Sunny Afternoon

When the grass gets greener and the sidewalk is decorated with brightly coloured chalks, I know summer must be right around the corner. The tinkling sounds of the ice cream truck has a pied-piper effect on the children and open patios turn busy adults on to frosted glass delights.

The summer reminds me of my Pa (my mother's father). Around Easter, my Pa takes advantage of having his granddaughters' strapping young boyfriends around his table eating his ham to haul them all outside for the annual taking-the-boat-out-of-storage dance (note: they don't actually dance). Meanwhile, us ladies, left inside, bristle at being thought too weak to overturn an old tin fishing boat. Poo poo. From Easter on (until Thanksgiving, where the ritual is repeated in reverse), Pa gets up at some ungodly hour and goes fishing on the mighty St Lawrence River. Okay, it's not mighty. But the river part was true. And when I was young, he used to take me along. I remember...being strongly encouraged to dress in layers...it being freezing at 5 am and scorching by noon...I remember waving at every single boat that passed us by....I remember the old plaque that he hung over his bar that said "Old Fishermen never die, they just smell that way".... I remember being slapped in the face with a fish when my younger sister finally reeled one in and then didn't know what to do with it....I remember peeing in a margarine container, then throwing it overboard....I remember the fishy smell and the wind on my face, and the thump of the waves against the boat, and the feel of a bamboo pole in my hands and the sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper that my Nanny would send for lunch. I also remember getting up on the mornings it had rained to hunt for worms, the only kind of bait my Pa ever used. I would throw them into a coffee can, and my Pa paid me 5 cents each!

Summer reminds me of sautons en coeur (jump rope for heart). When the weather started turning nice, each classroom would get a box of old skipping ropes, though they were not rope at all but that nasty plastic that would leave welts on all the kids who got too close. I went to a french catholic school that had almost no funds to speak of, so the skipping ropes were like treasures, and there were never enough for all the students, so when the recess bell rang you ran like heck to the vestibule to try to claim one. I remember the naughty french poems we used to recite while skipping, and the way our skirts would flutter over our heads, showing off little girl panties everywhere you looked, and the whizzing sound they made slicing through the air once you got a fast enough pace going, and the feeling of adrenaline that pulsed through our young veins when we waited in line to be pushed into the torturous double-dutch jump! And my left knee still bears a scar from when I was purposely tripped during double ditch by a mean older boy named Chris (who I later found out was punched by my husband during a game of hockey...so the universe has a way of making things even, I suppose).

Summer reminds of what it feels like to burn the soles of your feet. The deck attached to the back of our house would reach impossible temperatures, it seemed, and I remember chancing the heat while I made a run for the pool, a run that consisted of : scorch, scorch, scorch, jump, splash, ahhhhhh, and all the laundry hung out to dry on the line would be soaked with chlorine-smelling water and my mother would have to pretend to be mad even though her mad dash to the pool was usually very similar. I would spend hours floating around in the too-blue water, a t-shirt over my bathing suit, protecting the sunburn blisters that I had despite my best efforts and the strongest spf known to humankind, my hair plastered to my head and freckles sprouting out over every exposed piece of skin. It was bliss...until my baby sister decided to join, thereby effectively emptying the pool in record time...she was a known pool-pee-er, and only the sight of her in her floaties making her watery entry could entice us to exit our refreshing oasis.

Summer makes me think of green onions (usually known as scallions to the rest of the world, though I never even heard the word til I was 19 or so). Everyone grew green onions in their garden, and at my grandmother's table, a water tumbler would save as a sort of onion-vase, where the green onions would be cleaned and trimmed, and placed in whole and raw, and people would take one, then reach for the salt shaker, get a little pool of salt going in the corner of their vinyl placemat, then they'd swirl the onion in the salt, and eat it just like that.

Summer makes me think of the butterfly nets and frog-catching-kits that used to amuse us to no end. Our neighbourhood was filled with creeks and ditches and the kind of standing water that nowadays screams "west nile" but back then used to mean "adventure!". I remember once, when I was old enough to be busy catching warm-blooded males instead of cold-blooded amphibians, my sisters raced home with tales of "giant rats" that had apparently taken up residence in the ditch a few doors down. The "giant rats" turned out to be beavers, and they seemed to follow my sisters home and take up residence in our backyard for a while, where we also saw rabbits (which our dog took to imitating, hop hop hopping around, the first documented case of canine identity crisis), and foxes, and many others.

Summer reminds me of nights too hot to cook, and relatives stopping by with buckets of chicken and beach towels, hoping this is a fair exchange for a dip in our pool, and how the fried chicken place always had a beach ball giveaway and by the end of summer, we'd go to the beach and toss around the 37 of them that we'd accumulated, only they were the kind that you blew up and then added some water to, so when you tossed them they were oddly weighted and wonky and they'd blow all over the beach, and we'd run around, toes in sand and bathing suits like second skin.

I remember getting on the riding lawn mower and putting in the several hours that it took to mow our big back yard...the backyard was fine though, because it was straight forward once you got used to the uncomfortable angle of mowing on a hill (I developed great ass muscles!) and I could listen to Vanilla Ice on my walkman as much as I liked. The front yard was trickier. The front yard was where I would run over the young trees my mother had planted (and ringed with a pie plate for an ineffectual warning), and where I'd ding the blades on the stone of our walkway, and where worst of all, I would often get stuck in the ditch. The mower was just the right size to get wedged right in there, and I would sit on the screaming mower and yell for help, would would go unheard for sometimes 30 minutes...but I'd heard stories about getting off a mower and losing a toe or a foot or god knows what else...and each time my mother would come out, scowl, and then mime at me to turn the thing off...why of why did I never think of that simple solution when I get stuck? But I never did, I just sat there terrified each time, never thinking to just turn off the engine. Eventually a few neighbours would see the mower in the ditch and they'd help us push it out...as we would help push out theirs as well, because mowers got stuck in ditches, that's just what happened in the summer.

Summer is running around in the backyard barefoot and eventually stepping on one of those prickly weeds.

Summer is eating outside, corn on the cob and steaks from the barbecue, and shooing flies all the while.

Summer is driving with the windows down, big shad flies going splat on the windshield, and either exposed skin sticking to burning hot leather seats, or else sweaty backs making shirts damp on the upholstered ones.

Summer is eating a popsicle quickly, quickly before it melts, trying to catch the drips as they invariably form sticky rivulets down your wrists, trying not to let it break apart, carrying the stain of it on your tongue for the rest of the day.

Summer is picking a buttercup, twirling it under someone's chin, and, if it reflects yellow, accusing them of being a "butter-lover"!

Summer is mosquito bites and camp fires and swing sets in need of oil and squeaky pool noodles and impromptu baseball games and broken sunglasses and coolers full of beer and grass stained knees and humidity ruining our hairdos and throwing pebbles for hopscotch and mothers yelling "close the screen door!" as the kids run out of the house.

I love me some summer, and I'm glad it's almost here, and I hope you'll tell me why you love it too.

Kill the Goat Case 436: Tito v. The People

(A Stalker Update)

As you might recall, I did not call my stalker on Thursday as promised.
Back when I was dating, the whole not calling thing was a pretty clear indicator.
Apparently they have different rules in Chicago, because Tito didn't get the hint.

Instead, he came looking for me, and obsessively combed my neighbourhood until "fate" crossed our paths, because when a girl fails to call him he doesn't think "hmm, maybe she's not interested" but rather thinks "something terrible must have happened to her for her not to call, and therefore, even though I've only met her once and don't know her last name or her address or really anything about her since I mostly just enjoy talking about myself and how suave I am, I should go in search for her because chicks really love when creepy dudes invade their privacy".

So when he found me (can you believe he found me? that's the part that really makes me mad!), he scheduled another pre-arranged call, this time for Friday morning.

I felt that this time, I WOULD call, because not calling had not worked so brilliantly the day before. I would call and tell him in no uncertain terms to back the fuck off and leave me the hell alone.

But I'm glad I posted, because thanks to the many readers who took the time to laugh with me, flinch with me, and share their own stalker experiences, I did heed the advice and decided NOT to call after all.

And I didn't hide in my house, either. I took to the streets (albeit with a man who asked "well, is he bigger than me?" to which I replied, truthfully, not) and spent a nice day stalker-less.

I sincerely hope the story ends there. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction, guys. And yes: if he shows up again, I will head to the nearest public place and request that the police be called.


And what became of the egg?

Well, it made a brief appearance in my left pocket on Friday morning, during which I had an alarming incident involving blood and puss and the untimely demise of my beautiful cream bed linens and my new capris.

The egg has not been pocketed since (although, to be fair, when I discarded my capris I put on a skirt, which had no pockets). However, I think it's fair to say that over the course of this summer, the egg just might make another appearance or two. I'm going to suck some bloody luck out of that thing if it kills me (and me thinks it just might).

What the FUCK was I Thinking?

First of all, let me just say: I blame Kat for what has happened. The kind-hearted Kat was in New Orleans recently where she saw a small glass egg that's meant to bring luck and good fortune when kept in your left pocket, and she sent it to me, because she thought I needed some of both.

I went for a longish, leisurely, 11k walk yesterday (blister count: 7) (foot blisters, not sunburn). My good luck egg was nestled in my left pocket, but I wasn't going to put undue faith in it. In an effort not to get lost or fall down any rabbit holes, I usually walk in really big squares. Don't laugh. It's better than bread crumbs, and I've always come back, haven't I?

So this is what I did yesterday, and I chose Yonge as the far side of my square. I had my earphones in of course, as this is how I protect myself from unwanted advances. When men start hollering, as they do, I either don't hear them, or I pretend not to hear them. I feel bad occasionally, since I'm sure every once in a while some poor schmuck is only asking for directions (but hello! I'm a square-walker! the LAST person on earth you should ask for directions), but on the whole this technique has worked well for me.

Except at some point on Yonge, I saw some guy gesture at me out of the corner of my eye. I kept going, but for a while he matched my pace, then he fell behind, to check out the goods, I assumed, then he caught up with me again, and I slowed down to let him get ahead, at which point he stopped, tapped me on the shoulder, and I was forced to take the buds out of my ears and face the world head on.

Excuse me Miss, can I talk to you?

Talk to me? I stammered...oh great, the only thing worse than some guy hitting on you is some guy trying to convert you to his religion.

Yes, he said. When I saw you walk by, I thought to myself, now there's an attractive young woman...

Oh great. So I am being picked up on the street after all.

He fell into step beside me as I continued on, and he blabbered about how fate had put him on Yonge street since it was the first day of his vacation and he wasn't normally in this part of the city, and how I could call him Prospector and I was his gold mine.

Yes, really, that's what he said. And for the rest of the story, I will refer to him as Tito, because that should conjure up a pretty accurate image for you.

At this point, Tito has asked me to sit down on a picnic bench with him, and I've told him that I'm married, so I don't see much harm in listening to an exceptional character make a fool out of himself for a little while. The weather is gorgeous, and I haven't met any funny, mildly deranged people in a while.

But while we're sitting across from the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, a cyclist is hit and does a face plant on the road before him. He does not get up. People, good people, rush to his aid. I am very upset by this, of course, but feel compelled to move on because the accident-gawking thing doesn't sit well with me.

Tito's reaction? He would like to treat me to a polish sausage.
A bit relieved, I find that he has no polish ancestry, and he's merely hungry.
Still. Polish sausage.

I decline, obviously, but let him buy me a bottle of water because he insists, and because otherwise I was about to get an orange crush, which is one of the least refreshing beverages I can think of.

As he masticates, he expounds on his theory that god has sent him to me, me being variously a "classy young lady", "a lady of very high calibre", "the prettiest thing on Yonge", and so many other cornball lines that I just stop listening.

The fourth time he asks me if I'm sure I wouldn't like a bite of his sausage, I thank him for the company and get up to go. I head up St Clair toward home, and find that Tito is following me.

We can't part yet, he tells me, surely I've noticed how the sparks are flying between us?

Really? I thought that was just gobs of your spit.

Unwilling to lead this man to my house, I sit down in a park, where he tells me I've not only made his day, but his "whole view of the universe", whatever the hell that means. He also tells me that he's the "romantickest" guy I'll ever meet, a true gentleman, would like to see me in a skirt and heels, wants very badly to cook me spaghetti, his specialty (he puts ground beef into a jar of ragu), and that our "first time" would be earth-shattering.

Uh huh.

Probably my fault for using a word as vague as "married". Next time I will arm myself with more concrete phrases such as "my husband has a large gun collection", "the nunnery doesn't like me to be late", "my genitalia are ambiguous", "scorching case of herpes", etc, etc.

I tell him I really have to go, and he tells me that he'll buy my subway ride home if it means I can stay even 10 minutes more. I tell him that I practically have this medical condition that forces me to walk. He says he'll walk me home. I can't think of a good reason why not, so I don't give him one, and just flat-out say no. He asks for my phone number. I tell him I don't have a phone. He gives me his instead, tells me to call at exactly 10 am the next day. He asks where I live, and I point vaguely in the direction (still some 5km away, luckily). I tell him goodbye, and he grabs my hand.

Don't let any guys pick you up on the rest of your way home, he pleads. Give our love a chance.

In answer, I make a splorting noise that is mostly choking with a some suppressed laughter and unavoidable groaning mixed in. As I make my getaway, I walk very quickly, without looking back, and I have to tell myself not to run. I hold it in until Spadina, where I unleash a fit of giggles that actually stops traffic momentarily as the first 3 cars at a green light watch me instead of making their left turns.

The next day (today, Thursday), 10am comes and goes. I do not call Tito.

I poke up my blisters and judge that I can make a trip to the library, the grocery store, the pharmacy. I put on my music and make a firm resolution that even taps on the shoulder will forever more be ignored. Make no eye contact, smile at no one, I tell myself. Before heading out, I grab the egg of dubious luck and give it a second chance. I slip it into my left pocket (note: this is what we call "foreshadowing").

As I walk down the street, a very cute old man is standing on the corner, trying to entice the passers-by into taking his pamphlets. Although the city has issued a "heat warning", he is wearing a suit, with his belted pants riding just below his nipples. He's so sweet looking that I almost want to convert for him, but I am firm in my resolution, so I nod slightly but don't pause.

I keep my music on in the grocery store, pick up my things, and remove my headphones only when I'm standing in front of the cashier. They are luckily replaced by the time I leave, because a man standing outside the door badly wants me to sign up for a credit card, I think. I shrug at him, indicate my music, and just keep moving.

I head for Shopper's Drug Mart because the grocery store sells only Coke products, which is a sin, and I must have my diet Pepsi. I stop for a moment to help an elderly woman who is carrying a heavy load. Her plastic bag has forsaken her, so I throw her groceries into my backpack and walk them home for her. She is grateful and tries to pay me, but instead I give her my number and offer to come help anytime she needs it. I have made a new friend.

At the drugstore, I walk up the foot care aisle and surmise that there isn't a cure on the planet for my many blisters, but since I'm still upright and mobile anyway, I guess I'm tough enough to do without. I head for the heavenly display of Pepsi, but I feel a tap on my shoulder. Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around.

Actually, it's hard to pretend you haven't felt a tap on your shoulder. Not wanting to, I turned around, and there was Tito.

Apparently, he'd grown concerned by 10:08 and resolved to try to track me down. Not knowing my address, he'd spent the past 4 hours walking around the neighbourhood, and lo and behold, he'd actually spotted my blonde head bobbing along.

I ask you, dear readers, does this ring of stalker to you?

Because frankly, I was astonished to see him. And not happy astonished, creeped-out astonished.

I plastered a phony smile on my face while he droned on about how he already feels like my knight in shining armour, and it was his sworn duty to make sure that I was okay since clearly something tragic must have happened for me not to call. Meanwhile, in my head, I was thinking: how the fuck do I get out of this?

I told him I was in a big hurry to get home, and no, he couldn't join me. He wanted very badly for me to get to a payphone so I could prove my ability to correctly dial his phone number (which he'd re-given to me), and I told him that was "crazy", asked him which way he was headed, and said that I happened to be going the exact opposite way, which naturally was the exact opposite direction of my house, but I thought, blisters be damned, I will get down on my belly and squirm my way home, but I will not let this man find out where I live.

So, now I have a "date" to call him tomorrow at 10.
This time I think I will call.
Any choice words that you'd recommend? I intend to be brutal, to make sure that there is no room for misinterpretation.

And as for Kat, giver of the worst luck talisman in the universe, I strongly encourage you to visit her site and boo her into infinity :)

Kiss Your Past Goodbye

He wasn't my Pacey, or even my Dawson, he was just a guy I fucked around with.

Well, that might be selling him short a bit.

The attraction is still pretty much a mystery to me. I mean, he was blond, and a hockey player, and he had a tattoo of a snake on his bicep, heaven help me. Not my type at all. And we were together during a time in my life when I thought looking good meant wearing my corduroy overalls. True story.

We had no pretense of friendship. We probably wouldn't have liked each other very much, if we had bothered to get to know the slightest thing about one another, but ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and my god were we blissful.

I was probably 16 or 17, and I didn't believe in dating. Well, I believed it existed, but I believed it existed only for evil. As far as I could see, it turned reasonable girls into mindless dolts, and prohibited you from ever seeing the ending to the movies you'd paid to see.

While I didn't have boyfriends, I did have lovers, though I suspect that word is a bit too gracious for some of the eager yet inexperienced fumblings that some boys called sex (it's no wonder that I quickly acquired a taste for older men). And for the most part, this worked out well for me.

Not to say that Trevor was an exception, because he wasn't. Just that our "relationship" consisted solely of sex, with an occasional pre-bed drink or snack. The only time we spent out of bed, we watched a videotape of Eddie Murphy doing stand-up...and frankly, I'm still trying to figure that one out. Luckily, we filled in the awkward silences with mind-blowing sex, practicing feats of strength, endurance, and acrobatics that still give me shivers to think about almost 10 years later. Afterward we were too tired and sated to chat, so we'd doze on our separate corners of bed, until it was time for him to drive me home. In the car, I'd turn on the radio just loud enough to make attempts at conversation a foregone impossibility.

Eventually I stopped answering his phone calls, and we parted without saying so because break-ups aren't necessary when you were never together.

Why, then, when I was admiring the crisp redness of some sweet peppers at a local veggie stand and looked up to see him, did I feel an immediate need to duck into the shop and not be seen?

Hiding wasn't necessary, in the end, because he was walking on the other side of the street, and in fact, from that distance I couldn't even be sure that it was him. Just that it sure looked like him. But why hadn't I wanted to say hello?

The closest I could come to a good guess was that since we hadn't had anything to talk about while we were fucking 10 years ago, we'd probably have even less to say to each other now. And I hate the artifice of small talk, I hate being forced to ask How've you been doing? when the truth is, in all this time, I have seldom wondered what or how he'd been doing.

I was quite happy to leave Trevor in the past.

But it got me thinking, because a friend of mine has badgered me into joining Facebook, and even after 6 months of pestering, I'm still not sure why I opened the account. Maybe there are a lot of people out there thinking about lost connections, old flames, and friends who have faded away, but I'm not one of them. For the most part, I've kept in touch with all the people I've cared about keeping in touch with. I don't believe that all friendships are meant to last the ages. I think some are designed for a specific time in your life, and trying to rekindle them later on is almost always a mistake. People change, circumstances change. If you stopped talking to a friend, whether due to falling out, or neglect, they can't have been a great friend to begin with. And as for all the forgotten acquaintances - people who shared the halls of my high school, colleagues who used the copier after me, friends of old boyfriends whom I never should have dated in the first place...well, I have very little curiosity. The past is past, and I'd like it to stay that way.

But now it seems that either Facebook will drag these people back into my present, or, even more alarmingly, they might just move into my neighbourhood and catch me feeling up my vegetables.

So what's a girl who hasn't a nostalgic bone in her body to do when the past catches up with her? Invite it back to her place for cocktails?
Wear dark glasses and stop answering to her own name?
Pull up the pegs and run?

I mean, it's not that I don't love my life. I'm proud of who I am and what I've done. I've got a few twisted stories, but I'm sure I could boil it down to a saccharine story suitable to be divulged within the hallowed halls of Horton's. I guess it's mostly that I don't want to. Sorry Trevor, I guess my horny-meathead days are over.

Operation Wipe Out Farmer Tan

Generally speaking, my complexion being somewhere between the spectrum of Julianne Moore and albinoism, I am not a tanner.

When the good weather hits, I live outside, but I do it under a generous slathering of SPF 45, at least. Despite precautions, I get burned a few times a year, and I'm not talking reddened skin and peeling here. Me, I know burns. I know burns from splashing big pots of boiling pasta on myself, and from grabbing roasting pans without oven mitts and from making friends with the wrong end of a curling iron and from turning on the wrong burner and from trying to catch candles that are on fire. The sun is still trumps. Of course the skin will turn an impossible shade of red, a shade so shocking and magnificent that even Crayola would have a hard time coming up with an appropriate name. Then, overnight, it develops this slimy yellow coating. Some of this puckers into crusty, crinkled skin, and other patches become giant blisters oozing with puss and other fun things. Then you spend the next 6-10 days crying every time you move or breathe or think of moving or think of breathing. And don't even talk to me about bra straps digging into sunburned blisters, or the way water feels like needles with you turn the shower on (I have to shower with wet towels on my shoulders just to dull the pain a bit). It's ridiculous, but for a pale girl, it's life.

And this year I got started on the process early - before summer has even officially arrived. Only mid-May and already I burned, peeled, and found underneath the makings of an actual tan (a rarity for me). But the problem is, I was wearing a scoop-neck t-shirt at the time and now I've got 2 brown arms and an oval of brown on my chest, and a whole lot of blinding whiteness in between.

And as you may know, no matter how many cute camis or tank tops or spaghetti-strapped shirts I wear this summer, IT WILL NEVER EVEN OUT! The white can never catch up because the brown just keeps getting browner. I will be two-toned for the next 4 months! Pretty soon people will be asking me about my crops, how the beets are looking and if the corn's as high as an elephant's eye. I'll be so farmer-like I'll have to start wearing overalls and adopt 37 barn cats. It's going to be a bad summer, I can just tell.

Do you know what a dickie is? A dickie is this ridiculous thing that should have died in the 80s and mostly did, if you don't count my mother's wardrobe. A dickie is just the turtle part of a turtle neck sweater. It's just the part that covers your neck, and a small circle of fabric at the base so you can wear it under a sweater and fool people into thinking you're wearing 2 shirts when really you're wearing only one! Oh, they're horrible things. But I'm thinking that if I wear one, and then tear the sleeves of a sweater and wear them (I guess I'd need some rubber bands to make sure they didn't slide down), I could protect the brown parts and let the white parts (shoulders, lower chest) play catch up.

However, this would neither be a flattering nor a very respectable get-up (notice how nothing would be covering the breasts). So I suppose I could also sport a tube top for modesty's sake (I bet you never heard the words 'tube top' and 'modesty' in the same sentence before!) but this is quickly becoming a fashion revival that I want nothing to do with.

I thought briefly about wearing SPF 50 on the brown parts and 25 on the white parts, but I figure, I've spent almost my whole life buying into this skin cancer thing, why stop now? I mean, every time that I visit my grandmother and she points out all her various "possible melanomas", I make a very firm resolution to be kind to my skin, and to also stop visiting my grandmother. And I've made good on at least one of those promises (and every time my grandmother points to my arm and yells MELANOMA!, and I tell her No, Nanny, that's just a freckle, or a birth mark, or my eye, stop poking me in the eye, Nanny!, my resolve for the second bit gets just a wee bit stronger).

So what's a girl to do? I have this lovely sundress hanging in my closet, dying to be worn, but I know if I slip it on now, it'll look like I'm wearing a white undershirt underneath from far away, and from up close the effect of my two-toned skin is likely to cause traffic accidents and canine insanity and the accelerated melting of ice cream. Not to mention that I will only be giving the sun the chance to burn yet another unsavoury pattern into my flesh - this time with a sweetheart neckline and skinny little shoulder straps, and then I'll have tri-toned skin which we all know is the leading cause of satellites falling out of orbit and childhood obesity and male pattern baldness. And it only gets worse from there!

There's got to be some other way.
Maybe I'll take some high-grade sandpaper into the shower and "exfoliate" until most of my skin falls off. Of course, that would probably clog the pipes and plumbers can be very judgmental.

When I was in high school we had a car was to raise money, and I was wearing a tankini and got a funny burn with prom (and a strapless dress) just days away. My mother suggested I seek the tanning bed and I came out looking like a ketchup chip. I didn't tan, I just burned in a way that my entire body was covered in pinpricks of red, like an allergic reaction (which it probably was). So I've learned my lesson there: sunburns are not a hip accessory, but if you wear your strapless dress without a bra, no one really notices the burn.

Maybe there's nothing left to do but buy stock in aloe vera and call it a day.

Window Pain

This morning I was woken up by a sound that I would have guessed was a robotic lamb bleating loudly for its mommy.

Turned out, one of my neighbours was doing her laundry (her clothes line is in desperate need of some WD-40).

It was 5:47am and the sun was just pink enough in the sky for me to make out other eyes such as mine peaking from between the slits of horizontal blinds, all of them beaming rays of unkindness upon the woman who dared disturb our last (and therefore most precious) moments of peace before another day begins.

I feel back asleep only to be wakened again, this time by what sounded like someone using a screwdriver and various cans of half-filled, half-spilled paint as a percussion instrument, and it turns out, that's exactly what it was. The musician was a 2 year old kid in a diaper, who must have been freezing in the cool temperatures that still cling to the dewy grass before 7am.

I was personally a little happy to have cooler temperatures prevail - not only was my sunburn soothed, but it allowed me to wear my Feel Good Sweater, something I have longed to do for 2 whole weeks but because of fevers in the body and stuffiness in the room, I could not.

Feel Good Sweater is a short hoodie, gray knit with silver strands throughout that are like pieces of tinsel from a Christmas tree. There's a little bunny pouch to keep my hands warm and long strings to keep me entertained while talking on the phone. It becomes part of my pj ensemble, and to me, it's like wearing a hug. I'm not much of a cuddler, and I don't care for the person-to-person contact, but Feel Good Sweater is all the affection with none of the pressure.

Perfection.

So I'm sitting in bed in Feel Good Sweater and some fuzzy slippers, and watching the things that happen outside of my window when it rains (I mentioned it's raining, right? Because it is, and not softly, either).

The raindrops tap tap tap on the shingles of the roof, and also ping ping ping on the piece of corrugated iron below and slap slap slap on the cracked window pane lifted above my head. Through the magic of window screens, I can smell the wet earth, and the scent is rich because it's spring and the earth is dark and recently churned where people have started to garden.

The yard below me is a narrow mess. There is no lawn, it's mostly rocks and patches of ground, and a few intrepid weeds that have managed to poke through the obstacles.

The yard to my left is much nicer. I wish that yard was mine. The grass, though only slightly larger than the proverbial postage stamp, is actually green and grows in one blade at a time, and has been uniformly cut. There's a neat patch in the back that could be a garden if only someone spared the time. I would spare mine. I would love to sink my hands in the wet dirt, dig holes and leave behind seeds, watch the earthworms filter through.

The yard to my right is an embarrassment. There is a white minivan up on cinder blocks. It has clearly been left there to die an undignified death, slowly rusting away, showing its sickness in bright orange patches for all the world to see and pity. Beside it, comically, is a white jeep, the plastic battery-powered kind that kids can drive around, but this one too has been relegated to junk, and it sits not on cinder blocks but a battered old folding table that looks ready to collapse.

Other yards are harder to see, although we are only separated by low chain-link fences. One appears to have been paved over. Another is obscured by the 3 satellite dishes attached to the house. One yard is completely full of...something. Stakes? Posts? I like to think that some sort of inventor-type person lives there, and creates these elaborate contraptions, and in the morning when the sun hits the sundial, a little ball starts rolling, which opens the gate, which drops the weight that's holding a bar that releases the mechanism that flushes the upstairs toilet. Or something. I like that house because there's a tiny window up on the upper floor that's been framed by electric-blue paint. Electric-blue for no apparent reason on an otherwise sedately bricked and sided home. I hope it's there for a whimsical reason, and not because electric-blue happened to be on sale that week.

In the yard beside that one are four tall wooden posts holding up a thatched covering of some sort. It kind of reminds of me of a chuppah, but that can't be what it is. But right now, it's just a free-standing thing, and I hope that as summer approaches its usefulness might become apparent.

Two houses over there's the bare metallic bones of a car port that houses no cars. On top there's a pile of dead leaves, only I can't decide if they're last year's garbage or this year's attempt at having vines grow over an otherwise incredi-ugly structure.

And beside that, a house which has its upper windows boarded over with plywood. I hope sincerely that no one lives in those quarters.

Beyond, there are several low-rise apartment buildings, all sitting squatly in their uniformly boring brownness. Why so much brown? The brown that reeks of cost-saving bleakness. If I ever have a million dollars, I will buy myself yards and yards of fabric and wrap those buildings up like presents in pinks and oranges and maybe even electric-blues.

But I don't have a million dollars, so for now I am content to sit in my Feel Good Sweater and gaze out at the wet, wet world, and wonder who, if anyone, is gazing back.

Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

It's funny how when you're grieving, your friends all start to cluck at you.
Cluck cluck cluck they say, and all you can do is shrug your shoulders, because you don't speak chicken.
And come to think of it, you weren't even aware that your friends were fluent.
Some of them are blowing the bull's balls, and some are dispensing the sagest advice you'll ever receive, but you hear none of it.

Suppressed sadness is like a head full of bubble wrap. You'll do anything to keep those bubbles from popping. You hold yourself really still. You spend whole days just trying not to blink.
Kind friends will try to help you in the cause.
One friend looked at her bookshelves and carefully edited her selection for me - the Daniel Pearl story was left on her shelf, judged unfit for a broken heart.
Another friend gently pried my copy of Love Story from my hands and put in The Waterboy instead.
Another, miles away, wrote an email that ended with Come home to your friends. And I wanted to, badly. I wanted to be where I last felt really loved.
And that's when I realized my friends were carefully wrapping my heart up in the bubble wrap as well.

They're keeping it safe for me. They're protecting it from the bumps and bruises that I subjected it to.
I am an unfit keeper for my own heart.

So when I plug myself into Liz Phair, I wonder, is this safe? And when I attempt to reread The Hotel New Hampshire, I think to myself, is this approved? And as I popped in Evita, I thought, surely this will be okay?

But I don't know. I don't know how to help myself.

All I know is that in this life, we choose our attitudes. We make that choice every day.
So if I walk around in a daze for 23 hours of the day, I don't dwell on it. Instead, I think about those 10 seconds that lifted me out of it - the billboard on the way home that said Feeling droopy? Try our soupy!, or the little old man who had a walker decorated in Beauty and the Beast decals.

If I have a choice, then I choose happiness.
I'm working overtime to pump some positive energy back into my life.
I'm too numb for anything else. My heart is wrapped up so tightly that even I can't get to it anymore.
So if you think I owe you an explanation, I don't.
If you think I haven't bared my soul today, maybe it's true. But if you came to Kill the Goat looking for group hugs and sniffles, you came to the wrong place.
A strong woman lives here.
And if a tear or two slip out, they won't be for me.
They'll be for Argentina.

A New Tattoo, A Lot More Sex

I was at the grocery store early this morning, too early in fact, because it didn't open until 9, and despite this fact, there was a throng, yes a throng of people - at least 30, waiting impatiently to get in. It was a veritable sea of gray heads and glasses on chains, one that I kept my distance from for fear that I might get swept under their current and not resurface until I'm withered and wearing orthopedics myself.

They had all brought their own buggies - lined with cardboard and plastic bags, some of them adorned with little flags or rosaries - and they kept tapping insistantly on the glass windows, though this seem to have little effect on the speed of the employees inside.

This end of my block is referred to as "Little Italy", and if you happen to walk among them, you'll know why. They're small. They're all small. And they segregate themselves by sex while waiting outside the grocery store. The women stand with their arms crossed and a sour little purse of their lips. The men stand more socially, and they kiss each other an awful lot. They also seem to have an unwritten code that prohibits them from ever leaving the house without a sport coat and a pair of spiffy loafers.

The one upside to shopping with these eager-tomato-squeezers is that when it comes to my feminine hygiene needs, I have the whole aisle to myself.

I should have decided between laundry detergent and the case of pepsi, but I didn't, and I regretted it the whole way home, as I felt one disc slipping into another. Once relieved of my burden, I was one happy camel. I rewarded myself with a trip to the park with a little hummus and some cucumber slices and a book to keep me company.

But sitting on the wobbly bench, I was distracted by the other patrons of the park:

First, by a gathering of adults all dressed alike, rather boisterous at times and prayerfull the next.

Then by a cheep cheep cheep noise coming from a woman who had brought a green plastic lunch tray heaped with bread crumbs and was calling the dirty birds to her, and then left abruptly after dumping the contents of the tray directly behind me. Knowing my sweet spot was about to become a fowl toilet, I fled to the grassy hill where I sullied my bum (but avoided the shit).

And then by a lazy cow of a mother who let her 2 year old daughter run into the soccer field where the above group was playing. The mother stayed more than 100 yards away (way out of reach, in my opinion), and called feebly, even though from that distance not a sound could be heard. The play had to stop constantly for her, and still she got dangerously close to the flailing limbs of a soccer team, and if you've ever gotten thwacked in the face by a soccer ball kicked at high speed, just imagine being 2 and that the ball is bigger than your face. And the mother made no move to retrieve her kid.

I was afraid I would end up yelling at her, so I packed up my stuff and left. And as I walked home, I felt rather directionless. I was finding my way all right, I was headed home, but no longer sure what that meant. I have never thought that home was the place you lived, but lately it's certainly not where the heart is, and it's rarely where the rump rests or where I hang my hat. I don't know where I'm going, and I don't mean north or south.

At the start of the year, I made 2 resolutions:

1. Stop plucking.

2. Don't break the blender.

As you know, I feel like I've already accomplished the first, and as for the second, I no longer own a blender.

It's time for something new. It's time to do something for me. It's time for resolution v2.0:

1. A new tattoo.

2. A lot more sex.

What a Beautiful Day, What a Beautiful Day, I Think I'll Wear My Brand New Negligee

Here's an interesting fact:

This weekend, I paid a visit to the larger of 2 branches of the Toronto Public Library that are within walking distance of my house.

I was refused a library card because I don't have 2 pieces of identification with my new address on them. In fact, I don't have 2 pieces of id with my old address on them, because as a non-driver, my health card is the only identification that I carry. The librarian said that a utility bill or a bank statement could be substituted for the second piece of id...but of course, my rent is all-inclusive (ie, no utility bill) and guess what? You can't open a new bank account without 2 pieces of id either.

I asked if there was another way to get a library card, and she said that I could pay for a non-residents' card.

And how much is that, I asked.

Oh, it's $25 for 3 months, dear, but you don't want to pay that. You live just down the street, for you it's free!

So there you have it. The hypothetical library card that I can't get is free.

Good.

But then I was foolish enough to return to the library today, intending to photocopy my resume.

I asked the librarian (the very same one) if there was a copier for public use.

Here it is, she told me, it costs 20 cents per copy if I was using coin, or I could purchase a $1 copy card and get a rate of 15 cents per sheet.

I'll take a copy card, then, I told her.

Oh, she said, actually it's just your library card.

I haven't got one, I reminded her. I guess I'll just use coin.

Well, she told me, I can't really let you use it if I know you haven't got a card.

And once again, I went home empty-handed, with a lingering question bouncing around inside my head:

what exactly does public mean?

Because the Toronto Libraries are certainly not Public, despite the sign above the door.

It's a very exclusive club, for card-carrying members only, run by old white ladies who refuse access to what I can only assume is a great number of the very community in which the library is situated. Weren't places like this done away with during abolition?

Because let's face it - this neighbourhood is pretty much 100% rental. The landlords, who employ management companies to collect rent for them so they don't have to set foot in this place, and who have since retired rather grandly to sunnier places, would be entitled to a library card should they for some reason ever return to the city and suddenly wonder what Harry Potter has been up to. But those of us who live and work here, not so much. Even our dimes are not fit for the copy machine.

Our rent pays the taxes that keeps this building heated or cooled, keeps the little old ladies in a steady supply of cardigan sweaters no matter the weather, keeps the collection of books that we can't read growing at a steady pace. I didn't need this much paperwork to get security clearance for the government! And my friend informs me that we can't work there, either, although as far as I can see, the work seems to consist primarily of dusting. According to her, a degree in library sciences is required before you can even apply to refuse people the right to read. I wickedly imagined what a course in library sciences might consist of -

A comes before B, which comes before C....no, no, don't bother writing this down. The thing is, if you never let anyone borrow a book, you'll never have to reshelve it (evil cackles all around).

By the time I got home, without book and without copy, I was in such a stew that I threw myself face-down on the bed and thought the whole damned universe is against me. I'm not even a member of the public anymore!

And I think I would have gladly stayed there, angry and near-suffocation, had my overflowing laundry hamper not been calling my name. So I stripped out of my clothes and threw them in too, and dug down deep into my underwear drawer for something to wear in the meantime, pulling out what I like to call a pair of my "fancy panties". And it was the happy underwear that saved the day.

This time, when I left the house, the sun shone brighter and the sidewalk teemed with smilier people. As I walked along, my boobs jiggled enormously in an unsupportive barely-there bra that is totally impractical and well-loved for that reason exactly, and my tush may not have been encased in the comfort of excessive cotton, but I knew it was framed delightfully, and I felt I was doing quite a service to all those who walked behind me. The library may not have me as a member, but I had a new friend who'd been willing to lend me books without so much as asking to see a single credential, and while my dimes were turned away in one place, Kinkos was always happy to take my money...and not only that, they actually say Come again! (and mean it) when the little bell tinkles as I head out the door.

Happy Hours and Golden Showers

I smell sunshine in my skin. Sunshine and....oranges? Did I eat oranges today? No, I didn't. So why is my dried sweat so citrusy? Have I been secretly injected with flavonoids? My aunt Joan would hate that I just said sweat. She always said that horses sweated, men perspired, and ladies glowed. Clearly my aunt Joan has never seen me in aerobics class. I could equal any horse after he's pulled a plow through 87 acres of barley just trying to get my chubby rear into one of those up-the-butt-leotard thingies. Yeesh.

Anyways. I can't possibly have already forgotten where I was going with this, can I?

Today I walked and walked. There are 9 fruit and vegetable stands within 5 minutes in either direction of my house, 14 pizza places (2 of the same chain even!) and no fewer than 17 bars. My kind of place, if only I had the money to stop and have a sit. Walking is probably my favouritest pastime, which comes in handy lately because it's cheap and plentiful. But sitting on patios on warm days sipping daiquiris from a frosted glass with a plastic sword piercing a cherry or two floating around the top...oh man, that's a pretty close second. And while booze also seems to be plentiful around here, it doesn't come cheap (at least not the dirt cheap that my pocketbook insists on). But I do wonder how long I can really stay dry - I'm sure the seizures and hallucinations can't be far behind. So while patio-hopping might be out of the question, at some point I'm going to have to decide that a family-sized bottle of vodka is not "frivolous" but actually a "wise investment". And what better way to relate to my new neighbours than to sit on my veranda drinking from a paper bag?

I live in a part of town affectionately called the "international market", which basically means that when I met my new roommate, she said "Well, every neighbourhood needs a white girl!" and I'm it. Quota filled, all others need not apply.

But like I was saying, I've been doing a lot of walking. Today, for example, I walked south until I finally realized I was really going north. I was so embarrassed I blushed. But I am marking my territory (not literally...in fact, all the walking has left me quite dehydrated). Believe me, if I thought a little trail of multi-grain cheerios would still be there tomorrow, I'd be sprinkling just as fervently as the crazy lady with the grass seed on her little patch of concrete. It takes me 5 songs to get to the subway station. I can (almost) literally spit on the nearest pizza place - but since it has free delivery I can already envision making them walk. I can get to 24 hour bus stop before I even have time to fish the change out of my wallet. So. The neighbourhood is no longer foreign.

I covered so much ground that I was limping when I got home, and I had to unstick my sock (on which monkeys are inexplicably surfing) from the already-coagulating scab of a new blister. Now, I apologize for this in advance, but I just had to take a picture of it (aside: it's surprisingly hard to take a picture of the back of your own foot) (also: I guess I don't need to call it an aside if it's in parentheses, right?)

If you look very closely, you'll see a baby blister forming in the centre of the mommy blister. I thought that was pretty neat. Sore feet are pretty much par for the course for me, so I hobble along despite it, and resolve to soak my shoes in cold water when I get home so the blood doesn't set.

Plus, who can stop walking when they're on a mission? To be fair, this mission of mine has been in active duty for the past 12 months. As you may know , Toronto has a less than stellar reputation with the rest of the country, and "unfriendliness" is high on the list of complaints. So, having a lovely smile if I do say so myself (and I do) and a willingness to try anything once (or, for 12 months, as the case may be) I decided to put the theory to the test. So when I walk about, I smile at everyone I meet. Everyone. I call it my "Smile, Toronto" project. Today's results:

# of women who smiled back: 1
# of men who smiled back: 84

Remarkable, right?But I feel compelled to congratulate the woman who was waiting for a bus on Dufferin who smiled back. I was the crazy girl who seemed to be stumbling a bit, but was actually just walking-hyphen-dancing - my hair is the shade of soft butter, and I was wearing green pants and...some sort of top. I'm sure I was wearing a shirt. What shirt?

Oh yes, the white one. The dreaded white shirt. You see, I have this white lacy blouse that looked good enough to wear on the hanger in the store when I was high on credit and fluorescent lighting. But when I got it home I discovered that the fit model must have been a cousin of Sponge Bob's (Sponge Roberta?) - it was just that boxy. Horrid, really, not flattering at all, but the thing is, I wear. I wear it a lot. I wear it a lot because I hate it so much. I feel bad for the shirt and sense that it knows it's unloved, so I keep it high rotation to make up for my lack of affection. That sounds a little crazy, but think about it: if you were a shirt, wouldn't you at least want to be worn, if not loved?

Anyway, by the time I got home the neighbourhood was thick with the smells of barbecue. But it wasn't even the mouth-watering thought of a big juicy steak that had me in throes of passion - it was the promise of the baked potato as accompaniment. The baked potato probably does not get all the recognition it deserves, being so often paired with impressive main courses (it's the Jan to steak's Marcia). But here's my dark secret: yes, I like a baked potato, swimming in some butter and chives...my body seems to be craving carbs right now. But in all honesty, baked potatoes are merely the altar at which I worship the god of sour cream. Oooh, my hips just gained an inch thinking about it.

All right, I've bared my soul - now leave me to my neosporin and starchy thoughts.

Happy in Another Life

Today I smelled my hair and it made me happy.

Today was just breezy enough to flap my jacket as I walked down the street and it made me happy.

Today I sipped pepsi through a swirling pink and orange straw and it made me happy.

Today I showed drywall who's boss and it made me happy.

Today I wore my dragonfly thong and it made me happy.

Today I used my gold damask napkins as window treatments and it made me absurdly happy.




What's your excuse?

Gone, Baby Gone

I am sleeping (or attempting to sleep, and occasionally feigning sleep) in a strange place.
There is not a soul in the world who knows where I am right now.
I can't decide if this is freeing, or if this is the scariest thing I've ever done in my whole life.

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

Mother Earth
turned a summersault;
I fell out of her pocket
and landed in a new one.

Just breathe, I remind myself, and I am finding I need the reminder. When I add it all up and look at the total, I think there must be some mistake. But when I rework the equation, the outcome stays the same. Too numb to cry, I focus on surviving: penniless, homeless, hopeless, I keep going the only way I can, and I'm not sure whether it's up or down.

I know it's cryptic, but it's all that I can manage. I need to be strong at least until I know I'm safe.

It's funny how everything you know can change in a matter of minutes.
Not the kind of funny you laugh at, of course.
More like if I don't keep smiling, it will kill me.

Maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home.
Maybe tomorrow I will grieve.

Keep Out of Reach of Children

I love spring cleaning - at heart, I am a purger. My possessions have about a 3-week shelf-life, and if I haven't used it by then, it gets donated away.

But I do have a weakness for those sentimental little things that for some reason we all feel compelled to hang onto until either they, or we, turn back into dust. The small stuff I can scrapbook out of sight, but the bigger things...the things that sit in a sometimes-unloved pile, the things that make you feel heartless if you throw away and pack-ratish if you keep. For me, this boils down to a pile of toys. Toys! Toys that I don't need or use, and are only good for the memories attached to them...and in case you hadn't notice, memories are not supposed to take up nearly so much storage space.

Here is a toy line-up of potential throw-away candidates. The prosecution will try them as trash; the defense will plea not-guilty by reason of sentimentality. You be the judge.

Specimen A: Tigger

Technically, Tigger is not mine. Tigger is Jason's. I gave it to him about six and a half years ago when I moved away. I thought he would appreciate having something cute and cuddly to sleep with, since his first choice (me) was no longer available.

Apparently Tigger was a poor replacement though, because the very next day, not 24 hours after our tearful goodbye, Jason had driven the many miles to my new home where he took up the majority of the room on my single bed (note: sleeping with your naked ass pressed up against the cold cement wall makes for disturbing dreams) and he crowded my single life until he persuaded me to leave it 4 weeks later, and we moved in together...completely nullifying the need for Tigger.


In 1997, the Taco Bell chihuahua was a veritable television star, and someone decided he would make a good Christmas gift for me. I have no idea why.

At the time, you pressed his paw and he said all sorts of his most popular catchphrases - "What is a logarithm?" , "Can't this boat go any faster?" and "I think I need a bigger box". It wasn't long before I completely forget what used to funny about these sayings.

But Taco Bell dog hasn't said any of these things in years, thanks to an unfortunate accident involving rum punch (note: more rum than punch). Actually, it wasn't even the bath in potent potables that did him in, but the subsequent ride in the washing machine that permanently silenced him.

This guy I got at the zoo more than a year ago, not because I was disgruntled by my monkey-deficit but purely because I never buy souvenirs.

But then I realize, there's a good reason not to buy souvenirs. Souvenirs are pointless. I've rarely had any monkey-related fun since bringing him home. In fact, for the first 3 months I hung him from my bed post, he scared the crap out of me every time I got up to pee at night and saw a vague shadowy figure hanging over my head.

This shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s.




These are the bears. Now, despite the unholy things Jason does to them (and turning my favourite red fedora into a bear-pimp hat that I can no longer bring myself to wear), they actually are much sweeter than they seem.

The "boy" bear (wearing the hat) belonged first to Jason. It was given to him by his ex-girlfriend. He denies this, but I was there when he unwrapped it, so no fooling me. But later, when he and I were going out, he once cheered me up by shoving an mp3 player loaded with my favourite songs up the bear's butt and bringing him to my house.

The "girl" bear is holding a pink pouch, which once contained some very nice jewelry that Jason gave to me...oh, 7 years ago. The jewelry is long gone. I keep her around hoping Jason might take the hint and once again impregnate her with all things sparkly & shiny. But if 7 years are any indicator, I think I'm out of luck.
The bride and groom bears are much more chaste, for some reason. They sit on a bench engraved with our wedding date, a bridal shower gift from my sisters 5 long years ago.

In case you were wondering, the bride isn't wearing any panties, and bear-tuxes are a bitch to dust. And his bowtie...well, let's just say it hasn't been the same since my bitch of a dog got a crush on him and tried to express her affection in any manner of inappropriate ways.


This is chicken-dance Elmo. Press a button and he literally sings and dances his way through the funky chicken. It's even more annoying than it sounds, trust me.

Many moons ago, I was working in a toy store around Christmas time. How nuts is that? Working there made my uterus shrivel up and die, but even worse were the parents (and I fear, the childless adults who hover around the toy section nevertheless). It's the adults who will press the "try me out!" button over and over and over, ad nauseum. And in case there was any doubt, I mean ad nauseum in the it-made-me-vomit-in-the-Barbie-aisle at least 3 times per shift.

So of course it only made sense that Jason told me his Christmas would be incomplete without him. Fucker. I have lived to regret it ever since - mostly because the button is incredibly sensitive, and Elmo is likely to start chirping at all hours of the day, scaring the nauseum out of me on more than one occasion.

The red head is Chuckie, from The Rugrats. The big-mouth is Scoop, my one and only Beanie Baby. Both were given to me upon the happy occasion of my first surgery.

It was nothing big, just the digging of holes in my head, removing cysts and wisdom teeth from my sweet sweet jaw. When I woke up, my parents gave me Scoop, and I wished for an instance that I could go back to having scalpels inside my mouth, because this was the first time they'd been in the same room together since The Divorce. Chuckie was given to me by my sister. I slept with him and when I woke up, Chuckie was soaked right through with blood. We tried to scrub him well, but I fear that nearly 10 years later, he still would not stand up under a black light.

And finally, we have Porkeroo. He's the most recent addition to the motley crew, and it seems he was given to me for the sole reason that he matched the robe that was the main gift. He's sweet and cuddly, and he's pocket-ready.

But I'm 25 years old, and not getting any younger. Fuzzy pigs have limited value to me. I mean, if I could raise him for the love of bacon I might be more inclined to keep him. But as he is not, I do wonder, what is the life expectancy of a pig?


All right- turn in your verdict. What will stay and what will go? And if you're feeling brave, you might even own up to the sentimental pieces of crap that you can't bring yourself to throw out either.

Train (Wreck) of Thought

When I was a kid, I had a long-standing Saturday night date, and her name was Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. I miss those days. I wish I also had the opportunity to miss seeing tongue-kissing on television. But I wouldn't miss it because really I hate it, and that's too bad because I don't think it's going anywhere. If the visuals weren't bad enough, there's the slurping, soft-porn sound effects that go along with it.

It's kind of gross to see someone's big disgusting mouth-muscle dripping with expectorate probing another, with big gobs of drool and lines of bacteria-ridden spit flying about. Luckily, it's much less repulsive when I do it. Although, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have paid a steep price for my mad tonsil-hockey skillz (to this date, the only sport I actively participate in): yes, in my senior year, I contracted the nasty orally transmitted disease often referred to as the kissing disease. My grandmother still looks at me rather pointedly when she says those words (somehow, she works it into the conversation around the Christmas table every year without fail). I've tried to explain to her that rum & cokes are expensive and a girl's got to kiss a certain number of faceless, nameless, gropey men to store up enough stories for 10 years down the road when she's married and swapping much less spit. Long story short: french kisses are the reason I never eat at Wendy's, and why I never saw the end of Mission to Mars, and why my grandma thinks I'm a slut.

Where I come from, they call them "frenchers", and I can't help but wonder what is so french about them. If there is a common denominator between french toast, and french kissing, and french onion soup and french horns and french braids, it's eluding my silly french-canadian brain. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I realize if there is a connection, I don't want to know about it.

I also don't want to know what kind of undergarments the pope wears under his robes. But I do wonder. I wonder if he's a boxer or briefs kind of guy, I wonder if he matches his panties to the colour of his hat. I wonder if he goes commando under there (my rational is: a robe is dress-like as is a kilt, and we all know the scots like to go "regimental") but I try not to think too hard about it since I'm pretty sure that thinking about papal dangly bits is probably sacrilegious.

The pope sure does make some "interesting" fashion choices though. Funny how he never lands on the worst-dressed list. My grandfather also wears some funny hats, but has thus far only landed in the papers for occasionally winning raffles. Sometimes he wears a ten gallon hat when he takes my grandmother line dancing. The cowboy hat gives him such much-needed height (so do the cowboy boots with lifts), but really I think country music just brainwashes people. What else could explain that many bollo ties all in one place? The mere thought of that many denim-clad people who don't own pick up trucks and have never shovelled pig shit all doing the boot-scoot-and-boogie is pretty much my idea of hell, and given my proclivities for talking about pope-penis, I should probably get used to it.

I can see the upside to hell, though. I mean, the warm climate is a great draw for a snow-bound Canadian such as myself. And I imagine it will be populated with all kinds of interesting characters, stumbling and slurring around, just like me. Kind of like I imagine Florida must be like: crowded and hot, but a nice contrast to the great white north.

Not that I'm anxious to experience the nine circles of hell. What I am anxious for is diving between my cool, just-washed sheets, or getting the first hint of tan, or finding the cell phone that I lost 10 ten days ago, or finding a skirt that makes my hips look "curvy" instead of "fat", or...okay, you got me. What I'd really like is to settle into my big comfy couch and watch a season or two of my ex-girlfriend, Dr. Quinn. You know, for old time's sake.

Mentally Constipated

When I make a grill-cheesed sandwich, I like to cut into 4 triangles.

I remember, as a kid, my mother would occasionally take us to lunch at The Fifth Wheel, which was a truckstop where her friend was a waitress and she could smoke as furiously as she liked. I always ordered the grilled cheese, not because they made particularly good sandwiches but because of toothpicks topped with colourful cellophane that were always stuck through the middle.
Secretly, I collected these treasures in a hidden cubbyhole in the very back seat of my mother's Ford Aerostar.

Grilled cheeses are such perfect, humble food. So unassuming. People say pie is humble, but obviously they've never had my black and white pie, which is so snazzy I call it my Snazzy Black and White Pie (never underestimate the power of Capital Letters).

That pie is as unhumble as I am. Today I cleaned out my light-rotation closet, and came across some very unhumble ditties, such as my black boa. There is nothing humble about a boa. I remember once wearing it to the movies for no other reason than I felt like having a feather boa kind of day, and the grizzled old man selling the tickets said "I've worked at this theatre for 37 years and I've never seen a boa before" which is one of the highlight compliments of my life.

Personally, I'm not sure if I see many benefits to being humble. I realize the baby Jesus thinks humility is a virtue, but I'm not sure if I'm prepared to take humble lessons from a guy who has his own bobblehead. Patience is also a virtue, apparently, but I notice that this is something usually said by government workers when they've taken 7 years to issue you a passport.

I can't imagine a scenario in which I would have to pick a favourite virtue, but if I did, temperance would be it. Not that I am temperate person, but then, nor am I a virtuous woman. But I love temperance for its valiant attempt to remove from life every single thing worth living for. I don't endorse temperance, but I love the ballsiness of it - anything that feels good must be sin, and therefore it is to be avoided. I remember this one time I was visiting one of those pioneer villages with my friend Anna. The residents of this village, straight from the year 1870, were trying to have us sign an oath of abstinence. Randy teenagers that we were, we could only imagine that abstinence referred to sex (we had seen the pamphlets in sex ed...and promptly put them in the waste bin, where they belong). But imagine our surprise when the abstinence theme song turned out to be a lusty rendition of "Throw Down the Bottle!"

Anyway. I think I was making a point about grilled cheese sandwiches somewhere back there.

Today I am not having a feather boa kind of day, I am having a grilled cheese kind of day. But also the kind of day where I just feel like heating up a pot of extra virgin olive oil and combing it through my hair. It's weird to sit around all greasy in the hopes that my hair will, through the magic of olives, become lustrous and healthy despite the fact that I've burned it beyond redemption with bleach. Also, despite the fact that it's dead. I believe in the power of hot oil treatments...but at the same time, I'm not about to dig up my dead grandfather, rub him thoroughly with a pound of butter and expect him to come back to life. I mean, I'm an optimist. I'm practically a groupie where monosaturated fats are concerned. But I'm pretty sure that all the time and money we spend on the dead stuff growing out of our scalps - the shampooing, the conditioning, the curling, the straightening, the styling, the colouring - it's kind of necrophilic, isn't it?

Well, good sense tells me I should quit while I'm ahead, and though I can't identify what I'm a head of, I am 98% confident that I could sink lower if I kept going. It's just one of those days. Try not to hold it against me.

Peculiarities

Favourite disgusting thing on my bulletin board: Skin. Human skin, belonging to the mammalian species Homo Jamiekins, circa 2004. I had a particularly bad sunburn and enjoyed peeling impressively large sections of my dead flesh from my thighs. One piece, dried up and papery, has been pinned to the board ever since.

Favourite weekday thrill: My wok. I love my wok. I love the sound of sake hitting the hot pan. I love the smell of ginger coming alive. I love the way spinach wilts and shrinks into the stir-fry. I love my wok so much I'm making macaroni in there now, and stew, and fruit salad. Okay, not really. But I would if I could, because I love it that much. I have wok fixation. Woxation.

Favourite food that I don't like: Strawberries. I don't eat berries, because I don't care for them. I am not repulsed by them, or allergic to them. If I come to your house and you serve them to me, I will eat them to be polite, cause that's how my momma raised me. But I don't like them, and not liking them gives me pleasure. Pourquoi? Parce que everyone else loves berries. And when there's a pint of berries, and I don't eat any, that's a pint more for everyone else. During berry season, I'm practically a hero for my unberriness.

Favourite lesson my dog never learned: Not to eat grass. Every day he would race outside, sniff the grass, get all excited thinking man, this stuff sure smells appetizing! and then he'd scarf down as much as his little dog belly could hold. And then he'd spend the rest of the day leaving a steady stream of grass-flecked vomit behind him. But by god, the very next day he'd be back out there eating his grass, happy as can be. And he repeated this eat-grass-vomit pattern every day for 16 years. And then he died. But not because of the grass. The point is, I used to think he was just a dumb dog. But then I thought he was on to something, because the way he approached life with unfailing optimism, every single day giving the grass a second chance, never holding a grudge, just eating it with the same happy-go-lucky abandon even after it had made him retch 1487 times in a row. Man. It's inspiring when you think about it. Little did I know that I would later have a similar relationship with alcohol. But that's another story.

Favourite way to ruin Easter: Have Jason book off 4 whole days to celebrate Jesus turning eggs into chocolate, but just before festivities begin, get sick. But just slightly, annoyingly sick, so you think it's just allergies, and you refuse to take any medication. Sleep 20 out of every 24 hours, waking up only to change the sweat-soaked sheets. Realize it's probably more serious by the time your temperature reaches 104, sit wheezing in a bathtub of ice water, complain for husband to make more ice faster, and when splitting headaches contract your stomach, try to aim the vomit outside of the tub, not in. Lament over the peeps, forgotten in the closet, and the caramelized onions that aren't being savoured. Do not begin to get better until husband goes back to work.

Favourite cover of a cover: Sad Kermit covering Johnny Cash covering Nine Inch Nails. The best thing you'll see all day.

She's As Cold As Ice

I was looking way too hot for a sports bar on Saturday night, but Jason likes the wings in Unionville, so there we were.

Jason ordered a pitcher of beer and half a dozen kinds of wings.
I was feeling rather dainty so I ordered a salad and martini.
And some supremely loaded potato skins.
But don't worry, I only ate most of them.

Wiping some 'bloody caesar' sauce from his chin, he very civilly asked me how my day had been.
It felt suspiciously like a date. Like a real date!

"Oh, you know, it was a pretty normal day. I did see a cow give birth by c-section though."
"And how was that?"
"A lot quieter than you'd expect, actually. And how was your day?"
Unfolding his 18th napkin to sop up the excess 'god of thunder' sauce, he told me about the 15 year old who stuffed over 20 bikinis down her pants and tried to get out the door, and how he learned that 'starfish' is a shade of orange right now, and how someone else ate the delicious club sandwich I made him for lunch and he had to eat stupid foodcourt food instead.

Wiping the 'kama sutra' sauce from his fingers, he even extended his arm across the cramped table and held my hand in his so he could gaze lovingly into my eyes and also sneak peaks at the big screen TV hovering just behind and a little to the left of my head.

The Leafs were playing the Penguins, although, if the drunken yelling is to be believed, it was actually an exciting game of Fucktards vs Douchebags. Now, hockey and I are not the best of friends, and usually Jason doesn't pay too much attention either, but either the 'margaritaville' sauce was getting to him, or mob mentality was. It was okay during the first two innings, because the Leafs were up, but things got a little tense during the third because Pittsburgh pulled the sticks out of their asses and actually put them to the ice.

There was a booth with 4 very drunk and very bearded men sitting in the corner, putting back beer like it was going out of style, and boy were they taking it personally. The losing, I mean. Oh man. Every time the game didn't go their way, they slammed their glasses down in disgust, creating an impressive splash zone around their table. They seemed to believe that the only reason Toronto was allowing Pittsburgh to score was to make them cry, and cry they did. Or one of them did, anyway, and he cried, wept really, dramatically enough for others to take notice. One of these others was some young punk in a pink argyle sweater, and he'd clearly had enough grenadine-laced drinks to give him liquid courage, so he stood up and pointed out the crying man for all to see and mock.

Crying Man took the first swing, and to be honest, I didn't blame him. Sure he was crying about hockey, but Argyle Boy was clearly an ass and I pretty much felt he deserved it. But Argyle Boy had some friends - Mr. SissyPants, and Sir BedHead. Mr. SissyPants was immediately on his feet, tipping back his chair, which hit an innocent bysitter in the head, and her boyfriend, Chesty McHair, was just as quickly out of his seat and in Mr. SissyPants' face. Meanwhile, Sir BedHead was slowly tearing his eyes of the waitress' boobage and realizing that his buddies were already elbows-to-guts into what was quickly become a real life bar brawl!

Well, Sir BedHead was not going to be left out, so he sloppily stood up and adopted the strangest fight style I have ever seen: he swung only the fist of his left hand, and he swung it over and over, not particularly at any people, while using his right hand to possessively hold onto his junk.

I probably should have kept my eye on the fight, but I couldn't help but notice that Crying Man was no longer the only crying man in the room - Jason had tears in his eyes and was making distress signals that I interpreted as "For the love of esophagus, help me!" so I poured him more beer and watched him fight the fire in his belly.

And that's when a big fat fist connected with my face.
At first, all I could feel was wetness, but when my vision cleared, I saw a mountain of a man lying in my potato skins.
Now, I didn't particularly begrudge him the black eye. But when you spill my Grey Goose martini, and you spill it all over my new red silk cami, then you've just made yourself a new enemy.
And you know what he said to me?
He said "Watch out, lady."

Well. I looked over at Jason to see if he was about to defend my honour any time soon, but the poor dear was still trying to regurgitate some of that flaming 'black widow' sauce from his system. So I hopped up onto my chair, and when MountainMan stood up, with my potato skins still clutching the back of his polo shirt, I hauled off and punched the guy. Right in the kisser.

Luckily, Jason has recently taught me to knuckle-punch, and has let me practise my signature "paralyzer" on his left bicep for a month now. And luckier still, I happened to be wearing one of my oversized obnoxious rings. Score one for the little blonde!

But just as he was licking the blood from his lip, I was suddenly flying backwards through the air. No, no, I wasn't hit. Jason had finally recovered some sense, and had grabbed me around the waist from behind and was hauling ass out of there. I had time for just one little cheeky waive at MountainMan before Jason was rounding the corner and throwing me out into the cold air where the police were just arriving.

It took almost two hours before everyone had given their statements and we were finally allowed back in to retrieve our jackets and my purse, which surprisingly, was still sitting under my chair, albeit in a lake of beer. Reportedly the hockey game had gone into overtime, but fittingly enough, no one knew who had even won. Awesome.

At home, Jason iced my bruised knuckles but didn't have a lot to say.
"Are you mad at me?" I inquired.
"No, not mad" he said, "I'm just realizing I'll have to really watch my mouth from now on. Jamie's packing heat!"

I'm Bringing Streaky Back

An Ode to Bacon
(Edit: if you're not singing this to the tune of Justin Timberlake's Sexyback,
you're doing it wrong!)

I'm bringing streaky back
Them other porks don't know how to act
I think it's special with ribs on babyback
So turn around and give your lips a smack

(take it to the bridge)

Salty Babe
With eggs for breakfast baby that I crave
I'll have to cure you if you misbehave
Pancetta doesn't make me feel this way

(take it to the chorus)

Come here girl, go head pig out with it
Come to the kitchen, go head pig out with it
BLT,  mayo for me
Lemme see what you're forking with
Look at those strips
You make me stockpile
Go head child and ... get your streaky on (go heavy, go with it)

I'm bringing streaky back
Them other fuckers don't go with cheese and mac
Girl let me make up for what prosciutto lacks
Because you're crisping up I got to eat it fast

(Take it to the bridge)

Salty Babe
Bits on salad baby make me rave
I'll fry you up if you misbehave
It's just that pork chops make a bland entree

(take it to the chorus)

Come here boy, go head chow down on it
Come to the grill, go head chow down on it
Ham and brie, not for me
Lemme see what you're smoking with
Look at those chips
Make me smile
Go head child and ...get your streaky on (go heavy, go with it)

I'm bringing streaky back
You mother fuckers, pork loin is whack
If that's your sausage, baby watch your back
Cause bacon's burning up for me and that's a fact