So my colleague Matt thinks I'm odd, and I'm sure he means odd in that lovable, sitcommy way, but still. Odd.
And it's at least in part because of my allegedly "bizarre" approach to self-discipline.
He still laughs about the day I spent 3 hours wandering around the city, trying to find my way home, blisters oozing and shoulders burning in the hot, hot sun. I was dying of thirst but determined to right myself. I knew the city marginally well and I was certain it was nearly impossible to get as lost as I feared I was. I kept on, rather bravely, possibly stupidly, and finally I saw the street sign that would solve all my problems: Bank. Bank! You're never lost if you're on Bank. Just walk north, I told myself, and then promptly started walking south, believing in my heart that I was awesome, that I had worked it out, that I was headed home, that I was no longer lost. And I wasn't lost, not exactly. I just happened to be headed in the exact opposite direction of where I wanted to be. Eventually I recognized my mistake and fought back tears as I turned around and recovered the ground I believed I'd been gaining. It was cruel. I had cash and a bus pass in my pockets but I let the cabs and buses pass me by - if I had cheated and taken one home, it would be like rewarding my bad behaviour and I'd be likely to repeat the same mistakes. So I denied myself the easy way out, bandaged my swollen and bloodied feet, and have never gotten lost in this city again.
But I continue to negotiate with myself for all kinds of things. One of my favourite vices, as anyone who knows me remotely has heard me rave, is the butter chicken from the indian place just down the street from me. Often, when the day ahead seems particularly daunting, I'll do myself a little deal.
Inner monologue:
Hey Jay.
What?
I bet you're thinking about that butter chicken.
Well, I wasn't, really, until you mentioned it just now.
But it sounds good, right?
Oh yeah.
Well, tell you what. If you do your laundry, and go to the post office, and write 3 pages without complaining, you can get some for supper.
Really?
Yes, really. But only if you're a good girl all day long.
Oh, I will be!
And then I am. All day long.
Now, my problem is not that I admitted to Matt that I talk to myself.
And it's not that I motivate myself with tasty indian cuisine.
It's that moment of disbelief - the Really? - that split second where I doubt that I'm actually going to follow through on a promise to myself. But it's that seedling of doubt that keeps me honest, that forces me to stay on the right path and actually get the work done that needs to be done.
Have I ever not earned the butter chicken?
You betcha.
And I sit at home pouting about it too.
Is that really so odd?
I mean, if I gave myself everything I wanted, I'd be a spoiled brat.
And fat.
Well, okay, fatter.
But it's not all about the discipline.
If I do something good, I let myself know how proud I am, usually with a note on the fridge, but sometimes also with a bunch of flowers or an extra shower (yes, okay, even I think that sounds strange, but showering is one of my favourite parts of the day, especially when I turn on the music and dance and splash about).
I tell myself I'm awesome all the time. I even have a song about it.
No, I won't sing it for you. It's private. Except for that one time I won an arm wrestling competition after 4 Mike's Hard Lemonades.
In general, though, I'm very well behaved. I hardly ever embarrass myself or have to send myself to sit in the car. So now matter how you slice it, I must be doing something right.
Right?
Showing posts with label Classic Jamie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Classic Jamie. Show all posts
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Industrial Cream Puff Accident Maims 1, Shocks All.
Tits McGee
Kill the Goat News
December 19, 2007 2:30 am EST
Eastern Ontario - The tragic accident that left dozens of puff pastry treats empty and aching for their custard filling has devastated an entire staff room of ornery elementary school teachers looking to soothe their frayed nerves with a chocolatey sugar fix and raised awareness for the plight of the custardless among the shaken but indomitable community.
The site of the accident, an ordinary residential kitchen, still smelled delightfully of vanilla and was lightly dusted with flour, a somewhat whimsical setting for what would ultimately become a grizzly, nightmarish scene.
A woman who can only be identified as "Jay" under the Suffer the Fools Protection Act, had been baking furiously for about an hour before the accident, which occurred at approximately 1:15am. The empty pastry shells of what were to become eclairs could be seen cooling on wire racks behind police tape. Alone and unsupervised, Jay was apparently gently folding whipped cream into a vanilla-based mixture while listening to The Kinks when a large mixing bowl, described as blue and plastic, which contained said mixture suddenly and inexplicably went from sitting politely on the counter to upturned and on the floor.
About 12 cups of not-quite-custard splashed an area including but not limited to the lace curtains, an oven that had just recently been cleaned, the counter top, the sink, the floor, the cupboard doors, the crack between the counter and the oven that's a real bitch to clean, and of course, Jay herself. The ensuing sticky puddle was so enormous that an innocent bystander named Max Keeping quite literally had to doggy-paddle through it in order not to drown.
Another resident of the home was the first respondent to the scene and described it variously as "fucking hilarious" and "still pretty delicious". Other four-legged witnesses didn't even bother invoking the golden 10-second rule, and were happy to lap up the evidence of an epic spill.
According to pastry-police Sergeant A. LaMode, the culprit, also known as Madame LaDropski, was probably mixing at excessive speeds and had been tempting fate by cracking eggs two-handedly and had not even replaced the cap on a very expensive bottle of pure vanilla extract. "People need to know that baking recklessly is a serious offense with serious consequences, as we can see here tonight. This needless accident could have been avoided if only she'd been using proper stirring technique and had not been under the influence of that damned rock and roll music."
Jay, who was treated at the scene for shock and stickiness, gave no comment except for an under-the-breath refrain of "My argyle, my poor argyle."
Meanwhile, clean-up crews dispatched to the scene were delighted to see the floor being eagerly licked clean. Damage to the remaining kitchen was extensive however, and was estimated in the range of 3-4 buckets of hot soapy water and at least one raging backache in the morning. Witnesses were visibly shaken by the carnage - crumbs were scattered haphazardly about the scene, and dozens of tiny eclair-corpses were piled into the garbage bin.
One woman, described as hungry and pre-menstrual, tearfully lamented the loss. "I know you can't make eclairs without the cream filling, but it just tears me up inside knowing that perfectly good pastry and devilishly sweet chocolate ganache are going to waste because of one bad decision. It's just not fair! Who's going to explain this injustice to my poor, exploding ovaries? They just won't understand."
Indeed, this reporter finds it difficult to understand what kind of God would allow such a heart-rending and grievous act of iniquity.
Kill the Goat News
December 19, 2007 2:30 am EST
Eastern Ontario - The tragic accident that left dozens of puff pastry treats empty and aching for their custard filling has devastated an entire staff room of ornery elementary school teachers looking to soothe their frayed nerves with a chocolatey sugar fix and raised awareness for the plight of the custardless among the shaken but indomitable community.
The site of the accident, an ordinary residential kitchen, still smelled delightfully of vanilla and was lightly dusted with flour, a somewhat whimsical setting for what would ultimately become a grizzly, nightmarish scene.
A woman who can only be identified as "Jay" under the Suffer the Fools Protection Act, had been baking furiously for about an hour before the accident, which occurred at approximately 1:15am. The empty pastry shells of what were to become eclairs could be seen cooling on wire racks behind police tape. Alone and unsupervised, Jay was apparently gently folding whipped cream into a vanilla-based mixture while listening to The Kinks when a large mixing bowl, described as blue and plastic, which contained said mixture suddenly and inexplicably went from sitting politely on the counter to upturned and on the floor.
About 12 cups of not-quite-custard splashed an area including but not limited to the lace curtains, an oven that had just recently been cleaned, the counter top, the sink, the floor, the cupboard doors, the crack between the counter and the oven that's a real bitch to clean, and of course, Jay herself. The ensuing sticky puddle was so enormous that an innocent bystander named Max Keeping quite literally had to doggy-paddle through it in order not to drown.
Another resident of the home was the first respondent to the scene and described it variously as "fucking hilarious" and "still pretty delicious". Other four-legged witnesses didn't even bother invoking the golden 10-second rule, and were happy to lap up the evidence of an epic spill.
According to pastry-police Sergeant A. LaMode, the culprit, also known as Madame LaDropski, was probably mixing at excessive speeds and had been tempting fate by cracking eggs two-handedly and had not even replaced the cap on a very expensive bottle of pure vanilla extract. "People need to know that baking recklessly is a serious offense with serious consequences, as we can see here tonight. This needless accident could have been avoided if only she'd been using proper stirring technique and had not been under the influence of that damned rock and roll music."
Jay, who was treated at the scene for shock and stickiness, gave no comment except for an under-the-breath refrain of "My argyle, my poor argyle."
Meanwhile, clean-up crews dispatched to the scene were delighted to see the floor being eagerly licked clean. Damage to the remaining kitchen was extensive however, and was estimated in the range of 3-4 buckets of hot soapy water and at least one raging backache in the morning. Witnesses were visibly shaken by the carnage - crumbs were scattered haphazardly about the scene, and dozens of tiny eclair-corpses were piled into the garbage bin.
One woman, described as hungry and pre-menstrual, tearfully lamented the loss. "I know you can't make eclairs without the cream filling, but it just tears me up inside knowing that perfectly good pastry and devilishly sweet chocolate ganache are going to waste because of one bad decision. It's just not fair! Who's going to explain this injustice to my poor, exploding ovaries? They just won't understand."
Indeed, this reporter finds it difficult to understand what kind of God would allow such a heart-rending and grievous act of iniquity.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Cat-Sitting 101
1. Do not actually try to sit on, or ride the cat. As funny as it is, they don't really like it and it's not technically what their owner meant whey they asked you to catsit.
2. Don't bother making friends with the cat. If the cat wants to hide under the sofa for 3 days straight, let him. It's better than contracting cat-scratch fever the old fashioned way....trust me.
3. If the cat insists on being served its wet food in your shoe, comply. There are grosser things the cat could be doing in your shoe. Again, trust me.
4. If the cat appears to dislike the movie you are watching, trust it's opinion and shut the damn thing off. The ensuing cat showdown just isn't worth another 20 minutes of Sandra Bullock. As cats are not allowed in Blockbuster, be prepared to leave the remote control wherever little paws can reach and watch cable at the cat's mercy - if the cat shows a preference for late night latino talk show hosts who appear to have traded sex for money or blow for the past 60 years or so, then so be it.
5. Do not do yoga in front of the cat. Don't even wear yoga pants in front of the cat.
6. Don't fall for the "but I'm still hungry" look - it's a dirty trick that all cats play. The cat is NOT still hungry. However, when you overfeed it, the cat will overeat, until it's little belly is extended in bloated, resulting in explosive cat diarrhea the next day. Not only will you spend the next 3 hours scrubbing your friend's carpet, couch, drapes, and improbably, the top shelf of a very large book case, but you'll also have to kiss goodbye your favourite pair of Chucks (but for hygienic reasons, don't actually kiss them goodbye, don a double pair of latex gloves before incinerating them at your nearest toxic waste dump).
7. When you give the cat its shot of insulin (yes, the cat is diabetic) and suddenly the cat goes all crazy-eyed and starts acting like a donkey who just finished drinking a bucket of beer, call the vet immediately. Don't stop to take hilarious-but-insensitive video of the cat with your cell phone, then post it to Youtube, then call 3 of your easiest-amused friends to come over to see "the diabetic cat who's shit-faced on insulin". And when you finally do get to calling the vet, who says to come immediately, do not stop of slurpees, or to buy a new pair of Chucks.
8. When you get to the vet's office and she asks what kind of cat this is, don't say "um, orange?" and don't guess that his name "might be Charles", because the cat will turn out to be a girl, and you'll look like a dumbass. Remember that little note on the fridge back at your friend's apartment? The one with all the cat's details, that says something about what to do when the diabetic cat reacts badly to its insulin? Turns out, you should have brought it with you, or at least read the damn thing instead of mocking it, and your anal friends who wrote it - both sides, front and back! - about an effing cat, christ it's just a cat, do they think I can't sit and watch their dumb cat?
9. Also, it turns out that vets politely require you to have cats in some sort of carrying case when you go to their office, and frown upon just throwing the cat in the trunk of your car, and then trying to coax it into the office via an intoxicating trail of fruit loops (as a matter of fact, fruit loops don't go over well with diabetics in general).
10. Never catsit for people you actually like and expect to remain friends with. When they get home, receive the vet bill (and the bill to replace your Chucks, naturally), see that their heirloom turkish carpet is harbouring telling stains, and that you went through a 25 bag of cat food in 36 hours, and that their beloved Mrs. Fudge (Mrs. Fudge? Seriously? You named your cat Mrs. Fudge?) is recovering from diabetic coma and deals with the emotional trauma of having the 2058th highest-rated cat-related Youtube video by shredding random pieces of furniture....well, let's just say that you probably won't be receiving a thank you card in the mail anytime soon. Cat people can be such snobs.
2. Don't bother making friends with the cat. If the cat wants to hide under the sofa for 3 days straight, let him. It's better than contracting cat-scratch fever the old fashioned way....trust me.
3. If the cat insists on being served its wet food in your shoe, comply. There are grosser things the cat could be doing in your shoe. Again, trust me.
4. If the cat appears to dislike the movie you are watching, trust it's opinion and shut the damn thing off. The ensuing cat showdown just isn't worth another 20 minutes of Sandra Bullock. As cats are not allowed in Blockbuster, be prepared to leave the remote control wherever little paws can reach and watch cable at the cat's mercy - if the cat shows a preference for late night latino talk show hosts who appear to have traded sex for money or blow for the past 60 years or so, then so be it.
5. Do not do yoga in front of the cat. Don't even wear yoga pants in front of the cat.
6. Don't fall for the "but I'm still hungry" look - it's a dirty trick that all cats play. The cat is NOT still hungry. However, when you overfeed it, the cat will overeat, until it's little belly is extended in bloated, resulting in explosive cat diarrhea the next day. Not only will you spend the next 3 hours scrubbing your friend's carpet, couch, drapes, and improbably, the top shelf of a very large book case, but you'll also have to kiss goodbye your favourite pair of Chucks (but for hygienic reasons, don't actually kiss them goodbye, don a double pair of latex gloves before incinerating them at your nearest toxic waste dump).
7. When you give the cat its shot of insulin (yes, the cat is diabetic) and suddenly the cat goes all crazy-eyed and starts acting like a donkey who just finished drinking a bucket of beer, call the vet immediately. Don't stop to take hilarious-but-insensitive video of the cat with your cell phone, then post it to Youtube, then call 3 of your easiest-amused friends to come over to see "the diabetic cat who's shit-faced on insulin". And when you finally do get to calling the vet, who says to come immediately, do not stop of slurpees, or to buy a new pair of Chucks.
8. When you get to the vet's office and she asks what kind of cat this is, don't say "um, orange?" and don't guess that his name "might be Charles", because the cat will turn out to be a girl, and you'll look like a dumbass. Remember that little note on the fridge back at your friend's apartment? The one with all the cat's details, that says something about what to do when the diabetic cat reacts badly to its insulin? Turns out, you should have brought it with you, or at least read the damn thing instead of mocking it, and your anal friends who wrote it - both sides, front and back! - about an effing cat, christ it's just a cat, do they think I can't sit and watch their dumb cat?
9. Also, it turns out that vets politely require you to have cats in some sort of carrying case when you go to their office, and frown upon just throwing the cat in the trunk of your car, and then trying to coax it into the office via an intoxicating trail of fruit loops (as a matter of fact, fruit loops don't go over well with diabetics in general).
10. Never catsit for people you actually like and expect to remain friends with. When they get home, receive the vet bill (and the bill to replace your Chucks, naturally), see that their heirloom turkish carpet is harbouring telling stains, and that you went through a 25 bag of cat food in 36 hours, and that their beloved Mrs. Fudge (Mrs. Fudge? Seriously? You named your cat Mrs. Fudge?) is recovering from diabetic coma and deals with the emotional trauma of having the 2058th highest-rated cat-related Youtube video by shredding random pieces of furniture....well, let's just say that you probably won't be receiving a thank you card in the mail anytime soon. Cat people can be such snobs.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Meant To Be
Right this very minute, are you, in your life, doing the thing you were meant to be doing?
How do you know?
When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a teacher. My mom kept one of those "school days" scrap books, and every year I wrote teacher as my life's big goal. Which is funny, because the only thing that I wouldn't hate about teaching is the chalk (except not the chalk handprints that all teachers have on their butts). A list of things I would rather do than teach:
1. Scoop rhinoceros poop out of zoo enclosures
2. Make hotdogs out of ground snouts and hooves
3. Edit James Joyce
4. Be Teen Abstinence Captain
So I really wonder where my 5-year old mind ever got the notion that I should be a teacher. When I was 7, we had "career day", and we were all compelled to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I drew this lovely picture of a no-necked nurse. On the back, it says: Jamie wanted to draw a teacher but she didn't know how, so she drew a nurse instead. So while I may have been confused about what I was going to be, I certainly knew what I would never be: an artist.
By the time I was 13, the whole teacher thing had completely disappeared. I was suffering greatly from the big fish, little pond syndrome. I was at the top of my class without any effort, so I started finding other ways to pass the hours between 9 and 3...and writing just happened to fit the bill. For every writing contest I entered, I was excused from the classroom so that I could copy out my essays on carbon paper whilst sitting on a cot in the sick room (incidentally, this is the same room where the priest would come to hear our confessions...we had mixed feelings about this room). The more I wrote, the less time I spent in class. And the more I wrote, the more I won. In fact, I didn't lose. I never lost. Which probably means that I would have quickly become bored with writing, except for some serendipitous good fortune:
1. Although some people mistakenly called me shy as a child, I was actually a lot more extroverted than most. At family functions I often performed for the adults. I remember at one anniversary party, my sister, cousin and I donned matching skorts, tie-dyed slouchie socks, and Vuarnet t-shirts and dazzled with our dancing. But then I started penning plays, even writing musicals with original songs, and once I went so far as to put on an adapted version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.
2. I started writing really bad poetry, and even worse, people indulged me. One particularly horrifying piece was even printed in the newspaper, in the "Poet's Corner" section. Apparently it was a slow news week.
3. It won me lots of cool stuff (although sometimes all I got was a trophy with a little golden man on top....you know, because my name is Jamie, people assumed I was a boy, and then got a worried look when I stood up to accept it). Once, I won my mother Mother of the Year - she got picked up in a limo, showered with roses and jewelry, treated to dinner and a night in a hotel. Another time I was invited to a banquet at the legion - I had written a poem about losing a grandfather to the war, which they loved. But during the dinner they kept telling the room how brave I was for writing about my grandfather, and I realized something about war veterans: they have no concept of "fiction." And also, 12 year old girls are loathe to explain it to them.
All of these things combined led to an inflated sense of ego, and soon my goal went from teacher to psychologist\prime minister\ "famous author" (note: even at the age of 13 I must have known the difference between 'famous author' and 'writer', the latter perhaps meaning a life as a starving artist, penniless in Paris).
And so a monster was created.
High school was much the same. I was bored to tears, but I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. When I graduated, I won 27 different scholarships, not counting the ones offered by all the schools I applied to. I went back and forth between psychology and medicine. And that's when I started having nothing in common with my family.
All I know is that the single greatest moment of my life was when Jason emailed me after reading a rough draft of mine, and said "Don't ever stop writing, you made me cry with this one." And from time to time, someone will write that they were touched by some of the drivel that gets posted here. I print out every single one, and tack them to the walls of my office. It's the steam that keeps me going; I've learned to take support where I can get it because it's not always easy to come by. Not everyone in your life will believe in you.
What are we meant to be, anyway?
Are we meant to follow in our parents' footsteps?
Are we meant to follow our own bliss?
Are we meant to try, even when it means poverty, even when it means disappointment?
And in 10 years, if my only accomplishment is to be a 2007 Bloggie Award finalist, what then? Does that mean my mother was right? When am I meant to give up?
How do you know what you are meant to be?
And what the hell kind of kid wants to scoop rhinoceros poop when they grow up anyway?
How do you know?
When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a teacher. My mom kept one of those "school days" scrap books, and every year I wrote teacher as my life's big goal. Which is funny, because the only thing that I wouldn't hate about teaching is the chalk (except not the chalk handprints that all teachers have on their butts). A list of things I would rather do than teach:
1. Scoop rhinoceros poop out of zoo enclosures
2. Make hotdogs out of ground snouts and hooves
3. Edit James Joyce
4. Be Teen Abstinence Captain
So I really wonder where my 5-year old mind ever got the notion that I should be a teacher. When I was 7, we had "career day", and we were all compelled to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I drew this lovely picture of a no-necked nurse. On the back, it says: Jamie wanted to draw a teacher but she didn't know how, so she drew a nurse instead. So while I may have been confused about what I was going to be, I certainly knew what I would never be: an artist.
By the time I was 13, the whole teacher thing had completely disappeared. I was suffering greatly from the big fish, little pond syndrome. I was at the top of my class without any effort, so I started finding other ways to pass the hours between 9 and 3...and writing just happened to fit the bill. For every writing contest I entered, I was excused from the classroom so that I could copy out my essays on carbon paper whilst sitting on a cot in the sick room (incidentally, this is the same room where the priest would come to hear our confessions...we had mixed feelings about this room). The more I wrote, the less time I spent in class. And the more I wrote, the more I won. In fact, I didn't lose. I never lost. Which probably means that I would have quickly become bored with writing, except for some serendipitous good fortune:
1. Although some people mistakenly called me shy as a child, I was actually a lot more extroverted than most. At family functions I often performed for the adults. I remember at one anniversary party, my sister, cousin and I donned matching skorts, tie-dyed slouchie socks, and Vuarnet t-shirts and dazzled with our dancing. But then I started penning plays, even writing musicals with original songs, and once I went so far as to put on an adapted version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.
2. I started writing really bad poetry, and even worse, people indulged me. One particularly horrifying piece was even printed in the newspaper, in the "Poet's Corner" section. Apparently it was a slow news week.
3. It won me lots of cool stuff (although sometimes all I got was a trophy with a little golden man on top....you know, because my name is Jamie, people assumed I was a boy, and then got a worried look when I stood up to accept it). Once, I won my mother Mother of the Year - she got picked up in a limo, showered with roses and jewelry, treated to dinner and a night in a hotel. Another time I was invited to a banquet at the legion - I had written a poem about losing a grandfather to the war, which they loved. But during the dinner they kept telling the room how brave I was for writing about my grandfather, and I realized something about war veterans: they have no concept of "fiction." And also, 12 year old girls are loathe to explain it to them.
All of these things combined led to an inflated sense of ego, and soon my goal went from teacher to psychologist\prime minister\ "famous author" (note: even at the age of 13 I must have known the difference between 'famous author' and 'writer', the latter perhaps meaning a life as a starving artist, penniless in Paris).
And so a monster was created.
High school was much the same. I was bored to tears, but I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. When I graduated, I won 27 different scholarships, not counting the ones offered by all the schools I applied to. I went back and forth between psychology and medicine. And that's when I started having nothing in common with my family.
All I know is that the single greatest moment of my life was when Jason emailed me after reading a rough draft of mine, and said "Don't ever stop writing, you made me cry with this one." And from time to time, someone will write that they were touched by some of the drivel that gets posted here. I print out every single one, and tack them to the walls of my office. It's the steam that keeps me going; I've learned to take support where I can get it because it's not always easy to come by. Not everyone in your life will believe in you.
What are we meant to be, anyway?
Are we meant to follow in our parents' footsteps?
Are we meant to follow our own bliss?
Are we meant to try, even when it means poverty, even when it means disappointment?
And in 10 years, if my only accomplishment is to be a 2007 Bloggie Award finalist, what then? Does that mean my mother was right? When am I meant to give up?
How do you know what you are meant to be?
And what the hell kind of kid wants to scoop rhinoceros poop when they grow up anyway?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Label Me
Someone asked me recently how I would label myself.
Label myself?
It reminds me of this strange Christmas gift I got one year, no doubt a relic from the sales bin that my relatives usually peruse when thoughtlessly selecting some piece of crap or other to put under the tree for me.
It was a Brother P Touch, maker of labels.
As we all know, when life gives me lemons, I like to make lemonade. So, good sport that I am, I went about showing my appreciation for this delightful gift by putting it to use. I labeled.
I labeled the sofa "sofa".
I labeled the door "door".
I labeled the vodka "BFF".
I labeled the label maker "label maker".
I labeled the salsa "stupid fucking jar that I can't get open, I don't even like salsa anyway".
You get the picture. And all the while I learned a very important lesson: never label anything that has pubic hair. Ouch. Of course, the label maker eventually ran out of labels, and I refused to spend perfectly good money on label refills, so I did the only thing that made sense: I donated that useless empty label maker to the homeless. I mean, who has trouble remember stuff like the homeless? "Stray dog", "my left foot", "nickel"....all kinds of applications.
But back to me.
So what would I label myself?
How about "self"?
Or maybe Jay. Probably not Jamie, though that was the first label ever given me when I came out of my mother's stomach, along with my blood type and weight (thank god we're not compelled to wear those bracelets all life long), although there was a time that I would have rather been known by my weight than my name. Oh how I hated being called Jamie. Everyone told me it was a boy's name, and in fact, I could not deny that I'd been named after my uncle. And everyone mispronounced it because I went to a French school where French tongues stumbled over English names (kids in my class would address me as "Gami" on my valentines). But eventually I came to think of my name as a gift rather than a curse, and Nickname Gods be thanked, my days as Spike were numbered but Jay was one that stuck. Until I met Jason, a fellow Jay, and an instant dilemma. As you can probably tell, I won, as I win all such contests in our house, because I have the all-mighty vagina, and he does not. There are only two instances where I am not Jay. The first is when we're in bed. He calls me Jamie then, apparently fucking is more formal than I thought, and every time he says it it sounds strange on his lips, almost as though he's saying another woman's name, which is maybe the point. The second is on government documents. The government is not a fan of nicknames, which is no surprise. The government has been a total square since the early days of democracy, although their stance against nicknames is a little hypocritical since I do notice they refer to themselves as "gov" in their web addresses. "Gov" is still a far cry from hip & cool, I'm afraid, but then, governments are known for bungling. Although, to be honest, I would probably be anti-nickname myself if everyone referred to me as "those stupid fucks".
So Jay it is, as far as labels go.
Unless you expect the existential rather than the rudimentary.
Would I label myself as kind, for example?
Well, I guess I would say I'm kind of funny. Kind of weird. Kind of thirsty.
I might also subscribe to:
"Keep out of reach of children."
"May cause irritation."
"Extremely flammable."
"Not dishwasher safe."
Not that I've ever been inside a dish washer. I'm just assuming.
Okay, so maybe I suck at labels.
But could you really do any better, ya punk?
Prove it.
Label myself?
It reminds me of this strange Christmas gift I got one year, no doubt a relic from the sales bin that my relatives usually peruse when thoughtlessly selecting some piece of crap or other to put under the tree for me.
It was a Brother P Touch, maker of labels.
As we all know, when life gives me lemons, I like to make lemonade. So, good sport that I am, I went about showing my appreciation for this delightful gift by putting it to use. I labeled.
I labeled the sofa "sofa".
I labeled the door "door".
I labeled the vodka "BFF".
I labeled the label maker "label maker".
I labeled the salsa "stupid fucking jar that I can't get open, I don't even like salsa anyway".
You get the picture. And all the while I learned a very important lesson: never label anything that has pubic hair. Ouch. Of course, the label maker eventually ran out of labels, and I refused to spend perfectly good money on label refills, so I did the only thing that made sense: I donated that useless empty label maker to the homeless. I mean, who has trouble remember stuff like the homeless? "Stray dog", "my left foot", "nickel"....all kinds of applications.
But back to me.
So what would I label myself?
How about "self"?
Or maybe Jay. Probably not Jamie, though that was the first label ever given me when I came out of my mother's stomach, along with my blood type and weight (thank god we're not compelled to wear those bracelets all life long), although there was a time that I would have rather been known by my weight than my name. Oh how I hated being called Jamie. Everyone told me it was a boy's name, and in fact, I could not deny that I'd been named after my uncle. And everyone mispronounced it because I went to a French school where French tongues stumbled over English names (kids in my class would address me as "Gami" on my valentines). But eventually I came to think of my name as a gift rather than a curse, and Nickname Gods be thanked, my days as Spike were numbered but Jay was one that stuck. Until I met Jason, a fellow Jay, and an instant dilemma. As you can probably tell, I won, as I win all such contests in our house, because I have the all-mighty vagina, and he does not. There are only two instances where I am not Jay. The first is when we're in bed. He calls me Jamie then, apparently fucking is more formal than I thought, and every time he says it it sounds strange on his lips, almost as though he's saying another woman's name, which is maybe the point. The second is on government documents. The government is not a fan of nicknames, which is no surprise. The government has been a total square since the early days of democracy, although their stance against nicknames is a little hypocritical since I do notice they refer to themselves as "gov" in their web addresses. "Gov" is still a far cry from hip & cool, I'm afraid, but then, governments are known for bungling. Although, to be honest, I would probably be anti-nickname myself if everyone referred to me as "those stupid fucks".
So Jay it is, as far as labels go.
Unless you expect the existential rather than the rudimentary.
Would I label myself as kind, for example?
Well, I guess I would say I'm kind of funny. Kind of weird. Kind of thirsty.
I might also subscribe to:
"Keep out of reach of children."
"May cause irritation."
"Extremely flammable."
"Not dishwasher safe."
Not that I've ever been inside a dish washer. I'm just assuming.
Okay, so maybe I suck at labels.
But could you really do any better, ya punk?
Prove it.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Alternatives to Lemonade.
Sometimes,
when life gives you lemons
all you can do
is cut them into wedges
and do tequila shots
until you're on the floor
in a pool of your own vomit.
when life gives you lemons
all you can do
is cut them into wedges
and do tequila shots
until you're on the floor
in a pool of your own vomit.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Roots
When I was little, I had 3 living great-grandparents on my mother's side: Mamere & Papere, and Granny Carter.
Papere is probably not worthy of a lot of remembrance. Living just a couple of houses from my mother's childhood home, he was the source of constant trouble for the family. My mother recounts stories of him trapping her inside garbage cans as well as several incidents involving rodents that still send shivers up her spine. She once told me that at a family wedding, he spilled his wine and blamed her. He spent the rest of the reception harping on about how children should not be invited to functions....40 years later, this is still her most embarrassing moment. My grandmother, ever the polite hostess, remembers her father as a man of atrocious table manners, 'atrocious' being a very kind word for some very rude behaviours. My uncle remembers Papere giving him a BB gun and encouraging him to shoot a neighbour lady in the ass. These are the glossified versions of a dead man's mischief; with time and forgiveness they have boiled down to hazy, vaguely humourous stories that reveal the only the essence of a very mean man. I was very young when he died, but what I do remember of him is this: if we were at my grandparents' and saw him walking up the street for a visit, my mother would lock my younger sister in the bedroom because just seeing him would send her into hysterical fits. We chuckle over the bb gun incident, but a man who inspires that much terror in a 2 year old child is no treat.
When Papere died, he left behind a wife, a woman I mostly knew as Ida. To be honest, Ida only passed away a few years ago, and yet, I have rarely counted her among my relatives because she was never treated as such. I have more memories of Papere, who died when I was 3, than I do of his wife who outlived him by 20 years. Ida was not my great-grandfather's first wife, nor was she the mother of my grandmother. She married him only after my biological great-grandmother passed away at an early age. I only heard about Ida when my Nanny would dutifully pay her visits. I would often hear about Ida's failing health, how Ida had grown less lucid, and finally how Ida failed to recognize Nanny when she sat with her in the hospital. Though I often heard her name, I only connected Ida as being my great-grandmother when she died. My Nanny was a bit blase about the funeral - she didn't think my uncles should bother to make the trip. My mother had to remind her that biological or not, Ida was the only grandmother she'd known. Sadly, she remained the great-grandmother that I didn't know, and now I never will.
Granny Carter, my grandfather's mother, is another story. She was exactly what a great-grandmother should be. She was a tiny little woman with a fierce personality, not mean, but surprisingly forceful for such a small person. She had curly gray hair, and wore granny glasses on a chain and floral print dresses and tiny orthopedic shoes. When we were lucky enough to have her over for family dinners, we would sit around the table afterwards playing 31. She played bingo and lottery religiously, and was lucky at both. She socialized at the food court in the mall. When she was finally placed in a home, I remember my mother signing her out for a visit - we went to the Dairy Queen where she had a baby cone, and to Home Hardware, where my mother bought her an electric fan. I remember that she died just days after my budgie, Polly, did. I remember that I was eating toast and molasses when my mother told me the news. I remember wondering if she would also be buried in the garden, where I knew my father had put Polly. Hers was the first funeral I remember; years later, I surprised my mother by recognizing the church when we drove by. It's funny that so many things stay with you, and it's sad that so many don't.
The one great-grandparent that I didn't know was by all accounts the one most regrettably gone. My Pa's father was a stark contrast to Nanny's: this one was a good man, a great man, even. Even Nanny, his daughter-in-law and everyone's biggest critic, remembers him with a dreamy look on her face. She is quick to say how much she loved him, and with a guilty look, admits she loved him more than she did her own father. He died when my mother was just eleven. He was dying of cancer, and they kept it from her; she learned it surreptitiously by reading a note not meant for her eyes. Still, she remembers the time she spent playing cards in his lap, and is convinced that he visited her on her wedding day. My Nanny once told me that in her 55 years married, she has seen her husband cry only once, and that was on the night his father died. I can picture my grandfather crying about as easily as I can picture Weird Al Yankovic winning America's Next Top Model, but apparently on that night he came home from the hospital, threw himself on the living room floor, and sobbed. My great-grandfather died a decade before I was born, but according to my mother, that didn't stop him from babysitting me now and then. She believes that he "haunted" the first house she lived in when I was just a baby. On the nights when her husband was away from home, she would hear his footsteps on the stairs and be comforted that he was looking out for us. Even his ghost was benevolent.
Papere is probably not worthy of a lot of remembrance. Living just a couple of houses from my mother's childhood home, he was the source of constant trouble for the family. My mother recounts stories of him trapping her inside garbage cans as well as several incidents involving rodents that still send shivers up her spine. She once told me that at a family wedding, he spilled his wine and blamed her. He spent the rest of the reception harping on about how children should not be invited to functions....40 years later, this is still her most embarrassing moment. My grandmother, ever the polite hostess, remembers her father as a man of atrocious table manners, 'atrocious' being a very kind word for some very rude behaviours. My uncle remembers Papere giving him a BB gun and encouraging him to shoot a neighbour lady in the ass. These are the glossified versions of a dead man's mischief; with time and forgiveness they have boiled down to hazy, vaguely humourous stories that reveal the only the essence of a very mean man. I was very young when he died, but what I do remember of him is this: if we were at my grandparents' and saw him walking up the street for a visit, my mother would lock my younger sister in the bedroom because just seeing him would send her into hysterical fits. We chuckle over the bb gun incident, but a man who inspires that much terror in a 2 year old child is no treat.
When Papere died, he left behind a wife, a woman I mostly knew as Ida. To be honest, Ida only passed away a few years ago, and yet, I have rarely counted her among my relatives because she was never treated as such. I have more memories of Papere, who died when I was 3, than I do of his wife who outlived him by 20 years. Ida was not my great-grandfather's first wife, nor was she the mother of my grandmother. She married him only after my biological great-grandmother passed away at an early age. I only heard about Ida when my Nanny would dutifully pay her visits. I would often hear about Ida's failing health, how Ida had grown less lucid, and finally how Ida failed to recognize Nanny when she sat with her in the hospital. Though I often heard her name, I only connected Ida as being my great-grandmother when she died. My Nanny was a bit blase about the funeral - she didn't think my uncles should bother to make the trip. My mother had to remind her that biological or not, Ida was the only grandmother she'd known. Sadly, she remained the great-grandmother that I didn't know, and now I never will.
Granny Carter, my grandfather's mother, is another story. She was exactly what a great-grandmother should be. She was a tiny little woman with a fierce personality, not mean, but surprisingly forceful for such a small person. She had curly gray hair, and wore granny glasses on a chain and floral print dresses and tiny orthopedic shoes. When we were lucky enough to have her over for family dinners, we would sit around the table afterwards playing 31. She played bingo and lottery religiously, and was lucky at both. She socialized at the food court in the mall. When she was finally placed in a home, I remember my mother signing her out for a visit - we went to the Dairy Queen where she had a baby cone, and to Home Hardware, where my mother bought her an electric fan. I remember that she died just days after my budgie, Polly, did. I remember that I was eating toast and molasses when my mother told me the news. I remember wondering if she would also be buried in the garden, where I knew my father had put Polly. Hers was the first funeral I remember; years later, I surprised my mother by recognizing the church when we drove by. It's funny that so many things stay with you, and it's sad that so many don't.
The one great-grandparent that I didn't know was by all accounts the one most regrettably gone. My Pa's father was a stark contrast to Nanny's: this one was a good man, a great man, even. Even Nanny, his daughter-in-law and everyone's biggest critic, remembers him with a dreamy look on her face. She is quick to say how much she loved him, and with a guilty look, admits she loved him more than she did her own father. He died when my mother was just eleven. He was dying of cancer, and they kept it from her; she learned it surreptitiously by reading a note not meant for her eyes. Still, she remembers the time she spent playing cards in his lap, and is convinced that he visited her on her wedding day. My Nanny once told me that in her 55 years married, she has seen her husband cry only once, and that was on the night his father died. I can picture my grandfather crying about as easily as I can picture Weird Al Yankovic winning America's Next Top Model, but apparently on that night he came home from the hospital, threw himself on the living room floor, and sobbed. My great-grandfather died a decade before I was born, but according to my mother, that didn't stop him from babysitting me now and then. She believes that he "haunted" the first house she lived in when I was just a baby. On the nights when her husband was away from home, she would hear his footsteps on the stairs and be comforted that he was looking out for us. Even his ghost was benevolent.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Driving Miss Jamie
On the morning of my 16th birthday, I was up with the birds (you know, at the crack of dawn...or before noon...at any rate, early).
I tousled my short reddish hair, arranged my bangs ever so attractively across my forehead, put on a pair of cutoff shorts and a red and black striped t-shirt that I'd pilfered from a friend who was going to throw it away. I can only assume that at some point I looked into a mirror, at my un-shaped man eyebrows, my crooked tortoise-shell glasses, my pale complexion unaided by even so much as lip gloss, and thought, whew, I look good.
It's been nearly a decade since that image was captured forever on my fabulous Ontario driver's licence; years of cringing each and every time I've had to hand it over for I.D. Even just a year or two after it was taken, I often contemplated leaving the liquor unbought if someone were to card me. I've made a lot of money off my licence: time and time again, I have won the coveted 'Worst Photo Ever' award, and collected on many bets. Usually a flash of this photo garners me pity, sometimes laughter. At best, someone will refuse to believe that the picture can possibly be of me. Oh, how I wish that were true, but alas, it's authentic.
Just think how you would feel if the only form of photo I.D. you carry is a relic from your "what was I thinking?" days of high school.
It's been painful, excrutiating at times, but it persists.
Why?
Because I don't drive.
And they won't update the photo just for the sake of vanity.
It's a sad state of affairs, really, especially considering how hard my licence was to come by in the first place.
Oh, my mother was all too happy to bring me to the office the day I turned 16, she watched me take the written test, watched me have the Worst Photo Ever taken, even gave me a small box as a gift that contained a red corvette-shaped keychain with a gleaming car key attached...the key to her rusty old Ford minivan.
And that's where it stopped.
She would never take me out for lessons. She never let me drive, not even around the neighbourhood, not even in a parking lot, not even to the end of our driveway. Never.
So I sat through the embarrassments of driver's education. My grandmother would pick me up after school, with some cookies in an old prescription paper sack, and some lemonade in a mason jar for refreshment. I sat through the theory and then nervously got behind the wheel of the instructor's car, week after week being berated for not practicing enough (I never corrected the instructor, but actually, I wasn't practicing at all). I drained my bank account, 16 years worth of babysitting, lawn mowing and birthday money, to pay for driver's ed. But I never did get to practice.
But then one day, something astonishing happened. It was my father who offered me the wheel.
Maybe if I had stopped to think about it, I would have remembered that I hated my father, that his temper was non-existent, and that he was the last person on the face of the earth for the job. But I was excited, my first real drive! I ran inside to get my purse (the one I had begun carrying 6 months before just for such an occasion - as of yet, it contained only my license and a pack of gum, the gum being just for show, really) and then I performed my pre-drive safety check, kicked the tired, adjusted the mirrors, slid the seat up so that I could almost see over the dashboard, and like a brilliant flash of light (the kind of light that travels at no more than 25 km/hr), we were off!
Looking back, it seems inevitable that the soundtrack to this 6 minute drive would not be the poppy 90s music on the radio, but my father's screams. I remember being proud of how smoothly I handled the road, just as my instructor had shown me, and how my father found fault in it just the same. How could I have possibly expected any less?
Six minutes in, the screaming, the punches to the arm, the grabbing the wheel from my hands, it got to me. I still remember the exact spot where I pulled over, and my father yelled at me for that, too. He screamed for me to continue, but I got out. In the growing dusk, I cried as other cars zoomed by, flashes of pitying faces as my father yelled at me from the curb. I remember thinking I hate driving.
My father eventually got back in the car and finished the drive to grandma's house.
I walked.
And I gave up driving altogether.
I was the only 16 year old in my rural community without the hallowed permit. I pretended not to care.
In the next months, my mother finally admitted that my father was an asshole, and she left him. Thank god.
And she began to realize that perhaps if there was a second driver in the family - say, me - then she wouldn't have to get up before the sun to drive one sister to work, and another to hockey, and another to a sleepover, then pick the first one up from work, bring her to the mall, get the second from hockey, and bring her to the library...and so on. So she encouraged me to make an appointment to take the driving test.
And I did.
The date of my test got closer and closer, and I hadn't driven in over a year. I pointed this out to my mother, and she would only shrug. She never did take me out driving, not once.
The morning of my driving test, I was shaking, probably less with anxiety and more with fear - real fear of revisiting the screaming scene I had tried my best to forget. It was a friend who came to my rescue that morning, a dear friend, who cut school to give me an illegal driving lesson in the 20 minutes I had before my test.
It was thanks to her, and only her, that I passed.
I was 18.
I remember walking in late to my third period class that day - Mrs McM's history, I think - and the class applauding my late-blooming success.
But I always hated driving, and did so only when absolutely necessary.
A year and a half later, I moved to downtown Ottawa where I very happily gave up driving, and let my licence expire.
I am a non-driver, and embarrassing I.D. aside, it hasn't bothered me much.
But in the near future, Jason and I will no longer be living together. With him goes the car, and his licence. With him goes my mobility.
Like it or not, I may soon have to get back behind the wheel of a car. And it's not going to be easy.
In Ontario, we have what is called 'graduated licencing', conveniently implemented like, 30 seconds before I turned 16. It means there are actually 3 steps (and 3 long waiting periods) before becoming a "full" driver - not to mention 2 written and 2 driving tests to be passed, and paid for.
During the first phase, I can only drive when an "adult" is in the car with me, and I can't drive at night, or on any highways (hello, I live in Toronto! I can't really back out of my driveway without hitting a highway). If I was a shaky, hesitant driver before, I doubt that 10 years of being a passenger and pedestrian has made me any better.
But I just keep telling myself that if it means a new picture, then it will all be worth it. Right? Right?
Oh, and also: I need to learn to parallel park. Any takers?
I tousled my short reddish hair, arranged my bangs ever so attractively across my forehead, put on a pair of cutoff shorts and a red and black striped t-shirt that I'd pilfered from a friend who was going to throw it away. I can only assume that at some point I looked into a mirror, at my un-shaped man eyebrows, my crooked tortoise-shell glasses, my pale complexion unaided by even so much as lip gloss, and thought, whew, I look good.
It's been nearly a decade since that image was captured forever on my fabulous Ontario driver's licence; years of cringing each and every time I've had to hand it over for I.D. Even just a year or two after it was taken, I often contemplated leaving the liquor unbought if someone were to card me. I've made a lot of money off my licence: time and time again, I have won the coveted 'Worst Photo Ever' award, and collected on many bets. Usually a flash of this photo garners me pity, sometimes laughter. At best, someone will refuse to believe that the picture can possibly be of me. Oh, how I wish that were true, but alas, it's authentic.
Just think how you would feel if the only form of photo I.D. you carry is a relic from your "what was I thinking?" days of high school.
It's been painful, excrutiating at times, but it persists.
Why?
Because I don't drive.
And they won't update the photo just for the sake of vanity.
It's a sad state of affairs, really, especially considering how hard my licence was to come by in the first place.
Oh, my mother was all too happy to bring me to the office the day I turned 16, she watched me take the written test, watched me have the Worst Photo Ever taken, even gave me a small box as a gift that contained a red corvette-shaped keychain with a gleaming car key attached...the key to her rusty old Ford minivan.
And that's where it stopped.
She would never take me out for lessons. She never let me drive, not even around the neighbourhood, not even in a parking lot, not even to the end of our driveway. Never.
So I sat through the embarrassments of driver's education. My grandmother would pick me up after school, with some cookies in an old prescription paper sack, and some lemonade in a mason jar for refreshment. I sat through the theory and then nervously got behind the wheel of the instructor's car, week after week being berated for not practicing enough (I never corrected the instructor, but actually, I wasn't practicing at all). I drained my bank account, 16 years worth of babysitting, lawn mowing and birthday money, to pay for driver's ed. But I never did get to practice.
But then one day, something astonishing happened. It was my father who offered me the wheel.
Maybe if I had stopped to think about it, I would have remembered that I hated my father, that his temper was non-existent, and that he was the last person on the face of the earth for the job. But I was excited, my first real drive! I ran inside to get my purse (the one I had begun carrying 6 months before just for such an occasion - as of yet, it contained only my license and a pack of gum, the gum being just for show, really) and then I performed my pre-drive safety check, kicked the tired, adjusted the mirrors, slid the seat up so that I could almost see over the dashboard, and like a brilliant flash of light (the kind of light that travels at no more than 25 km/hr), we were off!
Looking back, it seems inevitable that the soundtrack to this 6 minute drive would not be the poppy 90s music on the radio, but my father's screams. I remember being proud of how smoothly I handled the road, just as my instructor had shown me, and how my father found fault in it just the same. How could I have possibly expected any less?
Six minutes in, the screaming, the punches to the arm, the grabbing the wheel from my hands, it got to me. I still remember the exact spot where I pulled over, and my father yelled at me for that, too. He screamed for me to continue, but I got out. In the growing dusk, I cried as other cars zoomed by, flashes of pitying faces as my father yelled at me from the curb. I remember thinking I hate driving.
My father eventually got back in the car and finished the drive to grandma's house.
I walked.
And I gave up driving altogether.
I was the only 16 year old in my rural community without the hallowed permit. I pretended not to care.
In the next months, my mother finally admitted that my father was an asshole, and she left him. Thank god.
And she began to realize that perhaps if there was a second driver in the family - say, me - then she wouldn't have to get up before the sun to drive one sister to work, and another to hockey, and another to a sleepover, then pick the first one up from work, bring her to the mall, get the second from hockey, and bring her to the library...and so on. So she encouraged me to make an appointment to take the driving test.
And I did.
The date of my test got closer and closer, and I hadn't driven in over a year. I pointed this out to my mother, and she would only shrug. She never did take me out driving, not once.
The morning of my driving test, I was shaking, probably less with anxiety and more with fear - real fear of revisiting the screaming scene I had tried my best to forget. It was a friend who came to my rescue that morning, a dear friend, who cut school to give me an illegal driving lesson in the 20 minutes I had before my test.
It was thanks to her, and only her, that I passed.
I was 18.
I remember walking in late to my third period class that day - Mrs McM's history, I think - and the class applauding my late-blooming success.
But I always hated driving, and did so only when absolutely necessary.
A year and a half later, I moved to downtown Ottawa where I very happily gave up driving, and let my licence expire.
I am a non-driver, and embarrassing I.D. aside, it hasn't bothered me much.
But in the near future, Jason and I will no longer be living together. With him goes the car, and his licence. With him goes my mobility.
Like it or not, I may soon have to get back behind the wheel of a car. And it's not going to be easy.
In Ontario, we have what is called 'graduated licencing', conveniently implemented like, 30 seconds before I turned 16. It means there are actually 3 steps (and 3 long waiting periods) before becoming a "full" driver - not to mention 2 written and 2 driving tests to be passed, and paid for.
During the first phase, I can only drive when an "adult" is in the car with me, and I can't drive at night, or on any highways (hello, I live in Toronto! I can't really back out of my driveway without hitting a highway). If I was a shaky, hesitant driver before, I doubt that 10 years of being a passenger and pedestrian has made me any better.
But I just keep telling myself that if it means a new picture, then it will all be worth it. Right? Right?
Oh, and also: I need to learn to parallel park. Any takers?
Friday, April 21, 2006
R.I.P. Favourite Finger
It was a hot and steamy shower. The body wash smelled of kumquat and kiwi; the shampoo was lathered on thick. The showerhead was on a favourite setting, massage, but friskiness between the two bathers was kept to a minimum because the two lovers thought they had all the time in the world.
But they were wrong.
Dead wrong.
Little did they know that a strange but lethal weapon had been lurking in the dim corners of the shower stall the entire time, just waiting for the perfect opportunity for total and utter destruction.
"Eek! I'm bleeding!" shouted the short one.
"Where are you bleeding from this time?" asked the taller one, unsurprised.
"Fuck! I just shaved off my finger!" yelled Jay, offering up the bloody stump where her hand used to be as evidence.
The sight of so much blood surprises Jason, surprises him so much in fact that instead of feigning concern, he says "Holy shit, how'd you do that?"
Jay, swooning bravely in pain, is not so much in pain that she neglects to punch her husband for such a callous remark. With her good hand, of course.
And then the two, Jay clutching her throbbing finger, and Jason, clutching his throbbing jaw, watch a surprising amount of bloodied water swirl down the bathtub drain.
Out of the shower, Jay is unable to dry herself, and Jason takes certain liberties despite the urgency of the situation. Both are secretly glad that blood is pooling on their ugly, ugly bathroom mat. Both are glad it can finally be guiltlessly thrown out.
"What do you want to do?" asks Jason, who immediately feels like an oaf for asking such a thing.
"Get back in the shower" says Jay, without any irony. Suddenly, Jason feels like less of an oaf.
"Back in the shower? But your finger!" thunders Jason, believing himself to be the voice of reason, but also believing that little things like reason rarely get in Jamie's way.
"Well, I still have shampoo in my hair, and I've only shaved one leg!" Jay shouts, appalled.
"But it nearly killed you the first time around!" shouts Jason, appalleder.
But of course they get back into the shower anyway, because Jamie wills it so, and Jason gently rinses the shampoo from her hair while Jay courageously struggles to keep her bloody stump raised above her heart to stem the bloodflow. In truth, the bleeding is not quite so bad at that, but also in truth, Jay is a bit of a dramaqueen.
Out of the shower once again, Jay displays her famous love of hospitals by refusing to go to one.
"Maybe it's not so bad" she mumbles, inspecting the damage. The fingertip is intact. However, the razor somehow managed to slit a hole through her fingernail and slice into the flesh underneath.
Lady Gillette, oh how I despise thee. How can anything so sweet, so pink, so plastic, shed so much blood? Pink plastic is the stuff of Barbie Dream Corvette and lawn flamingos. Pink plastic should not aim to maim. Why hast thee forsaken me?
Before Jay can put up a respectable fight, Jason dials the telehealth phone line, and speaks to nurse Brian. Nurse Brian will tell them if a trip to the hospital is necessary or not.
Jay, weak from loss of blood (or, maybe, just maybe, weak from the earlier consumption of 5 and a half martinis), can only hear snippets from the conversation:
"No, I don't know how she managed to shave through her fingernail. It was a disposable for crying out loud!"
"Yeah, that's her. I'm sure her file is quite thick. She bleeds a lot."
"No, the razor seems to be fine."
Jamie is so outraged that Jason and Nurse Brian seem to be more concerned with the razor's well being than her own that she nearly faints...or well, passes out. Whichever.
At the hospital, Jay is fairly certain that all the doctors are smirking at her. She is fairly certain that the doctor is writing incriminating statements about her in her permanent medical record, but when she inquires, the information is firmly denied her. In a parade of gauze and iodine, Jay marches up and down the halls shouting "Attica! Attica!" and no one really knows why. Jason, however, is content to sit back and enjoy the view afforded by the paper-thin gown that doesn't tie up in the back.
Jason is able to transport her back home, sedated. Her finger is mercifully unrecognizable underneath the copious amounts of sterile bandage. Any talk of her former finger nail, "lacerated nailbeds", stitches, or pink safety razors, send her spiraling into a woozy tailspin.
So she lies in bed mourning the temporary loss of her finger, her favourite finger, by far her most useful finger. She made all her favourite gestures with this finger. She expressed many of her favourite emotions with this finger. And now, drowned in gauze, it has lots its ability to intimidate and threaten. It looks like a big fluffy white marshmallow, as harmless as...well, as harmless as a Lady Gillette.
The Culprit:
Lady Gillette is so heartless she doesn't even have the decency to appear contrite. Premeditated, you ask? Yes, we ask ourselves that too. Either way, Jay has resolved to go "au naturel" until safety razors actually become safe.
The victim:
This finger is not the finger it once was. It may be months before the damage is repaired. Despite the fact that Jay was forced into a tetanus shot, Jason prays that lockjaw will settle in anyway, because without it, he's in for an awful lot of complaining.
The solution:
Temporary at best. It still doesn't properly convey my malicious intent, and will do an even poorer job of it should lockjaw set it and deprive me of my beloved obscenities.
But as you can see, I am determined to get through this with the grace and dignity you've become accustomed to here at Kill the Goat. Now go, and leave me to my pain and grief. Do not feed guilty about enjoying your weekends as I spend mine bedridden and practically delirious from the two children's Tylenol I'll take before bed. Just try to think of me fondly, remember me whole-fingered as in better days, and above all...beware the lurking lump of plastic in your showers. It's not as innocent as it looks.
But they were wrong.
Dead wrong.
Little did they know that a strange but lethal weapon had been lurking in the dim corners of the shower stall the entire time, just waiting for the perfect opportunity for total and utter destruction.
"Eek! I'm bleeding!" shouted the short one.
"Where are you bleeding from this time?" asked the taller one, unsurprised.
"Fuck! I just shaved off my finger!" yelled Jay, offering up the bloody stump where her hand used to be as evidence.
The sight of so much blood surprises Jason, surprises him so much in fact that instead of feigning concern, he says "Holy shit, how'd you do that?"
Jay, swooning bravely in pain, is not so much in pain that she neglects to punch her husband for such a callous remark. With her good hand, of course.
And then the two, Jay clutching her throbbing finger, and Jason, clutching his throbbing jaw, watch a surprising amount of bloodied water swirl down the bathtub drain.
Out of the shower, Jay is unable to dry herself, and Jason takes certain liberties despite the urgency of the situation. Both are secretly glad that blood is pooling on their ugly, ugly bathroom mat. Both are glad it can finally be guiltlessly thrown out.
"What do you want to do?" asks Jason, who immediately feels like an oaf for asking such a thing.
"Get back in the shower" says Jay, without any irony. Suddenly, Jason feels like less of an oaf.
"Back in the shower? But your finger!" thunders Jason, believing himself to be the voice of reason, but also believing that little things like reason rarely get in Jamie's way.
"Well, I still have shampoo in my hair, and I've only shaved one leg!" Jay shouts, appalled.
"But it nearly killed you the first time around!" shouts Jason, appalleder.
But of course they get back into the shower anyway, because Jamie wills it so, and Jason gently rinses the shampoo from her hair while Jay courageously struggles to keep her bloody stump raised above her heart to stem the bloodflow. In truth, the bleeding is not quite so bad at that, but also in truth, Jay is a bit of a dramaqueen.
Out of the shower once again, Jay displays her famous love of hospitals by refusing to go to one.
"Maybe it's not so bad" she mumbles, inspecting the damage. The fingertip is intact. However, the razor somehow managed to slit a hole through her fingernail and slice into the flesh underneath.
Lady Gillette, oh how I despise thee. How can anything so sweet, so pink, so plastic, shed so much blood? Pink plastic is the stuff of Barbie Dream Corvette and lawn flamingos. Pink plastic should not aim to maim. Why hast thee forsaken me?
Before Jay can put up a respectable fight, Jason dials the telehealth phone line, and speaks to nurse Brian. Nurse Brian will tell them if a trip to the hospital is necessary or not.
Jay, weak from loss of blood (or, maybe, just maybe, weak from the earlier consumption of 5 and a half martinis), can only hear snippets from the conversation:
"No, I don't know how she managed to shave through her fingernail. It was a disposable for crying out loud!"
"Yeah, that's her. I'm sure her file is quite thick. She bleeds a lot."
"No, the razor seems to be fine."
Jamie is so outraged that Jason and Nurse Brian seem to be more concerned with the razor's well being than her own that she nearly faints...or well, passes out. Whichever.
At the hospital, Jay is fairly certain that all the doctors are smirking at her. She is fairly certain that the doctor is writing incriminating statements about her in her permanent medical record, but when she inquires, the information is firmly denied her. In a parade of gauze and iodine, Jay marches up and down the halls shouting "Attica! Attica!" and no one really knows why. Jason, however, is content to sit back and enjoy the view afforded by the paper-thin gown that doesn't tie up in the back.
Jason is able to transport her back home, sedated. Her finger is mercifully unrecognizable underneath the copious amounts of sterile bandage. Any talk of her former finger nail, "lacerated nailbeds", stitches, or pink safety razors, send her spiraling into a woozy tailspin.
So she lies in bed mourning the temporary loss of her finger, her favourite finger, by far her most useful finger. She made all her favourite gestures with this finger. She expressed many of her favourite emotions with this finger. And now, drowned in gauze, it has lots its ability to intimidate and threaten. It looks like a big fluffy white marshmallow, as harmless as...well, as harmless as a Lady Gillette.
The Culprit:
Lady Gillette is so heartless she doesn't even have the decency to appear contrite. Premeditated, you ask? Yes, we ask ourselves that too. Either way, Jay has resolved to go "au naturel" until safety razors actually become safe.
The victim:
This finger is not the finger it once was. It may be months before the damage is repaired. Despite the fact that Jay was forced into a tetanus shot, Jason prays that lockjaw will settle in anyway, because without it, he's in for an awful lot of complaining.
The solution:
Temporary at best. It still doesn't properly convey my malicious intent, and will do an even poorer job of it should lockjaw set it and deprive me of my beloved obscenities.
But as you can see, I am determined to get through this with the grace and dignity you've become accustomed to here at Kill the Goat. Now go, and leave me to my pain and grief. Do not feed guilty about enjoying your weekends as I spend mine bedridden and practically delirious from the two children's Tylenol I'll take before bed. Just try to think of me fondly, remember me whole-fingered as in better days, and above all...beware the lurking lump of plastic in your showers. It's not as innocent as it looks.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
The Soundtrack of My Life
Putting together my soundtrack was surprising. Most of these songs would not appear on my 'favourites' list, and yet, in some way, they have become a part of me. Every song you hear is an experience - some will be swelling crescendos during the pinacle moments of your life, while others will be little more than background noise. But they're all threads in the tapestry of your life.
Track 1: I was 3 years old, my hair done in pigtails, and I was ecstatic to finally be wearing my robin's egg blue leotard and salmon pink tutu. I was on stage with my fellow dancers, my little blue eyes twinkling in the spotlight as I wondered where in the vast, dark audience sat my mummy and daddy. The music started, we snapped in unison, swaying from side to side. First we did the jitterbug, and then we put the boom-boom into the hearts of everyone who'd come to see us sparkle and shine. That's right - Miss Dixen had us little girls pointing our ballerina slipper-clad toes to the stylings of Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, and as the number saw us drop to the floor to give a spin on our bums, I feel confident in saying that we did not leave our audience hanging on like a yo-yo.
Track 2: A few years later, I was riding the bus to school. As a shortie, I still rode relatively close to the front, although not as close as those babies from kindergarten, such as my younger sister. I wore Vuarnet t-shirts, cool beyond my 7 year old comprehension, a gift from an aunt with money to burn. The Vuarnet almost made up for the fact that I wore a bright yellow backpack featuring The California Raisins (remember them? they heard it through the grapevine, yo) with matching plastic lunchpail and thermos. I remember 8th graders actually checking the tags in my shirts, and then sighing over their authenticity. And all the while Billy Idol sang Mony Mony over and over. Every time the song would end the 8th graders would riot until the poor beleaguered bus driver could rewind the tape and let it play again.
Track 3: 4 little girls would be crammed into the backseat of my Mom's Chevette. We would plead for our favourite song to played in the tape deck, and we'd sing along to the lyrics: Bob bob bob, bob, bob, bob. Sometimes our father would even let us drive on the last stretch home. We'd sit on his lap, the window rolled all the way down, our tiny hands grasping the wheel, and all the while believing we had complete control of the car. My personal favourite was to signal. Left, right, it didn't matter, as long as it blinked that we were turning. Years later, all 4 of us would be surprised to learn that the lyrics were not in fact Bob, bob, bob, but rather, the Beach Boys' Barbara Ann and even still, I think we're all pretty loyal to our first interpretation.
Track 4: The Brownie talent show was looming, and I was without a talent. I was fairly proficient with a Skip-It and could do some neat tricks with a Cat's cradle string, but neither of these things felt sufficiently impressive. So my mother, god bless her soul, choreographed a lip-synch and dance routine for a friend and myself to perform. We wore matching slouchy tie-dyed socks and thought we were the epitome of cool as we strutted our stuff to Madonna's Material Girl. In fact, I believe we were pretty cool, even if we believed the lyrics to actually be Cheerio Girl.
Track 5: Like every 80s family, we crowded around the TV to watch Full House, and to my young eyes, Uncle Jesse and his sexy, wavy mullet were definitely the stuff of girls' dreams. Jesse was cool because he rode a motorcycle, wore a leather jacket, and sang in a band, and in my mind most notable was his rendition of Doo Wah Diddy. Variously done by Manfredd Man and Rick Springfield, but to me, if she looked good and looked fine, it must be Jesse and the Rippers.
Track 6: Uncle Jesse was the strangely appealing adult figure, but far more accessible was my very first boy-band crush, Joey McIntyre of the New Kids on the Block. I wrote to him secretly in my unicorn diary, which I kept locked up under my pillow. I had the posters, the sticker collection, I watched the cartoon faithfully (at least until my Mom joined Weight Watchers and her weekly meeting clashed with the airtime), and even had the Official Joey McIntyre barbie doll so he could be hangin' tough with Barbie and her pals (embarrassingly, I also had the MC Hammer doll...apparently my Barbies were all groupie whores). If I want to take a retch-worthy stroll down memory lane, all I have to do is play I Wanna Be Loved By You, where they actually take time out of the song to speak the following words: I'm Joe, and I'm a Capricorn. And if you can relate to that, then check this out. Oh, girl, I wanna be loved, loved by you baby. Keep in mind that if I was 8, he was maybe 15. Hot and heavy stuff. The good news is, I totally outgrew my crush. However, my mother did not. If you are passing by her house around December, you can still hear her playing my old tape, the Christmas album, featuring the scintillating single, Funky Funky Christmas.
Track 7: When I first got my walkman (well, it was really just a portable tape player...we were too poor for the Sony stuff), I realized it gave me enormous influence. There is a picture of me, wearing neon pink tights with conspicuous holes in the crotchal area, sitting on the kitchen floor beside my youngest sister, who was sitting naked on the pottie. I was apparently being a good big sister my rewarding her 'making' by letting her have a listen to my Big Girl music. We fit both our small heads in between one set of earphones, and together we listened to Sugar, Sugar by the Archies, and I taught her to sing along to the lyrics. Perhaps this is why she has such a shy bladder today, and rarely tinkles without some sort of background music.
Track 8: It seems to me that a great proportion of my childhood was spent doing dishes. We were a family of 6, and after every meal there would be a mountain of pots and pans, all of them charred because my mother didn't so much cook as burn. My oldest younger sister and I were permanently on dish detail. We would take turns washing and drying, and we would fight and draw blood over who had to wash, because apparently that sucked the most. On Monday nights my mother would leave the 2 of us alone to do these dishes, as she would take the 2 youngest sisters off to Williamstown for skating lessons. As soon as they were out the door, I would blast Duane Eddy's Rebel Rouser on the stereo, and believe me, it certainly would rouse me. We still bear scars today, and yet, these are not entirely bad memories, because when we weren't chasing each other around the house, we were busy being sisters: teasing each other about boys, negotiating clothing loans, and being close in a way we haven't been since.
Track 9: My mother and sister share a trashy taste in pop music. My childish ears were scarred by the likes of Celine Dion and Mariah Carey. Pee-uke. However, once in a while she surprised us, and that was certainly the case with Chris DeBurgh's Patricia the Stripper. Imagine, if you will, a family of 5 women at this point, all of whom know by heart the following lyrics:
And with a swing of her hips
She started to strip
To tremendous applause
She took of her drawers
And with a lick of her lips
She undid all her clips
And threw it all in the air
And everybody stared
And as the last piece of clothing
Fell to the floor
The police were banging on the door
On a Saturday night
In 1924
And you know we had dance moves for this. Oh yes we fucking did.
Track 10: The first song I ever slow danced to with a boy was Jump Around, by House of Pain. If you're thinking that it's not exactly a ballad, you're right. But I walked into the romantic glow of the school gymnasium, wearing green jeans and a matching green suede vest, and Joel asked, so I said yes. And it was magic.
Tracks 11, 12: The first 2 CDs I owned are CDs my young ears maybe should not have been listening to, but this was in the days before parental advisories marred all the packaging. I remember sitting on the floor of my mother's room helping her to fold laundry, as we both sang along to I'll Make Love To You by Boys II Men. My ears still blush to remember this. This is probably as close as she and I ever came to having The Talk. Even more explicit were the lyrics to TLC's Red Light Special, but what can you expect from a trio who wore condoms on their clothing? Ah, the innocence of youth.
Track 13: The first song I ever downloaded from the computer was Nothing Much Happens, by Ben Lee. It took 7 hours, and at the time I felt it was totally worth it.
Track 14: Welcome to teenage angst. I was listening to a lot of mellon collie music, being very emo before emo was really invented, but at any rate sharing in the seething anger and teen spirit that pervaded the time. I remember listening in particular to Leave it Alone, by Moist, and writing some not very original poetry "inspired" by what I thought I heard. This song is like a tunnel through time for me, and it delivers me over and over again to the same spots - the carpet in Anna's room, my purple bedspread, the van in which I learned to drive.
Track 15: I had (and have) the privilege of seeing a lot of great music live. I first crowd-surfed to Finger Eleven, got involved in a violent mosh pit watching Green Day, was slathered in lotion by 2 very gay men who inexplicably sang to me "Jamie's Got a Gun" at a Hole concert, got severiously sun burned watching Foo Fighters, hosed down by security at silverchair, saw a friend through a contact lens emergency during a Watchmen set, had my rib cage compressed against the fence at Smashing Pumpkins, and most notably to me, made out in a port-a-pottie a Deftones concert, and had the left shoe torn off my foot somewhere between Catherine Wheel and A Perfect Circle....but most notably to me was an Our Lady Peace concert, where I used my elbows as primitive digging tools to secure myself a prime spot at the front of the mosh pit, where surely Raine Maida would admire my spiky hair and notice that I knew his lyrics better than he did himself. And he did. He got off the stage, took my hand, and had me sing a strain of Hope into his mic. I nearly died. Of course, just moments before my friends had deserted me, headed to the bathroom, and I knew that since no one had seen, no one would believe. But as Raine retook the stage and a hundred girls crushed me in order to get a look at my blessed hand, I saw that in fact my friend had seen, and everyone believed. The next year he would pen the lyrics I miss your purple hair, I miss the way you taste, and I would insist to everyone that these lyrics were meant for me, even after I received threatening letters from his wife.
Tracks 16, 17: We crossed the borders to where we still couldn't legally drink, but where our fake IDs might better be believed. We stood nearly naked in the cold Canadian winter air, not to save ourselves the $1 coat check, but because our barely-there outfits didn't have pockets for claims tickets. I had this tiny black tube top infused with silver thread that we dubbed my 'lucky' top because....well, because. You know. This was before SUVs took over the market, so my generation was still having sex in minivans and pickup trucks, if we were lucky. But we didn't go to have tequila shots bought for us, or to have lots of digits inked on our arms, we went so we could dance, and dance we did. Maybe it was a little whoreish of us, Kel, to gyrate on top of those speakers, but god we had fun. Remember "the contest"? Remember Whitney's It's Not Right But It's Okay, and Faith Evan's Love Like This (you gotta $50 bill, put your hand(s) up!)? Yeah, me too. Good times.
Track 18: Nothing says Cornwall, Ontario like making out in the parking lot of Tim Horton's. I think once we did a little more than that, didn't we, Jason? I know that you'll remember how Underworld was always playing when we had sex, but at the time I was too high to understand it was music we were listening to, so for me, it will always be Wheat's Don't I Hold You on the radio.
Track 19: Frosh week at the University of Ottawa, there was one song that owned the radio, and regrettably, it was Who Let The Dogs Out by Baha Men. That song followed me on pub crawls, booze cruises, and oddest of all, at a rave where the only thing I could really see were my silver platform Candies sneakers. But I could feel the music pulsing in the floor, and I could certainly feel the sweaty flesh of the fervid dancing of those around me. And then suddenly, so suddenly I thought it couldn't be real, the jungle house music switched to Who Let The Dogs Out? (who? who? who?), and I really wondered what the hell I was doing there for a split second before I joined the thirsty throngs.
Track 20: On our wedding day, 3 Dominican men sang to us "Oh Donna", but cleverly changed the lyrics to "Oh Jamie Lee", which made me laugh very unlady-likely in the middle of my vows. But our wedding song will always be the one we chose to dance to at our reception, and the fact that 3 out 3 grandmothers present cringed visibly made it all the sweeter. True, a song by Ed K. from Live and Neneh Cherry wouldn't qualify for just anyone as wedding material, but we like to take the road less-traveled. And every time I hear Walk Into This Room, I promise not to let them get to your spark.
Track 21: And now, as I work feverishly to put my soul to words, I find myself listening to a rather obvious choice, Everclear's Father of Mine. Art sings Father of mine, tell me what do you see when you look back at your wasted life and you don'’t see me? and sometimes, I find myself wondering the exact same thing. But while it helps me reflect on my past, it mostly reminds me of what I do have, what I love most in life, what I treasure, what I hold dear, and above all, of my ability to dance through it all.
Track 1: I was 3 years old, my hair done in pigtails, and I was ecstatic to finally be wearing my robin's egg blue leotard and salmon pink tutu. I was on stage with my fellow dancers, my little blue eyes twinkling in the spotlight as I wondered where in the vast, dark audience sat my mummy and daddy. The music started, we snapped in unison, swaying from side to side. First we did the jitterbug, and then we put the boom-boom into the hearts of everyone who'd come to see us sparkle and shine. That's right - Miss Dixen had us little girls pointing our ballerina slipper-clad toes to the stylings of Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, and as the number saw us drop to the floor to give a spin on our bums, I feel confident in saying that we did not leave our audience hanging on like a yo-yo.
Track 2: A few years later, I was riding the bus to school. As a shortie, I still rode relatively close to the front, although not as close as those babies from kindergarten, such as my younger sister. I wore Vuarnet t-shirts, cool beyond my 7 year old comprehension, a gift from an aunt with money to burn. The Vuarnet almost made up for the fact that I wore a bright yellow backpack featuring The California Raisins (remember them? they heard it through the grapevine, yo) with matching plastic lunchpail and thermos. I remember 8th graders actually checking the tags in my shirts, and then sighing over their authenticity. And all the while Billy Idol sang Mony Mony over and over. Every time the song would end the 8th graders would riot until the poor beleaguered bus driver could rewind the tape and let it play again.
Track 3: 4 little girls would be crammed into the backseat of my Mom's Chevette. We would plead for our favourite song to played in the tape deck, and we'd sing along to the lyrics: Bob bob bob, bob, bob, bob. Sometimes our father would even let us drive on the last stretch home. We'd sit on his lap, the window rolled all the way down, our tiny hands grasping the wheel, and all the while believing we had complete control of the car. My personal favourite was to signal. Left, right, it didn't matter, as long as it blinked that we were turning. Years later, all 4 of us would be surprised to learn that the lyrics were not in fact Bob, bob, bob, but rather, the Beach Boys' Barbara Ann and even still, I think we're all pretty loyal to our first interpretation.
Track 4: The Brownie talent show was looming, and I was without a talent. I was fairly proficient with a Skip-It and could do some neat tricks with a Cat's cradle string, but neither of these things felt sufficiently impressive. So my mother, god bless her soul, choreographed a lip-synch and dance routine for a friend and myself to perform. We wore matching slouchy tie-dyed socks and thought we were the epitome of cool as we strutted our stuff to Madonna's Material Girl. In fact, I believe we were pretty cool, even if we believed the lyrics to actually be Cheerio Girl.
Track 5: Like every 80s family, we crowded around the TV to watch Full House, and to my young eyes, Uncle Jesse and his sexy, wavy mullet were definitely the stuff of girls' dreams. Jesse was cool because he rode a motorcycle, wore a leather jacket, and sang in a band, and in my mind most notable was his rendition of Doo Wah Diddy. Variously done by Manfredd Man and Rick Springfield, but to me, if she looked good and looked fine, it must be Jesse and the Rippers.
Track 6: Uncle Jesse was the strangely appealing adult figure, but far more accessible was my very first boy-band crush, Joey McIntyre of the New Kids on the Block. I wrote to him secretly in my unicorn diary, which I kept locked up under my pillow. I had the posters, the sticker collection, I watched the cartoon faithfully (at least until my Mom joined Weight Watchers and her weekly meeting clashed with the airtime), and even had the Official Joey McIntyre barbie doll so he could be hangin' tough with Barbie and her pals (embarrassingly, I also had the MC Hammer doll...apparently my Barbies were all groupie whores). If I want to take a retch-worthy stroll down memory lane, all I have to do is play I Wanna Be Loved By You, where they actually take time out of the song to speak the following words: I'm Joe, and I'm a Capricorn. And if you can relate to that, then check this out. Oh, girl, I wanna be loved, loved by you baby. Keep in mind that if I was 8, he was maybe 15. Hot and heavy stuff. The good news is, I totally outgrew my crush. However, my mother did not. If you are passing by her house around December, you can still hear her playing my old tape, the Christmas album, featuring the scintillating single, Funky Funky Christmas.
Track 7: When I first got my walkman (well, it was really just a portable tape player...we were too poor for the Sony stuff), I realized it gave me enormous influence. There is a picture of me, wearing neon pink tights with conspicuous holes in the crotchal area, sitting on the kitchen floor beside my youngest sister, who was sitting naked on the pottie. I was apparently being a good big sister my rewarding her 'making' by letting her have a listen to my Big Girl music. We fit both our small heads in between one set of earphones, and together we listened to Sugar, Sugar by the Archies, and I taught her to sing along to the lyrics. Perhaps this is why she has such a shy bladder today, and rarely tinkles without some sort of background music.
Track 8: It seems to me that a great proportion of my childhood was spent doing dishes. We were a family of 6, and after every meal there would be a mountain of pots and pans, all of them charred because my mother didn't so much cook as burn. My oldest younger sister and I were permanently on dish detail. We would take turns washing and drying, and we would fight and draw blood over who had to wash, because apparently that sucked the most. On Monday nights my mother would leave the 2 of us alone to do these dishes, as she would take the 2 youngest sisters off to Williamstown for skating lessons. As soon as they were out the door, I would blast Duane Eddy's Rebel Rouser on the stereo, and believe me, it certainly would rouse me. We still bear scars today, and yet, these are not entirely bad memories, because when we weren't chasing each other around the house, we were busy being sisters: teasing each other about boys, negotiating clothing loans, and being close in a way we haven't been since.
Track 9: My mother and sister share a trashy taste in pop music. My childish ears were scarred by the likes of Celine Dion and Mariah Carey. Pee-uke. However, once in a while she surprised us, and that was certainly the case with Chris DeBurgh's Patricia the Stripper. Imagine, if you will, a family of 5 women at this point, all of whom know by heart the following lyrics:
And with a swing of her hips
She started to strip
To tremendous applause
She took of her drawers
And with a lick of her lips
She undid all her clips
And threw it all in the air
And everybody stared
And as the last piece of clothing
Fell to the floor
The police were banging on the door
On a Saturday night
In 1924
And you know we had dance moves for this. Oh yes we fucking did.
Track 10: The first song I ever slow danced to with a boy was Jump Around, by House of Pain. If you're thinking that it's not exactly a ballad, you're right. But I walked into the romantic glow of the school gymnasium, wearing green jeans and a matching green suede vest, and Joel asked, so I said yes. And it was magic.
Tracks 11, 12: The first 2 CDs I owned are CDs my young ears maybe should not have been listening to, but this was in the days before parental advisories marred all the packaging. I remember sitting on the floor of my mother's room helping her to fold laundry, as we both sang along to I'll Make Love To You by Boys II Men. My ears still blush to remember this. This is probably as close as she and I ever came to having The Talk. Even more explicit were the lyrics to TLC's Red Light Special, but what can you expect from a trio who wore condoms on their clothing? Ah, the innocence of youth.
Track 13: The first song I ever downloaded from the computer was Nothing Much Happens, by Ben Lee. It took 7 hours, and at the time I felt it was totally worth it.
Track 14: Welcome to teenage angst. I was listening to a lot of mellon collie music, being very emo before emo was really invented, but at any rate sharing in the seething anger and teen spirit that pervaded the time. I remember listening in particular to Leave it Alone, by Moist, and writing some not very original poetry "inspired" by what I thought I heard. This song is like a tunnel through time for me, and it delivers me over and over again to the same spots - the carpet in Anna's room, my purple bedspread, the van in which I learned to drive.
Track 15: I had (and have) the privilege of seeing a lot of great music live. I first crowd-surfed to Finger Eleven, got involved in a violent mosh pit watching Green Day, was slathered in lotion by 2 very gay men who inexplicably sang to me "Jamie's Got a Gun" at a Hole concert, got severiously sun burned watching Foo Fighters, hosed down by security at silverchair, saw a friend through a contact lens emergency during a Watchmen set, had my rib cage compressed against the fence at Smashing Pumpkins, and most notably to me, made out in a port-a-pottie a Deftones concert, and had the left shoe torn off my foot somewhere between Catherine Wheel and A Perfect Circle....but most notably to me was an Our Lady Peace concert, where I used my elbows as primitive digging tools to secure myself a prime spot at the front of the mosh pit, where surely Raine Maida would admire my spiky hair and notice that I knew his lyrics better than he did himself. And he did. He got off the stage, took my hand, and had me sing a strain of Hope into his mic. I nearly died. Of course, just moments before my friends had deserted me, headed to the bathroom, and I knew that since no one had seen, no one would believe. But as Raine retook the stage and a hundred girls crushed me in order to get a look at my blessed hand, I saw that in fact my friend had seen, and everyone believed. The next year he would pen the lyrics I miss your purple hair, I miss the way you taste, and I would insist to everyone that these lyrics were meant for me, even after I received threatening letters from his wife.
Tracks 16, 17: We crossed the borders to where we still couldn't legally drink, but where our fake IDs might better be believed. We stood nearly naked in the cold Canadian winter air, not to save ourselves the $1 coat check, but because our barely-there outfits didn't have pockets for claims tickets. I had this tiny black tube top infused with silver thread that we dubbed my 'lucky' top because....well, because. You know. This was before SUVs took over the market, so my generation was still having sex in minivans and pickup trucks, if we were lucky. But we didn't go to have tequila shots bought for us, or to have lots of digits inked on our arms, we went so we could dance, and dance we did. Maybe it was a little whoreish of us, Kel, to gyrate on top of those speakers, but god we had fun. Remember "the contest"? Remember Whitney's It's Not Right But It's Okay, and Faith Evan's Love Like This (you gotta $50 bill, put your hand(s) up!)? Yeah, me too. Good times.
Track 18: Nothing says Cornwall, Ontario like making out in the parking lot of Tim Horton's. I think once we did a little more than that, didn't we, Jason? I know that you'll remember how Underworld was always playing when we had sex, but at the time I was too high to understand it was music we were listening to, so for me, it will always be Wheat's Don't I Hold You on the radio.
Track 19: Frosh week at the University of Ottawa, there was one song that owned the radio, and regrettably, it was Who Let The Dogs Out by Baha Men. That song followed me on pub crawls, booze cruises, and oddest of all, at a rave where the only thing I could really see were my silver platform Candies sneakers. But I could feel the music pulsing in the floor, and I could certainly feel the sweaty flesh of the fervid dancing of those around me. And then suddenly, so suddenly I thought it couldn't be real, the jungle house music switched to Who Let The Dogs Out? (who? who? who?), and I really wondered what the hell I was doing there for a split second before I joined the thirsty throngs.
Track 20: On our wedding day, 3 Dominican men sang to us "Oh Donna", but cleverly changed the lyrics to "Oh Jamie Lee", which made me laugh very unlady-likely in the middle of my vows. But our wedding song will always be the one we chose to dance to at our reception, and the fact that 3 out 3 grandmothers present cringed visibly made it all the sweeter. True, a song by Ed K. from Live and Neneh Cherry wouldn't qualify for just anyone as wedding material, but we like to take the road less-traveled. And every time I hear Walk Into This Room, I promise not to let them get to your spark.
Track 21: And now, as I work feverishly to put my soul to words, I find myself listening to a rather obvious choice, Everclear's Father of Mine. Art sings Father of mine, tell me what do you see when you look back at your wasted life and you don'’t see me? and sometimes, I find myself wondering the exact same thing. But while it helps me reflect on my past, it mostly reminds me of what I do have, what I love most in life, what I treasure, what I hold dear, and above all, of my ability to dance through it all.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Only God Can Save Me Now.
The grout in my shower has been scrubbed with a stiff-bristled tooth brush.
Pretty little soaps in nauseatingly-sweet little shapes have been purchased.
My naughty drawer has been cleaned out of all things naughty. They've been locked in a safebox and buried deep, deep in the bowels of storage, underneath a box labeled "wedding presents so ugly I can only hope they spontaneously combust."
This can only mean one thing: my mother-in-law is coming.
When a mother-in-law comes to dinner, one can only assume that she will be checking under the VCR for dust, and judging my worthiness based on whether all the labels in my wine rack point in the same direction (east). But my mother-in-law is not coming to dinner. She's coming to stay - for 5 WHOLE DAYS!
So I, of course, am acting like a crazy person. I bought better toothpaste. Not that our old stuff was bad, but the regular $1.57-a-tube-Crest-stuff just doesn't shout "Jason is in good hands!" the way I'd like it to. So I bought the good stuff in the remote hope that one morning she will be brushing her teeth and think that I take good care of her son.
Fat chance, eh?
I also bought new sheets. She'll get our bed obviously, the best bed, but not the best sheets, between which I've done nasty, dirty things to her son. Not to worry, I also bought new jammies; the kind that are not see-through in the nipple-area (or anywhere else). And I planned a menu that's impressive but not intimidating: no seafood, no mushrooms, no bleu cheese (these things have been learned by trial and error, emphasis on ERROR, thanks to Jason never remembering what his Mom will or will not eat).Then I panicked that the menu was a little chicken-heavy, but I'm currently chewing through copious amounts of Zoloft to get over that little hump. Plus, I've got just the right amount of booze on hand to smoothen out all the bumps without confirming her suspicions that in fact, I am nothing but a no good lush sponging off her baby boy.
*** Meanwhile, Jorge's post today reminds me that I also need to take my magnetic poetry off the fridge. The poems we make tend to use "pork" as a verb a little too often.
She's not a bad person, actually. It's just an ancient law that the mother/daughter-in-law relationship must be impossibly difficult.
The first time I met my mother-in-law, she told me how much she loved Jason's girlfriend Danielle, and how she hoped they would be together forever.
The second time I met my mother-in-law, Danielle had been deposed, I had taken her place, and I was acutely aware of how utterly unlike Danielle I was.
The problem is not that I don't like my mother-in-law. Oh, she has her moments, those times that I just want to pull out all of my hair and then hide under my bed until the day I pick out her coffin, but I try to remember that being raised by his mother made Jason into the good and interesting man he is today.
The problem is that she does not like me.
What?!? How could this be?!?! Are you not outraged and astounded that anyone could possibly be so stupid as to not like me? Despicable, I know. Bordering on unbelievable, I'd say, except that I have 7 looooong years of proof. Apparently my wonderfulness doesn't translate well into momspeak.
Admittedly, I am a little eccentric. Unconventional. Nontraditional. Anti-religion, anti-making grandbabies, pro- moving far, far away. Every mother's dream for her son, right?
Yeah, well, I'm buying his undies now, so tough!
And so the game continues: I bend over backwards to show her that I'm not "the worst thing ever to happen to her precious baby boy" while she keeps her wary eye on me, since we both know that the ugliest truth is yet unspoken - that Jason is her only child, and someday soonish, I will be the one deciding in which home to put her away.
Life is kinda funny that like that.
Pretty little soaps in nauseatingly-sweet little shapes have been purchased.
My naughty drawer has been cleaned out of all things naughty. They've been locked in a safebox and buried deep, deep in the bowels of storage, underneath a box labeled "wedding presents so ugly I can only hope they spontaneously combust."
This can only mean one thing: my mother-in-law is coming.
When a mother-in-law comes to dinner, one can only assume that she will be checking under the VCR for dust, and judging my worthiness based on whether all the labels in my wine rack point in the same direction (east). But my mother-in-law is not coming to dinner. She's coming to stay - for 5 WHOLE DAYS!
So I, of course, am acting like a crazy person. I bought better toothpaste. Not that our old stuff was bad, but the regular $1.57-a-tube-Crest-stuff just doesn't shout "Jason is in good hands!" the way I'd like it to. So I bought the good stuff in the remote hope that one morning she will be brushing her teeth and think that I take good care of her son.
Fat chance, eh?
I also bought new sheets. She'll get our bed obviously, the best bed, but not the best sheets, between which I've done nasty, dirty things to her son. Not to worry, I also bought new jammies; the kind that are not see-through in the nipple-area (or anywhere else). And I planned a menu that's impressive but not intimidating: no seafood, no mushrooms, no bleu cheese (these things have been learned by trial and error, emphasis on ERROR, thanks to Jason never remembering what his Mom will or will not eat).Then I panicked that the menu was a little chicken-heavy, but I'm currently chewing through copious amounts of Zoloft to get over that little hump. Plus, I've got just the right amount of booze on hand to smoothen out all the bumps without confirming her suspicions that in fact, I am nothing but a no good lush sponging off her baby boy.
*** Meanwhile, Jorge's post today reminds me that I also need to take my magnetic poetry off the fridge. The poems we make tend to use "pork" as a verb a little too often.
She's not a bad person, actually. It's just an ancient law that the mother/daughter-in-law relationship must be impossibly difficult.
The first time I met my mother-in-law, she told me how much she loved Jason's girlfriend Danielle, and how she hoped they would be together forever.
The second time I met my mother-in-law, Danielle had been deposed, I had taken her place, and I was acutely aware of how utterly unlike Danielle I was.
The problem is not that I don't like my mother-in-law. Oh, she has her moments, those times that I just want to pull out all of my hair and then hide under my bed until the day I pick out her coffin, but I try to remember that being raised by his mother made Jason into the good and interesting man he is today.
The problem is that she does not like me.
What?!? How could this be?!?! Are you not outraged and astounded that anyone could possibly be so stupid as to not like me? Despicable, I know. Bordering on unbelievable, I'd say, except that I have 7 looooong years of proof. Apparently my wonderfulness doesn't translate well into momspeak.
Admittedly, I am a little eccentric. Unconventional. Nontraditional. Anti-religion, anti-making grandbabies, pro- moving far, far away. Every mother's dream for her son, right?
Yeah, well, I'm buying his undies now, so tough!
And so the game continues: I bend over backwards to show her that I'm not "the worst thing ever to happen to her precious baby boy" while she keeps her wary eye on me, since we both know that the ugliest truth is yet unspoken - that Jason is her only child, and someday soonish, I will be the one deciding in which home to put her away.
Life is kinda funny that like that.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Crabby Lady
I only took 3 showers today. That's not so many, really.
But it is exasperating to Jason that I continue to see showering as a form of entertainment. I do not multiple-shower because of any uncontrolled OCD; in fact, I will readily agree that the showers are superfluous as I just do not get that dirty in day to day life. But I looooove them. I love standing under hot, hot water. I could do it for hours. Unfortunately, the hot water tank has other ideas.
Jason and I usually take our morning shower together because it's our best talking time. Otherwise, it's a catastrophic failure. I like my water slightly above boiling; Jason likes his slightly below freeze-my-nuts-off. True story. So we spend the shower switching back and forth, fiddling with the taps, my lips blue and Jason's back scalded. It's a great way to start the day.
Jason calls me his little lobster. I do love water. I was born under a water sign, but I'm not a lobster, I'm actually a crab, which Jason will verily attest to. Now, obviously there are some very unsexy connotations to the word crab, like pubic lice, for example. Those crabs are nasty. And crabs are scavengers, they like the "waste" that others have the sense to leave behind.
But it's still better to be called a crab, than a cancer. Us cancers really got a bum rap, I'd say. Sure, in latin cancer translates to crab, but it also translates to gangrene. Great choices, huh? Still, the word cancer has become more significant to us since it came to represent those malignant growths. Yummy. I vote to change taurus to rheumatoid arthritis, and pisces to herpes. See how you guys like it.
Yes, cancers are a bit vindictive. If you were named after a potentially fatal mutation, you might be too.
You might also notice that the sign for cancer just happens to greatly resemble good ole 69. And, after our sign defines us as moody and self-absorbed, it goes on to point out that we are prone to affairs and enjoy slave scenarios. Talk about playing with a handicap. Sheesh. It doesn't even make sense - if we're so self-absorbed, why isn't our symbol more about masturbating than this mutual crap, huh?
Oooh, baby, give me some of that sexy, sexy crab action.
I mean, what's a crab to do? When asked Hey baby, what's your sign?, is it better to profess to being a crab, or a cancer? Or will either one of those answers put a halt to any future hands-down-the-pants play?
Fuck it, I'm going for another shower.
But it is exasperating to Jason that I continue to see showering as a form of entertainment. I do not multiple-shower because of any uncontrolled OCD; in fact, I will readily agree that the showers are superfluous as I just do not get that dirty in day to day life. But I looooove them. I love standing under hot, hot water. I could do it for hours. Unfortunately, the hot water tank has other ideas.
Jason and I usually take our morning shower together because it's our best talking time. Otherwise, it's a catastrophic failure. I like my water slightly above boiling; Jason likes his slightly below freeze-my-nuts-off. True story. So we spend the shower switching back and forth, fiddling with the taps, my lips blue and Jason's back scalded. It's a great way to start the day.
Jason calls me his little lobster. I do love water. I was born under a water sign, but I'm not a lobster, I'm actually a crab, which Jason will verily attest to. Now, obviously there are some very unsexy connotations to the word crab, like pubic lice, for example. Those crabs are nasty. And crabs are scavengers, they like the "waste" that others have the sense to leave behind.
But it's still better to be called a crab, than a cancer. Us cancers really got a bum rap, I'd say. Sure, in latin cancer translates to crab, but it also translates to gangrene. Great choices, huh? Still, the word cancer has become more significant to us since it came to represent those malignant growths. Yummy. I vote to change taurus to rheumatoid arthritis, and pisces to herpes. See how you guys like it.
Yes, cancers are a bit vindictive. If you were named after a potentially fatal mutation, you might be too.
You might also notice that the sign for cancer just happens to greatly resemble good ole 69. And, after our sign defines us as moody and self-absorbed, it goes on to point out that we are prone to affairs and enjoy slave scenarios. Talk about playing with a handicap. Sheesh. It doesn't even make sense - if we're so self-absorbed, why isn't our symbol more about masturbating than this mutual crap, huh?
Oooh, baby, give me some of that sexy, sexy crab action.
I mean, what's a crab to do? When asked Hey baby, what's your sign?, is it better to profess to being a crab, or a cancer? Or will either one of those answers put a halt to any future hands-down-the-pants play?
Fuck it, I'm going for another shower.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
An Ode to January 4th
Dang quesedillas
Burnt my wrist again.
Buick is defiled
With Jason's love for Beyonce
A secret not well kept.
The dick, the dick,
O that crazy whale,
That pasty Moby Dick,
Has ensnared me once again
Where I shall remain trapped
For weeks, at least,
Oh woe my watery eyes.
Sweet leftover potatoes
Leftover sweet potatoes
Sweet, sweet potatoes
I can stand you no longer
Be good in compost heaven.
Alfred has met an untimely demise
Made untimelier by the case of wine
Beheaded and benosed
He uncorks no longer
He buttles no more.
Successfully convinced Jason
Using only a hand mirror, my deductive reasoning skills
And his own wardrobe against him
That he is neither a gangsta, nor a pimp, nor even a homie
And neither will he ever be
No matter how much Snoop he downloads.
A universal truth revealed
To break my tender heart
Into fetid, pulsing pieces:
Carrot cake, it seems,
Is one of life's finite things.
Burnt my wrist again.
Buick is defiled
With Jason's love for Beyonce
A secret not well kept.
The dick, the dick,
O that crazy whale,
That pasty Moby Dick,
Has ensnared me once again
Where I shall remain trapped
For weeks, at least,
Oh woe my watery eyes.
Sweet leftover potatoes
Leftover sweet potatoes
Sweet, sweet potatoes
I can stand you no longer
Be good in compost heaven.
Alfred has met an untimely demise
Made untimelier by the case of wine
Beheaded and benosed
He uncorks no longer
He buttles no more.
Successfully convinced Jason
Using only a hand mirror, my deductive reasoning skills
And his own wardrobe against him
That he is neither a gangsta, nor a pimp, nor even a homie
And neither will he ever be
No matter how much Snoop he downloads.
A universal truth revealed
To break my tender heart
Into fetid, pulsing pieces:
Carrot cake, it seems,
Is one of life's finite things.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Sheep Go To Heaven, Goats Go To Hell
Reasons why it's likely I will burn in hell:
1. Just yesterday I claimed that I was God. A tarot card reading then confirmed it.
2. I get annoyed by Jason's sneezes. I realize a more traditional response would be sympathy, or at least concern, but honestly, every time he starts sneezing, it grates on my nerves.
3. I covet Harry Potter. Even though he's like, 12. He's totally gonna be a hottie.
4. I don't wear my wedding rings when I go out with the girls. Actually, I don't wear them, period.
5. I routinely judge people on: what fruit they eat, where they get their hair cut, what books they have (and have not) read, and whether their pants are hemmed at the right place.
6. I don't apologize. In fact, I am adamant that I have never been wrong.
7. I get paid to lie professionally. I enjoy it.
8. Eavesdropping is one of my favourite hobbies.
9. I've practiced magic. In fact, I took a whole class where magic was referred to as a religion; I made my own candles in order to cast spells. I've been to a fortune teller. I've read palms. All of which is referred to as "prostitution against God" in the bible, which I refuse to capitalize, and have routinely critiqued.
10. The last time I was in the vicinity of a church, my elbow spontaneously combusted.
11. Of all the delicious, indulgent sex that I have ever had, none of it has ever been for procreation.
12. I am prideful and arrogant. Mostly arrogant, but for a good reason: I'm just plain better than everyone.
13. I once made a pact with the devil, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
14. I am a glutton. I drink 3 bottles of wine when technically I'm "drunk enough" after the first 1 1/2.
15. I'm greedy as hell. I take up all the bed, and the last Oreo, and Jason's favourite hoodie.
16. I routinely pray to a Troll doll. I believe it makes me a better bowler.
17. I believe that Sunday mornings are for sleeping in, Sunday afternoons are for sex, and Sunday nights are for poker.
18. I covet my neighbour's house. I mean, dude, he has a pool AND pink shutters. Life is SO not fair.
19. Sometimes I don't wear undies.
20. I want it all, but I don't want to work for it. I believe in delegating and profiting from the hard work of others. I live for sloth. I roll in it.
1. Just yesterday I claimed that I was God. A tarot card reading then confirmed it.
2. I get annoyed by Jason's sneezes. I realize a more traditional response would be sympathy, or at least concern, but honestly, every time he starts sneezing, it grates on my nerves.
3. I covet Harry Potter. Even though he's like, 12. He's totally gonna be a hottie.
4. I don't wear my wedding rings when I go out with the girls. Actually, I don't wear them, period.
5. I routinely judge people on: what fruit they eat, where they get their hair cut, what books they have (and have not) read, and whether their pants are hemmed at the right place.
6. I don't apologize. In fact, I am adamant that I have never been wrong.
7. I get paid to lie professionally. I enjoy it.
8. Eavesdropping is one of my favourite hobbies.
9. I've practiced magic. In fact, I took a whole class where magic was referred to as a religion; I made my own candles in order to cast spells. I've been to a fortune teller. I've read palms. All of which is referred to as "prostitution against God" in the bible, which I refuse to capitalize, and have routinely critiqued.
10. The last time I was in the vicinity of a church, my elbow spontaneously combusted.
11. Of all the delicious, indulgent sex that I have ever had, none of it has ever been for procreation.
12. I am prideful and arrogant. Mostly arrogant, but for a good reason: I'm just plain better than everyone.
13. I once made a pact with the devil, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
14. I am a glutton. I drink 3 bottles of wine when technically I'm "drunk enough" after the first 1 1/2.
15. I'm greedy as hell. I take up all the bed, and the last Oreo, and Jason's favourite hoodie.
16. I routinely pray to a Troll doll. I believe it makes me a better bowler.
17. I believe that Sunday mornings are for sleeping in, Sunday afternoons are for sex, and Sunday nights are for poker.
18. I covet my neighbour's house. I mean, dude, he has a pool AND pink shutters. Life is SO not fair.
19. Sometimes I don't wear undies.
20. I want it all, but I don't want to work for it. I believe in delegating and profiting from the hard work of others. I live for sloth. I roll in it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Bad Habit? Why, I'll Give You A Bad Habit!
I was lying in bed almost all morning listening to the torrential rains slapping my bedroom windows. I wondered briefly whether any of our patio furniture remained, but was unable to see past the blur of raindrops into my own backyard. I heard the metallic creak of hinges at the side of the house, and felt sorry for the guy delivering mail on a day like this.
I am just biding my time until darkness falls again, and I am safe for going outside to splash in as many puddles as I can find (which obviously will be numerous...in fact, I am willing to bet that small creaks and a little river roughly the size and shape of the avenue upon which I live will be available for my puddle pleasure). Playing in the rain is one of my many, MANY bad habits. But seriously, it's like a disease, and I just cannot help myself. I know it will ruin my new suede boots. I know it will wipe out the 35 minutes I spent blow-drying my hair into a non-frizz mess. I know my mascara will run and I'll risk catching my death, but I'm out there anyway because splashing is fun.
The phrase 'bad habit' just has a negative connotation. That's why I move that we round up all of our bad habits (smoking, drinking, eating, etc, etc) and start calling them 'tradition' instead. It means the same basic thing...and it sounds a heck of a lot better. I mean, Christmas dinner is tradition. If I could, I would definitely avoid eating 7lbs of dead bird while trying not to breathe too deeply while telling stinky old aunt Milicent why it is that I am not afraid of burning in hell for living with a boy I am not married to (for the 3rd straight year in a row). Now this situation is truly BAD, and frankly I think that smoking 3 packs a day would be much healthier. But I subject myself to it routinely because it's tradition, and therefore no one hassles me about it. There are no government-sponsored PSAs warning me about the health risks of Grandma's stuffing that is surely just swimming with salmonella. Watching your fat uncle unbutton his pants after dinner while your mother tells the whole room about your inabilities to trap a man into the confines of marriage will induce years worth of intensive therapy, but who tries to prevent it? NO ONE! It's tradition!
Therefore, I move to make the following into tradition, starting today. Feel free to add your own:
1. Matinee martinis.
2. Dancing in the rain, even when it's somewhat dirty or somewhat cold.
3. Wearing a weather-inappropriate outfit because it's cute, even when it's freezing.
4. Not justifying crazy midnight romps.
5. Cigars on girls-night out.
6. Lusting after other men, especially the witty ones.
7. Going down in a movie theatre.
8. Letting boys buy me drinks, even though I'm an old married woman.
9. Telling lies.
10. Letting the milk sit in my cereal bowl in the sink all day long because I couldn't be bothered to rinse it out.
11. Not making my bed. Ever.
12. Hating math.
13. Refusing all invitations to the birthday parties of my friends' snotty-nosed children.
14. Objectifying men.
15. Wearing pjs past noon at least 5 days a week.
16. Overpaying for shoes.
17. Launching sprinklers through various front windows.
18. Being serviced first.
19. Going to Jamaica for Christmas.
20. Not proofreading anything at Kill the Goat.
21. Enjoying herbs.
22. Dancing to Whitney Houston in the shower.
23. Not answering when my mother-in-law is on the call display.
24. Returning the presents Jason lovingly picked out for me for cash.
25. Signing people up to be saved.
26. Taking out foul moods on our husbands.
27. Inspiring fist fights.
28. Being completely self-involved.
29. Getting hopelessly lost at Ikea every single time I go there.
30. Admiring myself in various reflective surfaces.
31. Eating our weight in chocolate.
32. Bucket margaritas.
33. A pack and a half a day.
34. Sex and the City repeats.
35. Hating people for no good reason.
36. Staying up all night to read a book.
37. Eating all the pringles.
"It's not my fault - it's tradition!!"
I am just biding my time until darkness falls again, and I am safe for going outside to splash in as many puddles as I can find (which obviously will be numerous...in fact, I am willing to bet that small creaks and a little river roughly the size and shape of the avenue upon which I live will be available for my puddle pleasure). Playing in the rain is one of my many, MANY bad habits. But seriously, it's like a disease, and I just cannot help myself. I know it will ruin my new suede boots. I know it will wipe out the 35 minutes I spent blow-drying my hair into a non-frizz mess. I know my mascara will run and I'll risk catching my death, but I'm out there anyway because splashing is fun.
The phrase 'bad habit' just has a negative connotation. That's why I move that we round up all of our bad habits (smoking, drinking, eating, etc, etc) and start calling them 'tradition' instead. It means the same basic thing...and it sounds a heck of a lot better. I mean, Christmas dinner is tradition. If I could, I would definitely avoid eating 7lbs of dead bird while trying not to breathe too deeply while telling stinky old aunt Milicent why it is that I am not afraid of burning in hell for living with a boy I am not married to (for the 3rd straight year in a row). Now this situation is truly BAD, and frankly I think that smoking 3 packs a day would be much healthier. But I subject myself to it routinely because it's tradition, and therefore no one hassles me about it. There are no government-sponsored PSAs warning me about the health risks of Grandma's stuffing that is surely just swimming with salmonella. Watching your fat uncle unbutton his pants after dinner while your mother tells the whole room about your inabilities to trap a man into the confines of marriage will induce years worth of intensive therapy, but who tries to prevent it? NO ONE! It's tradition!
Therefore, I move to make the following into tradition, starting today. Feel free to add your own:
1. Matinee martinis.
2. Dancing in the rain, even when it's somewhat dirty or somewhat cold.
3. Wearing a weather-inappropriate outfit because it's cute, even when it's freezing.
4. Not justifying crazy midnight romps.
5. Cigars on girls-night out.
6. Lusting after other men, especially the witty ones.
7. Going down in a movie theatre.
8. Letting boys buy me drinks, even though I'm an old married woman.
9. Telling lies.
10. Letting the milk sit in my cereal bowl in the sink all day long because I couldn't be bothered to rinse it out.
11. Not making my bed. Ever.
12. Hating math.
13. Refusing all invitations to the birthday parties of my friends' snotty-nosed children.
14. Objectifying men.
15. Wearing pjs past noon at least 5 days a week.
16. Overpaying for shoes.
17. Launching sprinklers through various front windows.
18. Being serviced first.
19. Going to Jamaica for Christmas.
20. Not proofreading anything at Kill the Goat.
21. Enjoying herbs.
22. Dancing to Whitney Houston in the shower.
23. Not answering when my mother-in-law is on the call display.
24. Returning the presents Jason lovingly picked out for me for cash.
25. Signing people up to be saved.
26. Taking out foul moods on our husbands.
27. Inspiring fist fights.
28. Being completely self-involved.
29. Getting hopelessly lost at Ikea every single time I go there.
30. Admiring myself in various reflective surfaces.
31. Eating our weight in chocolate.
32. Bucket margaritas.
33. A pack and a half a day.
34. Sex and the City repeats.
35. Hating people for no good reason.
36. Staying up all night to read a book.
37. Eating all the pringles.
"It's not my fault - it's tradition!!"
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Jay-isms.
Jason has this thing, where if he wants to tease me in 10 seconds or less, he hums the theme to Love Story. And if you don't know Love Story, then get the hell out. I mean that. The ignorance of youth is no excuse. Lift those baggy jeans over the crack of your ass, and shuffle those heavily-branded sneakers right on out of this space. No room at the inn. Shoo.
Anyhow, the reason why Jason so successfully drives me crazy with this little piece of music history, is that I cannot for the life of me reproduce it myself. Whether hummed, or whistled, or mouthed in any other way, I warble out the first few bars, and from there it disintegrates into the Zales commercial. Damn my brain! This is apparently my kryptonite. That, and the fact that I can't spell kryptonite and I'm too obstinate to condescend to look it up. As far as Jason is concerned, my inability to hum the theme to Love Story is the only flaw I have (and yes, if you must know, he's right). I find it very aggravating to find that there is in fact something of this world that I cannot quite do, but especially aggravating is that my stupid husband can.
And it's not just the song from Love Story. Oh no. If he has the song filed away in his head, even parts of the song, he can hum it, and it will be perfectly recognizable to anyone. His ability is so astonishing that my mother introduces him as The Great Hummer. And she won't stop, cause she can't stop. And I am mad with jealousy, and Jason knows it. Jason milks it.
He hums all the time. He hums in the shower when I'm still too sleepy to punch him in the kidneys. He hums in the car, when I'm strapped safely in another seat. He hums when we're in bed at night and my hands are...er, well, otherwise occupied.
Now, when I started telling this story, I definitely had a point. And then I forgot it, but I kept writing because I believed that if I gave myself time, I would remember it. But I haven't.
Ah well.
Fuck the po-lice.
Anyhow, the reason why Jason so successfully drives me crazy with this little piece of music history, is that I cannot for the life of me reproduce it myself. Whether hummed, or whistled, or mouthed in any other way, I warble out the first few bars, and from there it disintegrates into the Zales commercial. Damn my brain! This is apparently my kryptonite. That, and the fact that I can't spell kryptonite and I'm too obstinate to condescend to look it up. As far as Jason is concerned, my inability to hum the theme to Love Story is the only flaw I have (and yes, if you must know, he's right). I find it very aggravating to find that there is in fact something of this world that I cannot quite do, but especially aggravating is that my stupid husband can.
And it's not just the song from Love Story. Oh no. If he has the song filed away in his head, even parts of the song, he can hum it, and it will be perfectly recognizable to anyone. His ability is so astonishing that my mother introduces him as The Great Hummer. And she won't stop, cause she can't stop. And I am mad with jealousy, and Jason knows it. Jason milks it.
He hums all the time. He hums in the shower when I'm still too sleepy to punch him in the kidneys. He hums in the car, when I'm strapped safely in another seat. He hums when we're in bed at night and my hands are...er, well, otherwise occupied.
Now, when I started telling this story, I definitely had a point. And then I forgot it, but I kept writing because I believed that if I gave myself time, I would remember it. But I haven't.
Ah well.
Fuck the po-lice.
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.
Verdict: Bad.
Exhibit F: My naked thighs stick to the leather chair; when I stand up, it feels like I'm being skinned.
Verdict: 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.
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.
Verdict: Bad.
Exhibit F: My naked thighs stick to the leather chair; when I stand up, it feels like I'm being skinned.
Verdict: 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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
My Therapist Is My Best Friend
I used to have lots of friends. Really, I did. The kind of friends you hang out with, and talk to, and um, et cetera. Good friends. But here's the thing I noticed about these so-called friends: after the first few hours of tooting my own horn, allowing myself to be flattered, expounding the benefits of being me, and going over the minutiae of my glamourous life with a fine-tooth comb, they would not-so-subtly start to steer the conversation...toward themselves!
The truth about life is that most people are less interesting than me. They do things like go to work, pay bills, tend babies. Stuff that I don't want to hear about. I'm pretty certain the polite thing to do would be to smile and nod at the very least, but the first rule about being my friend is to know that I am just not that nice. Expecting me to care about the boring details of your life, such as that big promotion, or your dumb vacation, or your mother is dying of blah, blah, blah, is just plain selfish of you. You should learn to love me the way I am: self-involved. Gloriously so. Deal with it (but deal with it quietly, cause I sure as hell don't want to hear about it).
So, over the years, I developed a great method to avoid the pitfalls of being a 'friend.' I'm usually good for 2-3 hours worth of Jamie praise, and that's the perfect length of time for a lunch date. My 'friend' will order pasta, and I will order 6 martinis. Every time said 'friend' has a mouth full of food, I launch into another tirade about the merits of slides over mules, and how many pairs of each I have in my closet. I time my breaths and sips when 'friend' is busy dipping into the bread basket, and before you know it, lunch is being cleared away and, finding myself empty of Jamie-prattle, I excuse myself to use the little girl's room, and stealthily use one of many convenient exits that restaurants nowadays provide (they say it's for fire code, but I know better...it's for ditching boring friends). Not only is this a frist-rate way to not hear about "baby's first steps", it's also a great way to skip out on your half of the bill.
Eventually this friend will get the hint, and no more lunch dates will be scheduled. The conscientious ones will continue to invite me to all the big parties where mercifully, I won't be subjected to any boring one-on-one conversations about, well, other people. In fact, it puts me into a room where I can shine rightfully as the center of attention, and it gives me a whole stable of new people to dazzle, mingle, and delight with tales of everyone's favourite subject, me!
However, living in a small town as I presently do, or even in a nice mid-sized one like Ottawa, it's easy to run out of faces to talk to. At best, even wearing the lowest-cut top I own, I can run into the same people only 2-3 times before one of them will be cheeky enough to interrupt my story with "That reminds me of something that happened to ME the other day", the unforgiveable little bastard, and suddenly, nothing matters because the world is no longer revolving around me. Fuck.
Well, friends, there is a remedy to everything. In therapy, everything is about me, all the time. Hell, I can even tell a story twice if I want to, and I don't have to dress like a tart with my tits out to do it. I get 50 minutes just dripping in attention just for being me (and having a cheque book). My therapist never wants to tell me that he has needs to, and he doesn't get huffy if I forget to ask how his week was. I just bask in my own glow, gabbing away, and he gives small encouraging nods to keep me going. And not only does he consistently act interested, he even takes notes! Man, I wish my other friends would take notes. Sometimes, it's like they know nothing about me at all, even when the obvious is staring them in the face. The other day I was lunching with a 'friend' and when the waiter deposited my dirty martini in front of me, she had the audacity to say "Isn't that your 5th?" Uh, no, actually, it's only my 4th, but thanks for counting. Jeez.
Therapists are where it's at. Money cannot buy a truer friend.
The truth about life is that most people are less interesting than me. They do things like go to work, pay bills, tend babies. Stuff that I don't want to hear about. I'm pretty certain the polite thing to do would be to smile and nod at the very least, but the first rule about being my friend is to know that I am just not that nice. Expecting me to care about the boring details of your life, such as that big promotion, or your dumb vacation, or your mother is dying of blah, blah, blah, is just plain selfish of you. You should learn to love me the way I am: self-involved. Gloriously so. Deal with it (but deal with it quietly, cause I sure as hell don't want to hear about it).
So, over the years, I developed a great method to avoid the pitfalls of being a 'friend.' I'm usually good for 2-3 hours worth of Jamie praise, and that's the perfect length of time for a lunch date. My 'friend' will order pasta, and I will order 6 martinis. Every time said 'friend' has a mouth full of food, I launch into another tirade about the merits of slides over mules, and how many pairs of each I have in my closet. I time my breaths and sips when 'friend' is busy dipping into the bread basket, and before you know it, lunch is being cleared away and, finding myself empty of Jamie-prattle, I excuse myself to use the little girl's room, and stealthily use one of many convenient exits that restaurants nowadays provide (they say it's for fire code, but I know better...it's for ditching boring friends). Not only is this a frist-rate way to not hear about "baby's first steps", it's also a great way to skip out on your half of the bill.
Eventually this friend will get the hint, and no more lunch dates will be scheduled. The conscientious ones will continue to invite me to all the big parties where mercifully, I won't be subjected to any boring one-on-one conversations about, well, other people. In fact, it puts me into a room where I can shine rightfully as the center of attention, and it gives me a whole stable of new people to dazzle, mingle, and delight with tales of everyone's favourite subject, me!
However, living in a small town as I presently do, or even in a nice mid-sized one like Ottawa, it's easy to run out of faces to talk to. At best, even wearing the lowest-cut top I own, I can run into the same people only 2-3 times before one of them will be cheeky enough to interrupt my story with "That reminds me of something that happened to ME the other day", the unforgiveable little bastard, and suddenly, nothing matters because the world is no longer revolving around me. Fuck.
Well, friends, there is a remedy to everything. In therapy, everything is about me, all the time. Hell, I can even tell a story twice if I want to, and I don't have to dress like a tart with my tits out to do it. I get 50 minutes just dripping in attention just for being me (and having a cheque book). My therapist never wants to tell me that he has needs to, and he doesn't get huffy if I forget to ask how his week was. I just bask in my own glow, gabbing away, and he gives small encouraging nods to keep me going. And not only does he consistently act interested, he even takes notes! Man, I wish my other friends would take notes. Sometimes, it's like they know nothing about me at all, even when the obvious is staring them in the face. The other day I was lunching with a 'friend' and when the waiter deposited my dirty martini in front of me, she had the audacity to say "Isn't that your 5th?" Uh, no, actually, it's only my 4th, but thanks for counting. Jeez.
Therapists are where it's at. Money cannot buy a truer friend.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Lady In Red.
Well, I did it.
I was booty-shaking, spring cleaning, belting out cheesy 80s lyrics at the top of my lungs when I decided to take the plunge and clean out ye olde closet. Yikes.
I do this more often than you'd think, because I just love purging my house of unnecessary items. Of course, I deem things 'unnecessary' if I haven't personally used them in the last 2 weeks or so. Lots of things get thrown out or given away, especially Jason's things that I have little or no use for.
Still, the closet always has a great yield of things for me to purge because I'm a little sentimental when it comes to clothes. I threw out pants that were completely worn out in the crotch...
a) Why was I hanging on to them anyway?
b) Why do my pants always wear out in the crotch?
I packed up clothes for charity: things I know I'll never wear again, things I bought and never wore, not even once (what the hell was I thinking?), and things of Jason's that I wish he'd never wore, and now he never will again.
I was ruthless (well, at least on Jason's side I was). And then I got to the back of the closet, and my heart fluttered with trepidation. There they were, all 3 of them bunched up together, hanging unused but well-cherished. My dresses: red, pink, and white.
They are the reason I cleaned out my closet in the first place. The Agape Centre is collecting old prom dresses to outfit girls who couldn't afford one otherwise (the Girls and Dreams event). A worthy, wonderful cause. But parting is such sweet sorrow. These dresses recall to me the best of times my teenage years had to offer, and it's hard to close the door on such an important chapter in my life. But I knew that I would never wear those dresses again, no matter what occasions arose. They were "prom-y" and adolescent, and besides, Mummy loves new dresses. And I knew that these dresses would find good homes, and be loved by new owners. But still. It's hard.
I had them dry-cleaned, hung, and I brought them tenderly to the drop-off point in garment bags. I handed them over to a grateful woman: a goldmine of 3 beautiful dresses, none with puffy sleeves or butt-bows or taffeta. And I left them there. I walked away. My heart broke thinking about how I'd never see them again, never feel their luxurious fabric in the back of the closet, hanging with the other naughty silks. Gone forever.
Goodbye Red
This one I wore to my first prom. I bought it while shopping with my mother in the 'petite' section, and I wore it with 4 inch heels. The theme, as I recall, was Tropical Paradise, although most of us refused to sully our expensive dresses with cheap plastic leis. The yearbook says "It was an evening for wine, excitement and 'break dancing Jean', 'The Silver Fox Jesse', and 'Marilyn Monroe Jay'", which I can laugh about to this day. Sure, I felt somewhat glamorous, but let's face it: fancy dress aside, it takes a lot of gumption to wear a red dress with bright orange hair. I think Marilyn would have vetoed that one. And yes, as fate would have it, the cheeky DJ did play 'Lady In Red', whether it was from his own volition, or my silly friends who requested it. We danced, and laughed, and had the time of our lives.
Goodbye White
This one I didn't actually wear to a prom, I wore it just a few months (and a few hair styles) later, to an event that had an open bar. Therefore, I remember the night with much less detail, having spent a great portion of the evening with my good friend Crown Royal. I do, however, remember scoffing at the Macarena dancers, losing my little silver handbag on numerous occasions, and dancing barefoot long into the night.
Goodbye Pink
Pink I remember most fondly. Pink got me voted 'girl with most matchingest hair'. Pink had me waltzing to Stairway to Heaven with a boy I've known since I was 6, both of us wearing our King and Queen crowns. Pink had me getting some love from Melly in the yearbook. Pink had me on the arm of my husband-to-be.
And I gave them up.
But I was wrong about one thing: I did see one of them again. On Saturday, leafing through the paper, I saw Pink on page 2. The coordinator of the program was appealing to the public for more dresses while holding mine up to the camera. It's the end of an era for me, but the beginning of one for Pink and its new owner. May the lucky girls who bring these dresses home have half as much fun as I did in them.
And to any of you who may have old prom or bridesmaid dresses lying around, do donate them to a worthy charity. A dress is meant to be worn and loved, and every girl should go to her prom if she wants to.
I was booty-shaking, spring cleaning, belting out cheesy 80s lyrics at the top of my lungs when I decided to take the plunge and clean out ye olde closet. Yikes.
I do this more often than you'd think, because I just love purging my house of unnecessary items. Of course, I deem things 'unnecessary' if I haven't personally used them in the last 2 weeks or so. Lots of things get thrown out or given away, especially Jason's things that I have little or no use for.
Still, the closet always has a great yield of things for me to purge because I'm a little sentimental when it comes to clothes. I threw out pants that were completely worn out in the crotch...
a) Why was I hanging on to them anyway?
b) Why do my pants always wear out in the crotch?
I packed up clothes for charity: things I know I'll never wear again, things I bought and never wore, not even once (what the hell was I thinking?), and things of Jason's that I wish he'd never wore, and now he never will again.
I was ruthless (well, at least on Jason's side I was). And then I got to the back of the closet, and my heart fluttered with trepidation. There they were, all 3 of them bunched up together, hanging unused but well-cherished. My dresses: red, pink, and white.
They are the reason I cleaned out my closet in the first place. The Agape Centre is collecting old prom dresses to outfit girls who couldn't afford one otherwise (the Girls and Dreams event). A worthy, wonderful cause. But parting is such sweet sorrow. These dresses recall to me the best of times my teenage years had to offer, and it's hard to close the door on such an important chapter in my life. But I knew that I would never wear those dresses again, no matter what occasions arose. They were "prom-y" and adolescent, and besides, Mummy loves new dresses. And I knew that these dresses would find good homes, and be loved by new owners. But still. It's hard.
I had them dry-cleaned, hung, and I brought them tenderly to the drop-off point in garment bags. I handed them over to a grateful woman: a goldmine of 3 beautiful dresses, none with puffy sleeves or butt-bows or taffeta. And I left them there. I walked away. My heart broke thinking about how I'd never see them again, never feel their luxurious fabric in the back of the closet, hanging with the other naughty silks. Gone forever.
Goodbye Red
This one I wore to my first prom. I bought it while shopping with my mother in the 'petite' section, and I wore it with 4 inch heels. The theme, as I recall, was Tropical Paradise, although most of us refused to sully our expensive dresses with cheap plastic leis. The yearbook says "It was an evening for wine, excitement and 'break dancing Jean', 'The Silver Fox Jesse', and 'Marilyn Monroe Jay'", which I can laugh about to this day. Sure, I felt somewhat glamorous, but let's face it: fancy dress aside, it takes a lot of gumption to wear a red dress with bright orange hair. I think Marilyn would have vetoed that one. And yes, as fate would have it, the cheeky DJ did play 'Lady In Red', whether it was from his own volition, or my silly friends who requested it. We danced, and laughed, and had the time of our lives.
Goodbye White
This one I didn't actually wear to a prom, I wore it just a few months (and a few hair styles) later, to an event that had an open bar. Therefore, I remember the night with much less detail, having spent a great portion of the evening with my good friend Crown Royal. I do, however, remember scoffing at the Macarena dancers, losing my little silver handbag on numerous occasions, and dancing barefoot long into the night.
Goodbye Pink
Pink I remember most fondly. Pink got me voted 'girl with most matchingest hair'. Pink had me waltzing to Stairway to Heaven with a boy I've known since I was 6, both of us wearing our King and Queen crowns. Pink had me getting some love from Melly in the yearbook. Pink had me on the arm of my husband-to-be.
And I gave them up.
But I was wrong about one thing: I did see one of them again. On Saturday, leafing through the paper, I saw Pink on page 2. The coordinator of the program was appealing to the public for more dresses while holding mine up to the camera. It's the end of an era for me, but the beginning of one for Pink and its new owner. May the lucky girls who bring these dresses home have half as much fun as I did in them.
And to any of you who may have old prom or bridesmaid dresses lying around, do donate them to a worthy charity. A dress is meant to be worn and loved, and every girl should go to her prom if she wants to.
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