Hello, exhaustion, my faithful friend. How've you been?
It's been 18 days since Jason and I last had a day off together. I called him at work yesterday to ask him how many freckles he has on his inner thigh. I'd forgotten, and it upset me that I'd forgotten. I love those freckles. I miss those freckles. He put me on hold and went to the bathroom to check.
He was home by 7 last night, but by 7 I was at the retirement residence where I volunteer, calling out bingo numbers in a faux-british accent that the residents really love. Then we all ate the bran/chocolate chip muffins that I'd brought (ew) and I chatted with Mrs. Harrington about a cat named Sprinkles that's been dead for 37 years. The good thing about the Golden Palm is that last call is always 9pm, at which point the residents start insisting that "It's way past my bedtime, dear" and I can make an early exit, having played only 18 games of checkers and a dozen hands of gin.
The only quality time I spend with Jason anymore is when he keeps me company in the bathroom while I soak my screaming feet. I sit in the too-hot bath, trying not to cry, and he sits on the toilet facing the bath, trying to distract me with funny stories, such as the Christian girl at work who has an enormously public crush on him (to which I reply, how Christian can she be if she wants to jump the bones of a married man? to which Jason replies, I think she mostly just wants to hold hands or something).
Every day is the same, but different.
I "teach" a class on creative writing, and spend most of my time trying to come up with non-lame assignments. I come home with sore feet and ink-stained fingers, and my head in the clouds.
I spend several afternoons a week at a group home for the developmentally disabled. I have now made so many arts and crafts out of popsicle sticks that if I ever come across the person responsible for white craft glue, I will knock their teeth out. The only thing white glue will bond together is fingers. I teach them french songs and make pizza pinwheels and spend a quarter of my time there running warm water to unstick fingers.
On the weekends I lead a class on digital photography for "golden agers". Considering how lacking my skills are, I am pleased to note that the group, once they learned where the ON buttons were, was only too happy to just follow me around interesting parts of Toronto, clicking away until our batteries are depleted.
Jason, meanwhile, stays late at work out of the goodness of his heart because mothers let their kids roam wild at the mall, and then become upset when they can't find them. Jason now rivals milk cartons in missing child action. He's been pulling double duty lately because his colleague brought her white husband home to Korea for the first time ever to meet her family, and you can imagine what kinds of fun they're having while Jason combs patiently through racks of clothing looking for small, devious children hiding amongst the hangers.
And as much as I miss my husband, I have to give time to my friends. None of us are static anymore. As we passed our thai orders up and down a long table to accommodate us all, I realized how quickly things are changing, how quickly we are changing. Of course, I was too busy trying to absorb all the wedding news, baby news, career news, family news, that I neglected to pick the chili peppers out of my food. I swallowed several, whole. I burnt off the left side of my throat and tongue. I think the mucus layer of my throat literally peeled off (and I subsequently swallowed it, of course). Days later, it's still so raw that I've been existing on a diet of fruit juice and milkshakes. When Jason picked me up, I really appreciated how hard he tried not to laugh at me. He tried really, really hard. I could tell.
But Jason is battling demons of his own. His mother is threatening to get married again, and though she hasn't yet found a man who will comply, Jason is quaking as he gets his favourite suit pressed and ready for stand-by.
And though today is my day off, I have already spent the morning battling Gilad. Gilad is the task-master assigned to "build my core strength", whatever that means. I'm still battling back from several back surgeries, and Gilad likes to see me pay in sweat.
What Gilad doesn't know is that I left the masochistic world of aerobics to come home to dozens and dozens of cookies, which I have promised to send with Jason to his work. I'm making white chocolate macadamia cookies, which are sinfully delicious, because with each bite I am reminded of the $72 I paid for the nuts alone. $72 for nuts! But damn are they good.
It adds up, though. It all adds up. I'm tired. I took a small break from laundry to sit down and say hello to all of you but all I can think is: nap, nap, go nap, bed is empty, Jamie tired, must nap, go nap. And the urge for napping is so strong that I have to pinch myself to remember the real order of the day: laundry, cookies, post office, library, NO time for naps. In fact, the only thing we seem to find time for these days is claiming an empty table at Jake's for some very cold, very alcoholic drinks. We're both so tired that we drink mostly in silence, neither of us fully capable of forming complete sentences. But we hold hands, and when he looks into my eyes, I know he is thinking the same exact thing as I am:
Why the fuck did we book our holidays all the way in August?
Showing posts with label Exhaustion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exhaustion. Show all posts
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I had a bad day.
You know those days that really suck? Well I just had one.
I woke Jason up at 2 am to tell him that I was having "a mild depression."
In his half-awake state, he took my hands, and told me that I was probably depressed because my hands were so cold, and then he fell back asleep.
So I went back to the living room where I took up my book and settled in for another long night of insomnia. Out Of Africa was having a hell of a time keeping my interest though, so I spent some time grooming my couch. Ever since buying this damned white couch, I spend an inordinate amount of time picking at my couch, like monkeys searching each other for nits.
When Jason stumbled out of the bedroom some time later, wearing a t-shirt but no pants, he asked if I had just woken him up. In fact, it had been more than 45 minutes since he had pronounced my fingers to be cold, but I let this pass. Once he learned of my melancholy, he wanted a more thorough explanation for it, and this is what I gave him: I spilled some honey...
Sometimes when you're exhausted, you make mountains out of molehills, or depressions out of spilled honey. Sometimes I don't even have to be tired to do this.
4 hours later, when Jason was desperately searching for his brown belt (the one that still needs breaking in) before it made him late for work, I sat in bed with an arm thrown dramatically over my eyes, trying to decide whether I should have him stay home from work to take care of me.
It's migraine season once again. But according to Jason, it's also apple pie season. So were he to stay home, he'd have to play his video games on mute and try to content himself with the carrot cake I made 2 days ago, which he'd nearly demolished already. And I would lie in bed, sensitive to light and noise, hoping for either death or sleep, and not caring much which one came as long as it came soon. So I opted to die (or sleep) alone.
But neither came quickly. I spent the morning retching in the bathroom so forcefully that I banged my elbow on the tub and bled and yet I was too weak to make the trek back to the relative comforts of bed once I was fairly sure that the bathroom had nothing left to offer me.
When I did make it back to bed an even greater tragedy befell me. I got "the sweats." My hands and feet remained ice cold, but the rest of me was roasting. For a while, it smelled like porkchops. That's how hot I was. I had to get up to change my sopping sheets, and while I was up, I got dizzy and had to "rush" back to the bathroom for another riveting game of dry heaves (and by rush, I mean limp along agonizingly slowly, using the wall as a crutch and cursing the floppy toe portion of my socks for threatening to trip me up). Back in bed the sweats had not deserted me yet, but this time I was prepared to lie in the pool of my own bodily fluids if it meant not getting up again. Finally (but not finally enough, if you know what I mean) I sank into merciful sleep.....
....only to be woken up 2 hours later by Jason, who came to announce to me that he was home, as if his 10 minutes of crashing around in the fridge hadn't already announced his arrival.
"What did you do today?" he asked me, with a straight face that I would have punched if only I hadn't still been so tired.
"I was sick!" I reminded him, angry that I had to.
"Did you paint?" he asked, clearly not understanding that I had been on the brink of death. The brink, I say!
"No, I didn't paint you damned buffoon!"
"Well there's paint all over the walls."
In fact, there was no paint on the walls. It was blood.
Apparently when I had used the wall as support to get myself back to the bedroom, my bloody elbow left behind a glowing red trail.
So I got out a pail and filled it with soapy hot water and washed away the smears. When I was nearly done, Jason asked "Oh, did you want me to help you with that?"
It's a good thing I don't own a rifle.
I plunked back down on the bed and beckoned Jason to take a look at my back.
"My hole's been sore" I tell him, unable to keep the whine out of my voice. "Tell me what it looks like."
FYI: No, not that hole, you perv. If you're not well-versed in the Jay and Jay saga, and for your sake I hope you aren't, some time ago I had surgery on my back that consisted of digging a large-ish hole right down to my coccyx. Over time, this hole has filled in not with flesh but with scar tissue, which can be a bitch. On good days, it feels soft like a blister, but on bad days it either feels like I have rocks under my skin, or else bobby pins. Both the rocks and the bobby pins are sharp enough to poke holes through my skin and it effin hurts.
"It looks....gross" he says, which is always a joy. "And you smell salty."
Well, I had been marinating in my own sweat for hours, hadn't I? At that rate, salty was probably the best I could hope for.
I was feeling a bit strengthened after a tall glass of water, and my migraine had subsided into a dull thud in the southeast corner of my brain, so I bravely readied myself for a shower.
I believed that hot suds and a fresh pair of pjs would work like magic on my disposition (and Jason, no doubt silently dubbing me Miss CrankyPants hoped so too) so I stripped in the bathroom and reached for my best friend, the hot water tap.
Just then, a plague on the house of Jamie descended...or more accurately, it descended on my back. Pain ripped through my lower torso, sucking the breath from me. I had not even the breath to complain. I just crumpled onto the floor, trying to suck in air and unkink my back at the same time. Jason found me there, rolling gently from side to side, bathed in new sweat and not at all happy.
As I writhed on the floor, I saw Jason's concerned face slowly transforming....into mirth. From my naked and vulnerable position on the floor, I saw very little that was funny, and was miffed that he did. But then he helped me to see:
"You look just like a turtle who's on his back and can't right himself. It's friggin hilarious."
And just then, I knew that he was right. It was funny. And so I laughed, relieved. Maybe I wasn't having such a bad day after all.
I woke Jason up at 2 am to tell him that I was having "a mild depression."
In his half-awake state, he took my hands, and told me that I was probably depressed because my hands were so cold, and then he fell back asleep.
So I went back to the living room where I took up my book and settled in for another long night of insomnia. Out Of Africa was having a hell of a time keeping my interest though, so I spent some time grooming my couch. Ever since buying this damned white couch, I spend an inordinate amount of time picking at my couch, like monkeys searching each other for nits.
When Jason stumbled out of the bedroom some time later, wearing a t-shirt but no pants, he asked if I had just woken him up. In fact, it had been more than 45 minutes since he had pronounced my fingers to be cold, but I let this pass. Once he learned of my melancholy, he wanted a more thorough explanation for it, and this is what I gave him: I spilled some honey...
Sometimes when you're exhausted, you make mountains out of molehills, or depressions out of spilled honey. Sometimes I don't even have to be tired to do this.
4 hours later, when Jason was desperately searching for his brown belt (the one that still needs breaking in) before it made him late for work, I sat in bed with an arm thrown dramatically over my eyes, trying to decide whether I should have him stay home from work to take care of me.
It's migraine season once again. But according to Jason, it's also apple pie season. So were he to stay home, he'd have to play his video games on mute and try to content himself with the carrot cake I made 2 days ago, which he'd nearly demolished already. And I would lie in bed, sensitive to light and noise, hoping for either death or sleep, and not caring much which one came as long as it came soon. So I opted to die (or sleep) alone.
But neither came quickly. I spent the morning retching in the bathroom so forcefully that I banged my elbow on the tub and bled and yet I was too weak to make the trek back to the relative comforts of bed once I was fairly sure that the bathroom had nothing left to offer me.
When I did make it back to bed an even greater tragedy befell me. I got "the sweats." My hands and feet remained ice cold, but the rest of me was roasting. For a while, it smelled like porkchops. That's how hot I was. I had to get up to change my sopping sheets, and while I was up, I got dizzy and had to "rush" back to the bathroom for another riveting game of dry heaves (and by rush, I mean limp along agonizingly slowly, using the wall as a crutch and cursing the floppy toe portion of my socks for threatening to trip me up). Back in bed the sweats had not deserted me yet, but this time I was prepared to lie in the pool of my own bodily fluids if it meant not getting up again. Finally (but not finally enough, if you know what I mean) I sank into merciful sleep.....
....only to be woken up 2 hours later by Jason, who came to announce to me that he was home, as if his 10 minutes of crashing around in the fridge hadn't already announced his arrival.
"What did you do today?" he asked me, with a straight face that I would have punched if only I hadn't still been so tired.
"I was sick!" I reminded him, angry that I had to.
"Did you paint?" he asked, clearly not understanding that I had been on the brink of death. The brink, I say!
"No, I didn't paint you damned buffoon!"
"Well there's paint all over the walls."
In fact, there was no paint on the walls. It was blood.
Apparently when I had used the wall as support to get myself back to the bedroom, my bloody elbow left behind a glowing red trail.
So I got out a pail and filled it with soapy hot water and washed away the smears. When I was nearly done, Jason asked "Oh, did you want me to help you with that?"
It's a good thing I don't own a rifle.
I plunked back down on the bed and beckoned Jason to take a look at my back.
"My hole's been sore" I tell him, unable to keep the whine out of my voice. "Tell me what it looks like."
FYI: No, not that hole, you perv. If you're not well-versed in the Jay and Jay saga, and for your sake I hope you aren't, some time ago I had surgery on my back that consisted of digging a large-ish hole right down to my coccyx. Over time, this hole has filled in not with flesh but with scar tissue, which can be a bitch. On good days, it feels soft like a blister, but on bad days it either feels like I have rocks under my skin, or else bobby pins. Both the rocks and the bobby pins are sharp enough to poke holes through my skin and it effin hurts.
"It looks....gross" he says, which is always a joy. "And you smell salty."
Well, I had been marinating in my own sweat for hours, hadn't I? At that rate, salty was probably the best I could hope for.
I was feeling a bit strengthened after a tall glass of water, and my migraine had subsided into a dull thud in the southeast corner of my brain, so I bravely readied myself for a shower.
I believed that hot suds and a fresh pair of pjs would work like magic on my disposition (and Jason, no doubt silently dubbing me Miss CrankyPants hoped so too) so I stripped in the bathroom and reached for my best friend, the hot water tap.
Just then, a plague on the house of Jamie descended...or more accurately, it descended on my back. Pain ripped through my lower torso, sucking the breath from me. I had not even the breath to complain. I just crumpled onto the floor, trying to suck in air and unkink my back at the same time. Jason found me there, rolling gently from side to side, bathed in new sweat and not at all happy.
As I writhed on the floor, I saw Jason's concerned face slowly transforming....into mirth. From my naked and vulnerable position on the floor, I saw very little that was funny, and was miffed that he did. But then he helped me to see:
"You look just like a turtle who's on his back and can't right himself. It's friggin hilarious."
And just then, I knew that he was right. It was funny. And so I laughed, relieved. Maybe I wasn't having such a bad day after all.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Can't sleep. Need sleep. When will I sleep? Please let me sleep. Can't live without sleep. Not sleeping makes me crazy. Cranky. Sleepy.
Can't sleep. Haven't slept all week. Cheese in bra still a mystery. Workin hard. So hard I can't even put the g in 'ing'. My poor archless feet groan in protest: the blisters have blisters. So many meetings, so many limp handshakes. Bought some red dishes. Too trendy? I like em. Also too busy to put the 'th' in 'them'. Considering red stemware - but how much red is too much red? Agonized over this problem so long I considered calling mother-in-law for a second opinion. But didn't. Saw Santa at the mall. And Frosty. And the Grinch. And SnowWhite. Since when is SnowWhite part of Santa's entourage? Got a courtesy invite from upstairs neighbours. Had to explain concept to Jason: no, dear, they don't really want us to go, they just don't want us to complain about the noise. And yet, 8 straight hours of loud Hindi music made us want to complain anyway. But we didn't. My blisters were oozing and I couldn't manage the stairs. First snowfall mercifully melted the next day. Car died, had to get a jump. Stayed up all night reading The Secret Life of Bees. Stayed up all the next night reading Atonement. Don't even remember reading Heart of the Matter. Bought some new lingerie. Receipt literally reads "Panties! Panties! Panties!" but this failed to cheer me up when the sleepy duckies became far too intimate with me on our first date. Missed the Christmas parade. Sad. But mostly tired. Oh sooo tired.....
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Ground Control to Major Tom: Has Anyone Seen Jay?
We accidentally disappeared again. I don't know how we keep getting sucked into the voidy vortex of space, but somehow we manage to disappear for large chunks of time without really meaning to. This weekend, for example, we meant to go camping, or do something productive like catch up on sleep and eat up all the leftovers in the fridge to free up some of the prime pieces of tupperware. But no.
Admittedly, the prime suspect in lost time is my insomnia. I don't think I slept at all this week, although there was this brief time around Tuesday when I believed myself to be Gary Oldman, so you can argue that it was either a vivid dream, or another of my burning delusions. Either way, I was not well rested. Thursday, my system finally crashed. I think I passed out in the driveway again, but Jason located my body eventually, and hauled me in to bed. Or, I assume that's what happened because when I woke up 9 hours later, I wasn't wearing pants and my thighs were covered in hickeys. So let's hope that's what it was.
This brings us to Thursday night. I woke up at about 9pm and was only slightly disoriented. A scalding shower and a few slaps from Jason (in the vein of: what the fuck, woman, soup is not a meal!!) and I was practically conscious, for all intents and purposes. What to do, what to do?
By my calculations, we must have sat and thought about that for approximately 4 hours, because it was 1am before we were in the car with any sort of plan. And bearing in mind that we live in Cornwall, 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning, if you must) does not leave you with a lot of options. So we drove off toward Casselman, a mere 60km in the distance, where Jason remembered spotting a 24-hour grocery store the last time we drove through.
1:42 am - Jason slams on the breaks on the 138. A deer scampers across the road, mere inches from our car. The deer is blissfully unconcerned.
1:51 am - Since our internal clocks are completely askew, we have decided to gather enough food for a feast, to be made and consumed in the wee hours of the morning. We spend a good deal of the car trip selecting a menu from my various recipe boxes. Jason's stomach growls in anticipation.
1:56 am - Enthusiastically enjoying the playlist, I suddenly find my fist bloodied. In a fit of appreciation for the music (playlist: "Fuck Yeah!") I seem to have fuck-yeahed the rearview mirror (ie, punched the hell out of it).
2:09 am - Arrived in Casselman, we discover that the 24-hour grocery store has since turned into a 17 hour grocery store. We're out of luck.
2:10 am - Back on the highway, but not headed toward home. In mere seconds we seem to have scrapped all previous plans, and are now undertaking the remaining 50km toward Ottawa. When pressed later, neither of us will admit to being the one to propose this crazy plan.
3:15 am - We've been walking around downtown Ottawa. I stare down a small rabbit in Major Hill Park. I think I won, fair and square, but I hear he's been talking smack about me ever since.
3:55 am - We scurry back to the car. My bladder is screaming obscenities at me.
4:22 am - We stop at a coffee house for "a milk", proposed by Jason. While I am relieving myself in cramped quarters, Jason orders "a milk" for me, and coffee for himself.
4:40 am - We drop by my mother-in-law's house for a visit. She is completely and understandably bewildered to see us. She gives us a Texas cookbook from the Cracker Barrel (Texas caviar = black eyed peas) from her recent visit to Waco and tells us about how difficult it is to tell if her boyfriend has shingles because his skin is black.
5:20 am - We drive Nancy (mil) to work, which in her case is Curves, one of those fitness centres for women. Jason has the privilege of being the only man to have ever worked his glutes on the machinery. He works out on the "pec dec" to the groovy sounds of the Beach Boys.
6:13 am - Finally the sun has come up. Jason rustles around in the back of the car for a bag, because he "might throw up, but probably I'm just hungry." Frankly, I don't like those odds.
6:30 am - After an excellent parallel park, Jason and I find ourselves at our old haunt, the Moon Dog. The nostalgia factor is high, but the nostalgia factor fails us in the end, because the pub ain't open yet, and won't be for an hour. Since Jason is feeling pukey, but maybe hungry, we decide the priority is for him to eat, so we take off to find a place that serves breakfast NOW.
7:05 am - Driving alongside the Rideau canal, a putrid smell hits us through the rolled-down windows. "Ugh," I complain immediately, "that smells like B.O."........."I was just going to say that!" shouts Jason, looking greener by the minute. We blame the B.O. on all the joggers.
7:22 am - Seated at the Elgin Street Diner we worry about the parking meter. A loonie bought us only 24 minutes. In Cornwall, you can park for a penny per minute. Making change appears to be beyond our waitress's capabilities, so when the meter runs out, our only defense against a ticket is hope. Scanning the breakfast menu, I realize that this is not the Moon Dog. I sweat looking at all the breakfast options that do not please me in the least. Finally, Jason points out the breakfast club for me, which is oddly printed in a non-breakfast section. Every breakfast item seems to come with a side of baked beans. I insist to the waitress that no bean should come into contact with my plate. I pound my fist for gentle emphasis. Still, I worry about beans for 6 minutes straight, until my plate arrives bean-free. Jason, in a mystifying move, does not finish his breakfast. Now I worry about the obvious wedge that has obviously been driven between us. I do not know this man who cannot finish his breafkast.
8:02 am - No ticket!
8:22 am - Stopped at a pedestrian crossing that isn't a pedestrian crossing, but an "elderly crossing." And indeed, the elderly are crossing. One gentleman grabs our attention: tall and impossibly skinny, he is dressed in track pants and a suit jacket, both of which are tailored to cling to his slim contours. His bushy white beard is so huge it seems disproportionate to the rest of his body; makes him look top-heavy. He runs across the crossing although no one is rushing him, and his running reminds me of a top-heavy really old gazelle. Sort of.
9:06 am - We hit a "super super-market" that was still in construction last time we lived in the city. It's a grocery store that also contains everything else under the sun that you could possibly want, including a diamond jewelry counter, an optician centre, a fitness centre, etc, etc. We browse through the aisles of furniture and other home furnishings. Jason tries in vain to distract me from noticing the totally enviable stand-mixers. Dividing the home furnishings from the food are shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, for the whole family. I have to refrain Jason from browsing the food, feeling that this would be indicative of a whole new low for us. The front of the store warns customers that it has a LOAD CAPACITY OF 2500 but we fail to notice any check system in place.
9:45 am - We hit some stores that we are deprived of in Hicktown, ON. I give Jason armfuls of clothes to try on. I let him choose what stuff to buy. When we exit the store with purchases in tow, he proclaims that he has bought all the wrong things, not the stuff he really wanted at all. I feel like an exasperated mother.
10:00 am - We daringly walk into Ikea, which is already teaming with screaming children and mindless drones pushing massive, creaking shopping carts. Somehow, nothing calls our name. The throw-pillow selection is depressing. Not even the wrapping section cheers me up. "Look, Jamie - generic art!" shouts Jason, hoping that this will snap me out of my disappointed trance. It's usually good for a 20 minute rant at least, but today it sparks nothing. I'm dressed for a car trip to Casselman, not an all-day jaunt in Ottawa. My feet hurt in my stupid sandals. I am turning pouty, and only a nice tall drink of Diet Pepsi can retrieve me from this funk.
10:40 am - I despair at the fact that Margaret Atwood is "bargain fiction" in Chapters. We hit our favourite mom-and-pop bookstores instead, and Jason pleads for permission to buy me the millions of books I crave. Denied.
11 :11 am - I exchange the stuff Jason "mistakenly" bought, and come out of the store with triple the original purchase. We squabble about me spending money on him, but not allowing to spend on me, but our hearts aren't in it because Jason is thrilled with his new clothes, and so am I. "You think I look soooooo hot" he tells me. It's true, I do. Still, our inability to fight even little is jolting: we must be tired!
11:20 am - A small trip to Bulk Barn is unavoidable. No such thing exists in Cornwall: bins and bins and bins filled with candy and other consumables, all to be had for cheap. I load up on chocolate covered pretzels since they exist only in this haven these days. I worry that they won't last the ride home.
11:34 am - We gas up the car. It's damn expensive.
12:10 pm - All this driving is starting to get to Jason. He sets the cruise and does a series of stretches in the driver's seat of the car. It's pretty hilarious. Or, I am so tired that almost everything seems like the funniest thing ever. Either way, I hornked.
12:32 pm - We find ourselves discussing the "merits" of freezing to death. We blame this morbid conversation on the slaughterhouse we passed a few kilometres back, which boasted of "custom killing."
Back in Cornwall, we're both bleary eyed. But we set ourselves the objective of staying up until a "decent" hour, which we arbitrarily set at 8pm. We busy ourselves with some errands, a trip to the library which makes us unwitting witnesses to a house fire. Jason is repulsed by several sets of spandex, and wonders why it is that homeless men so often wear suit jackets. At home, we watch a movie and paint some canvasses. Finally, we lie down to read...and within minutes, I realize that 8pm is not realistic. We turn out the lights at 5:30 pm and sleep soundly. I wake up at 7:14 and cannot for the life of me determine whether it is am or pm. I compromise, and just go back to sleep.
And so we were up early this morning of course, with time for some of our usual antics before I saw Jason off to work. And now, even with every minute of the past few days accounted for, I cannot help but ask: where the hell did our weekend go?
Admittedly, the prime suspect in lost time is my insomnia. I don't think I slept at all this week, although there was this brief time around Tuesday when I believed myself to be Gary Oldman, so you can argue that it was either a vivid dream, or another of my burning delusions. Either way, I was not well rested. Thursday, my system finally crashed. I think I passed out in the driveway again, but Jason located my body eventually, and hauled me in to bed. Or, I assume that's what happened because when I woke up 9 hours later, I wasn't wearing pants and my thighs were covered in hickeys. So let's hope that's what it was.
This brings us to Thursday night. I woke up at about 9pm and was only slightly disoriented. A scalding shower and a few slaps from Jason (in the vein of: what the fuck, woman, soup is not a meal!!) and I was practically conscious, for all intents and purposes. What to do, what to do?
By my calculations, we must have sat and thought about that for approximately 4 hours, because it was 1am before we were in the car with any sort of plan. And bearing in mind that we live in Cornwall, 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning, if you must) does not leave you with a lot of options. So we drove off toward Casselman, a mere 60km in the distance, where Jason remembered spotting a 24-hour grocery store the last time we drove through.
1:42 am - Jason slams on the breaks on the 138. A deer scampers across the road, mere inches from our car. The deer is blissfully unconcerned.
1:51 am - Since our internal clocks are completely askew, we have decided to gather enough food for a feast, to be made and consumed in the wee hours of the morning. We spend a good deal of the car trip selecting a menu from my various recipe boxes. Jason's stomach growls in anticipation.
1:56 am - Enthusiastically enjoying the playlist, I suddenly find my fist bloodied. In a fit of appreciation for the music (playlist: "Fuck Yeah!") I seem to have fuck-yeahed the rearview mirror (ie, punched the hell out of it).
2:09 am - Arrived in Casselman, we discover that the 24-hour grocery store has since turned into a 17 hour grocery store. We're out of luck.
2:10 am - Back on the highway, but not headed toward home. In mere seconds we seem to have scrapped all previous plans, and are now undertaking the remaining 50km toward Ottawa. When pressed later, neither of us will admit to being the one to propose this crazy plan.
3:15 am - We've been walking around downtown Ottawa. I stare down a small rabbit in Major Hill Park. I think I won, fair and square, but I hear he's been talking smack about me ever since.
3:55 am - We scurry back to the car. My bladder is screaming obscenities at me.
4:22 am - We stop at a coffee house for "a milk", proposed by Jason. While I am relieving myself in cramped quarters, Jason orders "a milk" for me, and coffee for himself.
4:40 am - We drop by my mother-in-law's house for a visit. She is completely and understandably bewildered to see us. She gives us a Texas cookbook from the Cracker Barrel (Texas caviar = black eyed peas) from her recent visit to Waco and tells us about how difficult it is to tell if her boyfriend has shingles because his skin is black.
5:20 am - We drive Nancy (mil) to work, which in her case is Curves, one of those fitness centres for women. Jason has the privilege of being the only man to have ever worked his glutes on the machinery. He works out on the "pec dec" to the groovy sounds of the Beach Boys.
6:13 am - Finally the sun has come up. Jason rustles around in the back of the car for a bag, because he "might throw up, but probably I'm just hungry." Frankly, I don't like those odds.
6:30 am - After an excellent parallel park, Jason and I find ourselves at our old haunt, the Moon Dog. The nostalgia factor is high, but the nostalgia factor fails us in the end, because the pub ain't open yet, and won't be for an hour. Since Jason is feeling pukey, but maybe hungry, we decide the priority is for him to eat, so we take off to find a place that serves breakfast NOW.
7:05 am - Driving alongside the Rideau canal, a putrid smell hits us through the rolled-down windows. "Ugh," I complain immediately, "that smells like B.O."........."I was just going to say that!" shouts Jason, looking greener by the minute. We blame the B.O. on all the joggers.
7:22 am - Seated at the Elgin Street Diner we worry about the parking meter. A loonie bought us only 24 minutes. In Cornwall, you can park for a penny per minute. Making change appears to be beyond our waitress's capabilities, so when the meter runs out, our only defense against a ticket is hope. Scanning the breakfast menu, I realize that this is not the Moon Dog. I sweat looking at all the breakfast options that do not please me in the least. Finally, Jason points out the breakfast club for me, which is oddly printed in a non-breakfast section. Every breakfast item seems to come with a side of baked beans. I insist to the waitress that no bean should come into contact with my plate. I pound my fist for gentle emphasis. Still, I worry about beans for 6 minutes straight, until my plate arrives bean-free. Jason, in a mystifying move, does not finish his breakfast. Now I worry about the obvious wedge that has obviously been driven between us. I do not know this man who cannot finish his breafkast.
8:02 am - No ticket!
8:22 am - Stopped at a pedestrian crossing that isn't a pedestrian crossing, but an "elderly crossing." And indeed, the elderly are crossing. One gentleman grabs our attention: tall and impossibly skinny, he is dressed in track pants and a suit jacket, both of which are tailored to cling to his slim contours. His bushy white beard is so huge it seems disproportionate to the rest of his body; makes him look top-heavy. He runs across the crossing although no one is rushing him, and his running reminds me of a top-heavy really old gazelle. Sort of.
9:06 am - We hit a "super super-market" that was still in construction last time we lived in the city. It's a grocery store that also contains everything else under the sun that you could possibly want, including a diamond jewelry counter, an optician centre, a fitness centre, etc, etc. We browse through the aisles of furniture and other home furnishings. Jason tries in vain to distract me from noticing the totally enviable stand-mixers. Dividing the home furnishings from the food are shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, for the whole family. I have to refrain Jason from browsing the food, feeling that this would be indicative of a whole new low for us. The front of the store warns customers that it has a LOAD CAPACITY OF 2500 but we fail to notice any check system in place.
9:45 am - We hit some stores that we are deprived of in Hicktown, ON. I give Jason armfuls of clothes to try on. I let him choose what stuff to buy. When we exit the store with purchases in tow, he proclaims that he has bought all the wrong things, not the stuff he really wanted at all. I feel like an exasperated mother.
10:00 am - We daringly walk into Ikea, which is already teaming with screaming children and mindless drones pushing massive, creaking shopping carts. Somehow, nothing calls our name. The throw-pillow selection is depressing. Not even the wrapping section cheers me up. "Look, Jamie - generic art!" shouts Jason, hoping that this will snap me out of my disappointed trance. It's usually good for a 20 minute rant at least, but today it sparks nothing. I'm dressed for a car trip to Casselman, not an all-day jaunt in Ottawa. My feet hurt in my stupid sandals. I am turning pouty, and only a nice tall drink of Diet Pepsi can retrieve me from this funk.
10:40 am - I despair at the fact that Margaret Atwood is "bargain fiction" in Chapters. We hit our favourite mom-and-pop bookstores instead, and Jason pleads for permission to buy me the millions of books I crave. Denied.
11 :11 am - I exchange the stuff Jason "mistakenly" bought, and come out of the store with triple the original purchase. We squabble about me spending money on him, but not allowing to spend on me, but our hearts aren't in it because Jason is thrilled with his new clothes, and so am I. "You think I look soooooo hot" he tells me. It's true, I do. Still, our inability to fight even little is jolting: we must be tired!
11:20 am - A small trip to Bulk Barn is unavoidable. No such thing exists in Cornwall: bins and bins and bins filled with candy and other consumables, all to be had for cheap. I load up on chocolate covered pretzels since they exist only in this haven these days. I worry that they won't last the ride home.
11:34 am - We gas up the car. It's damn expensive.
12:10 pm - All this driving is starting to get to Jason. He sets the cruise and does a series of stretches in the driver's seat of the car. It's pretty hilarious. Or, I am so tired that almost everything seems like the funniest thing ever. Either way, I hornked.
12:32 pm - We find ourselves discussing the "merits" of freezing to death. We blame this morbid conversation on the slaughterhouse we passed a few kilometres back, which boasted of "custom killing."
Back in Cornwall, we're both bleary eyed. But we set ourselves the objective of staying up until a "decent" hour, which we arbitrarily set at 8pm. We busy ourselves with some errands, a trip to the library which makes us unwitting witnesses to a house fire. Jason is repulsed by several sets of spandex, and wonders why it is that homeless men so often wear suit jackets. At home, we watch a movie and paint some canvasses. Finally, we lie down to read...and within minutes, I realize that 8pm is not realistic. We turn out the lights at 5:30 pm and sleep soundly. I wake up at 7:14 and cannot for the life of me determine whether it is am or pm. I compromise, and just go back to sleep.
And so we were up early this morning of course, with time for some of our usual antics before I saw Jason off to work. And now, even with every minute of the past few days accounted for, I cannot help but ask: where the hell did our weekend go?
Monday, February 07, 2005
Exhaustion.
Still not sleeping right.
I managed 3 hours yesterday, but they were in the middle of the day, 3-6pm. Actually, make that more like 3 1/2 hours, because apparently I was a little resistant to getting up at 6 when Jason tried to wake me. I don't even remember him coming in, which is not surprising since I've been walking around here like I expect to be crowned Miss Zombie 2005 for the past week, and 3 little hours just don't cut it. Logically, I should have just hoarded all the sleep I could get, but I keep thinking that if I deprive myself during the day, I'll have to sleep at night. Uh, no. Not happening.
On the upside, (and this will only mean anything to Anners), I have been reading a lot of those books you sent over. However, Memoirs of a Geisha probably set be back in sleep because I have been since obsessed with the thought that a man's eel will spit in his favourite dark, warm cave to mark his territory. Gross. So I was thinking, what kind of book will put me to sleep? And then I remembered (can't believe I didn't think of this before!) that there is one kind of book that never failed to put me to sleep - textbooks! I broke my nose like 8 times while I was in University....when you fall asleep holding a 30 000 page hard-covered tome, that's a lot of dead weight smashing into your face when your grip gives way to sleep! So for old time's sake, I got out an old favourite, Death and Dying. Perfect bedtime reading, right? Wrong. Still no luck.
So I got up, but I have this persistent condition that I like to call "Vaseline eyes", and I think you can imagine what that's all about. The world is one big smudge when I'm tired. I'm a bit of a hazard. And my neck is on strike. This morning, it just got fed up and decided that it wasn't going to support my head anymore, so my face went for a swim in the cereal. Perfect. My arms just do not have the strength to shampoo cornflakes out of my hair right now.
So to try to gather enough oomph to be somewhat productive, even for a few hours, I turned on some really invigorating music - Jesus Christ Superstar. I mean, who doesn't like to Windex to all those Hosannas? Except I don't actually have that soundtrack, so I have to sing every verse myself. And believe me, that's not normally a problem. I seem to know a lot of words to religious show tunes for some reason. And I'm a singer for sure, especially while I'm cleaning. But my heart just wasn't in it today. That's how I know this is serious. I mean, for cripe's sake!
I was making out a grocery list, which is one of my most favourite things to do. I love making lists, and I love grocery shopping, and I love love love to cook, so normally when Jason thinks I need a cheer-up, he gets out my grocery list stationary, my meal plan, and any nano-lists that I've got going. But after half-heartedly jotting down a few items, I spaced out, lost 20 minutes that I can't account for, and finally just declared that all I needed was rice. So, I sent Jason out for rice. And Pepsi. When I'm tired I develop an irrational fear of running out of Pepsi (even though all I drink is water, because my stomach can't decide if it's morning, noon, or night). I end up sending Jason out a lot when I'm tired because if he's here, he's snoring. It's like being on a diet and hanging out at a hot-dog eating contest all day long: torture!
Meanwhile, I've been blubbering like a baby at the drop of a hat! Try dropping a hat, it's sadder than you'd think. You'd think that Jason would want to take care of poor me (okay, you may also be thinking that Jason should be kicking me to the curb, but for shit's sake, let's go with the first one), but he doesn't. Yesterday he said to me that I should lie down, we could watch Garden State, and he would brush my hair, which I love. Halfway through the movie, when I was feeling nice and sleepy, he took advantage of me. He gathered up all the blue hairs in the brush, made a big hair ball, and dropped it on my face. I should have realized he was far too quiet, but I didn't. I'm out of it. My reaction time is slow, so I couldn't even swat it away. It got right in my eye and freaked me the hell out. Long story short, 40 minutes later, the EMT guy said my heart rate and bp were slowly returning to normal, and that I should "try and get some rest." Gee thanks.
Another thing about being tired is that it always seems like a good time to drink. And then Wham comes on, puts the boom-boom into my heart, and there's no turning back. Before I know it, I'm waking Jason up at 4 am so we can go get me a milkshake, and he uses the Harry Carey voice at the drive-thru and tells me that McDonalds workers are required to hand you the bag with the big M facing you. I'm easily amused in this state. When I'm not crying, that is.
And of course I'm grumpy as hell. I was in my email yesterday, and saw that the maroon g-mail giveaways was finally gone. Good. Except then I noticed a new box on the lefthand side of the screen: g-mail invites: 50 left. 50! WTF!* So between my 2 accounts, I have 100 invites. Fabulous. The thing is, back when we only had 6, they were trying to make it seem like an exclusive club. Lame. But trying to get me to sign up 100 new members? I don't think so, Google. Do your own dirty work, or else put me on the pay roll. I was so mad, I almost called Jason on the emergency line at his work. I only stopped myself because I thought in telling him about it, I might start to cry again, and I had just ended my 20-minute crying jag from the last time Kristie Alley called me chubby. I mean, lay off, okay? It's really hard to do cardio when you're tired all the time. Gawd.
* Note, WTF will henceforth represent What the Flip?!?
I managed 3 hours yesterday, but they were in the middle of the day, 3-6pm. Actually, make that more like 3 1/2 hours, because apparently I was a little resistant to getting up at 6 when Jason tried to wake me. I don't even remember him coming in, which is not surprising since I've been walking around here like I expect to be crowned Miss Zombie 2005 for the past week, and 3 little hours just don't cut it. Logically, I should have just hoarded all the sleep I could get, but I keep thinking that if I deprive myself during the day, I'll have to sleep at night. Uh, no. Not happening.
On the upside, (and this will only mean anything to Anners), I have been reading a lot of those books you sent over. However, Memoirs of a Geisha probably set be back in sleep because I have been since obsessed with the thought that a man's eel will spit in his favourite dark, warm cave to mark his territory. Gross. So I was thinking, what kind of book will put me to sleep? And then I remembered (can't believe I didn't think of this before!) that there is one kind of book that never failed to put me to sleep - textbooks! I broke my nose like 8 times while I was in University....when you fall asleep holding a 30 000 page hard-covered tome, that's a lot of dead weight smashing into your face when your grip gives way to sleep! So for old time's sake, I got out an old favourite, Death and Dying. Perfect bedtime reading, right? Wrong. Still no luck.
So I got up, but I have this persistent condition that I like to call "Vaseline eyes", and I think you can imagine what that's all about. The world is one big smudge when I'm tired. I'm a bit of a hazard. And my neck is on strike. This morning, it just got fed up and decided that it wasn't going to support my head anymore, so my face went for a swim in the cereal. Perfect. My arms just do not have the strength to shampoo cornflakes out of my hair right now.
So to try to gather enough oomph to be somewhat productive, even for a few hours, I turned on some really invigorating music - Jesus Christ Superstar. I mean, who doesn't like to Windex to all those Hosannas? Except I don't actually have that soundtrack, so I have to sing every verse myself. And believe me, that's not normally a problem. I seem to know a lot of words to religious show tunes for some reason. And I'm a singer for sure, especially while I'm cleaning. But my heart just wasn't in it today. That's how I know this is serious. I mean, for cripe's sake!
I was making out a grocery list, which is one of my most favourite things to do. I love making lists, and I love grocery shopping, and I love love love to cook, so normally when Jason thinks I need a cheer-up, he gets out my grocery list stationary, my meal plan, and any nano-lists that I've got going. But after half-heartedly jotting down a few items, I spaced out, lost 20 minutes that I can't account for, and finally just declared that all I needed was rice. So, I sent Jason out for rice. And Pepsi. When I'm tired I develop an irrational fear of running out of Pepsi (even though all I drink is water, because my stomach can't decide if it's morning, noon, or night). I end up sending Jason out a lot when I'm tired because if he's here, he's snoring. It's like being on a diet and hanging out at a hot-dog eating contest all day long: torture!
Meanwhile, I've been blubbering like a baby at the drop of a hat! Try dropping a hat, it's sadder than you'd think. You'd think that Jason would want to take care of poor me (okay, you may also be thinking that Jason should be kicking me to the curb, but for shit's sake, let's go with the first one), but he doesn't. Yesterday he said to me that I should lie down, we could watch Garden State, and he would brush my hair, which I love. Halfway through the movie, when I was feeling nice and sleepy, he took advantage of me. He gathered up all the blue hairs in the brush, made a big hair ball, and dropped it on my face. I should have realized he was far too quiet, but I didn't. I'm out of it. My reaction time is slow, so I couldn't even swat it away. It got right in my eye and freaked me the hell out. Long story short, 40 minutes later, the EMT guy said my heart rate and bp were slowly returning to normal, and that I should "try and get some rest." Gee thanks.
Another thing about being tired is that it always seems like a good time to drink. And then Wham comes on, puts the boom-boom into my heart, and there's no turning back. Before I know it, I'm waking Jason up at 4 am so we can go get me a milkshake, and he uses the Harry Carey voice at the drive-thru and tells me that McDonalds workers are required to hand you the bag with the big M facing you. I'm easily amused in this state. When I'm not crying, that is.
And of course I'm grumpy as hell. I was in my email yesterday, and saw that the maroon g-mail giveaways was finally gone. Good. Except then I noticed a new box on the lefthand side of the screen: g-mail invites: 50 left. 50! WTF!* So between my 2 accounts, I have 100 invites. Fabulous. The thing is, back when we only had 6, they were trying to make it seem like an exclusive club. Lame. But trying to get me to sign up 100 new members? I don't think so, Google. Do your own dirty work, or else put me on the pay roll. I was so mad, I almost called Jason on the emergency line at his work. I only stopped myself because I thought in telling him about it, I might start to cry again, and I had just ended my 20-minute crying jag from the last time Kristie Alley called me chubby. I mean, lay off, okay? It's really hard to do cardio when you're tired all the time. Gawd.
* Note, WTF will henceforth represent What the Flip?!?
Sunday, January 16, 2005
I Need To Clear My Head
Today I like: Dennis Quaid
Listening to: Bush: The Chemicals Between Us, Letting the Cables Sleep
1. I forgot how sexy that song is, Letting the Cables Sleep.
2. Is it immoral to open up your juice box to add gin?
3. I got to go see my darling Dennis Quaid this weekend. He was funny and charming as always. I give this movie my recommendation, for what it's worth (going rate: $2.76, CDN funds).
4. Red Bulls + sex = whoa.
5. The popsicle stick is barely hanging on.
6. This weekend I learned that Topher Grace's name is just short for Christopher, like Chris, except Topher. If I would have been a boy, my mother would have named me Kristopher. Except I was a girl, so she gave me another boy's name, Jamie, instead. I am named after her brother.
7. I need to go lie down.
Listening to: Bush: The Chemicals Between Us, Letting the Cables Sleep
1. I forgot how sexy that song is, Letting the Cables Sleep.
2. Is it immoral to open up your juice box to add gin?
3. I got to go see my darling Dennis Quaid this weekend. He was funny and charming as always. I give this movie my recommendation, for what it's worth (going rate: $2.76, CDN funds).
4. Red Bulls + sex = whoa.
5. The popsicle stick is barely hanging on.
6. This weekend I learned that Topher Grace's name is just short for Christopher, like Chris, except Topher. If I would have been a boy, my mother would have named me Kristopher. Except I was a girl, so she gave me another boy's name, Jamie, instead. I am named after her brother.
7. I need to go lie down.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
One Loyal Friend is Worth 1000 Relatives
Today I love: Colin Firth
Listening to: Weezer
Last night, even though I was weeping from exhaustion (does this happen to anyone else? I literally lose control of my tear ducts!), I felt I had to stay up in a valiant attempt to watch a rented movie that had to be back today. It was the English Patient, in honour of my recently having re-read the book. I savoured and appreciated it all over again, and I thought I was ready to give the movie a chance (which is a risk, because often movies based on books are a real let-down).
And this one was no exception.
Now, I realize this movie somehow managed to win some Oscars and such. But to be fair, it was up against Jerry Maguire. I mean really, who would give an Oscar to that cheese-fest? Sure I saw it, sure I cried - it's a feel-good romantic comedy. But everyone knows that no matter how great a comedy is, it just won't be recognized (take Fargo for example, it didn't win, and it probably deserved it way more than Jerry Maguire).
It swayed so far from the book, I was much chagrined. The book is so haunting and so sensual and so wonderful...of course Hollywood has to come along and take every beautiful part and turn it into a farce. Anyway, an hour and a half into it, I said to Jason that I hoped it would just end soon, because I was up way past my bedtime. He just laughed. He knew this movie was almost 3 hours long, and I did not. I couldn't even guesstimate the running time because the movie was so unfamiliar to me that I may as well have read 'Johnny learns to ride a bicycle' and I would have been able to follow along just as well. Anyway, I turned it off, and had a delicious sleep. No word yet on whether or not I will attempt to finish the movie tonight (because as I later discovered, the movie is not due back until tomorrow, ugh).
All that to say I woke up in a mah-velous mood this morning. Maybe that's because I woke up to the phone ringing for me - I have an appointment! With my surgeon! Perhaps the end of my pain and suffering is in sight!
In any case, I felt it warranted an excessive us of !!!!s.
And then, to add to my happiness...well, let's just say I have great friends.
So today, I propose a toast to friendship:
Thank you friend who talked me out of getting that haircut that would have put a cold, dead stop to my sex life.
Thank you friend who told me that 12 tequilla shots were nothing to be ashamed of. And then held my hair as I puked. And didn't even complain when I got some on her shoe.
Thank you friend who held me close and brought me kleenex when we watched Armaggeddon, and never made fun of my mantra back in '97: when Ben Affleck cries, so do I.
Thank you friend who made my first tattoo a memorable one, complete with plastic wrap and molestations.
Thank you friend who rescued me from the man who mistook me for a hooker and became such a protective presence that I immediately felt safe.
Thank you friend who made work a little more bearable with your odd whistling quirks and your sexy stories.
Thank you friend who introduced me to 'betting on the ponies' and then who rolled around naked with me on the 1000 dollar bills that we won.
Thank you friend who visited me when I was sick, and even brought me play-dough to cheer me up, even though the smell of it gave me the heaves.
Thank you friend who gave me his coat to put over my tube top outside at the club, thus saving me from yet another bout of pneumonia.
Thank you friend who first suggested that since my advice was so good and true, I should consider going into psychology.
Thank you friend who cried with me when I was broken, who danced on the speaker with me when I was drunk, who sat through millions of showings of Billy Madison with me, and who did it all with kindness and patience.
I wish that everyone could be so lucky.
Listening to: Weezer
Last night, even though I was weeping from exhaustion (does this happen to anyone else? I literally lose control of my tear ducts!), I felt I had to stay up in a valiant attempt to watch a rented movie that had to be back today. It was the English Patient, in honour of my recently having re-read the book. I savoured and appreciated it all over again, and I thought I was ready to give the movie a chance (which is a risk, because often movies based on books are a real let-down).
And this one was no exception.
Now, I realize this movie somehow managed to win some Oscars and such. But to be fair, it was up against Jerry Maguire. I mean really, who would give an Oscar to that cheese-fest? Sure I saw it, sure I cried - it's a feel-good romantic comedy. But everyone knows that no matter how great a comedy is, it just won't be recognized (take Fargo for example, it didn't win, and it probably deserved it way more than Jerry Maguire).
It swayed so far from the book, I was much chagrined. The book is so haunting and so sensual and so wonderful...of course Hollywood has to come along and take every beautiful part and turn it into a farce. Anyway, an hour and a half into it, I said to Jason that I hoped it would just end soon, because I was up way past my bedtime. He just laughed. He knew this movie was almost 3 hours long, and I did not. I couldn't even guesstimate the running time because the movie was so unfamiliar to me that I may as well have read 'Johnny learns to ride a bicycle' and I would have been able to follow along just as well. Anyway, I turned it off, and had a delicious sleep. No word yet on whether or not I will attempt to finish the movie tonight (because as I later discovered, the movie is not due back until tomorrow, ugh).
All that to say I woke up in a mah-velous mood this morning. Maybe that's because I woke up to the phone ringing for me - I have an appointment! With my surgeon! Perhaps the end of my pain and suffering is in sight!
In any case, I felt it warranted an excessive us of !!!!s.
And then, to add to my happiness...well, let's just say I have great friends.
So today, I propose a toast to friendship:
Thank you friend who talked me out of getting that haircut that would have put a cold, dead stop to my sex life.
Thank you friend who told me that 12 tequilla shots were nothing to be ashamed of. And then held my hair as I puked. And didn't even complain when I got some on her shoe.
Thank you friend who held me close and brought me kleenex when we watched Armaggeddon, and never made fun of my mantra back in '97: when Ben Affleck cries, so do I.
Thank you friend who made my first tattoo a memorable one, complete with plastic wrap and molestations.
Thank you friend who rescued me from the man who mistook me for a hooker and became such a protective presence that I immediately felt safe.
Thank you friend who made work a little more bearable with your odd whistling quirks and your sexy stories.
Thank you friend who introduced me to 'betting on the ponies' and then who rolled around naked with me on the 1000 dollar bills that we won.
Thank you friend who visited me when I was sick, and even brought me play-dough to cheer me up, even though the smell of it gave me the heaves.
Thank you friend who gave me his coat to put over my tube top outside at the club, thus saving me from yet another bout of pneumonia.
Thank you friend who first suggested that since my advice was so good and true, I should consider going into psychology.
Thank you friend who cried with me when I was broken, who danced on the speaker with me when I was drunk, who sat through millions of showings of Billy Madison with me, and who did it all with kindness and patience.
I wish that everyone could be so lucky.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
We are such stuff as dreams are made on...
Sleep is my fair-weather friend. We have our good nights, and our bad.
One night, not long ago, I lay dozing deeply in that delicious world of sleep where not even time can touch you. In my unconsciousness, it felt luxurious. If sleep were tangible, I would hug it.
I woke up in my cool bed, already sitting up. The black bars of the footboard were staring at me in the semi-darkness. The room had a blue haze to it, and it was so quiet that the silence became an it, a thing that came all around me and squeezed me just a little too hard. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and groped for my robe, for a t-shirt, for anything that would come between me and the silence. I began to hum.
It was somewhere between morning and night, and I could feel dew on the grass when I walked into the backyard. The picnic table looked sad to me, abandoned, and the tire swing swayed slightly in the breeze. I remembered then that I must be cold, so I headed back for the house.
I fed the fish. I watched them swim around and wondered why I never caught them sleeping. I picked up the phone to call someone, and listened to the dial tone instead. It kept me company while I watched the fish. The fish seemed bored.
I laid down on the floor and made snow angels on the carpet. It tickled my skin. My eyelids felt so heavy, but I felt that I shouldn't close them, not yet. I counted the flowers on the ceiling and tried to remember since when there were flowers on the ceiling. The flowers became butterflies, and they flew down to me on the floor. I felt their soft wings fluttering against my skin, and they told me to sleep, so I did.
One night, not long ago, I lay dozing deeply in that delicious world of sleep where not even time can touch you. In my unconsciousness, it felt luxurious. If sleep were tangible, I would hug it.
I woke up in my cool bed, already sitting up. The black bars of the footboard were staring at me in the semi-darkness. The room had a blue haze to it, and it was so quiet that the silence became an it, a thing that came all around me and squeezed me just a little too hard. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and groped for my robe, for a t-shirt, for anything that would come between me and the silence. I began to hum.
It was somewhere between morning and night, and I could feel dew on the grass when I walked into the backyard. The picnic table looked sad to me, abandoned, and the tire swing swayed slightly in the breeze. I remembered then that I must be cold, so I headed back for the house.
I fed the fish. I watched them swim around and wondered why I never caught them sleeping. I picked up the phone to call someone, and listened to the dial tone instead. It kept me company while I watched the fish. The fish seemed bored.
I laid down on the floor and made snow angels on the carpet. It tickled my skin. My eyelids felt so heavy, but I felt that I shouldn't close them, not yet. I counted the flowers on the ceiling and tried to remember since when there were flowers on the ceiling. The flowers became butterflies, and they flew down to me on the floor. I felt their soft wings fluttering against my skin, and they told me to sleep, so I did.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Fat Bumblebees
So it's Monday evening and Jason is off to work. The mild cold that he had last week has now been officially passed on to me, in a much more raging manner. It moved today from my throat down into my chest where it is more of an annoyance than anything. The hacking noises that I made all night long did not disturb Jason's sleep in the slightest, of which he obtained 10 blissful hours. I lied awake beside him for 7 tortured ones, made all the longer because his ears were deaf to my complaints. I finally did sleep between 10:30am and 1pm, but then someone called and we decided to just get up.
Jason left at 3pm and I was determined not to go back to bed so that I would be assured of sleep tonight. Good intentions do not keep a tired girl up, as it turns out, and I confess that I did snooze for an additional 2 hours, which ironically has made me feel all the worse.
I managed to read the paper, which in Cornwall takes all of 7 minutes, and that's because I read all the funnies and 2 horoscopes. There isn't much news in Cornwall. It's always just a little too local. They "report" on people's gardens, high school basketball scores, and almost everyone in town has sent in an editorial about "the gays".
So I took a little tour around the living room, got out of breath and had a coughing fit from doing that, helped myself to a bottle of water and an orange candy from the fat bumblebee jar. Fun day, huh?
I also wrote a note to Jason to say that he can give me a kiss when he comes in from work tonight, which is a bit past midnight, because it doesn't take him long to get home but he gives a ride to 2 other people. I plan to be fast asleep at that time, which is a good thing because last week he turned 24 and people were silly enough to send gifts, and not just any gifts, but gifts he really liked....such as THE SIMPSONS JEOPARDY. Now to the people who sent this gift, let me ask you this: Do you hate me? Is this some veiled attempt at cruelty toward Jamie? Because now every night Jason says "Ask me some Simpsons trivia!" and we both pretend there is a point to this because let's face it, it's not trivia to Jason. He takes this shit seriously. He knows Homer better than he knows me, and I think he likes him more too. Personally, I'm more of a King of the Hill fan, which will get me shot in the head if Jason ever reads this. Fortunately, I know if he's online, he's probably doing Simpsons quizzes at funtrivia.com, and not reading about his wife's day. The only time he really pays attention to me is if I have doughnuts. D'oh!
Jason left at 3pm and I was determined not to go back to bed so that I would be assured of sleep tonight. Good intentions do not keep a tired girl up, as it turns out, and I confess that I did snooze for an additional 2 hours, which ironically has made me feel all the worse.
I managed to read the paper, which in Cornwall takes all of 7 minutes, and that's because I read all the funnies and 2 horoscopes. There isn't much news in Cornwall. It's always just a little too local. They "report" on people's gardens, high school basketball scores, and almost everyone in town has sent in an editorial about "the gays".
So I took a little tour around the living room, got out of breath and had a coughing fit from doing that, helped myself to a bottle of water and an orange candy from the fat bumblebee jar. Fun day, huh?
I also wrote a note to Jason to say that he can give me a kiss when he comes in from work tonight, which is a bit past midnight, because it doesn't take him long to get home but he gives a ride to 2 other people. I plan to be fast asleep at that time, which is a good thing because last week he turned 24 and people were silly enough to send gifts, and not just any gifts, but gifts he really liked....such as THE SIMPSONS JEOPARDY. Now to the people who sent this gift, let me ask you this: Do you hate me? Is this some veiled attempt at cruelty toward Jamie? Because now every night Jason says "Ask me some Simpsons trivia!" and we both pretend there is a point to this because let's face it, it's not trivia to Jason. He takes this shit seriously. He knows Homer better than he knows me, and I think he likes him more too. Personally, I'm more of a King of the Hill fan, which will get me shot in the head if Jason ever reads this. Fortunately, I know if he's online, he's probably doing Simpsons quizzes at funtrivia.com, and not reading about his wife's day. The only time he really pays attention to me is if I have doughnuts. D'oh!
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