Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Where have I been, and where am I going?

The phone rang, and I answered it.

I never answer the phone.

I must have known.

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

Sometimes love means getting on a Greyhound bus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was probably drunk."

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

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

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


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

"I just don't know -"

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


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

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

"You're welcome."

"Wanna go get wasted?"

"You know it."

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Behind the Blog: Elvis Kisses With His Eyes Open and Other Observations

My friend Kim, the lucky bitch, was whisked off to Hawai'i by her loving husband Jeffy (hint, hint, HINT!!!) and during her enviable absence, she asked several blogging buddies to take over for her. I was assigned the much-coveted 8th day, and so today the post on my site is a clever (?) look behind the scenes at The Making of the Blog.

As I said, I had the pleasure of covering the 8th day of her vacation. If you haven't read it yet, then please do so here. Feel free to leave Kim a comment and let her know that we all hate her for being in Paradise while the rest of us put up with spitting ice rain. And then get your asses back here to find out just how I was able to channel Kim and write about a vacation I know nothing about.

Writing this post posed a couple of problems for me, because:

a) Being the 8th day poster, 7 other esteemed bloggers have gone before me. So far on her vacation, Kim has been violated at the airport, arrested and jailed, taken up cheerleading, and gotten stuck in a compromising position for all the world to see. Seemingly, there aren't many other angles to cover. One vacation can only contain so much hilarity, right?

b) I've never been to paradise. In fact, I'm not even sure that I 100% believe that Hawai'i is a real place.

So what's a girl to do?

The only hint that Kim offered was that she'd be golfing it up in Maui. So to simulate the world- class golf courses on a majestic island, Jason and I went mini-putting at Crazy Al's hot dog shack and driving range. Good times.

I shaved my legs so I could wear a skirt and some flipflops. I found a plastic lei at the dollar store (sacrilegious I know, but hello, it's winter in Canada for crying out loud!). Oh sure, my toes turned blue before I even got into the car, and I got some pretty spiffy looks from other people, but this was not the first time, nor the last and Jason copes fairly well with this stuff by now.

In fact, he even bought me some fresh pink flowers to put in my "hair."

So we golfed, or we putted, or we goofed around and made out and moved our balls from hole to hole, and I won even though I totally held back in an effort to feed Jason's ego for once.

At home we made slushy drinks out of real Hawaiian punch, and then we ate seafood and had pineapple delight for supper. I took turns dancing to Jason's stylings on the ukelele, and then to my Lilo&Stitch soundtrack.

And then, completely by coincidence, MuchMoreMusic was playing Blue Hawai'i, which we watched for 4 whole minutes before I was so impressed with Elvis' smooching with his eyes wide open, and staring in fact at another woman all the while, that I had to practice the Elvis kiss on Jason, and pretty soon we were putting the lime in the coconut, if you know what I mean.

So we had a great day, but in the end I was largely uninspired. I mean, we spent a giggly day living the cold Canadian versions of several Hawaiian cliches, but I was pretty sure it would all pale in comparison to the real thing.

Did that deter me?

Well, if you read my post, you'll probably agree that it should have.

I wrote the thing anyway.

I always do.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

My Funny Valentine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

My Pineapple Princess

Guest post by Jay's husband, Jason.

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

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

And on to the Wonderfulness....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, February 13, 2006

Oh the things that I put up with.

1. I bought Jason a crest spinbrush for Christmas. I admit this was a mistake. But every time this little battery-operated toothbrush came on TV, he oohed and aahed, and I couldn't resist. So I found a Spiderman spinbrush and matching Spiderman toothpaste, and they fit perfectly into his stocking, and for some strange reason that I blame on too much eggnog, I bought it for him and actually thought it would be okay.

But it hasn't been okay. Because for the past month I have witnessed him using that spinbrush every morning in the shower...and he doesn't just use it on his teeth. He likes to experiment with it on all of his various body parts. And he tries to involve mine as well! I have to be constantly on the defensive or else I might get violated. Does anyone else have this problem?

2. Last month I gave Jason a final warning: if you can't wash the sink after shaving, you can't shave anymore. He has this "great" beard trimmer that shoots whiskers all over the bathroom so you literally might think that my decorating theme is "furry". It is not.

Jason continued to leave the bulk of his beard all over the bathroom, so I made good on my threat. No more beard trimmer. If he wants to shave, he must do so with a razor, in the shower. Don't worry though, he's found a way to piss me off with that too: he refuses to replace the cap on the shaving cream, which prevents the can from rusting. So now my bathtub has psychedelic orange rings all over it - unwashable, of course. And I can't decide which is worse - a rust pattern on my bathtub, of living knee-deep in man fur.

3. I ask him sometimes, Will you still love me when I'm old?

How old?
he'll ask.

Old old,
I'll say. Saggy and wrinkly and stuff.

Yes, I'll still love you.

Will you still want me, though? Will you still find me sexy?

Of course I will!

Even when I look like my grandmother?


Do you think my grandmother's hot?

Um, no.

So you won't think I'm hot? These are my genes!

Well, okay, it's granny-hot. Hot for an old lady.

So you do think that Nanny's hot?

Yes. For an older woman.

Hahah, you just said that Nanny's hot!

And then we wrestle.

4. Where have all the forks gone? One of the great features of modern-day cutlery is its reusability. Just wash, and it's good to go again! But somewhere between the pickle jar and the kitchen sink, hundreds if not thousands of forks have gone missing. Where do they go? Why do they stray? Why is my husband such a moron?

Yes, the obvious culprit is Jason, and the mysterious black hole into which forks disappear - the work lunch. I pack him a fork so that he can pretend in front of his colleagues that he has some sort of table manners, and then the fork immediately falls off the face of the earth. I literally go out of my mind trying to set the dinner table at night because I am faced with a constant lack of forks. I have to cook meals that can be eaten entirely using spoons and knives. Piercing things is out of the question. And you can't buy just forks. Cutlery comes in sets. So I have 7 drawers full of spoons and knives that I'll never use, and still no forks.

In a fit of frustration, I tied a piece of string to Jason's wrist, and hung a fork from it. This is the only fork he will ever be trusted with. When that one goes to fork heaven, fuck him. He can eat with his beard trimmer.

Actually, I'd kind of like to see that.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Friday Fuckfest Does The Nerd Boy

Way back in June 2005, I confessed a secret crush on Adam Brody, the world's most lovable geek. What is it about nerd boys that is suddenly turning our heads?

Chick claimed it was the desire to help him out with his algebra homework...and we all know what follows that.

Molly seemed to think that snarky wit and "nerd curls" played a part.

But whatever does it for you (the shy blush? the stammering way he speaks to you? the grateful way he'll look at you for the rest of his life?) I present to you the very best in nerd pride, or shall we say for today's purposes...geek chic. Because even losers can get lucky sometimes.

Live from Kill the Goat, it's the Friday Fuckfest!
Fred Armisen, cast member of Saturday Night Live, masks his insecurity by making us laugh.

He's not afraid of embarrassing himself to get the laugh either - if you've ever seen him do Prince, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Maybe you have to be geeky to be an SNL player - it takes more than a mild obsession with pop culture to keep the comedy hounds fed, and if we take our cues from head writer Tina Fey, the nerdy glasses go a long way.

At first glance, Martin Freeman is exactly the
kind of guy no one would play with back when we were in school. He has little in the way of

conventional good looks, he's doughy, skittish, and his ears stick out.
The first time I saw Martin, he was a porn stand-in in Love Actually, and I couldn't help but find him charming and irresistible, no matter how awkward and dorky he was. In fact, it's the lack of polish that makes him an appealing everyman.
Roles in The Office and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy have probably helped cement his nerdy image, not that Martin seems to mind. He's taking his nerd-dom all the way to the bank.

When you're tall and slim, you adopt a certain gawkiness that lends instantly to the label of geek, and the goody -two- shoesiness in his twinkling, downcast eyes does little to dilute it.

Nerd Alert! Not only does Topher Grace admit a certain affinity for Star Wars, he'd also prefer to stay in and play Monopoly than hit the clubs with other playboy actors his age.

Okay, so almost anyone would look like a geek standing next to Ashton Kutcher...still. This guy has a smirk that saves him from going overboard on the S.S. Pathetic.

Rivers Cuomo brings back the nerd glasses for its second appearance on today's list. As the head Weezer guy, he writes the songs that make us nod in appreciation.

Nerd quali- fications: a nose that's always in the books, both at schools like Harvard, and in his own creation, the Encyclopedia of Pop; his bowl cut; his love for the clarinet.

However, it's probably his famous vow of celibacy that earns him the nerdiest fame of all. When most rock stars are sifting through groupies with 10-fool poles, Rivers has managed not only to achieve his 2-year hiatus from sex, but has actually (and apparently voluntarily) extended it as well.

Neuroses seem to come as second- nature to Zach Braff. He plays dreamy and ruffled just a little too well for us not to notice the nerd underneath his clever facade.

After the release of his "emo" movie, Garden State (in which he cast every nerd's dream girl, Natalie Portman, as his leading lady) he has recently been noted for voicing the big-headed bird, Chicken Little, and for dating squeaky-clean pop princess Mandy Moore.

Whether or not these nerds have their revenge, they appear to have the last laugh.

So if this is your Nerd Nomination Form...which geek gets your vote?

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Polaroid Picture

Jason and Jay have a new puppy!!

This is our new puppy-wuppy. I found him. No one reported him missing. I grew attached. And now he is ours.

I named him Toby. Jason named him Cinnamon. The jury's still out on which one Toby likes better. I found him between the pages of a library book. I was quietly reading away, and he fell out onto my lap.

I wondered where he came from, who he belonged to, if he was missed...but of course, dogs can't talk.

Toby appears to be a pug, and a rather portly one at that. He seems to like hardwood flooring and either barstools or step-ladders, depending on your interpretation.

Toby is a very good doggie. He's well-behaved, often sitting in the same place for days on end until I tell him he can move. He's extremely quiet and clean, and doesn't shed much.

Like most dogs, he has an attraction to our shoes. However, he's not much of a chewer. Mostly he just cuddles up next to them. Jason's suede running shoes probably feel and look a lot like Toby's mummy; he spends a lot of time nestled next to them.

Toby-Cinnamon is a great dog for people who aren't allowed to have pets, according to their rental agreement. Landlords have an extremely hard time detecting dogs like Toby as they are very low-maintenance and don't shit on carpets.

The one problem with Toby is that he is most definitely an eater. Dill pickles have made him a real chubster. I think he's a little self-conscious of his figure, but I keep telling him that many pugs are "rubenesque". He's not buying it. Every time Kirstie Alley comes on the TV, he knocks the phone of the hook with his snub nose and begs me with his eyes to call Jenny.

Personally, I think he and I are both going on the Eukanuba diet. It's certainly cheaper than Jenny Craig, and it can't taste much worse.

Whether Toby's sniffing butts or begging for snausages, I think it's safe to say I've fallen in love.

Now only one thing remains, and it shall go down in history as the great Name Debate. Toby? Cinnamon? Is Cinby a suitable compromise?

I rather think that Cinnamon is inappropriate since he's a BOY and Cinnamon is obviously a girl name, but Jason insists that since Toby's genitals are cut off and it's impossible to verify for sure whether we have a girl dog or a boy dog, his is just as valid.

So anyone passing by this blog today, NAME MY DOG! Cast your ballots in the comments section:

a) Toby
b) Cinnamon
c) Cinby
d) Other (well, we won't name him Other, you have to supply your own name here)

Cause if dogs weren't man's best friend, democracy would be!

Monday, February 06, 2006

Hodge Podge: a "mixture" or "medley" of things.

Lesbian Erotica is not that hot.

Jason finds it quite repetitive: "You just can't be original in 6 pages" he says.

"Six pages!" I yell. "To write about good sex, you need 2 paragraphs at most. Everything else is just cuddling."

Porn is porn, as it turns out, only in this case, there are 2 pairs of wet panties. Big freakin deal.

Also, is it really considered "lesbian erotica" if a woman fucks a wolf? When I was a kid, we called that beastiality (zoophilia at best). I guess times have changed. I was also surprised to read a story of a sexual encounter between a "femme" and Monica Lewinsky, which, quite frankly, we also used to call Beastiality. I mean really, is Monica hot now? Have I missed something?

Remind me not to read my husband's hot lesbian porn anymore. It just upsets me. I mean, last night I learned that my new hair cut qualifies me as a "butch", whatever that means, and that despite the number of google hits I get per month for goat sex, I may not be the foremost expert on the subject.

Oooh baby, oooh baby.

Anyway, it really makes me miss big, hard, pulsating cocks, as cliched as it is. Gawd I hate myself for saying that.


Jason loves when I don't sleep at night, because not only does he get the bed to himself, he gets extra hours of productivity out of me too.

For example, he thinks it's the perfect time for me to load his ipod with really jazzy play lists. This is a major tactical error on his part because obviously I am doubly cranky when I'm Sleepless in Toronto.

So I give him a little Weezer, a little Foo...but gawd do I ever want to sneak in some Cher or something so that in the middle of shipment, his whole crew will pause and rethink Jason's sexuality.


This past week, both Sting and Garth Brooks have approached me with exciting offers to save up to 20% on adobe software and promising new pharmaceuticals, respectively.

Obviously I am flattered that they would think of me. I didn't know I had such a savvy reputation as an investor. I mean, here I am, whoring out my written words, writing greeting card shit just to make my student loan payments, and apparently building myself a reputation as someone who knows a good deal when she sees it.

However, according to that same junk mail folder, I must admit that my reputation has also suffered this little ditty:

too shy to fuck with your tiny gun...



I hate Best Buy. Like, really, really hate it, and its creepy little employees.

Apparently when they screen employees, they rate them according to their answer to these all-important questions:

Do you hate women? Are you afraid of vaginas? Do you think females and electronics should be allowed to mix?

Acceptable answers: yes, yes, and god no.

And then the training consists of these easy-to-follow rules:

1. Never approach a female customer.
2. Turn your back and/or pretend not to notice a female customer, even if she hovers around you plainly looking for service for upwards of 45 minutes.
3. If a female corners you and asks you a question about a product in the store, scowl at her, and then proceed to give her short, and not particularly accurate, answers until you can run away.
4. Do what you can to discourage her from returning to Best Buy ever, ever again.

If you have a vagina, your money is no good at Best Buy.

Okay, so I know when I'm not wanted. If it was up to me, all the little fuckers at Best Buy could circle-jerk themselves into oblivion, and I would bring my business elsewhere.

But. But my husband is a nerd.

Well, okay, he's not a nerd. But he likes crappy things like absurdly big-ass TVs (which I have thus far outlawed) and "gaming consoles" (which I have been less successful at shaming him into avoiding...but trust me, I'm working on it). And since he follows me into stores so I can check out napkin rings and slutty shoes, I cut him a little slack.

So we go into Best Buy, a regular joe and a bald chick wearing a rude button collection and big pink rubber boots, and every single employee smells Jason a mile off, pants in his direction, licking their lips in commission anticipation....and yet, they cannot see me. I am completely invisible. I don't exist.

So when I wanted to buy Jason an ipod for Christmas (christ I hate ipods), I said fuck you to Best Buy and walked in a blizzard to Future Shop.

And you know what?

Same damn thing.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

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

Lace trim that chafes. Pink shoes already muddied.

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

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

Grease fires that I am slow to extinguish.

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

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

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

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

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

Chipped polish. Chipped me.

Not even the cheques motivate me.

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

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

Discontent. Malcontent. Pas contente. Void of content.

Tired in my bones. Tired of my bones.

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

Brownout. Used batteries. Bank error. Broken promises.

I wonder, is this it?

Friday, February 03, 2006

Friday Fuckfest Does 80s Hair Bands

20 years ago you needed 3 things to make the ladies swoon and your album sell: Aqua Net, bared chests, and spandex. Hot!!

The Contenders:

Van Halen were the trail-blazers in Glam Metal: peek-a-boo nipples and tight leather, what more could a girl ask for?

Those were the days, back when 8 inches referred to the height of your bangs.

You'd think it would be hard to act macho while looking like a girl, but these guy showed us how it's done. And when they sang Jamie's Crying, we got the message: you girls had better put out, dammit. And we did, in the back seats of Chevettes, with the tape deck blaring away.

The guys of Def Leppard appear to have shared a bottle of bleach, and are rocking the "business in the front, party in the back" look with their long, luxurious locks.

However, it's probably the impossibly-tight denim, highlighting the package area, that's really turning you on right now. I mean, you might have been confused with the hair and the tank tops, so here's something that screams Hey baby, I'm a MAN, Rooowwwr.

So, did you getcha rocks off yet? Huh? Did you?

Haven't you always wanted a boyfriend with whom you can share makeup tips and jewelry? The boys of Poison are betting you have - and the thousands of screaming girls who once filled stadiums to seem them strut and hear them caterwaul into their mics seem like pretty good evidence of this.

I mean, those big pouty lips, the perfectly teased hair, the sensitive power ballads...just don't say I didn't warn you, every rose has its thorns.

Ah, Motley Crue. The eyeliner says maybe I'm a girl, the grease smudges say maybe I'm a guy, but the sex tapes - now they're definitive.

They call it cock rock for a reason, and the reason is Motley Crue and their love and exploitation of girls, girls, girls. Tommy Lee is the ultimate bad boy, but the dude still knows how to accessorize - he definitely knows that bigger does mean better. And Nikki Sixx, well, what else should be said of a man who parties hard enough to occasionally be declared dead? Image is everything, so when you pose for the cameras, grab your crotch, your Playboy Bunny wife, and pour some Jack D's on your chest, and you're set - for life.

Same big hair, same approach to applying blush, but Guns N Roses introduced the sleaze factor to glam rock, and changed it forever.

Nobody does sex, drugs, and rock&roll like the boys from GNR - I mean when you call yourself Axl Rose because it's an anagram for Oral Sex, you know you're hardcore, right?

Honourable Mentions: Whitesnake, Quiet Riot, Cinderella, Twisted Sister, Ratt, Britny Fox.

Most Fuckworthy:

After due consideration, I have to hand it to Bon Jovi, whether or not they truly belong in the Hair Band category or not. It was the 80s, they rocked the big hair, I say it counts. Totally.

If you doubt, just refer to the sophisticated layering of billowy jackets, and yes, even the fringe.

Told ya.

Plus, these guys have enough hair to make their own llama, should they so choose.

Anyway, I'm not sure how embarrassed I should be to admit this, but I don't ever remember a time when I wasn't a Bon Jovi fan.

In my defense (?), underneath all that hair was hiding a true hottie.

Ladies (and certain gentlemen) of the jury, may I present the evidence:

I rest my case.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The Freckle.

You taste like nothing in this waking world
Your lips paint a dreamscape I'd gladly melt into
Until you take me by the wrist a little roughly
Lead me to the room where you've made a nest
Out of old familiar satin sheets
And then you cover me to uncover me,
Discover me and rediscover me,
Reacquaint yourself with curves you've not forgotten.

Eyelashes on my stomach; hot breath at my nape
In what's left of dying light
I see your irises iridescent with greedy intent
Your body bathed in shadows
That hide in all your hallowed hollows.

Your mouth, already swollen from crushing kisses,
Brushes my ear as you hold yourself against me
Remember when I moved in you, I hear,
And I shiver savagely at the memory
The fire licks between my legs and I combust.

But though I ache with all the wanting,
Though the very marrow of my bones sings for you,
You take time for adulation
At the chapel of my chest
The Centre of the Universe, you call it
While the rest of the world calls it freckle.

As you slide across my skin again
I lose myself in a swoon of surrender
I wrap my legs around you
I keep you close, and closer
I part my lips to taste forever
You trace them with responsive fingertips
And like waves breaking on the sandy beach of my soul
You slip inside against my molten current.

You reach inside of me, so deep inside
And when I gasp you know you're golden
And silver in the moonlight
I sway my hips as if I'm dancing
We dance together in the dusk.

Only my shoulders still touch the bed
As you slam into my senses
I am punch-drunk with your lust and my lust
But when your fingers find my sweetest spot
I am sobered by the stimulation.

And then we shout into the darkness
Together, two frantic voices, two arching bodies
We collapse and lay panting like satiated animals
In the bed where we've embraced for years
Where we sleep and suck and screw
Where you pray to The Centre of the Universe.