Friday, April 29, 2005

Friday Fuckfest

Fucktwat of the week:

Anna Ayala

You will remember that some time ago that a woman found a finger in a bowl of Wendy's chili. When contacted for an interview, the estate of Dave Thomas was not very forthcoming. Sales have plummeted for the fast food chain ever since, but the story is now revealing itself not as the case of the missing finger, but as a hoax perpetrated by the phony victim. Anna Ayala apparently commits fraud for a hobby. (Artist rendering can be found here).This is not the first time she's sued a fast-food joint for damages in a similar case, and she is currently facing charges for defrauding and wrongfully evicting a woman and her children from their mobile home, which she sold to them despite the fact she didn't actually own it. She has been involved in 13 previous lawsuits, including others that have in fact paid off. Add the grand theft charge on top of that (Wendy's claims to have lost about $31 million since the incident), and this sue-happy lady is looking at over 6 years of possible prison time. The case was busted open with some great old-fashioned detective work, with findings including:

1. No Wendy's employees "seem" to be missing fingers.
2. No vomit was found at the scene of the crime.
3. The finger was not cooked (Wendy's simmers chili for hours).

Wendy's is celebrating their innocence with free Frostys for the Bay Area residents most affected by the debacle, and I think it's safe to say that they will be happier still to see this litigious woman behind bars. Shame on you Anna Ayala, shame on you.

Only one question remains: where DID she get that finger?

Fucker of the week:

My knee

It dislocated again on Wednesday, no biggie, it happens often enough, usually I can pound it back into its socket with a little sweat and a lot of swearing. Not so this week. The fucker just wouldn't click into place. I've been walking around with one stiff leg (I look like a demented soldier) for 2 days now, but you haven't heard the good news yet. The really good news is that I just got this cute flirty new skirt, that ends right above the knee (risky for someone my height!), and I have this big ugly purple knee glaring out from under it. It's really attractive. Ah yes, it's just another prime example of that fabulous Jay luck I have.

Most fuckable of the week:

Before the Tony Awards, the Emmy, the half dozen Academy nominations, and actually taking home the coveted Oscar statuette, before "Whoooah" and Serpico, before "Attica! Attica!", before Michael Corleone even, there was just a guy named Al who happens to have the most gorgeous bedroom eyes this world has ever or will ever see.

Al Pacino...think he'll take me home? With that gravelly voice and quiet strength, I doubt it would be a hard sell. Great Al quote to sum up the week: "When in doubt... fuck."

Drive safely, and tip your waitresses.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Randomly Observing Life, Fact #38

Boys spend a disproportionate amount of time in the shower washing their genitals.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Naked Jamie on a Llama - Coming Soon to a Petting Zoo Near You!

Okay Kim, you saucy little minx, after a whole day pestering me to do this little meme of yours (hmmm...make that persistent, saucy minx), I have finally caved, so you'd better feel honoured and special because I don't do these for just anyone.

If I could be an athlete, I'd take up running. When I was a kid, I had (briefly) one of those real supportive fathers who swore at me when he wasn't ignoring my existence, and one of the only things I really remember him saying to me was "You run like a girl" and they way he said it made me feel like it wasn't a good thing. So this made me very self-conscious, and coupled with my fear of balls (no snickering, please), I turned out to be really unathletic (my current favourite sport: grocery shopping). So yes, I would run. Right now the best I do is jog on the treadmill while reading a book, and it's all I can do not to fall off. If I was a trained athlete, I would pull a Forrest Gump. One day, I would just drop whatever I was doing and take off. I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, home to some of the most friendly people. It would be amazing to set out on foot with just the clothes on my back, and see what might happen. I'd totally need to have my picture taken with all of the "world's biggest" things that I came across - Canada is a big country, so we have BIG roadside attractions, like the world's biggest apple in Colborne ON, and the axe in Nackawic NB, and the lobster trap in Cheticamp NS, and the dinosaur in Drumheller AB. I would run until I'd seen everything, and exploited people of their monetary resources for some totally worthy cause, a la Terry Fox perhaps, and I would feel like I had really accomplished something in this life. Oh, and a cult following would be nice too, and I promise I would never, EVER, wear those indecent, itty bitty running shorts. Nuh uh.

If I could be a musician, I would learn piano. I would need to have plastic surgery on my thumbs first, I have really stunted thumbs. I have lost every thumb war I have ever been in because even 3 year olds have longer/bigger thumbs than I do. But I love the sounds of the piano, so haunting and powerful. And I would play so well that all the dumb piano bimbos like Sarah McLachlan and Diana Krall and all the other whats-her-faces would have to form a support group just to cry themselves to sleep at night. I would put them all out of business. Then I would buy myself a Bedazzler and some oversized glasses so I could bring back the glam Elton John movement, and I would wear a tuxedo with tails and play standing up, and have men throw their manties at me on stage. But I wouldn't let the fame go to my head or anything, oh no, I'll eat humble pie all the way.

If I could be a painter, I would throw out all my pencils and pads. I would trash this blog and never write another word, because I wouldn't have to. To pour all my thoughts and feelings into one piece of artwork seems so energy efficient to me. No more agonizing after every last comma, no more struggles with dictionaries and thesauruses. I would just paint, in vivid colours and bold shapes, to my heart's content. Mme Boileau who once said to me "Jamie, le canard ressemble beaucoup l'orignal que vouz avez peinturé la semaine dernière" could eat her words. So what if my water buffalo looks like a sea plane looks like a tulip looks like my mother. It's impressionistic, dahhhling, so take your opinion and shove it. My high school art teacher "got" me much better, she let my lack of actual skill slide because I was bursting with creativity and had great use of colour. I am a visionary trapped in the body of a writer. Oh, and fyi, I MEANT to colour outside the lines - I was being ironic!

If I could be an inn-keeper, I would make sure there was always one room unoccupied "just in case." I would make each room a comfortable, sensory experience. I would have a very well-stocked bar, and I would bake a continuous supply of my famous cheesecakes. The inn would always be filled with mouth-watering aromas, and it would be a comfortable space for arty, intellectual types to congregate and socialize. I would have a huge room as a library, filled with all of my favourite books, no Danielle Steel or Stephen King allowed. I would have a large staff to run the inn efficiently, and after I spent the morning baking cheesecakes, I would curl up in the library with a glass of wine and a good book, and savour both all afternoon until it was time to get ready for another cocktail party with my witty, highbrow friends.

If I could be a llama rider, I would do so nude. First, because to the best of my recollection, I have never seen a naked woman riding a llama, and second, because I believe the men out in the desert (where I imagine these llamas to be) have rarely seen a woman at all, and they would probably really appreciate such a sight. They might even throw gold coins at me. True, my thighs may get chapped, but that's me, a selfless woman to the core, give, give, give, that's all I do. Of course, I would require a parasol at least, because I am quite fair, and some chapstick, and some daiquiris to keep me cool, and one of those men whose sole purpose in life is to feed me grapes (green, seedless), and someone back home to Tivo me episodes of Gilmore Girls, and a few dozen postcards so I could write to my friends cryptic messages like 'Hey Kelly, I'm still riding the llama. Man it's hot in Saudi Arabia. Wish you were here!'

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Sweet Nothings

Emails during a workday:

(from Jason, to Jay)

Email me, you fucker.



(Jamie's reply to Jason)

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

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



(Jason writes back)

Dear Jason's Wife,

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

And the recycle, sorry.

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



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


Dear Jamie's Bitch,

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



(to which Jason says)


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

Monday, April 25, 2005

Stop Right There, Thank You Very Much.

Outside this weekend, hooking up the power carwash thingy to the hose at the side of the house.
I can't get the tap to turn on, I try both ways and it seems stuck.

"Jason, which way do I turn it for ON?"

"Righty tighty, lefty loosey."


Did he just say what I think he did?

I collapse to the ground in a fit of laughter. I scrape my knees, my elbows, one cheek. Gravel gets in the cuts, but I can't stop laughing.

Who am I married to?

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Obey My Authority

Today I am sharing with you some stuff that I've enjoyed in the hopes that you will reciprocate. Don't worry about whether I'll like it, just tell me that you did, and that's enough. Just try to keep things somewhat off the beaten path (no Harry Potter, for example) and we'll all be happy.

What to Watch:

The Hour (plays in Canada on CBC Monday - Thursday, live at 8pm)

I'm really excited about this show, because it's not just reporting the news, it's talking about it. A newscast gives you the bare bones of a story; The Hour gives us the meat. It gives opinions, biases, points of view. It's a rare commodity, and it makes information seem way less tedious. Mr. George Stroumboulopoulos is at the helm, not just a hottie but an informed source, along with several contributors who make the show a rich, irreverent mosaic. Unlike the blank-faced, straight-laced deadpan feel of other news shows, this one is unafraid to run from somber to sarcastic. It's a show that anyone can watch, and everyone should watch. The Hour is changing the face of the news (thank God). Way to go CBC, I didn't know you had it in ya.

What to See:

The Third Wheel

This was one of those accidental rentals that turned out surprisingly well. I think it went direct to video a couple of years ago, but man, I laughed so hard. I don't even know what it was. It's just one of those ridiculous movies that make no overt sense, you just have to have a feel for it. It stars Luke Wilson (yay!), Ben Affleck, and Denise Richards. I would normally never willingly watch a Denise Richards movie, but she's subdued in this movie, and actually, it's more about Jay Lacopo, a dude you may not have heard of but who definitely deserves some props. You need to watch it to understand, so don't just stand there, bust a move.

What to Read:

Life of Pi, Yann Martel

If you haven't read it yet, just go get it. Don't read reviews, don't even read the blurb on the dust jacket. Just pick it up and start reading. The story itself is fascinating, purportedly "a story that will make you believe in God", but it's in the last few pages that I guarantee you your life will change. You have to worship a book that will do that for you.

What to Hear:

Ostensibly, Our Lady Peace (aka my favourite band ever, hands down, no doubt about it, so back the hell off) was coming out with a new much-anticipated (at my house anyway) album called "Vampires" in March. It didn't happen. The new release date seems to be July, so the bastards are making me wait. I can already guarantee that it will be worth the wait though, because these boys can do no wrong. In the meantime, try downloading Somewhere Out There or Innocent from their last album, Gravity. You'll fall in love. Incidentally, the band's lead singer Raine Maida reigns in all his rock star glory on a permanent spot on my 10 Hottest Men Ever list (I'm thinking of making George a place on the list, think I could swap out the gay guy?) and if you listen to that first song carefully, you'll hear a line dedicated to Moi: "I miss your purple hair, I miss the way you taste." Now, I'm not a girl to kiss and tell, but holy fuck yeah. Of course he's married now (to Chantal Kreviazuk) and so am I actually, but I'll always have that song. :)

Okay, so do your worst. What have you got for me?

Friday, April 22, 2005

Friday Fuckfest

Most Fuckable This Week:

Yup, she's a chick, but damn, she's hot! Take a look. I'd totally do her. I don't know anyone who would turn down a steamy makeout section with the lovely, luscious Miss Keira Knightly.

Fucktard of the week:

Pope Benedict XVI

Even I can admit that putting the Pope in the same category as Britney Spears is a little harsh, but the truth is, any guy who names himself after eggs is an easy target.

Further evidence:

1. He's Catholic and he's conservative. Two big strikes against him. He opposes birth control, women in the clergy, and homosexuality. Which pretty much makes him a bigot.

2. Have you seen his hat?

3. The Pope-Mobile is pretty much a joke in and of itself.

4. Pope merchandise. Okay, maybe I could ignore the t-shirts, the keychains, the posters, the plaques...but here's where the buck stops for me: a CD/DVD of papal prayers including 'performances by n'sync, Britney Spears, and Faith Hill.

Fucker of the week:

The Kabbalah (because I may as well make enemies out of all religious factions, right?)

I'm pretty cool with the Kabbalah from 10 years ago; what I don't like is any fad religion. You know, the kind of religions that are trendy to follow, if following means basically wearing a string and pretending to be spiritual in certain music videos.

I mean, it must be nice to be a skanky ho bag and then have it all absolved just by tying a string to your wrist. Pretty convenient, I'd say. Easier than going to confession, much easier than actually changing your lifestyle. And believe me, when I think 'devout', I definitely think Madonna. Don't you?

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Good Day/Bad Day

This is an evil little game I like to play with myself, it really brings out my inner masochist.

Exhibit A: I wake up to the sounds of the rusty hinges of the mail box being painfully exercised. "Hmm," I think "it sounds like 11am." 11am!!! I roll over in my luscious bed, and peak through one eye: 11:07am, reads the alarm clock. Shit.

Verdict: Bad. I promised myself I'd be up by 9:30 (while of course taking no precautions to make this so).

Exhibit B: Belly is growling (loud enough for Arkansas to complain), and I contemplate whether it's a good idea to wield a great big bread knife so early in the morning. Imagine my delight when I discover the bagels are pre-cut!

Verdict: Good.

Exhibit C: Time for a shower. For the first time in months, the hot water lasts as long as I do (running time: 36 minutes of soapy, 80s song-belting goodness). However, husband thoughtlessly left me only crumbs of soap (why do man hands crush bars of soap into dust every time?) and I have to use body wash and those damn sissy sponge-on-a-string contraptions that I hate.

Verdict: draw

Exhibit D: Clutching a too-small towel to certain body parts and dripping copiously on the carpeting, I find that I must work pantless today until I've done laundry.

Verdict: Indifferent; nudity is only slightly less professional/formal than the pink Eeyore pajama pants that I normally wear for work.

Exhibit E: Sit down to edit the stuff that I wrote yesterday. In today's light, it all sounds like shit. I decide I'm either being too self-critical or someone slipped me a moron pill, and I'm not sure which I'd rather it be. No work today.

: Bad.

Exhibit F: My naked thighs stick to the leather chair; when I stand up, it feels like I'm being skinned.

: Very bad. Ouch, mother fucker!

Exhibit G: Jorge affirms that I hate everything, asserts that he is better at being brown than I am, and cheers me up with haikus. A couple that he wrote, at my request (I supplied the brilliant titles):

Overweight Antelopes

Lounging in the grass
Chewing on Vegetation
Not giving a damn

Inverted Eyelashes That Poke You In the Cornea

Just walking along
Suddenly a flash of pain
Stupid Eyelashes!

Verdict: Good. In a bad kind of way.

Exhibit H: I have a headache. Must take pills and lie down to read (darnabies!). While reading very nice Alice Munro book, I fall asleep for a good 20 minutes.

Verdict: Goodish. It should be bad, but I sleep so rarely (and never nap) that this mid-day decadence just feels too damn good to feel bad about.

Exhibit I: Nothing will cheer me up like a nice stroll outside. I even Fabreezed my running shoes yesterday, so that will be pleasant! Oh wait, it's raining outside. And I'm wearing a white t-shirt.

Verdict: Bad for me, great for my neighbour.

Exhibit J: Gilmore Girls is on. It's a new one.

Verdict: Not goodish. Although it's one of my favourite shows, that Rory is really getting on my nerves. "Wah wah, I had sex with a delicious boy and so obviously I assumed we would get married and live happily ever after but now he's not calling me so I got drunk on two (2!) glasses of punch and puked it up while mummy held my hair." Dear Rory: shut the hell up.

Exhibit K: It's bedtime, the headache is back with a vengeance, my tummy is upset at something, I just drank 2 bottles of water too quickly and will surely be up peeing all night long, and Jason just got home for a 2 day weekend, meaning goodbye personal space and the freedom to drink all day long without judgment.

Verdict: Goddamn shitty asshole wanker of a day.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Getting to Know You

Dotbar was kind enough to "lend" me
this format.

Please tell me

a)the name of your blog
b)what that name means (to you)

Mine is

a) Kill the Goat

b) This is a reference to a bit that Adam Sandler does on his albums. As I told Dotbar, and as you should all know by now, Adam is the god of my idolatry.

It started on his 'What the Hell Happened to Me?' album with a bit called simply 'The Goat' but the genius came on the next album 'What's Your Name?' with The Goat Song. Man, every time I hear it, it brings back memories.

Lyrics to The Goat Song (it reads like a heart-wrenching epic, trust me)

I am a simple goat. I live on the back of a pick-up truck. The Old Man tied me here with a three-foot rope. Am I happy? He don't give a fuck.

"Hey Goat! I'm gonna beat your head in with the hickory stick!" Sometimes he uses his fists. He's filled with anger, and filled with rage and tells me I smell like piss.

His drink, Jimmy Beam, his chaser, a beer. After that, various alcohols. That's when the beatings get so severe. Asleep I pray he falls.

But don't feel sorry for me. Things weren't always this bad. Why, when I was a young talking goat the Old Man was just like my dad. I come from the hills of Europe, that's where I met the Old Man. He was lost in the woods, I gave him directions. He gave me a tuna can then he stopped in his tracks and he said "Hey Goat! Would you like to live with me? I've got a house with a pick-up truck in a place across the sea."

I said "Sure, why not? I've got no family. You seem like a nice guy." So we went off to America, the home of apple pie. On the boat the Old Man told me I would be a present for his wife. "A talking goat!" he exclaimed "she'd never seen this in her life." I felt so special! Well, I just couldn't believe it. After all these years I finally had a friend. He trimmed my beard, he scraped my hooves, I prayed it would never end.

But when we got to his house there was no wife, only a short, short letter. It said "I'm leaving you for your brother because he fucks me better." His eyes filled with tears of sadness, his heart was filled with grief. To soothe himself he drank a pint of Old Granddad and beat me like a side of beef. I cried "Send me back to the hills of Europe!" He just shook his head and said "Nope! No one will ever leave me again. To make sure, put on this three-foot fucking rope."

Present day, I've been on the truck for 51 years; my only friend is the AM radio. Sometimes the neighbourhood children stop by but it's always rocks and beer bottles that they throw. At first they're excited to see a talking goat. They gather around to hear what I have to say. But I guess sometimes my stories go on too long so they leave and giggle I need a bidet.

But you know there was a night that I did get off the truck, when the Old Man was passed out drunk. Three neighbourhood kids took me to a rock 'n roll concert, the kind of music: old-school funk. It was the first time I got off the truck, the music made me lose control. The lead singer asked if we were having fun, I said "Fucking crank that rock 'n roll". The women at the show were beautiful as they danced sexily on the soft grass. One of them even petted my fur; fuck me in the goat ass! Then some long-haired guys grabbed me by the horns and threw me in the mosh pit. They passed me around and treated me nice till I nervously sprayed them with shit. Then the music stopped and everything was quiet, and all the rock 'n rollers started a fucking goat riot:


They chased me under the bleachers, they chased me onto the street. They chased me into an alley and I was dead fucking goat meat. But then I saw a sight that I never thought I'd see: the Old Man swinging his hickory stick, but he wasn't swinging at me. "Fuck you, pot-smoking turkeys! Don't you press your luck!" The long hairs ran away screaming as I scrambled onto the truck.

When we got home the Old Man said "Goat, you broke the sacred law."

"No! Please! Sorry! Shit!"

"I'll let it go this time, but if you leave again I'll break your fucking jaw!"

"Super! Great! Okay! Thank you Old Man, for saving my life. Thank you again and again. You could have let them barbecue me, but instead, you acted like a friend."

"I'm not your friend, I don't even like you, I'm just not drunk" he said. To prove his point he drank a bottle of grain alcohol and beat the fucking shit out of my head.

"Ow ow ow, you're hurting me, Old Man!" That night I suffered a concussion deep inside my goat brain. I still cannot feel my tailbone and I'll probably never walk straight again. I guess you'd call me a scapegoat, a punching bag for the Old Man to mock just because his wife left him for his brother's abnormally large cock. He could have been my buddy but instead he's a crazy old fuck. And once again, I go to sleep in my eternal home, the back of the pick-up truck."

"Good night, Old Man!"

"Yeah, goodnight, Goat!"


So you can see why I have such an affinity for the song. :)
If Adam and I are not kindred spirits, the goat and I definitely are.

Okay, now it's your turn. Spill those guts.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

The Excrutiating Minutiae of My Day

Dear Jamie of the Future: It seems to me the only real reason to keep a journal of any sort is with the intention of one day re-reading it. The idea (frightening as it may be) is that one day you will be old enough to think the things you did when you were younger are interesting but that by this indiscernible age your memory will be so degraded you will be unable to recall them with any clarity and you'll have to read about it. If this is the case, then hello Jay dear. I hope you are happy. I hope you are successful. I hope you've sold some books and bought a home and settled on one hair colour. I hope you're still adventurous. I hope you're not too tame. I hope you still drive Jason crazy, if the old bugger's heart has lasted him this long.

A Day In The Life:

7:15am - Look at the alarm clock through one slitted eye. Groan. Remember that I work at home and go back to sleep contentedly.

9:00am - Feel Jason get out of bed, kiss me on the head, ask me how I slept. Groan so that he knows I'm not interested in being awake yet.

10:30am - Roll out of bed, crazy haired and wild eyed. Read my horoscope. Start producing grunts instead of groans.

11:12am - Turn on the old computer, curse at it until it sputters to a shaky stop.

12:30pm - Read my book while on the treadmill. Lately have been able to do so without falling off (major bonus!).

1:15pm - Shower with water so hot my skin turns an angry red colour. Consider the incredible promises my conditioner makes: "Embracing you like a meadow of fresh flowers, this luxurious conditioner will leave your hair deeply quenched, silky and flowing weightlessly. Revives every strand with essential replenishing moisture, restores suppleness and manageability, and leaves hair luminous and light." I mean, whoa.

1:33pm - Accidentally squeeze out too much moisturizer; spend 15 minutes trying to get some back in the bottle without waste or mess. Fail miserably. Create extra waste and mess.

2:04pm - Laugh uncontrollably at my snack: "Rice chips now made with sunflower oil", and think to myself WTF am I eating?

2:10pm - Consider calling Melly to discuss the above. Get halfway to recalling her number and then realize that I hate the phone and won't be calling anyone if it can be helped.

2:11pm - Loud shrilling ring of phone startles me. It's Melly. We decide to meet for drinks this evening.

2:42pm - Instead of making the bed as per good intentions, I dive right in, roll around, and sniff the sheets for sunshiney goodness.

3:14pm - Find mysterious piece of wood on carpet. Contemplate its existence.

4:57pm - Get new mine in my pencil. Wonder what the hell a 'mine' is in English. Just the lead? I really don't know. Why don't I know this word in English?

5:28pm - Wonder why I kept my sweaty socks balled up in my running shoes. Sure I only wore them for 45 minutes while working out, but even if I just needed socks to walk again, I still don't want to pull on sweaty socks. Throw socks at hamper. Miss. Think hard about going to pick them up, but don't.

6:00pm - Admit that my hair is fabulous, and should stop playing with it.

6:03pm - Submit the stuff I worked on all day long; have a pang of sadness to be sending away a piece of myself.

6:10pm - Sadness washed away with first daiquiri of the day.

6:35pm - Melly arrives. We finish the pitcher of daiquiris as she admires my new shoes. Off we go.

6:50pm - Laugh at all the skanky hos in Cornwall. There are many.

7:30pm - Joined at bar by friend Andrew. He compliments us on our cleavage.

10:00pm - Jason is off work, drops by the bar for 1 beer before he drives all us drunks home.

10:18pm - Freak out because I can't find my purse. Andrew reassures me that I am holding it.

11:00pm - Sway in front of the oven cooking Jason some dinner. Insist that I couldn't possibly eat anything in my condition, but then the chicken looks so delish I continually pick off his plate.

12:04am - Crawl into unmade bed; allow Jason to rub cream on my back and legs.

12:20am - Sloppy, half-drunken, delicious sex.

1:06am - Blissful sleep.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Weekend Tidbits

1. I watched Jason wash the car on Thursday. I sat on the verandah flipping through the ad bag and consequently I sunburned one cheek and not the other. The next day a bird shat all over it (the car, not my cheek).

2. I am concussed. I bent over and forgot to clear my head of the great big shelving unit. My head took it on, bravely, and my head lost, big time. After several minutes of panting and cussing and barfing, I was left with a raging red goose egg. Been headachy ever since.

3. On the drive back from Ottawa, I witnessed carnage. Major carnage. Big juicy bugs flew straight into the windshield, their innards splattering heartily right in front of my virgin eyes. It was brutal. It was dirty. It was surprisingly drippy.

4. Had dinner with the mother-in-law and her new boyfriend. It went surprisingly well. She cooked for us. The last and only other time she has ever cooked me dinner was back in 2000, and it was no-name hamburger helper. I tried to swallow a few bites to be polite. This time she really outdid herself with Shake N Bake. Unfortunately she serves wine in soup bowls and I was too drunk to properly operate a fork.

5. Still bruised from seeing Sin City. Why do they make movie theatres so darn cold? Even during the summer I have to bring a hoodie with me so I don't ice over and still I feel like my poor nipples are poking through to say hello to all kinds of staring strangers. So I sit uncomfortably during the movie with my arms crossed across my chest, and this runs a risk. It runs the risk that when watching a movie like Sin City, there will be a scene that takes me by surprise and while letting out a tiny scream I also manage to squeeze the bejesus out of my own arms. And now I have blue fingerprints inside my arms, which is unsightly when wearing a t-shirt, and everyone kind of jokingly and kind of suspiciously asks if Jason's been beating on me lately.
He has, of course, but he's clever enough not to leave such obvious evidence.

6. I was really embarrassed this weekend to find out that my favourite place for a bellini now serves them up straight, and they bring the shots to your table to pour in in front of everyone. This makes it a lot easier for everyone else to count how many you've had. Rats.

7. Gas was about 10 cents cheaper per litre in Ottawa than in Cornwall this weekend, so of course we filled up, but boy did we feel guilty about it. We almost filled the trunk up with gas to bring home to friends and family, and I can't for the life of me remember why we ix-nayed the idea in the end. Jason doesn't have much of a sense of adventure. He was still fretting over Le Festival du Curd and I guess he just didn't have room in that brain of his to mull over ANOTHER of my ideas.

8. I like pineapple tidbits. No other canned fruit, as far as I can tell, comes sold in tidbits. Just what is a tidbit anyway? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Give Your Man What He Wants

Mm, that feels soooo good, baby. Oh yeah. Like that. Oh yeah. Harder. Faster. Harder. Oh God...

Sometimes, I’m not in the mood.
Sometimes, my arm is still sore from the day before and I just don’t feel like it. But, I do it anyway, because I love him. And, because he likes it so much. In fact, Jason thinks it's the best thing since sliced bread. Actually, I think he would gladly give up sliced bread forever just for 10 more minutes of it. Most men would agree. Most women are a little mystified by it – sure, they like it well enough when it's their turn, but they’re not begging for it round the clock.

Jason sure likes his blow - I mean, back scratches.

Men are simple creatures with simple needs: sandwiches, The Simpsons, a pair of jeans, and most importantly, back scratches.

Yes, back scratches.
Jason will choose a back scratch over a back rub every time. I don't get it. I mean, if there’s an itch in the middle of my back, sure, I’ll take a scratch. But Jason will take a scratch – nay, will beg for a scratch, lust for it – whether itchy or not.

Back scratches are a pastime for men, like football, or channel surfing, or nudie bars. My husband lays out $50 a month to keep my nails pampered in a french manicure. He seems to consider it more a treat for himself than for me (and you bet I’m willing to let him keep thinking that); extra-scratchy back scratches are a great return on his investment.

The Art of Back Scratches

Yes, it is an art. A good place to start is right between the shoulder blades. Rake your finger nails across his skin with moderate amounts of pressure. No need to draw blood – save that for passionate bedroom romps. Combine actual scratching with pressure from the pads of your thumbs for added stimulation. It’s not enough to just scratch up and down, you should alternate with circular and diagonal motions for maximum enjoyment and effectiveness.

The one nuisance of back scratches is the 'a little, my down...down...downer...more down...wait, too far' phenomenon. It can be endless, not to mention frustrating. The best way to fix this is to set a frame of reference, and for this, I suggest making your partner's back into a map of your city. Jason's back is a map of Ottawa – Orleans is on his far right, Kanata is on the far left, with Vanier, Napean, Gloucester, The Glebe, and even Gatineau all making appearances. Sometimes he’ll have me scratch landmarks instead, and I’m scurrying all over his back to find Parliament, or his office, or my sleep lab, and it gets to be almost like a treasure hunt.

Using Back Scratches To Your Advantage

You can pretend to be noble and say "oh, I would never do such a thing", but then you'd be a lying bitch.

· Waking your boy up 'on the right side of the bed' need not be any harder than beating his alarm to the punch and waking him up with a mellow back scratch instead.

· Back scratches make superb rewards. Award them for a job well done at your discretion (but don’t overuse them!).

· They make great leverage too – trade them for foot rubs, making movie night your choice, having your toenails painted, or whatever else tickles your fancy. Conversely, you may also charge a small back scratching fee; don’t be greedy, but do make it worth your time.

· For my money, there’s nothing more convenient or energy-efficient to show your affection than a well-timed back scratch (try it soapy in the shower for an extra layer of entertainment).

Finally, if I ever distractedly give Jason a scratch, he never fails to remind me of the golden rule of back scratches: "Under the shirt, Jay, under the shirt."

Friday, April 15, 2005

Friday Fuckfest

Fucktwat of the week:

Okay, so I hate to write about her at all, ever, BUT. But this week she has made it impossible to look the other way.

Fucktwat qualifications:

1. Having a greatest hits album at age 23, consisting of crappy Britney Spears songs.
2. The first marriage.
3. The second marriage.
4. The dog accessory thing.
5. Her blog.
6. Explanation for above album cover: "The reason why Britney's head was superimposed on someone else's body is due to scheduling conflicts." So, her head showed up to the photo shoot without her body? Um, what?
7. She's a skanky whore.
8. Her constant need for a "vacation" from her "really hard" life.
9. Explanation for she and hubby taking separate rooms at hotel recently, flanked by concerned family members: "An emergency meeting was called, but only because Britney was afraid her dog, Bit Bit, was pregnant by [brother] Brian’s dog, Porkchop — and that would be incest." Mmmm, dog sex. Good cover.
10. That she's procreating.

Fucker of the week:

My computer

If I disappear suddenly, never to post again, there's a 10% chance I'm lying dead in a ditch somewhere and a 90% chance my computer just plain old crapped out.

It's leftover from the Cold War, I think, or at least from 1984. This hunk of junk makes Abe Vigoda look like a spring chicken. In a race to do a few simple additions, Britney Spears would outpace this machine by far. By way far. It has no memory, and no capacity for doing anything beyond emitting a wheezy, humming noise that makes the office sound like a helicopter landing pad. K-pro owners turn their snobby noses up at me and my piece of crap.

Basically, this old thing should have been put out to pasture long ago; I'd say it was on its last legs, but truthfully its last leg rotted off and decomposed in the last century. It would be kind to put it out of its misery, pull the plug so to speak, but I am not known for my kindness. At any rate, it does look like it will choke and die a horrible death quite soon, so if you don't hear from me, know that I have enjoyed writing here, and that somewhere, pencil and martini in hand, I am riding into the pinky-orange sunset on top of a very lucky drummer. Ah, bliss.

Most Fuck-worthy of the week:


My fellow Canucks, we know him as George Stroumboulopoulos from Much Music, and now we love him as George Stroumboulopoulos from The Hour.

This guy has me turning on the news again after a disgruntled hiatus. He tells the news the way Canadians see it - tongue in cheek, laid back, (pierced) eyebrow raised.

He's smart, he has excellent taste in music...and did I mention he was incredibly sexy? Because he totally is, and by the grace of Bob Marley, we get to see him 4 times a week. Tuned in, and turned on. Oooh baby.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Pondering the Imponderables

1. What if O.J. really didn't do it? Don't protest, just consider it. What if he is an innocent man, wrongly accused, and though acquitted at trial, sentenced to suffer for the rest of his life through media speculation and the public's condemnation? What if we get to heaven, and he's waiting there, and anyone who's ever said a word against him has to file past him and apologize to gain admittance? What if O.J. is a better person than I am?

2. What if fruitcake was never meant for human consumption? What if it was just a practical joke? Who was the first guy to put this concoction in his mouth (because there's no doubt it was a guy)? And how the hell did he think "Mmm"?

3. What if the chicken never meant to cross the road? Maybe she was just stretching her chubby little legs. Maybe she was trying to hitch a ride down to Mexico. Maybe she was content right where she was.

4. What if Elvis has not left the building? What if he's in your building? What if he's standing behind you right now, his hot onion breath tickling the back of your neck as his sweaty jump suit glistens and he reaches his tubby fingers toward you...

What if he asks you to Bedazzle something for him? Will you do it?

5. What are hyenas laughing at anyway? They're skinny, angry, ugly little beasts. They have a bad reputation and a crummy life. What's so funny, bitch?

6. Why is the program called Alcoholics Anonymous? I mean, after you made a fool out of yourself at grandpa's funeral by stripping to the music in your head and tongue-kissing Aunt Gertrude, I think your secret's out.

What? Uncle Nick is a drunk? Why, I never would have guessed it!

7. What if there is no rhyme in reason? Here's a reason: "the dog ate my homework"...does that rhyme? Here's another reason: "No officer, I was just giving her a ride home..." that one doesn't rhyme either.

8. What if you built it, and no one came? I'd be pretty pissed off. I mean, if I get my ass down to the Home Depot, ruin my manicure, get blisters on my precious hands and sawdust in my hair, you damn well better show up to pat me on the back. And that's an order.

9. What if goldfish get cramps after you feed them? What if 90% of goldfish deaths are caused by not obeying the 'no swimming for 1 hour after you eat' rule? Are we humans responsible for this? Should we remove the fishies from their bowls for an hour after dinner? One of you fish owners test this one out for me and let me know how it goes. I'd experiment myself, I used to have a lot of fish, but they all died mysterious deaths.

10. What if Julie Andrews is a dirty, dirty whore? What if all this:

is just a clever facade and she's at home right now wearing a doggie collar and some vinyl boots and she's spanking some hairy lust monkey while shouting "Tell me I'm practically perfect in every way, bitch!" as we speak? How do you know she's not?

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

The Difference Between Men and Women


My shaving cream comes out in a pink gel. It contains things like essential oils, vitamin E, tea tree oils, chamomile, cucumber and melon extracts, allontin, aloe vera, and eucalyptus. It costs $7 a can.

Jason's shaving cream comes out as straight shaving cream, and it contains, well, shaving cream. It costs $2 a can and appears to do the exact same thing.

Shaving cream is one of 4 necessary toiletries for a man, along with razor, toothbrush, and a bar of soap. Women can have hundreds or thousands of toiletries, and actually use them all.


When I notice the hamper is nearing its capacity, I sort the clothes, pre-treat any stains, divide them into proper wash cycles, set the dial to the appropriate setting and temperature, stick around to throw in fabric softener during the rinse, hang up sweaters, hand wash delicates, and iron the wrinkles out of anything that needs it.

When Jason wants laundry done, he yells "Wife! I have no clean underwear!' and then magically, some appear in his drawer, clean and folded. Jason is blissfully unaware that we even have a laundry room.


In a bar, men will order beer. They drink it straight from the bottle.

Women will order a pretty drink that comes in a tall, pretty glass rimmed in sugar. The drink will be frosty and pink, sweet to the taste but loaded with hard liquor. It will come decorated with umbrellas and orange slices and a cherry pierced by a tiny little sword. The woman will slip the cherry off its sword to eat it.

The men will pick up the discarded swords and play stupid pirate games for the rest of the night. They'll also pick at your whipped cream topping and ask for sips of yours, and though they may drink them in the privacy of their homes, no self-respecting straight man will ever order one of these:

Adam Sandler

Jason thinks "Hah, he's funny. Stop looking at me, swan."

Jamie thinks "Mmm, I want to have his babies."


Men have 2 kinds of socks: black, and white, and they seem to wear them indiscriminately. Men often do not bother to match their socks with their clothes, or even with each other. No matter how big the holes get, men will insist that they are "fine".

Women own more pairs of socks than they can ever wear. They have pink socks, knee socks, slipper socks, socks with pompoms, ankle socks, socks with clouds, socks with teddy bears, theme socks for holidays, socks for working out, socks for dressing up, socks that are cute but not warm, socks that are warm but will never be worn, striped socks, flowered socks, toe socks, novelty socks, socks with ruffles. Women have sock drawers fill with balled up or folded socks. Sock selection is an important part of every morning (unless it's sandal season).

Movie nudity

When a woman sheds her clothes in a movie, a woman watching it will roll her eyes, huff a little, and cross her arms. "No one looks like that in real life, you know" she'll say.

"Huh?" her husband will respond, "I didn't hear that, I was too busy staring at her koochie." Women think about how unnecessary it is, or how degrading it must have been, or that she can spot some cellulite on her thighs - hah! Men think about tits.

Movies only have female nudity. Richard Gere occasionally appears nude, which is why all men hate Richard Gere.


Women spend a lot of time finding just the right 'window treatments' for their home. Things to be considered include size, colour, sheerness or opaqueness, amount of use, durability, ease of cleaning, pattern, and how well they match with surrounding paint colour and accessories. A woman knows that curtains will make or break the room.

Men have no opinion on curtains. When asked, they are unable to ascertain whether their home even has any curtains, and are baffled that anyone would care.


Women park their cars in garages, often the lawn mower as well. Women go to the garage to retrieve the car, or to dispose of garbage.

Men like to turn garages into man rooms. They hang license plates on the walls, keep a beer fridge and a small TV, and several milk crates for sitting around and scratching their balls. Men line the walls with tools they'll never use. They build one lop-sided bench and go sit on it when the wife starts talking about curtains.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

It's 4:20pm, Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

"Hey man, did you hear about Korn?"


"No, Korn."

"Yeah sure, corn."

"Like, Korn, the band."

"Yeah, sure. I know. Korn."

"Hey, what's up with that?"


"That, over there."

"There's nothing over there."

"Oh. Hahahaha."

"Wait, what?"

"Dude, I'm hungry."

"Yeah, me too."


"I don't know."




"Am I cold?"

"I dunno, are you?"

"Am I what?"


"Yeah, now that you mention it. It's pretty cold down here."

"Once, my Dad and I went on this fishing trip and we just sat around forever, we never caught anything. The fish were all like 'Hey man, we're just swimming around, minding our own business.' It was pretty rad."

"Yeah man, fishing's awesome."

"You ever been?"

"Been where?"

"Been fishing."

"Oh. No."

"Well, it's pretty awesome."

"I have a goldfish though."


"I know. It got all fat and shit. I think it's going to have a heart attack and die."


"I know."


"My arms feel so heavy."

"My legs feel so heavy."

"I've been wanting to scratch my nose for like 20 minutes now and I can't move my arms."

"I've been wanting to take a piss for like 30 minutes now and I can't get up."

"It's like: my nose is itchy, but I can't scratch it. It's an itch I can't scratch."

"That's pretty deep, dude."



"Dude, I'm hungry."

"Yeah, me too."

Monday, April 11, 2005

"Yes, Dear"

How much trouble can a 20-something married couple get into? Read and learn.

"Blech, Jamie, what is that smell?"

"That, Jason, is the smell of clean."

"Clean stinks."


Getting ready in the morning.

Jamie: stretch, shower, shampoo, soap, facial, condition, shave, brush teeth, towel off, moisturize body, moisturize face, clean ears, deodorize, select outfit, dress carefully, pluck, comb, part, style, dry hair, mousse, curl, apply makeup, sip orange juice, glance at horoscopes, gather belongings, check weather, put on shoes, switch hand bags, locate keys, put on coat.

Jason: eat 7 slices of toast, put on whatever clothes found on the floor.

"But Jason, you can't go out like that. Your hair is sticking up all over the place."

"Oh, it's okay, I'm going to wear my toque."


"It's okay, you like my toque. I look hot in it, remember?"


Jason has done something stupid. Again. To taunt him, I sing (to the tune of the Oscar Meyer song):

My husband is a moron, M-O-R-O-N

My husband is a -

"Hey, Mormon? I'm not a Mormon. I'm from Earth."


Last summer. Well, make that late spring.

It's been a not-so-sunny Saturday, but Jason wants to go for a swim. He has to test it first (of course), so he peels off his sock and dips in his baby toe. His entire 6'2 frame shudders and he declares "We are NOT going in." He crosses his arms for emphasis.

I kneel down to feel the water. At 72 degrees, it feels nice to me. I've been swimming since 57. "Wuss." After all these years, I still like to boost his ego as little as possible. "Wuss, wuss, wuss." I sing the words over and over as I dance around and wiggle my eyebrows at him.

"Come here and say that to me."

Puffing up to my full height of 5'2 on a good day, I stare him in the eye and repeat "Wuss, wuss, wuss."

The wheels are turning in his head. I know his idea before he does, and I wait patiently while he catches up. I like to let him have his fun every now and then.

He picks me up and jumps right in. I am so proud of him. "You know, I respect you ten times more now."

Wet jeans weigh 40 pounds and memories like that last forever. Later, when we are peeling off our wet clothes, Jason looks pensive. "How is it that you have room to respect me ten times more?"

I smile and kiss him. That's my boy.


(Jamie, pointing at a cake on the internet) "Mmm, doesn't this one look good?"

"Don't touch the screen! I hate it when you get fingerprints all over the screen!"

"But Jason, this is my computer, and it doesn't bother me."

"Well, at work, I keep Windex on my desk at all times. People are always coming over with their greasy fingers and pointing all over my screen. I can't stand it."

"Are you saying I have greasy fingers?" (Jamie is now fondling the screen full-throttle).

"Erm...uh....oh god, let it stop."

And then, with an evil glint in her eye, Jamie takes her 'premium lip protection' out of her pocket. She is prepared to sacrifice it for the greater good. She uncaps it, and proceeds to graffiti up the screen with her chapstick. Jason collapses to the floor in a dead faint.

Jamie squints at the screen through the convoluted, waxy mess for 3 days before Jason finally breaks down and cleans it up.


It's bedtime. The room is dark and cool. The sheets feel good around them. Jason presses himself up against his wife. She puts her arms around him, and breathes him in.

"Mmm, the intoxicating scent of dandruff shampoo," she whispers.


Jason comes home after 11 hours at the office.

"Did you miss me?"


"I missed you immensely."

"Hey, I said enormously."

"I know, but I said immensely."

"Well enormously is bigger than immensely."

"Okay, then I love you whatever's even bigger."

"Fuck you, Jason."


Jason has been talking to his friends at the bar for 10 minutes now. He has a beer in his hand, and Jamie, who was "right behind you, buddy", is nowhere in sight. He sets down his drink, and has a nice, leisurely search for her. He finds her in the parking lot, chatting up some strangers. This is not unusual.

"They have lovely blueberries at Farm Boy right now," she is telling them. She is gesturing wildly enough to take out an unassuming passerby should one get close enough.

The two women hug Jamie as they depart.

"Call me to let me know how it goes!" she yells after them. They turn, smile, and wave.

Jamie runs over to Jason, ready to play catch-up at the bar. Jason knows she will outdrink all the boys.

"Sorr-rryy", she says, with a grin that tells him she isn't sorry at all.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"

"Hey, I figure that no stranger can be half as bad as some of my relatives, and I'm practically obligated to talk to them."

Jason sighs, and opens the door for her.


Saturday, April 09, 2005

My Lips Hurt Real Bad

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Well, mostly the worst.

You know how you go to work all week with only the promise of a glorious weekend to keep you going? The weekend shines like a beacon of motivation, chanting quietly 'you can do it, fuck your boss, you can do it, Monday's over, just keep swimming', and you do keep going, somehow, because eventually the work week is over and with the dawning of the tgif cocktail hour, everything is magic, all is forgotten, and the blissful weekend has descended upon you like a fairy godmother come to whisk you away.


But then by Saturday morning reality drop-kicks you in the teeth; the fridge is empty, the Hydro people are harassing you, you're pretty sure the dog has fleas and that you just won't make it past noon if you don't replenish your liquor supply stat. And so you reluctantly leave the comfort of your bed (mmm, those perfectly warmed sheets, the pillow you've so expertly burrowed into, the embrace of your lover's arms) and you begrudgingly hit the showers where you get shampoo in your eye and shave the same leg twice, the other not at all. Fuck Saturday. Fuck groceries and bills and the in-laws and the obligations and ballet practice and lawnmowers. All you really have is a few golden hours on Friday night to sustain you. It's not enough.

Can you tell I had a pissy weekend?

It started nicely enough. It had us tricked into thinking it would be quite a delightful weekend, in fact.

I am fortune's fool.

Drinking is my only salvation. Thank god for the boat load of daiquiris I had. When we went for a walk at 2am it was warm enough to walk with my tits out, and we had visions of barbecues and patio furniture dancing in our heads. Good times ahead, we thought, as we walked the darkened streets. We kissed by the water on Montreal Road, and a passing ambulance honked at us, and the EMTs waved. We went to see the empty lots where new houses will be built. I skipped down the middle of the road, my motion setting off sensor detectors on every third house. My head felt full of warm apple sauce as I weaved back towards our house, and as always, the fresh air made me yawn. I thought that for once I would get a good night's sleep, and that the next day I would awaken refreshed and ready for adventure.

And that's almost what happened.

The next day, we decided a trip up to Ottawa was in order. It's not quite Byward Market time yet, but I have always loved that place, I love walking around, seeing Zipper guy, listening to street musicians, checking out the vendors and the farmer's market, watching someone make sidewalk art in chalk, rotting the teeth out of my head in Sugar Mountain, invariably meeting up with friends and sharing brownie sundaes at the Hard Rock Cafe or cocktails at Mother Tucker's. Glenda was up for a trip to SilverCity with us, it was a great day for a drive, and there seemed to be not one hitch in the plan.

Which basically, is when you know you're fucked.

It all comes to a screeching halt when I retrieve an armful of fluffy warm towels from the dryer. I plop them down onto the bed, leave Jason is charge of folding, and double back to clean out the lint trap. I always marvel at the ingenuity of lint, and I was caught up in a reverie when I heard Jason cursing furiously from the bedroom.

"Jesus Jason, what the hell is wrong? You shouldn't fucking swear so much with a lady in the room. It's rude, for fuck's sake."

"You miss, are no lady. Now get me a damn ice pack!"

Jason had managed to turn his ankle while folding laundry. Don't ask. Literally. He gets all sweaty and red in the face every time I bring it up, and believe me, I bring it up a lot.

"What kind of nancy boy twists his ankle folding laundry?"

He really likes it when I call him that. It rings especially true because his mother's name is Nancy. He keeps trying to ring my neck, but he forgets that his sore ankle has him hobbling around like Frankenstein with a pulled groin, and I have plenty of time to run away.

So we had to push back our date in Ottawa a day, and we sat around at home, getting on each other's nerves. He was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper rather noisily, rustling each page as he turned it and whistling through his nose. And then he committed the cardinal sin: he read me the daily poll.

He knows I hate the daily poll. He knows I think the questions are ridiculous right-wing crap, the sample size is incorrigibly small, the method of collection incredibly biased, and the respondents uneducated and ignorant. We go through this every time, but he always reads it out to me. So I yanked that filthy newspaper out of his hands, rolled it up, and beat him with it (and on his bum leg he was unable to get away). You would be surprised how quickly the tube of newspaper turned into a pulpy shredded mess, but I did get in some good bruising around the temples, so it wasn't all for naught.

And frankly, that was the highlight of our weekend.

The next day, his ankle was an angry Barney colour, and swelled to the size of a melon. A big melon. So, Ottawa, and all things fun, were quickly scratched off the list. I was in an even grumpier mood than usual because I felt another sty coming on (I have a stupid condition where I get stys in my eyes all the dumb is that? they're not super painful, they're mostly just annoying and unsightly, so I refuse to take meds for it....and damn, they make me cranky). Of course, Jason has a 'fail-proof' cure for stys every single time they present themselves:

"Think happy thoughts, Jamie."

"Oh, shut your fucking face, uncle-fucker."

Did I mention I haven't been sleeping well lately? It's not true, but I think I should throw it in anyway just to defray my crankpot antics a bit.

Anyway, angry Barney ankle or not, by the second day I was showing no mercy, and I was back to ordering Jason around as usual. I sent him to the kitchen to get me a drink. We have a great system at our house to indicate my thirst. Either I'll yell "THIRSTY!!!", or I'll bang my empty glass on the table until it gets refilled, or I'll grunt. Personally, I prefer the grunt method. Then he has to guess what exactly I want: hungry? thirsty? blanket? pen and paper? foot rub? I enjoy putting him through the ringer, as you can probably tell. I think it's pretty much the only benefit to having a husband, so I get my money's worth.

Jason looks into the fridge. "What do you want? Diet Pepsi? Water? Orange juice? Daiquiri?"


"Or how about a glass of crab juice then?" He thinks he's so clever.

"How about a nice tall glass of fuck-you juice?" That's right, bitch.

And that's pretty much how we spent our weekend.

Friday, April 08, 2005

The Friday Fuckfest

Friday's Fucktwat:

Evangeline Lilly (she plays Kate on Lost)

Okay, well, there's a lot about this actress, her role, and this show that really cheeses me off. A lot. But this week she gets the fucktwat award for the work she did before she landed the role of a lifetime on primetime. I'll give you a hint: it airs late at night, involves a 900 number, and includes the brilliant line 'It's not cheating if it's on the phone'.

That's right. This Canadian darling, apparently just moments before being cast on Lost, signed up to do a phone sex commercial, and it airs here all the time. All the time. It has forever ruined that show for me.

"Do you ever get lonely? I know I do. That's why I love to call Live Links. There are always lots of hot girls waiting to talk to friendly guys. Why don't you give me a call tonight?"

Yeah, I'm sure she just needed the money or whatever, but still. I'm sure her mother is real proud.

Friday's Fucker

The thing about James Joyce is, I hate him. Why? Two words: Finnegan's Wake. I have never known a better reason to hate a man in my entire life. It took him 15 bloody years to write the thing, and it took me almost 3 months to read it, so that's at least 15 years and 3 months of wasted life that will never be restored. From what I've heard, I may be the only person to ever actually read the damn thing, thanks to its reputations for being 'incomprehensible, demented, and totally unreadable.' This reputation is not undeserved.

If James Joyce had had even one nice bone in his entire body, he would have burnt the manuscript and eaten the ashes, then jumped off a real high bridge, plunging into a frigid, shark-infested water where he would be devoured and digested forever more. His time, and mine, would have been better served working on a phone sex commercial. Fuck you, Mr. Joyce, fuck you right in the ear.

Friday's Most Fuck-Worthy:

Stephan Jenkins from Third Eye Blind

I think maybe it would be best to just stand back and admire the view: Stephan Jenkins is hot. HOT hot. This guy is like buttah. Can anyone suppress their urge to molest him? Yeah, me neither.

He's sexy as hell, has a degree in literature, drives a motorcycle, writes his own lyrics, and raises money for breast cancer in his free time. I think I lurrrrvvvv him. I'd definitely like to bed him. He plays guitar and drums, so we know he's good with his hands. Plus, I bet he's got a lovely sausage.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

What I Learned From Disney

Cartoons are inherently sexist. If I was a parent, I can tell you positively that most of the Disney collection would be outlawed from my home, and the hugely successful princess line would not be fit to line the cat litter box.

"Hello, my name is Belle. I am beautiful and smart, and yet I managed to fall in love with my abusive kidnapper."

"I'm Ariel, and I learned that in order to land a man, you have to transform yourself physically and never speak up again."

This is what the next generation of women will have grown up learning. Women should lie passively until their prince charming decides to come rescue them. Inspiring, isn't it? And yet, we're lucky to have even these role models, because other than the princesses, it's hard to find a female character. Male characters vastly outnumber the females, and I'm not just talking Disney, I mean every animated film house.

Main characters of the most popular animated films:

Toy Story: Woody, Andy, Buzz Lightyear 0/3
Lion King: Simba, Pumba, Timon, Scar, Mufasa: 0/5
Monsters, Inc: Mike, Sully, Boo, Randall: 1/4
Aladdin: Aladdin, Genie, Jasmine, Jafar, Sultan: 1/5
Shrek: Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, Lord Farquaad:1/4
Ice Age: Manfred, Sid, Diego: 0/3
Winnie The Pooh: Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Tiger, Gopher, Owl, Kanga, Roo: 1/10
Finding Nemo: Nemo, Dorie, Marlin: 1/3

Grand total: 5 females out of 37 characters ...and I'm not even sure if we should count Fiona or Jasmine since they're princesses!

(Aside: Is anyone else concerned that Winnie the Pooh is basically all male, except for Roo's Mom? Is this the biggest gay orgy ever, cleverly disguised? I have nothing against gay orgies, but I do wonder how exactly this forrest continues to thrive with no females.)

There are a multitude of male characters that get into all kinds of scrapes and adventures: James and the Giant Peach, Hercules, Jimmy Neutron, The Fox and The Hound, The Emperor's New Groove, Tarzan, Robin Hood, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter Pan, Dumbo...But females rarely get the title position, and if they do, you bet they're princesses: The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella. I want a girl who scrapes her knees and gets her fingernails dirty,who goes on adventures and takes risks. I want to see a girl who reads books and is good at science, a girl who wears shorts and rubber boots instead of dresses and glass slippers. I want to see a girl catch frogs and save the day. But all I see are girls who lie in wait, blushing and tittering.

There are 2 exceptions to the rule, that I can see: Mulan, and Pocahontas, incidentally two movies that I own and cherish. Pocahontas is the disneyfied story of a girl who embraced all people and brought peace to her troubled village through love and acceptance. Mulan is the story of a girl who replaces her ailing father in a Chinese war and ends up being the hero(ine). Finally, movies I would not be ashamed or apprehensive to show my daughters. Even without blonde hair and blue eyes, you can find love and accomplish things. Even as a poor, undereducated woman, you can win the respect of your peers with hard work and perserverance. This sounds more like the kind of thing young girls should be exposed to, and yet these are rarities.

Mulan dressed for battle:

Smart, strong, brave. But make no mistake: Disney doesn't make role models, they make money. Therefore, I shouldn't be surprise when they pimp out Mulan to make her princess-friendly. Make no mistake, these movies are still far from perfect, but I would rather see a woman who 'can paint with all the colours of the wind' than a girl who hopes that 'some day my prince will come.' Sigh.

Girls will only fancy the doll if she's in a dress. Forget the spirit of Mulan, forget who she is and what she stands for, give her heels and blush and fashion accessories, dammit! Make her pink. Girls are all about the pink.

I hang my head in shame. Mulan, I think you had it right: when I grow up, I want to be a boy.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

The Most Search Engine-Friendly, Keyword Saturated Post Ever Written. Or Not.

There are certain undeniable facts in life: mosquito bites will itch like hell, and despite the fact that you know better, you will indeed pick them; the Atkins diet will impress in the short-run and fail miserably in the long-run but people will still cling to it because they love red meat and band-aid solutions; George W. Bush is an effing idiot.

And yet, none of this bothers me today, because it's a glorious spring Wednesday, and what more could I ask for? With the weather so beautiful, we drive around in the old Ford Pinto with the windows rolled down, rocking out to the questionable lyrics of Usher...okay, I'll concede that he's a sharp dresser (although a little too "Michael Jackson" for my taste, what with all the glitter and the single glove thing), and even a keen dancer (in a "I have a suspicious rash in my genital region" kind of way), but the dude cannot write a song. U wanna get wit me? Really? Then try acquiring 3rd grade English and try again soon.

Seriously, though, it is a nice day. It's the kind of day that makes me want to get out my teeny weeny itsy bitsy yellow polka dot bikini and start up an all-female t-ball team. Not that I've ever played t-ball. Or worn a bikini out in public past the age of 3 (although I have been to nude beaches, so what's up with that?). There's just something about spring and feeling the need to see ample bosoms bouncing around as we women round the bases. Are there even bases in t-ball? I don't know. At any rate, I can guarantee the steroid level will be almost non-existent, but no such guarantees will be made for silicone or botox. We do have room for 2 towel boys, but we'll be holding American Idol type auditions for those. I'll be the bitter judge who always wears a scowl and a black t-shirt, and conveniently, I have two washed up clowns to back me up. We'd rather a Johnny Depp sort than a Napoleon Dynamite, sweet bow staff skills notwithstanding. We're looking to put together a team with some real synergy, so only serious applicants need apply.

Spring is an exciting time: the grass is greening, gay rugby matches are cropping up (and what cute uniforms they have!), and harried mothers take their bratty teenage daughters shopping for prom dresses, vetoing anything that simpers sexuality, vying for 'covered shoulders', and balking at the matching thongs. It's a great time to be in an over-crowded mall, I tell you. Just super. Especially because you have to brave the throngs of people, because my least-favourite time of the year is here: ah, yes, mother's day. Already I'm sweating about what to get Jason's mom, and Jason's pseudo-mom. It's hard to find the perfect gift that will say 'thank you for giving me your wonderful son' when what you really mean is 'the fact that Jason can even swallow his own drool is a miracle, and if he turned out even remotely okay, it's despite you, not because of you' but they rarely have greeting cards that put my sentiments into words. I tried to sign up to do those mother's day crafts at the Home Depot but the lady told me it was for kids 12 and under only. Bitch. She thinks she's so haughty in her little orange apron with her granny glasses hanging around her neck on a chain. I rattled a loogie in the back of my throat and let it fly in her face. I think there was phlegm in it and everything, god damned hay fever allergies.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was enjoying a warm hump-day, basking in the glow of the sun, thinking about washing the car or barbecuing, or doing anything really to tear Jason away from the gay chat rooms....uh, I mean, from NASCAR. Yeah, NASCAR. You know, it's funny, but he always ends up rooting for the team sponsored by Hello Kitty. He says it's just easier to follow the races that way because it's the only pink car out there.

I did manage to get him out of the house for a little while, anyway. We sat and had drinks on the patio of our favourite pub with some good friends. These get-togethers always progress remarkably similarly: first, the boys try to outdo each other with Family Guy quotes:

"Excuse me, is your refrigerator running? Because if it is, it probably runs like you - very homosexually."

"I got an idea, an idea so smart my head would explode if I even began to know what I was talking about."

It takes about 10 minutes of this junk before I blow a gasket and declare that the next man to say "Giggity" will go home castrated. That shuts them up in a hurry. Then the great debate is unleashed: PSP vs blowjobs. I stay out of it, because obviously I'm quite biased. I just don't get what the big deal with these gaming systems is. I bought Jason a PS2 when it first game out, and I swear his happiness was at least equal to having 10 cheerleaders of loose morals put out in the back of his Dad's Jaguar. And he's touchy about it too. Do you know how often he yells at me about it?

"Jamie, for the last time, it's not a paddle, it's a controller! This is not 1982!" Jeez. So anyway, the banter goes back and forth:

"PSP is better, because you can walk around with it. With blow jobs you have to be either lying down, sitting up, or standing in the shower with you back braced against the wall."

"Oh shut up Don, it's not like you would even know. You've never even been with a girl before."

"Shut up. I have too. I just prefer my console to sex is all I'm saying."

Personally, I could not care less. I mean, isn't the PSP just a glorified, overpriced Gameboy? What am I missing here? Ah well, it doesn't much matter. Please do not try to educate me. I get really hostile towards unsolicited information. I have filed PSP away with other terms such as "podcasting", which I define as 'word which I have no idea what it means, the end.' Into the vault they go, podcasting, PSP, most of the crap Jason talks about, etc, etc. It's all about as appealing to me as the Vatican City web cam. I mean, are you kidding me? That is some seriously messed up shit. I've been miffed at the Pope all week for having the audacity to die at the worst possible time, thus pre-empting my airing of 101 Dalmatians on the Disney channel with boring-as-hell coverage of his death. I used to just think the Pope had never really done anything for me, but now I can honestly say he hurt me. You cut me deep, JP2, real deep. And I can say for certainty that I am not the only one who's smarting: poor Prince Charles will have to postpone his wedding to Camilla for that selfish son-of-a-gun. Tsk, tsk, shame on you, Pope, shame on you.

Anyhow, nothing cheers me up from morbid Pope talk like some Angelina Jolie fantasy action. Last spring, I blew up a bunch of sexy, naked Angelina Jolie pictures and wallpapered the inside of our car with them. Jason and I spent many nights out in that car, with our seats reclined, steaming up the windows, each thinking about making out with her. Woo-eee. Actually, I think Jason prefers Beyonce these days. He's fickle like that: one day he's all about downloading free anti-virus programs, and the next he's busying switching the clocks after nasty daylight savings time. Me, I'm much more faithful. For example, I accidentally caught the premiere episode of that new show Gray's Anatomy, and even though I found it unoriginal, formulaic, and all in all quite a bore with only nominally good looking actors, I'll probably continue to watch it. That's just a little something I like to call a 'rut', and since I can never remember what night those damned Desperate Housewives are on, this new medical drama will have to do. Woe is me.

So anyway, no Wednesday night would be complete without a trip to the local movie theatre. Hmm, Miss Congeniality vs Sin City, which shall I choose? "The most violent and cool movie I've ever seen" or "The biggest waste of celluloid since Battlefield Earth"? This brings up a sore spot with me called "Hello people, that Sandra Bullock is past her prime!" Speed was a good movie, now let it go. There are some hard truths in life, and the sooner you learn them, the better. The hardest truth I know right now is that another of her movies has been green-lighted! Inexplicably. She accidentally made one "good" movie 10 years ago, and she’s been chugging along on the steam of it ever since. It’s time to put her out to pasture.

We're sitting in the movie theatre, and we are privy to at least a dozen annoying ring tones before the previews are even over, and in my opinion, the previews are the best part. Unless we're talking about that god damned Star Wars trailer, in which case: NERD ALERT! Man, what is wrong with people? I was telling my friend the other day that I have this strong compulsion to go to one of those month-long lineups they have to get into the movie, and just annihilate all of them, for the good of the earth, because obviously we don't want these geeks messing with our gene pool. Then she pointed out that it was unlikely that these guys would ever 'mate' successfully anyway, and I had to concede the point. Anyway, previews are one thing, but what's with these commercials before movies? Oooh, the new Honda Odyssey! Sleek! Sexy! Exciting! Handles ess curves with elegance and panache! And then, coincidentally I'm sure, it popped up 87 times in the movie as well. I think Honda is trying to brainwash me. Anyone else have that feeling? Maybe I've just been cursed. It's probably the Pope. That dude has it in for me, and yet, I still won't feel sorry for him.

Actually, the person I feel sorry for is Johnnie Cochran. Poor Johnnie Cochran. First, he comes into this life with a name like "Johnnie". Didn’t his mother realize that when he turned 7, his buddies would make fun of him mercilessly for it? He tried going by John for respectability’s sake, but it just never took. And then Johnnie spent his life building an honourable career and "doing charitable work" according to his publicist, and all he’ll ever be remembered for is the O.J. Simpson case. And now, even in his death, he is probably rolling over in his grave, his body not even cold, groaning about how the Pope stole all his limelight by dying too. Sorry Johnnie, but life just isn’t fair. Hey, doesn’t this sound like some truly inspired country music lyrics? No? Just me? Well fine then, be that way.

In conclusion: yay for spring.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

You Are More Dead To Me Than Your Dead Mother

This is my attempt at flash fiction.

Anyone who has been here even once before knows that I am a long-winded bitch, and no one knows that better than me (oh, my aching fingers!). I wanted to see if I was capable of being succinct, and this is a challenge to me not only because I write a lot, but because I hate to self-edit. This one clocks in at 387 words, so yay for me, and yay for you, a quick read for once!


The buzzer from the downstairs lobby sounds in my apartment, and my heartbeat quickens in response. Who dares drop by unannounced? I send my query down the voice box, and the crackling voice that responds is my mother’s. My mother’s! Four months I’ve been living on my own, and she picks today to surprise me with a visit.

All I can do is send her up. I have to. I have 15 seconds at most as she walks up the flight of stairs and squints at the rusty numbers nailed to our doors. I survey the scene: empty pizza boxes, laundry both dirty and clean, textbooks and foolscap scattered haphazardly, trampled CD cases, empty bottles of Crown Royal, junk mail and take-out menus, candle wax, and gym bags. The mess is monumental. But it’s not my fault, at least, not really. I go to school full-time. And I work full-time. That’s 2 full times! Logically, each person can only have one full-time since full-time suggests all the time is full. And yet I fill my time twice, somehow, and am learning to be a wife and co-ed and a self-sufficient adult at the same time. What I don’t seem to find time for is tidying the apartment as much as I should. And now my mother will know. Shit.

I run first to the small bathroom, and do what I can in there. It’s not enough. Not enough by far. Then I kick things hurriedly under the bed, and try to cover the most obvious stains on the bed with rumpled sheets. I fill my arms with all manners of sin and stuff them in unforgiving, bulging closets.

And then I hear my mother’s polite knock. I’m not ready to open the door. I can’t possibly dream of letting her in, and yet every moment she spends out in the hallway is another moment for her to notice the burnt out light bulbs, the mysterious stain on the carpet, or the intense scent wafting from the drug dealer’s neighboring apartment. So, I pull back the chain and twist the deadbolt while silently praying to a god I haven’t said hello to in quite a while. I smile bravely as I open to the door to my mother, feeling that I have officially failed as a grown-up.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Saint Vodka of the Martini

My 3-day weekend, in a turtle shell (I'm tired of the damn nutshell, okay? get off my back about it): 50% sleeping, 40% drinking, 8% trying to get my armpit to fart, 1% spelunking in the sofa cushions for pizza money, 1% zen.

By the time we woke up on Wednesday night (remember, our weekends are Wed-Fri, and it takes all of the 'real' weekend to recover from them), all of our good intentions were shot to hell. Everything was closed, no errands could be run (shucks), so what else is there to do but have friends over and drink, which is what we did.

First, let me just say that if you're over 30, you'd better own and know how to use a martini set. A good one. And preferably, you should have a large collection of martini glasses on hand. Martini glasses are beautiful, and a must-have for any dedicated drinker. As you can tell from my url, I am a big fan of martinis. Just holding a martini makes you smarter and cooler, by at least 30%. If you don't like them, learn to love them. Trust me. My favourite martini recipes can be found here.

Martinis were in fact the drink of choice at our Wednesday night poker party. I made my fabulous philly cheese steak sandwiches, and my super-flaming-hot chicken wings, and nachos, of course. Everyone loves nachos. Not that anyone remembers consuming nachos, or playing poker, or even drawing breath after about 11:30pm. Personally, I'm just glad I didn't catch myself on fire on Wednesday night, considering that I must have been at least 180 proof and was in and out of the oven all night long.

Thursday is when things got really rowdy. We didn't even get up until 9pm, and there were still quite a few stragglers left over from the night before, consuming vast amounts of dairy product, and attempting to watch Donald Trump while not at all sober. Upon my awakening, I found a gleaming pile of silver with my name on it: all the nickels and dimes that I had won the night before. Apparently, I'd been the big winner. In a moment of brilliance, we decided to pile into the old Buick, and get rid of the change as much as possible (which is actually not easy to do in this town past 9pm). We ended up, most of us still in our pjs, at Walmart, and we sent Jason, the only clothed one among us, out to the Pepsi vending machine. For half an hour of gut-wrenching funniness, he poured nickels and dimes into that thing, and like some kind of strange cola-slot-machine, Diet Pepsis just came popping out.

On our way home, we decided to stop behind the hockey rink to play in the last remaining pile of snow. My housecoat kept me warm, but sadly, it felt picky in the elbow area again. It had been picky for the past week, but since I rarely wear it, I didn't think too much about it. We can't have everything, right? Definitely right. Somewhere in the giant pile of snow, I lost my ladybug slipper. Lefty. It was too dark to locate her, so she got left behind. Back in the car, on the way home once again, my friend Brian pulled a 2-inch sewing needle out of my elbow. Yup. That's what had been bugging me for the past week; apparently I had lost it last time I'd sewed. Woops. We were all disgusted for a matter of moments, until we saw something that stupefied and amazed us: a weenie wheelie!

Who knew that our little town had gotten hip to the hot dog cart? Not I. We were all quite proud. And, as Joey so eloquently put it the next night, "Drunks love their sausages." Is that dude quotable or what?

Well past 11pm when we get in, we irrationally decide that drinking seems like a viable option once again. And this time it's hardcore.

Among the games,

-Pucker Up, "a game played at all the best orgies!"
-Birthday Suits, "Hope you remembered your underwear!"
-King Ping, "Just like 10-pin bowling, but without the sexy shoes."

And one called Mutation ("if you don't know your ass from your elbow, this game is definitely for you!"). Like hell it is. Basically, each person points to a part of their body, say their head, and calls it something else, like "this is my leg." The next person does this also, and then repeats the previous person's, until you've got a great big string of ridiculousness. If you get one wrong, you take a shot. And basically, after the first 2 people, we were all doomed. Pretty soon, things were starting to look like the try-outs for Rent on the gayest Broadway ever.

Finally, when the sun came up, we went to sleep, piles of random bodies strewn in any fashion, lumped together for warmth, dreaming the dreams that only the truly inebriated can dream.

And then it was Friday. Ah, blessed Friday. Banking, groceries, bills, errands. Well, if I was a soccer Mom, that is. But I'm not.

Friday we kept things mellow, so I made margaritas. Margaritas are great. They're nutritional, they're green, they go down oh-so-easily.

Doesn't rim trim sound like the dirtiest thing ever? Well, it does when you're drunk anyway. We had a nice, leisurely afternoon of margaritas, and said goodbye to our friends who were going back from where they came from: Toronto, Ottawa, Kingston. Kaitlyn and I sat in the driveway trying in vain to get suction under our arm pits. Not one farting noise could be made between us, although we made all kinds of other noises trying to procure them. Is this strictly a male art? Or maybe we were just too drunk and too cold to really concentrate. Plus, my elbow was still sore from the Big Poke I got the other day.

Friday night was quiet, because in essence, it's our Sunday night. It was just Jason and I, and his friend Joey. We had nickels and dimes of another kind, and spent the night staring blankly at the TV - did we watch Napoleon? Discuss crazy Polish drivers? Maybe it's just me, but I think Joey said his Grandma knew the Pope.

So at the respectable hour of 5am-ish, I tucked my little boy safely into bed, listened to him ramble for a minute about "ballpoints" before he passed out cold.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Shocking New Interview About Wendy's "Finger" Incident!

Even though I haven't eaten at Wendy's since 2000 when I threw up their Spicy Chicken sandwich, I was just as concerned about the finger-in-the-chili incident as the next guy. Unless the next guy is Jason, because that man loves his chili, and my concern just doesn't measure up to his. Anyhoo, in order to get to the bottom of this disturbing find, I thought I'd go right to the top dog, and interview the founder of Wendy's, Mr. Dave Thomas.

Look, the guy from all the commercials!

The only problem is, Dave Thomas has been dead for 3 years, and one of the feet on my Ouija Board broke off last time I had a heated discussion with Jimmy Beam. So, I went with the next best thing, an interview with his granddaughter, Miss Sabrina Thomas.

Jay: Thanks for being with us today, Sabrina.

Sabrina: No problem.

J: So what do you think your grandfather would have said about "FingerGate"?

S: Oh, he's not too happy about it. He says he'll never eat at Wendy's again.

J: He won't? Wow, that's shocking.

S: Not really. He's pretty stubborn. He hasn't eaten at McDonald's since they got rid of the McRib in 1983.

J: He used to eat at McDonald's? Isn't that a conflict of interest? What about consumer confidence?

S: I don't know what you mean.

J: I just mean that I don't think Dave Thomas should be seen eating anywhere but at Wendy's. Stocks would plummet; it would be terrible for business.

S: Isn't Dave Thomas dead?

J: You should know, he's your grandfather!

S: No he's not. My grandfather is Artie Thomas. He used to be a steel worker, but now he just drives around town on this little motor scooter, scaring small children with his false teeth.

J: Are you sure?

S: Yes I'm sure! Jeez lady, what did you do, just open the phone book to the Thomas section and pick someone at random?


S: I see.

J: Well, do you have any relation to Dave Thomas at all? Any affiliation with Wendy's?

S: Not really. I had a baked potato there the other day.

J: Shit. This really fucks up the rest of my interview. Listen, do you think you could just pretend, or something?

S: I guess...

J: Okay, so Miss Thomas, what's it like being the heiress to a fortune? Do you hang out with the Hiltons?

S: Well, I've seen Paris Hilton on TV before. That girl has a face like a horse.

J: So you're not close personal friends then?

S: No.

J: What do you do then? What's a day in the life of Sabrina Thomas like?

S: Well, I get up, eat breakfast, take the bus to school, go -

J: You take the bus to school?

S: Limo. I meant limo. Sorry. I take the limo to school.

J: You still go to school? I thought heiresses all dropped out when they were 12 to get plastic surgery and become anorexic fashion models.

S: Oh. Right.

J: So, did it hurt?

S: Did what hurt?

J: Your boob job!

S: Um...yes?

J: I thought so. Jeez, you’d think your grand-dad would have sprung for more than just a B cup. Is he pretty stingy? I thought Wendy’s was doing pretty well, but then why not the bigger model?

S: Listen, this is getting weird –

J: Okay, fine. We’ll let the before and after pictures speak for themselves.

S: I have to meet my boyfriend in 10 minutes, so if you could just wrap this up –

J: Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Who are you seeing? Orlando Bloom? Josh Hartnett? One of the Hobbits?

S: No. His name is Ronald. He’s a senior at Rydell High –

J: Oooh, I bet it’s Nick Carter! That boy just loves the rich bitches. So, has he tattooed your name anywhere yet? It would be cool if he tattooed the Wendy’s logo to his bicep. Wendy’s would get some better press anyway.

S: I guess so.

J: So tell me, how is Nick Carter these days? He’s gotten chubby since he broke up with Paris. Is it drugs, or is he just depressed that the Back Door Boys are splitting up?

S: The Back Street Boys are splitting up?

J: I don’t know, you tell me!

S: I really don’t know anything about it.

J: What are you, the new Ono or something? Don’t be so coy.

S: I comment.

J: Fine, fine, have it your way. You don't have to be so secretive. I don’t work for the tabloids you know.

S: I kind of figured that. Your ‘press credentials’ look a lot like a library card.

J: Shut up!

S: You shut up!

J: Oh, real mature.

S: Listen lady, I’m just a high school kid who is trying to be nice to a lady who obviously didn’t take her meds this morning. I don’t have to stay here and take this.

J: Oh, please stay. We were just getting to the juicy stuff. It’ll be over soon, I promise.

S: Fine.

J: I won’t even mention your boyfriend anymore. But you know, the secret’s only safe until the paparazzi catch you two having a Jamba Juice or something, and then it will blow up in your face. You better start wearing a little more makeup. And tell Nick to do a few more crunches.

S: He’s not my boyfriend!

J: Okay, okay! Jeez, can someone say Diva much? Let’s just move along to the next question, shall we? What do you think about the new Louis Vuitton line this season? Is green really the new pink?

S: I wouldn’t know.

J: Oh, is Louis Vuitton out this year? Did you send Jessica Simpson that memo?

S: Uh, no.

J: So where do you go for all your handbag needs then?

S: Oh, Target, mostly.

J: Target?

S: Yes.

J: Target?

S: Yes.

J: Honey, you might want to keep that little nugget to yourself when the reality shows come sniffing.

S: Well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.

J: No problem.

( uncomfortable silence)

( 7 minutes later)

J: Well?

S: Well what? You didn’t ask me any questions.

J: You know, they say Russell Crowe is a real bitch to work with, but you’ve got an attitude on you bigger than 100 old-fashioned hamburgers stacked back to back.

S: Okay, lady, this interview is over. I hope you get medical treatment for your condition.

J: Wait, come back! Please! We can talk about the ski season in Aspen! I'll be good, I promise! Come back! I have nothing else to put on my blog this week, and Ashton Kutcher's third cousin's best friend's neighbour's hair-dresser just took a restraining order out on me...

[end transcript]