heinies, but the children of inbreeding are bowed down to and revered. Fair is fair.

Four assassination attempts were made on her life the first 2 years of her reign, but sadly, this was not the lowest level her popularity would see. Next, she would be dubbed the Famine Queen because of her perceived inaction during the potato blight, when over a million Irish people died, and a million more were forced to emigrate.

Her husband died and left her a widow when she was 42. She wore black for the rest of her life, and became reclusive, although some say this isolation was not so much due to grief as to a secret love affair with her Scottish manservant, John Brown. Her popularity climbed and fell periodically. Still, she kept her claws on the crown and didn't relinquish it until her son had to pry it from her cold, dead fingers after 63 years on the throne.

Victoria paved the way for future royals to act as symbols instead of politicians. Proudly, the future monarch generations would accept generous wages for the taxing duties of waving, smiling politely, and occasionally eating tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She also marked the beginning of the royal emphasis "morality and family values" while laughingly, any sign of these things is ironically lacking between the castle walls.

As she got older, her popularity increased, and during her last days she was known as the "grandmother of Europe". She did get her face on a stamp, making her at least as cool as Bobby Orr and Elvis Presley. But does that make her worth celebrating?

The answer is: who cares?

Canadians don't. Very few of us sent birthday wishes to the current royal highness, or have ever had a thought to spare for our first Queen, Victoria. But we are thankful to have the day off work, and if Vicky and Liz are to credit, then we tip our beers to them.

Because let's be honest: Victoria day is all about the beer.

It's not called May 2-4 for nothing. I mean, sure it takes place on or before May 24...but is it just coincidence that a two-four is also a case of beer? Hmm?

I don't think so.

And beer is not a bad way to toast the monarch.

A bad way to toast the monarch: fireworks.

What's with fireworks anyway? I mean, when a city puts on a show, I get it. Oooh, fire in the sky. Pretty colours. Big noises. Entertainment for the masses. A bit dull and repetitive in my book, but I get it.

Fireworks in the backyard, I don't get.

And yet for the past week I have witnessed an embarrassing number of Canadians spending their hard earned cash on stupid little fire crackers that never work the way they're supposed to anyway, unless they're supposed to fizzle, crackle, produce smoke, and do little else but cause accidents.

Ah yes, the great tradition of Victoria Day accidents.

The average number of fingers per Canadian drops significantly the day after May 24.

I mean, clearly, you have to be a little, um, imbecilic, to think that backyard fireworks are good times. Unfortunately, this is just survival of the fittest crapping out again, leaving us with maimed dullards in our population instead of eliminating them completely.

Thanks a lot.

I mean, obviously these things are accidents waiting to happen.

And the fact that Toronto has made it illegal to set them off doesn't seem to stop anyone from doing it, and it certainly doesn't stop them from calling 911 when something does go wrong, which it will, inevitably.

Because when you mix dim-witted people with explosives (and probably a case or two of beer)...of course it's going to suck.

And so the ERs will be overrun with morons tonight, and someone or someones will wake up tomorrow without their thumbs. At the taxpayers' expense.

And according to the newspaper, there will be a dozen fireworks-related blazes around the city tonight. As I am writing this, I hear the distinct whistle of failed fireworks sizzling around me, a product of ignorant neighbours, thankyouverymuch, and all I can do is hope like hell they don't accidentally set my house on fire.

But on a day that pays tribute to the Queen of all kissing cousins, what else can you expect?

Sometimes, I Feel Sorry For You.

Yes, you.

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

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

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

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

The undeniable fact is - I am the lucky one.

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

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

He totally indulges me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he does.

And I do too.

Sugarhigh

There's a fire drill happening between my ears. Not a huge, blazing eight-alarm fire, but not a tame kitten-up-the tree alarm either. More like...someone's burning trash in a drum in their backyard, and it's been a dry season, and there's a fire ban in effect. It's like that: moderately urgent, moderately jarring. Or it would be moderate if it wasn't taking place inside my head cavity, which it is. And I think my head has an echo effect because the fire drill between my ears is causing my jaw to seize up.

And you just know it's Jason's fault.

He's been serving me Pepsi all night, you see. Despite the fact that it's diet Pepsi that I adore, and diet Pepsi to which my system is accommodated, and diet Pepsi that I've been addicted to for 17 years and counting.

And I knew it was wrong.

"Does this taste flat to you?" I asked.

He thought not.

"Does this taste thick to you?" I asked.

Again, he thought not. But he put extra ice in my glass to appease me.

And like a fool, I drank it. And I probably drank more of it than usual because of these ultra-inviting straws I bought, pink and orange swirls that just say "drinking is fun!", and it is, so I did.

If I wake up tomorrow without teeth, I won't be surprised.

Of course, that takes for granted that I might actually fall asleep at some point, which I strongly doubt.

"Did ten thousand flies just start humming Yellow Submarine?"

"Um, no."

"Are you sure? Because I can hear them."

For Better or Worse

When the hydro bill arrives, I hate being a grownup.

When martini orders are being taken, I love being a grownup.

When my best friend is dumped by her lying, cheating, bastard of a husband, I really hate being a grownup. I remember the days when my friends and I worried about nothing more than whether we had the right kind of high tops, whether our scabby knees would soon heal from that rousing round of double dutch and leave "cool scars", or whether the ouija board would reveal the initials of the boy we'd someday marry.

Childhood is actually deceptively hard - politics of the schoolyard, bickering parents, cruel kids, strict teachers, loads of homework, and of course boys and their disgusting cooties. It's hard to be a kid. Every day you have a million questions and your only course of action is to save them up and then ask an adult - why? why? because why? how come? But perhaps being an adult is harder still; life continues to present you with an infinite amount of questions, but this time around, there's no one to ask why. In fact, you learn quickly that sometimes there is no why, no how come. It just is. And there's nothing you can do about it.

You may remember a couple of months ago, I wrote about how my friend Jen had just ruptured fantastically with her husband, Jeff. They had been married all of 9 months, just bought a new house, still had tan lines from their honeymoon when Jen had the breath kicked out of her.

It's crazy, truly crazy, to conceive of any man fool enough to leave her. She is an amazing person - generous, considerate, radiant. She and Jeff seemed like the perfect couple. He was such a good guy. He once bought her a dozen umbrellas because she was always forgetting hers - he planted them around her home, her car, and her work so that she'd never be without. He had this way of kissing her neck that literally would tug at your heart to see. Looking at their wedding pictures, it would make you sick at how gorgeous and in love they looked.

They dated 5 years before marrying. They were "sure". We all were.

And in the end, none of it mattered. He was just another unfaithful husband; she was just another broken heart. Her mother was so shocked when Jen told her they were separated that she insisted that Jen give him another chance. Surely there was a misunderstanding.

But there was no misunderstand, and there would be no second chance.

a) He was caught red-handed.

b) He admitted guilt - and not just to this one indiscretion.

c) He was already living blissfully with his mistress.

But second chances presuppose that a second chance was sought, and it wasn't. He wasn't begging for forgiveness. He wasn't playing boomboxes outside her house at night in corny efforts to apologize. He very coldly put some clothes in a suitcase (the one they bought for their honeymoon), and collected his toiletries out of the bathroom. He took his house key off his keyring (engraved; a gift from Jen on their 6 month anniversary) without being asked, placed it on the kitchen counter, grabbed a bottle of merlot, and left.

For me, the hardest part is knowing that someone she loved so much could hurt her and not be sorry for it. It seems utterly incongruous to me; I think about all the parts of the story, the before and the after, and I know how they go together, but my mind (or is it my heart?) refuses to believe that it's possible.

For Jen, the hardest part is knowing that in the 6 years they were together, she never really knew him. Her whole life is called into question - what is happiness? what is love? what is trust?

She asks me this, with red-rimmed eyes, and all I can offer is a shrug and a tissue. The tissue is a mild comfort; the shrug infuriates us both. But what answers can I give her?

I helped her move out of her house and into an apartment with another woman going through the same thing, but different. You know how it is: the same level of achy and messy, but details that are heart-breaking in their own way (her cat had a collection of unfamiliar panties piled under the sofa - she found it while cleaning for a visit from her mother-in-law).

Jen's lawyer, of course, doesn't like her to leave the house empty. Jen's sense of self, however, cannot permit her to sleep in the sheets she envisioned sharing with Jeff until they thinned from wear, at which point they'd head to Sears holding hands, purchasing sheets in 5 or 10 year increments for the rest of their wedded bliss.

Meanwhile, I feel inadequate. As a friend, as a healer, as a balm, I have been inept. I don't believe in platitudes. I have no reassurance. I know that Jen will survive, and then thrive. I know she'll be okay, and then more than okay, and then great. She's strong and she's better than this. I know it, and she knows it too. But right now, none of this helps. The promise of this sunny future does little to part the clouds that distort her present circumstances. And so she plays the familiar emotional waiting game called divorce - an intricate combination of rage and mourning that leave her friends and family feeling helpless.

That's where the story left off. I spent a few days with her, knowing that I couldn't make it better, but that I had to try. This is friendship. This is growing up.

A week later, she called to tell me that Jeff's relationship with "the mistress" (that's what we call her - her name is Melanie but Jen refuses to be on a first-name basis with her) is almost as long as his and Jen's was. He was cheating when he first said "I love you"; he was cheating when he proposed; he was cheating when they applied for a 25 year mortgage and planned for the future. I couldn't tell her that they never talking about her while they watched Leno. I couldn't tell her that he hadn't written his vows in another woman's bed. I couldn't tell her the words she needed to hear, and as much as I wanted to hop another bus and race to her side, she assured me that being an adult means going through tough times alone.

I hopped the bus anyway, and told her that having friends means never having to be alone. I hugged her lots, I rescued her fern, and I bought her a big gaudy ring to wear on that finger on her left hand that now feels naked and conspicuous.

For a month, she went to work, she did yoga and ate french fries, she even called me once in a surprisingly buoyant mood when the office hottie hit on her. But in her heart, she was still sad, and it showed. She was sick, physically sick. We all worried about her.

And then the call came, you know the one, it's the one you're not expecting.

She's pregnant.

She's also scared and devastated and confused.

Especially confused.

She wants a baby. She wants to be a mother. She also never wants to see Jeff again as long as she lives. She doesn't want to have an undeniable link to him; she doesn't want a child that will be half his, a constant reminder, a good portion of his DNA. She doesn't want to drop a kid off at the mistress' house, she doesn't want to raise a kid in a hostile environment but isn't sure she can take the high road. She doesn't want to be pregnant with a baby that was probably conceived a day or two before she found another woman being fucked in her bed.

So when she visits this weekend, she'll have her two favourite Jays to cuddle with, and she'll have the added bonus of a very good clinic just down the street from us.

The kind that does abortions.

She doesn't need to be reminded of her options. What she needs right now is support for her decisions, and that's exactly what I have to give. I believe in her, and in her ability to do what's best. I also know it won't be easy. I can unquestioningly predict that these coming weeks will be the most difficult of her life, ones that she will remember long after she has forgotten about her rotten first marriage. But I also hope that she will remember that I was there for her, and that she was loved.

Happy Uterus Day

Brace yourselves.

This Sunday, many of us will dutifully send off $8 Hallmark cards to the woman who pushed us out of her twat. Those of us who won't spend money on roses for the people we choose to love on Valentine's Day will instead pay overinflated prices for dyed daisies on street corners to send to women who meddle in our lives, criticize our choices, and bring us closer to death with their incessant nagging.

The same people who complain that Valentine's Day isn't a real holiday are the first people to go for brunch on Mother's Day. "I don't need Hallmark to tell me when to love my husband" they say, "I love him all year round."

Okay, so maybe your mother is not worth celebrating. Maybe you browsed the card stores marinating in sappy sentiments, and found not one card that expressed yours:

Hey Mom. Thanks for always forgetting me at soccer practice. Don't worry, it only rained about half the time, and I probably would have caught pneumonia anyway.

Dear Mom. I guess you cut me out of your will because I'm such a disappointment. I'd wish you a happy Mother's Day but you probably threw this out without opening it.

Hi Mom. Remember how you used to tell me I'd never amount to anything? Well now you're rotting away in an old folks' home and I'm summering at my cottage on the lake. Ha. Happy Mother's Day.



But whether your mother is special or just "special", chances are you have someone in your life that deserves tribute. Of our 3 mothers, we did send a gift to Jason's Mom.

Yes, you heard right. Jason's Mom.

Over the years she has driven both of us crazy. She shows too much skin, she's a hypochondriac and a complainer, she has strings of bad boyfriends, and she whines if Jason doesn't call her enough but doesn't believe in paying long distance rates herself. But we love her, and not just because we have to. I remind myself that accidentally or not (although I suspect yes), Jason turned into that man I consider worth marrying because she raised him, or was at least present while he raised himself. Or mostly present. I mean, she slept off her hangovers in the same house where he slept, except on the weekends he was successfully farmed out to his dad.

Oh my. Did that sound a bit bitter?

Well, thank goodness it's only mother's day. You should hear me in June. I mean, technically both Jason and I must have grown from some form of sperm, but there's no evidence of this these days. I don't recognize any father in any form, and Jason's dad...well, we saw him last summer. At the funeral. The funeral we had to learn about in the newspaper because Jason's dad can't be bothered to write down our phone number or address when we send it to him. Who has never indicated that he knows when Jason's birthday is, who never knows what Jason does for a living, who apparently never even wonders who the packages we send them come from.

I think that when Jason's dad had a daughter (you know, by the woman with whom he cheated on his wife), he forget he ever had a son. And it makes me achy in my heart because I see Jason reaching out and being ignored, wanting a relationship with a man who doesn't give him the time of day, trying to forge something where a father-son link should exist, but where the father thing exists in the head but not the heart.

This week is hard at our house. The mother thing has always been tenuous for one reason or another, and mother's day is quickly followed by Jason's sister's birthday. I have watched him wander around the mall, unable to find the perfect gift or any gift because the little girl he knew has turned into a young woman and Jason didn't see it happen. He doesn't know how big she's gotten, or what her tastes are, if she looks like him, if she likes school or boys or Britney Spears (though he hopes not on both those last counts). He doesn't know her, nor will he probably ever really know his dad, whose birthday comes just a couple days after that.

So we sent a card to Jason's Mom because she's the only family we've got.

And we celebrate uterus day the only way we know how: we take our hearts, mangled from our broken families, and we make them whole by celebrating that we don't have kids. That I'm not a mother, nor will I ever be. We toast the fact that my uterus is as dysfunctional as the rest of me, that I lack the craving for kids that 99% of adults share. That our marriage will always be just the two of us, and that we will spend our lives filling the holes that parents have created for us.

And it's not bad.

Goat Sex and Other Perversions

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Some Things

1. I will never hear Beyonce's Naughty Girl again without remembering that skinny little drag queen bopping around to it in the Bandshell.

2. Adhesive medical tape just may be my most-hated foe.

3. I love when Jason works late, because that's when he brings me treats. He comes home and he'll say "Look inside my pockets for a surprise!" and he rarely means just his penis. This past week, I got a string of 8 bracelets, 3 new shirts, a necklace, and my favourite, "sleepy time" boxers, that are scrumptialicious for spring.

4. Don Quixote is a more powerful sleep aid than the horse tranquilizers I used to use.

5. Getting high and watching 3 Men and a Baby is exactly as entertaining as it sounds.

6. I went to sleep last night dreaming of butterscotch pudding.

7. Under my right eye, a little toward the outer edge of my cheekbone, just beneath the skin, is a tiny nerve that twitches like a chipmunk on an electric fence every time someone says they had "a few beer". That nerve, she likes to pluralize beer with an S. Beers. Beers. Ah, that's better. Beers.

8. We've been hiking in the bluffs lately - we should know this is a bad idea based on:

a) the first day, we encountered someone getting rescued by a fire truck

b) driving down the bluffs was such a change in pressure that our ears popped

c) hiking back up the bluffs was so steep that my calves plotted revenge for no less than 3 days

And yet we continue to go back, to "watch nature reclaim the land" and to laugh in the face of posted signage warning us to "know your limit". Hahaha.

9. Making pies the other day, I had already rolled out my delicious crust when I discovered that my apples had gone bananas. You know how it is. No good. So I had an empty crust! What to do, what to do? I divided it and made a chocolate meringue pie and a quiche for dinner. Despite the fact that the quiche was made in a slightly sweet crust, Jason assured me that "your souffle is really good." Great.

10. Jason dragged me to see MI3. We shared a box of Reese's Pieces. I got a nosebleed from all the action sequences.

11. Am I supposed to get excited about a wedding between 2 dull, ugly, borderline moronic people? Horray because at least they found each other? Horray because this marriage is bound to last because neither of them could ever find anyone else? I am far too warped for wedding season.

No Sex Please, We're Married.

Half naked in the kitchen, I'm not even sure where my bra has been thrown.

And then the phone rings.

And he answers.

He's not even wearing pants.

Such is life.

Coitus Interruptus