Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Escort Service

Of the eleventy billion weddings I have to attend this summer, Jason has opted out of one of them.

So I'm looking for a date.


That's right - I'm pathetically pimping myself out because I have no friends and my husband doesn't love me.

Or something like that.

My strict requirements:

Bullet Point - Must be a snappy dresser (please, no actual snaps...I'm sort of phobic). I'll be looking fab, no, make that ultrafab, and I wouldn't want you to feel dowdy beside me. Good: fake eyelashes, stilettos, polka-dot pocket squares, italian leather, a classic three-button. Bad: polo shirts, flip flops, loafers.

Bullet Point - Must be able to hold liquor well (in your tummy/bloodstream....the sink does not count). Copious amounts of wine is just about the only way I don't slit my wrists while the third uncle in a row feels the need to tell the room about the cutesy-wutesy thing that the bride used to say back when she was 4 and someone cared, while I eat my obligatory 4 roasted potatoes and 3 baby carrots...and god...don't get me started on the cheesy photo slideshows that are all the rage these days. The point is: we will be drinking. The drinks are on me. I'm very generous. I will drink you under the table. Don't try to compete, just try to keep up.

Bullet Point - Must know first aid. I am deathly allergic to the following: pew bows, flower girls, sugared almonds, and little plastic people often found on the tops of cakes. Also, I am known to choke on my own tongue in the vows involve the word "obey."

Bullet Point - Must be a dancer. Oh, you don't have to be good. You just have to get up. But not for any song by anyone who has ever been a Mouseketeer. During those, we either go to the bathroom to pee out $38 worth of rye, or we sit and scowl at the hairy aunts who are trying to steal flower arrangements out the back door.

My preferences:

Gender: Not fussy; I go both ways. Kill the Goat is an equal-opportunity pimp.

You should nod your head at: The Dandy Warhols; Johnny Cash; Buckcherry; Switchfoot; Hawksley Workman.

You should roll your eyes at: any man who has ever referred to, or spoken to, his biceps; camouflage as a fashion trend; how long I'll fuss with my hair, which won't do anything anyway.

You should be irritated with the following wedding cliches: the monogrammed paper napkins; the weepy spotlight dance; the 16 hours of super-necessary photos of the groom looking stunned and the bride looking tired.

Of course, travel will be necessary.

I will be departing from central Ontario (Union Station, Toronto, to be exact), and traveling eastward. You can either travel with me or meet at the destination, but just know that the hours before noon are not my best. Chocolate milk helps, but, you know, not enough.

So....any takers?

Disclaimer: If you are my friend and are getting married this summer, I obviously am not referring to your wedding.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Deliciously Ambiguous

Do you know what's deliciously ambiguous?

Float days, that's what.

I mean, they're not sick days, or personal days, or vacation days.

So who's to say they're not for...impromptu but totally necessary middle-of-the week getaways to Buffalo?

Or for the opening day of Ribfest. I mean, how often do the best rib-makers in the world visit your city? Well, at least annually, I'll grant you that. And so what if I don't eat ribs? There's other stuff to eat too...if you like large vats of bbq sauce.

And then, for those mornings where you wake up, angry that the alarm has interrupted a very good dream, and decide that 5 more hours isn't overindulgence, it's...well, it's just the right amount of dulgence, that's what it is.

But you have to pay for float days. They're not free:


Buying 2 complete new wardrobes, mounds of clothes, thousands of dollars.


Every drawer in the house bulges, threatens to burst its hinges and cause elbow- and knee- related injuries when it does. The closets are stuffed, and every hanger is occupied (some of them doubly). Still, we have a pile of clothes the size of...okay, not Everest. I was going to say Everest, but clearly that would be exaggerating. Truthfully, it's probably only as big as Kilimanjaro.


Having a milkshake for breakfast.


Listening to Jason say "Ow, my belly hurts. Why did you let me have a milkshake for breakfast?" all morning long, until he had 2 milkshakes for lunch, and it suddenly cleared up.


Going for a night time drive, staying out for a couple of hours even though gas is costing us $1.09 per litre and someone supposedly had to work in the morning.


Listening to Jason sing "Rock Lobster" at least thrice.


Hosting a little get together at our house, and mixing no less than 97 cocktails.


Upon mixing the 94th, I decided not to stop until I hit 100. Of course, by 94 no one even possessed the ability to swallow any longer. So I took it upon myself to make up the difference...I got to 97 before I found that my head was somehow mashed into the carpet, and I kinda liked it that way.


Calling in a float day for Jason once again, with the hazy concept of "day-tripping" on the brain.



I don't know; you tell me. What could possibly go wrong?

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Famouser and Famouser

Ever felt like you were being watched?

Like, maybe there was someone lurking in your bushes, rooting through your garbage, taking naked pictures of you with one of those souped-up camera lenses?

Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean no one's after you.

In fact, this week, notebook in hand, a member of the blogerati has been surreptitiously following me around, recording just a small smattering of the wildly witty things I said.

Please visit Blog TO, faun over my stunningly accurate profile, and leave me a comment at the bottom...or else the terrorists win.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Somebody Doesn't Like Me

It rained, it poured, the winds were so high it blew tiles off of houses.
Lightning lit up the sky, and we cowered beneath the biggest metal structure we could find.

We were soaked to the bone on 5 different occasions, all of them chilly.

Instead of thinking "Wee! I'm having fun!" I thought "I am literally catching pneumonia right this very instant."

An uneven layer of skin was ripped from my feet after squishing about it sopping wet shoes for 8 hours.

Upon getting wet, my shorts were discovered to be see-through, and the polka-dot panties I (thankfully) had on underneath were discernable for the rest of the day.

And for this we paid $56 each, non-refundable.

Somebody tried real hard to mess up our day.
But next year they'll just have to try harder.
We just wouldn't give in.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Quarter-Life Crisis

When Jason turned 25, I thought to myself, gross.

25 is old (relatively).

It seems old.

It seems like one of those ages that you can never imagine yourself being when you're younger.

I found myself looking at him differently. I noticed his hairy legs, and his broad shoulders, and his beard, and again I thought, gross.

He's a man. Like, a full-fledged grown up. When the hell did this happen?
Here I've been sleeping with an old man and I didn't even know it.
I thought I quit that back in high school.

But no.
25 snuck up on him, and it would try to do the same to me.
So I cleverly resolved not to turn 25, and so far, I've done a good job of evading it.

But I have this uncomfortable, sticky feeling way down deep that one of these days it will catch up with me.

25 is scary because it means I can't keep using the same old excuses.
I'll have to come up with brand new ones.
It's time to reevaluate my life and take stock of what I've accomplished since I got out of school:


oh, that's right. Zilch.
How could I forget?

Well, maybe not nothing. Maybe something teeny tiny somewhere in there, like, replaced my toothbrush. 25 is that age where you have to start asking the big questions, such as:

What the hell am I doing with my life?
Where am I going?
What do I want?
Why did I think I'd look good in bangs?

You're supposed to stop coasting and start panicking. I don't make enough money; I don't know what city I want to live in; I'm not following a logical career path; I suck at relationships; I may never settle down; I'm not where I thought I'd be; green apples make me gassy.

According to wiki, the quarter-life crisis was named in this very city back in 1965, which, coincidentally, was exactly when the world started getting shitty. These days it doesn't matter how well-prepared you were, how educated, how dedicated...chances are, things are going to suck. You'll go into $50 000 worth of debt to get a diploma that earns you a $21 000 job, and that's if you're lucky. When you're 47 you should have enough student debt paid off to start thinking about a mortgage, but job security is low and turn-over is high so even that's a risk. Not that it matters - there's a housing crisis anyway, and unless you like to live with rats, you're out of luck.

Characteristics of this quarter-life crisis are:

  • insecurity regarding the near future...check.
  • insecurity regarding present accomplishments...check.
  • re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships...check.
  • disappointment with one's job...what job?
  • tendency to hold stronger opinions...impossible.
  • boredom with social interactions...check.
  • financially-rooted stress...check. CHECK.
Proof positive that turning 25 is for fools.
For the time being, I can still delude myself into believing that I'm still in my early twenties, still figuring things out, still finding my way. I will remind myself that I love my life, that I enjoy the choices I've made, that I treasure what I do and how I spend my time. My chequing account is almost usually on the positive side, and who needs savings when you've got a husband who surely won't mind working into his 80s anyway?

Forget all this grown-up stuff.
I''m going to take my Jason and go do what anyone going through their quarter-life crisis would:
visit George Jetson and take a ride on Dora Explorer Dune Buggies at Canada's Wonderland.

Age is only what you make of it anyway.

Sunday, July 02, 2006


Lobster is as delicious as I remembered.

The third dimension still gives me headaches.

I don't know where you can find a hooker in Cornwall Ontario, but I have some ideas.

Sleeping makes me sleepy. The key to staying awake is to never sleep.

Oven still not fixed. Hexed the landlords but as far as I can tell they still have ears. :(

Stupid librarians and their 3 fancy days off. As if sitting at a desk and pointing in the general vicinity of fiction is such a hard job.

After 6 weeks of only crossing paths, Jason and I had a weekend to ourselves. Typically, it flew by in about 20 seconds while Thursday afternoons still drag by at an agonizing snail's pace.

Rain and Raine...why must the two always go hand in hand?

You know those detachable clear bra straps you can get? Well have no fear: the sun will indeed burn you right through them.

Grandmas are excellent sources of gossip.

I forget which day was Tuesday. Does this qualify me for disability yet?