I don't have children. I won't ever have children. And I like it that way.
For lots of people, I may as well have just admitted that I have human hides lining my freezer.
I never wanted kids. Not even remotely. But there's a huge stigma attached to choosing the childfree lifestyle. People always feel they have the right to ask - when am I having kids? Why don't I have them yet? And they don't take no for an answer.
Oh, you'll change your mind, they say.
Which, incidentally, isn't true, and is massively disrespectful.
I used to feel that way too, but then I had kids and now they're the light of my life.
Which is an even stupider thing to say. If you change your mind, you were never childfree to begin with. 'Childfree' is not a waiting period or a holding pattern. It's not what you are before you have kids. It's what you are if you feel in your soul that it's the right and permanent thing for you.
I don't hate children. I don't hate the people that have children (or at least, not all of them, and not by default). But many of them have no qualms about expressing pointed hatred toward me and people like me, just because I don't share the same fertility goals as they do.
Here's the deal: children are not mandatory, they are not an obligation to all married couples. Some people cannot have children. Some people do not want them. Somehow, we manage to have very fulfilling lives anyway -
despite the people who tells us we're incredibly selfish (never mind that deciding NOT to have kids is exactly as selfish as deciding TO have kids - we make a choice and do what we want)
despite the people who tell us we deserve to die alone (meaning, Jason and I will check ourselves into an old folks' home instead of having our ungrateful children do it for us)
despite the people who look inquiringly at my stomach and ask oh, what's wrong with you? (because if it's not a physical plumbing problem, it's obviously a mental one)
despite the people who say that "people like us" shouldn't be breeding anyway (you know, because the world does not need more open-minded liberals, right?)
despite the people who cluck and say, oh, but you seem like such nice people (obviously, this opinion needs to be revised once our repulsive lifestyle is revealed).
When people ask about the kids issue, I'm pretty upfront about it. I don't want kids. We're not having kids. We're pretty damn happy about that. But it doesn't always pay to speak up.
Valerie Francescato, host of a childfree podcast, is under fire recently for daring to say that she doesn't want babies. She has been submitted to such indignities as these:
Look, if she doesn't want to have kids, that's fine, but there's no need to form an organization about it, which will inevitably escalate into demanding special rights and privileges. Besides, who'd want to procreate with these broads anyway? These women couldn't get a man if it was closing time at the bar and were the only guys inside of it.
and
I really wish here mother made the decision to be child free.
and
First, her thinly-guised childless self-admiration club is more practically a post-abortion guilt-avoidance club as in "I made the right decisions -didn't I?" These people are nothing more than narcissistic, self-serving oxygen thieves! Their voting rights should be rescinded.
Right. Except for the fact that the world is practically overrun by support groups for parents. Because nobody says boo about the 8 million Mommy Bloggers, but if a group of women get together and talk about their own experiences that happen to be opposite, suddenly it's terrible. There are television shows and sections of the newspaper and entire magazines devoted to the "joys of parenting" - but apparently the rest of us should just sit quietly.
It's hard to be a minority in this world. Personally, I'm not looking for "privileges" - I just like fairness. And there are a lot of things that just aren't fair. It's not fair, for example, that at Jason's work, he pays $8 a month for health insurance. To add me, the "family" premium is $42 a month, because though we are only 2 people, we are expected to subsidize families that have 17 children. Is that fair? No, it's not. It's not fair when a workplace offers the perk of free childcare without offering a childfree alternative to those of us without kids. Perks are a part of your income package. If you are excluded from cashing in on those perks, that's not fair either. I don't want anything crazy - I just expect equality from the world, and sometimes the world is slow to offer it.
But I think that if brave people like Valerie continue to speak up for what's right - and for a valid if somewhat uncommon choice - then maybe the world will advance by tiny increments. In the meantime, I'm happy to be a purple woman, and a member of the Toronto chapter of No Kidding. I'm not anti-kid. Since 99% of people have children, 99% of my friends have them also. I enjoy kids for the most part. I like being an aunt, or a god-mother, even an occasional babysitter. But once a month, it's nice for me to get together with a group of people who have conversation that at no point mentions diapers, or snotty noses, or the wiggles. It's almost surreal that for 3 whole hours, a group of adults can manage not to mention children. That never happens naturally in the real world.
It's much harder to not have children than to have them. Lots of people get accidentally pregnant, but it takes thought and planning to stay without. I don't know what drives people to have kids. I have no idea what compels a woman to grow a baby. No idea. I've never felt even a small stirring. I think pregnancy is a beautiful thing though, in the same way I think Renoirs are beautiful, and like to visit them in museums, but have no intention of hanging one on my wall, since they don't particularly suit my furniture or my personality.
I'm happy for the people who love their kids. I'm sad for the ones that never wanted kids but had them anyway, and let them know it. I knew my family was complete the day I married Jason. Maybe mine is a small family, as families go, but it's a happy one, and I like it very much, just as it is.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Friday Fuckfest, Canadian Edition
Why does Canada breed so many hotties? Is it the smoke in our stacks, the mercury in our fish, or the fact that we fuck in the cold?Nobody knows why, and nobody really cares, not when there's eye candy around.
1. Hawksley Workman
"Bringing the sex back to sex, drugs, and rock & roll."
When I first fell in love: Striptease, which will forever remind me of walking to work on the way Parliament, past the condo building across from the Rideau Centre that never got finished the whole time I lived in Ottawa (the fence was covered in posters).
Why I stay in love: Smoke Baby is the sexiest song I have ever heard. No Sissies is a great, fun car song, cranked up to 11. Even an Ugly Man is perfect for naked slow dancing with the lights down low (these are good tunes people, check them out).
2. Rachel McAdams
"It's the freckles, isn't it?"
When I first fell in love: Wedding Crashers...sorry, I've never seen any of the others, but she's just adorable in this. Three female generations of my family wept over the Notebook, which was all the reason I needed to avoid it forever.
Why I stay in love: The combination of sweet & sexy has proven irresistible since the dawning of time - and this girl has it in backhoes ( because backhoes are bigger than spades).
3. Ryan Gosling
"Practising the smouldering look since 1984".
When I first fell in love: Good lord this is going to embarrass me. He apparently grew up in the same small town as I did (though surely neither of us freely admits this), and I was familiar with his name from the local newspaper back in his days from the Mickey Mouse Club with Britney and Justin. But I didn't come to know him until the days of Breaker High - the cheesiest piece of crap on TV at 3am while I was in high school. He was skinny and dorky, but when you can't sleep, you can't sleep.
Why I stay in love: Well, he's filled out quite a bit. That's a good start. And Half Nelson proves he's as brilliant as he is beautiful.
4. Nelly Furtado
"Like all Canadian women, knows how to rock a parka."
When I first fell in love: Back when she was like a bird and just wanted to fly away. She was the freshest face on Much Music, and had lyrics and music that represented our country's cultural diversity.
Why I stay in love: Though her music has become a safer brand of pop of late, she's a veritable yummy mummy, and still knows how to shake it.
5. Ryan Reynolds
"Inspiring Alanis's sexiest angry breakup songs to date."
When I first fell in love: A little TV show called Two Guys, A Girl, and a Pizza Place (later they lost the pizza place). He was the adorable Berg, and he gave me a reason to stay in on a school night.
Why I stay in love: When your husband forces you to watch a little blood-bath called Smokin Aces, this guy makes it bearable.
6. Carly Pope
"Making the unpopular, popular."
When I first fell in love: Popular, a great, short-lived TV series, where she somehow made unpopular look cool (not to mention, hot).
Why I stay in love: Haven't seen her recently, read that she's in school, which is the smartest thing I've heard all day. Good on ya, kid.
Okay, so once in a winter solstice we slip up and produce some ugmosity, but Canada still has the highest cuties per capita ratio in the world. The next time you breed, you should think about that. I mean, the biggest favour you can do your kids is being Canadian yourselves...but if you can't be Canadian, then at least make travel plans during ovulation, and make love on our fertile lands....your kids will thank you.
Joyeux vendredi, tout le monde.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Just Me?
Sometimes, when I rent a car, and pay for the insurance, I feel obligated to smash into things just so I get my money's worth.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Leave A Comment, Goddamn It
Every day, hundreds of people accidentally (or, for the sake of argument, on purpose), land on this page (yesterday: 752 ).
Every day, dozens of people kindly (or, for the sake of argument, argumentatively) leave comments (yesterday: 33 ).
Hmm.
There seems to be some discrepancy here.
Who are these silent people? Silence is a great mystery to me. I am unable to go anywhere without announcing my presence. I have an opinion on almost everything, and if I find myself opinionless, I make one up. It's easy - just watch:
Okay, thinking...thinking...thinking...got one. In my opinion, it would be very funny to watch David Beckham try to solve a sudoku puzzle.
See how easy that was? And I was just flying by the seat of my pants, with no cues or previous discussion at all. If you've just read an entire post, then you've got something to go on, which is not to say that I always write about "something", because "content" is highly overrated, in my opinion.
See? Another opinion appears from mid-air! Like magic!
I bet you could do it too.
But here a few nudges just in case:
1. writer's block - what's the best way to clear your head? the best way to induce creativity?
2. date night - what can we possibly do next, and does this one have to be death-defying?
3. resolutions - are you making progress or have you already abandoned them?
Or how about an opinion of mine that you can argue amongst yourselves? People seem to like to do that (although, incidentally, opinions can't be wrong, they're opinions):
Science fiction fans are socially inept and completely humourless; high school students don't smoke nearly enough weed; affirmative action is an insult to those it seeks to help; Daniel Craig makes a lousy Bond; Jason should be severely mocked for listening to James Blunt; robots will revolt; religion is fairly ridiculous and probably has little place in the future.
Or, you know, ignore this like you always do, click away, don't contribute to my overall happiness a person. Whatever.
Every day, dozens of people kindly (or, for the sake of argument, argumentatively) leave comments (yesterday: 33 ).
Hmm.
There seems to be some discrepancy here.
Who are these silent people? Silence is a great mystery to me. I am unable to go anywhere without announcing my presence. I have an opinion on almost everything, and if I find myself opinionless, I make one up. It's easy - just watch:
Okay, thinking...thinking...thinking...got one. In my opinion, it would be very funny to watch David Beckham try to solve a sudoku puzzle.
See how easy that was? And I was just flying by the seat of my pants, with no cues or previous discussion at all. If you've just read an entire post, then you've got something to go on, which is not to say that I always write about "something", because "content" is highly overrated, in my opinion.
See? Another opinion appears from mid-air! Like magic!
I bet you could do it too.
But here a few nudges just in case:
1. writer's block - what's the best way to clear your head? the best way to induce creativity?
2. date night - what can we possibly do next, and does this one have to be death-defying?
3. resolutions - are you making progress or have you already abandoned them?
Or how about an opinion of mine that you can argue amongst yourselves? People seem to like to do that (although, incidentally, opinions can't be wrong, they're opinions):
Science fiction fans are socially inept and completely humourless; high school students don't smoke nearly enough weed; affirmative action is an insult to those it seeks to help; Daniel Craig makes a lousy Bond; Jason should be severely mocked for listening to James Blunt; robots will revolt; religion is fairly ridiculous and probably has little place in the future.
Or, you know, ignore this like you always do, click away, don't contribute to my overall happiness a person. Whatever.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Monday's Dilemma
I was honest-to-goodness being productive today.
Like, cleaning and stuff.
Is there anything worse in the world than cleaning a toilet?
Well, apart from cleaning someone else's toilet, I mean.
Jason, in response to my moans, sometimes offers to just call a service and have a cleaner come in every couple of weeks.
Except I don't mind the light housework, and I would never let another person touch my dirty things.
My dirty sheets are private.
And my toilet, well - that's privater!
I won't begin to tell you the kinds of disgusting things that goes on in there, but suffice it to say: yuck. I hardly want to scrub it myself, but I guess there has to be some downside to having bowels.
But would I ever invite a stranger into my home and ask this person to get down on their knees and get elbow-deep into the worst, most vile place in the world?
That is NOT the kind of relationship I ever want to have with another human being.
So I did it myself, and then I did the dishes, and the laundry.
And then I made myself a sandwich and really enjoyed it too.
And then I thought to myself: did I remember to wash my hands after I scrubbed the toilet
Well, did I?
Did I wash my hands?
Ohlordohlordohlordohlord.
This is not the sort of thing a person should lose track of.
I squirted the bowl full of the blue goopey stuff.
I used the long-handled brush thingie, and tried not to clean so hard that it kicked up toilet water in my face.
I sprayed it down with anti-bacterial cleaner...
and then....
washed my hands?
God I hope so.
Because now I've made and eaten food.
With my hands, my bare hands!
So I sat for 20 minutes trying to remember, and hoping that I didn't just give myself e-coli (how embarrassing...if I have to go to the hospital, I'm blaming Taco Bell).
How's that for a dilemma?
But you know what they say...
when life gives you dilemmas, make da-lemonade!
Haha.
That's so funny.
And I didn't just make that up, either. That's a hardcore Danny Tanner quote for you.
Because if you think sitting around wondering if I've got fecal fingers is bad...yes, I watch Full House reruns too.
Like, cleaning and stuff.
Is there anything worse in the world than cleaning a toilet?
Well, apart from cleaning someone else's toilet, I mean.
Jason, in response to my moans, sometimes offers to just call a service and have a cleaner come in every couple of weeks.
Except I don't mind the light housework, and I would never let another person touch my dirty things.
My dirty sheets are private.
And my toilet, well - that's privater!
I won't begin to tell you the kinds of disgusting things that goes on in there, but suffice it to say: yuck. I hardly want to scrub it myself, but I guess there has to be some downside to having bowels.
But would I ever invite a stranger into my home and ask this person to get down on their knees and get elbow-deep into the worst, most vile place in the world?
That is NOT the kind of relationship I ever want to have with another human being.
So I did it myself, and then I did the dishes, and the laundry.
And then I made myself a sandwich and really enjoyed it too.
And then I thought to myself: did I remember to wash my hands after I scrubbed the toilet
Well, did I?
Did I wash my hands?
Ohlordohlordohlordohlord.
This is not the sort of thing a person should lose track of.
I squirted the bowl full of the blue goopey stuff.
I used the long-handled brush thingie, and tried not to clean so hard that it kicked up toilet water in my face.
I sprayed it down with anti-bacterial cleaner...
and then....
washed my hands?
God I hope so.
Because now I've made and eaten food.
With my hands, my bare hands!
So I sat for 20 minutes trying to remember, and hoping that I didn't just give myself e-coli (how embarrassing...if I have to go to the hospital, I'm blaming Taco Bell).
How's that for a dilemma?
But you know what they say...
when life gives you dilemmas, make da-lemonade!
Haha.
That's so funny.
And I didn't just make that up, either. That's a hardcore Danny Tanner quote for you.
Because if you think sitting around wondering if I've got fecal fingers is bad...yes, I watch Full House reruns too.
Friday, March 02, 2007
The things I wouldn't have said or done if I had stayed home yesterday.
With a major snowstorm about to hit, it only makes sense that we would decide to head out for a winter hike in the bluffs. This area is pretty steep on a good day, but give it a good coating of ice, and you can just imagine the "fun" to be had.
Immediately Jason is "off-roading." He is allergic to the marked path, always has to take his own way (read: stupidly hard way) up a trail. Meanwhile, I am busy noticing that there are no other human footprints where we are, but there are other prints of sorts - some very big paw prints belonging to an animal with very big claws, and some pretty big hoof prints, and some smaller paw prints which I'm pretty sure belong to rabbits. Now, rabbits scare me less than a bear would, but they still scare me. I realize we are trespassing in their home, but I still don't want to meet up with any creatures. Jason is quick to reassure me that at least at this time of the year there won't be any snakes, but I find little comfort in that. I have bears on the brain, and every snapped twig, every moan of a tree, and I'm looking behind my shoulder, half-expecting to see a mean grizzly giving me the stink-eye.
But come on, let's face it - animals are the least of my worries. Here I am being held up by an obliging tree. I think we had been hiking for less than 10 minutes but I was already gasping for breath. Jason, ever the compassionate fellow, a good 20 meters ahead of me, pauses to take a picture of my last dying moments on this earth. When I get my breath back, I yell up to him that it's too steep - with every step, my toes touch my calves. That can't be good for my ankles, can it?
Jamie: Jason! This is too vertical!
Jason: Too vertical for what?
Jamie: Too vertical for me! I'm more of a horizontal girl.
Jason: Slut!
And so we pressed on. Every time we came to a narrow escarpment, Jason would turn and say "Be careful here" but the truth is, telling someone to be careful is not very helpful at all. It doesn't make me steadier. It doesn't slow my heart rate back into the triple digits. All it does is make it easier for me to visualize myself impaled on some of the heftier branches jutting out on the path I will surely slide down as soon as my feet finally fail me.
I find myself wondering if it would feel better to fall to my death, or be eaten by a hungry bear when Jason reminds me that bears are fast asleep at this time of year, and I grasp at this piece of heartening news. Bears are hibernating! They will not chase me! I will not be served up as a chubby little main course tonight!
But then the site of this stops me in my tracks:
The tree of doom!!!!
Okay, it's not the tree of doom, but you do see what had me stupid with fear, don't you?
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!
"Um, Jason....what do you do when owls attack?"
Do you see him in there? I was terrified, and the damn thing just stared out at me, probably appraising the juiciness of my flesh. There's nothing like silent stalking of an owl to make me realize what an idiot I am: I'm thinking, shouldn't he be sleeping right now? Aren't owls nocturnal? Can they even see in the daylight? Should I stand very still? Or is that bats I'm thinking of?
People - I was a Brownie for 3 whole years, but I was not prepared for the haunting gaze of this vicious predator. I slowly took cover behind the fattest tree, but the thought that another, bigger, hungrier owl might be sleeping in that tree eventually found its way into my sluggish brain, and all I wanted to do was start digging a snow cave and hide under there until civilization built up around me and evicted all the creepy owls. Of course, the fear that I might accidentally burrow into a bear's den stopped me cold, and we soldiered on.
Then we got to a clearing that was potentially scarier than an entire parliament of owls - massive, hissing, spitting powerlines.
Okay, well, technically, they weren't hissing or spitting, but I swear I could hear the crackle above, and Jason was all like Man, if even just one of those snapped right now... and I was all like I just love it when you point out all the various ways we could die painfully, and he was all like Oh really? and I was like, Um, no!
And underneath these great big towers of death were stacked some yellow boxes that Jason just couldn't resist exploring. They were marked Brazilian Isolators, and Jason thought we should maybe steal a couple, sell them on Ebay, but ever practical, I thought:
a) Lugging yellow boxes might make us more visible to the owls.
b) I barely made it up the cliff, how in the hell are we going to hike down with boxes that weigh more than I do?
So of course Jason suggested that I just climb on top, and he could push me down, and I could steer them like a toboggan. Thank goodness Jason is not really a thief, because as much as going up always sucks, when it comes to going down, I always feel as if I have as much grace as a boulder hurtling through space during a landslide. Watch out below!!!!
Circling back into the woods, Jason stopped to read a posted sign, and seemed to put a lot of thought into the message. I wondered what information the forest could be imparting upon us - cougars ahead? avalanche territory? bear feeding station? snowy mud that will swallow me whole and not burp up a corpse for my poor mother to bury? What, goddamn it, what?
But then I heard a noise. A very conspicuous noise, a noise like the growling stomach of a bear that hasn't eating in 5 months.
Jamie: Um, Jason....when do bears wake up?
Jason: Oh, not until March 2nd, at least.
Holyfuck, holyfuck, holyfuck, holyfuck.
Jason: Those aren't bear noises, though. That sounds mechanical.
Jamie: Oh sure. Mechanical. Because there are machines hibernating in the forest now, right? How stupid do you think I am?
He didn't answer that. I mean, we've together for 7 years, and he's not a fan of sleeping on the couch. But when we extricated ourselves from the tangle of trees, he did point at this thing:
So, not a bear after all. Just a train hiding in the middle of the woods, probably taking an unscheduled coffee break or something. Speaking of which, some hot cappuccino sure does sound good right about now..... and so we agree to start heading down.
We made our way down a little quicker than was necessary, and let me just say - kids, don't try this at home.
But when I tried to take a picture of Jason, he insisted on standing closer to the ledge, and at the exact second I was saying Not too close though, or you'll make me nervous, he was saying It's not fun until you're nervous. So he stood upon this log, and I took the picture, and when he went to hop off, the log (no doubt loosened by a bear just moments before) began to roll backwards, down the cliff, with Jason still on it.
Now I have reason to believe that Jason is secretly a super hero, because the guy literally log-rolled halfway down a mountain and managed to stay upright the entire time. Meanwhile, I was slipping sliding every which way just trying to put one foot in front of the other, and even made this breathless statement at one point:
Oh for fuck's sakes, did you see that? This here leg slid out further than you would have thought possible, and this other leg had to run to catch up to it!
In all of our wandering, we did once accidentally find ourselves on the actual trail, and I recognized this view from last year- see it in the springtime here. Poor tilty tree, it must be even tireder than me!
Just as we were getting back to base, the projected snowstorm hit with full force. An ice pellet hit me right in the eyeball, so I fell to the ground yelling Man down! Man down! and mumbling about how I was blind and how Jason would have to scour the forest floor for the missing slice of my eye when he threatened me with abandonment.
Do you want me to go get the car and pick you up? he asked, and I marvelled at the iciness of his heart.
He would leave me alone with the bears and the owls, and the isolators, and the train conductor?
So I bravely winked my watery eye until vision returned and managed to crawl back to the safety of the car, which was already buried under 13 feet (well, a few millimeters anyway) of snow, and we got the hell out of dodge.
What, isn't that how you spent your Thursday?
More pictures here.
Immediately Jason is "off-roading." He is allergic to the marked path, always has to take his own way (read: stupidly hard way) up a trail. Meanwhile, I am busy noticing that there are no other human footprints where we are, but there are other prints of sorts - some very big paw prints belonging to an animal with very big claws, and some pretty big hoof prints, and some smaller paw prints which I'm pretty sure belong to rabbits. Now, rabbits scare me less than a bear would, but they still scare me. I realize we are trespassing in their home, but I still don't want to meet up with any creatures. Jason is quick to reassure me that at least at this time of the year there won't be any snakes, but I find little comfort in that. I have bears on the brain, and every snapped twig, every moan of a tree, and I'm looking behind my shoulder, half-expecting to see a mean grizzly giving me the stink-eye.
But come on, let's face it - animals are the least of my worries. Here I am being held up by an obliging tree. I think we had been hiking for less than 10 minutes but I was already gasping for breath. Jason, ever the compassionate fellow, a good 20 meters ahead of me, pauses to take a picture of my last dying moments on this earth. When I get my breath back, I yell up to him that it's too steep - with every step, my toes touch my calves. That can't be good for my ankles, can it?
Jamie: Jason! This is too vertical!
Jason: Too vertical for what?
Jamie: Too vertical for me! I'm more of a horizontal girl.
Jason: Slut!
And so we pressed on. Every time we came to a narrow escarpment, Jason would turn and say "Be careful here" but the truth is, telling someone to be careful is not very helpful at all. It doesn't make me steadier. It doesn't slow my heart rate back into the triple digits. All it does is make it easier for me to visualize myself impaled on some of the heftier branches jutting out on the path I will surely slide down as soon as my feet finally fail me.
I find myself wondering if it would feel better to fall to my death, or be eaten by a hungry bear when Jason reminds me that bears are fast asleep at this time of year, and I grasp at this piece of heartening news. Bears are hibernating! They will not chase me! I will not be served up as a chubby little main course tonight!
But then the site of this stops me in my tracks:
The tree of doom!!!!
Okay, it's not the tree of doom, but you do see what had me stupid with fear, don't you?
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!
"Um, Jason....what do you do when owls attack?"
Do you see him in there? I was terrified, and the damn thing just stared out at me, probably appraising the juiciness of my flesh. There's nothing like silent stalking of an owl to make me realize what an idiot I am: I'm thinking, shouldn't he be sleeping right now? Aren't owls nocturnal? Can they even see in the daylight? Should I stand very still? Or is that bats I'm thinking of?
People - I was a Brownie for 3 whole years, but I was not prepared for the haunting gaze of this vicious predator. I slowly took cover behind the fattest tree, but the thought that another, bigger, hungrier owl might be sleeping in that tree eventually found its way into my sluggish brain, and all I wanted to do was start digging a snow cave and hide under there until civilization built up around me and evicted all the creepy owls. Of course, the fear that I might accidentally burrow into a bear's den stopped me cold, and we soldiered on.
Then we got to a clearing that was potentially scarier than an entire parliament of owls - massive, hissing, spitting powerlines.
Okay, well, technically, they weren't hissing or spitting, but I swear I could hear the crackle above, and Jason was all like Man, if even just one of those snapped right now... and I was all like I just love it when you point out all the various ways we could die painfully, and he was all like Oh really? and I was like, Um, no!
And underneath these great big towers of death were stacked some yellow boxes that Jason just couldn't resist exploring. They were marked Brazilian Isolators, and Jason thought we should maybe steal a couple, sell them on Ebay, but ever practical, I thought:
a) Lugging yellow boxes might make us more visible to the owls.
b) I barely made it up the cliff, how in the hell are we going to hike down with boxes that weigh more than I do?
So of course Jason suggested that I just climb on top, and he could push me down, and I could steer them like a toboggan. Thank goodness Jason is not really a thief, because as much as going up always sucks, when it comes to going down, I always feel as if I have as much grace as a boulder hurtling through space during a landslide. Watch out below!!!!
Circling back into the woods, Jason stopped to read a posted sign, and seemed to put a lot of thought into the message. I wondered what information the forest could be imparting upon us - cougars ahead? avalanche territory? bear feeding station? snowy mud that will swallow me whole and not burp up a corpse for my poor mother to bury? What, goddamn it, what?
But then I heard a noise. A very conspicuous noise, a noise like the growling stomach of a bear that hasn't eating in 5 months.
Jamie: Um, Jason....when do bears wake up?
Jason: Oh, not until March 2nd, at least.
Holyfuck, holyfuck, holyfuck, holyfuck.
Jason: Those aren't bear noises, though. That sounds mechanical.
Jamie: Oh sure. Mechanical. Because there are machines hibernating in the forest now, right? How stupid do you think I am?
He didn't answer that. I mean, we've together for 7 years, and he's not a fan of sleeping on the couch. But when we extricated ourselves from the tangle of trees, he did point at this thing:
So, not a bear after all. Just a train hiding in the middle of the woods, probably taking an unscheduled coffee break or something. Speaking of which, some hot cappuccino sure does sound good right about now..... and so we agree to start heading down.
We made our way down a little quicker than was necessary, and let me just say - kids, don't try this at home.
But when I tried to take a picture of Jason, he insisted on standing closer to the ledge, and at the exact second I was saying Not too close though, or you'll make me nervous, he was saying It's not fun until you're nervous. So he stood upon this log, and I took the picture, and when he went to hop off, the log (no doubt loosened by a bear just moments before) began to roll backwards, down the cliff, with Jason still on it.
Now I have reason to believe that Jason is secretly a super hero, because the guy literally log-rolled halfway down a mountain and managed to stay upright the entire time. Meanwhile, I was slipping sliding every which way just trying to put one foot in front of the other, and even made this breathless statement at one point:
Oh for fuck's sakes, did you see that? This here leg slid out further than you would have thought possible, and this other leg had to run to catch up to it!
In all of our wandering, we did once accidentally find ourselves on the actual trail, and I recognized this view from last year- see it in the springtime here. Poor tilty tree, it must be even tireder than me!
Just as we were getting back to base, the projected snowstorm hit with full force. An ice pellet hit me right in the eyeball, so I fell to the ground yelling Man down! Man down! and mumbling about how I was blind and how Jason would have to scour the forest floor for the missing slice of my eye when he threatened me with abandonment.
Do you want me to go get the car and pick you up? he asked, and I marvelled at the iciness of his heart.
He would leave me alone with the bears and the owls, and the isolators, and the train conductor?
So I bravely winked my watery eye until vision returned and managed to crawl back to the safety of the car, which was already buried under 13 feet (well, a few millimeters anyway) of snow, and we got the hell out of dodge.
What, isn't that how you spent your Thursday?
More pictures here.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Brownies For Broken Hearts
I am sad to say that the world has lost a tender heart.
His name was Michael, he was 31 years old, and he was a resident at the group home where I volunteer. He had Down Syndrome, but that wasn't what defined him. He was great with a glue stick. He adored macaroni. He was enthusiastic about exercise. And he was a volunteer himself - I would often take him down to the animal shelter where we walked some of the dogs.
But this is not a post about Michael. This is a post about the people he left behind.
When you work at a residence like this, you always know in the back of your mind that this is what can happen. A genetic disorder such as Down Syndrome has not just mental defects, but physical ones as well. In the end, it wasn't his mind that failed Michael, it was his heart. And his heart had been giving him trouble for some time. But when I kissed him goodbye as they loaded him into the ambulance last week, I didn't let the thought in. If I had, I might have hugged him harder, longer. If I had, my last words to him probably wouldn't have been "See you on taco night."
Three days later, he was dead.
And we, the staff, were devastated. But we had more important things to do than grieve: we had to help the other residents not just come to terms with death, but understand what it means.
The lovely and talented Queen of Spain just wrote a great post about explaining death to kids, but these aren't children. Developmentally, they may be a lot like children, but in terms of life experience, they're like wizened octogenarians. They've fought wars of discrimination, they live in institutions, they're in and out of hospitals, they've watched friends and family disappear from their lives, they've been denied what others might consider the fundamentals of life. They are old souls in naive bodies.
And when their friend disappears suddenly, they want to know why.
But death is one of those slippery subjects. I have a degree in psychology and took several courses in death and dying, but I still don't know what to say to them.
The mood in the house is eerie; there are no tears, but there is quiet, all-encompassing quiet.
I go to the kitchen and get to work. I am making brownies because brownies are the best comfort I know how to give.
Soon the residents join me. They are still quiet, but inquisitive.
Annie says to me Michael is not coming back. We took the sheets off his bed.
I know, I tell her. Does that make you sad?
Well, she says, I think he should still keep a bed because maybe he'll still be tired.
Michael is dead, Annie. Do you know what that means?
And then Antwone, a new resident, chimes in with When you get dead, you don't ever come back because you go in the ground and you don't need to sleep anymore because your eyes are always closed anyway.
Oh, says Annie, and I don't know if this has helped her or not. Are the brownies for us?
I thought it would be nice if we made brownies to bring to Michael's funeral. Do you want to help me?
I'll help you, says Peter, and he arms himself with a wooden spoon.
So...we're not going to eat the brownies? Annie has a sweet tooth.
Not yet, I tell her. When somebody dies their friends and family are very sad because they miss them so much. To help them feel better, sometimes people give them good food.
But Michael loves tacos, not brownies!
The brownies are not for Michael, they're for the people at Michael's funeral. When people are dead, they don't eat or sleep anymore.
Not even Pringles? (Peter loves Pringles).
Not even Pringles. When you're dead, your body stops working. When we go to the funeral, we will see Michael's body, but it won't be working. He won't be talking or eating or watching TV. We have to say goodbye to his body because after the funeral we won't ever see it again. That's why he won't need his bed. But do you know where Michael will still exist?
In pictures! someone shouted.
Yes, in pictures, I say, and also in our memories. We can remember Michael because we loved him so much.
So we made our brownies, and all agreed that they looked yummy and that they would make Michael's Mom feel loved.
And then we had subdued craft time, and we all made flowers out of tissue paper and drew memories of Michael on the petals. We had a lot of hugs.
Later, at home with bags of tissue-paper flowers, I cried over the pictures: Michael watching Canadian Idol, Michael playing Twister, Michael watering the plants, Michael helping Peter to make his bed. Grief is different for these people, but they have clearly illustrated that the loss of Michael leaves a big hole in their lives, and I don't know how to heal it.
The next day, seeing Michael's coffin overflow with our flowers, I thought about what his loss meant to me. I thought how sad it was that such a good person was taken so early. I thought how sad it was how none of had the chance to say goodbye, and how he had slipped away quietly, and alone. I thought about never hearing his greeting again, never admiring his leaf collection again, never listening to him sing Aerosmith songs as we did the dishes again. Ever, ever again.
Yes, a hole. A definite hole in my heart. Our society would not call his a "tragic" death - he didn't leave behind small children, he wasn't a hero, he didn't contribute in the normal way that people do. But let me tell you - Michael was a special person, and he made a difference in a lot of lives. He made a difference in mine.
The plan was to attend the reception after the funeral, but we never did make it. The gang was restless after the funeral. Annie cried because she'd tried to shake Michael awake and Michael hadn't woken. It was finally sinking in: Michael is dead.
The brownies never made it to the reception either, but that's okay. The brownies were made to make Michael's family feel better, and that's what they did. We were Michael's family. So we sat, one big family, in a van in the funeral home's parking lot, and ate brownies, and remembered our friend and brother.
His name was Michael, he was 31 years old, and he was a resident at the group home where I volunteer. He had Down Syndrome, but that wasn't what defined him. He was great with a glue stick. He adored macaroni. He was enthusiastic about exercise. And he was a volunteer himself - I would often take him down to the animal shelter where we walked some of the dogs.
But this is not a post about Michael. This is a post about the people he left behind.
When you work at a residence like this, you always know in the back of your mind that this is what can happen. A genetic disorder such as Down Syndrome has not just mental defects, but physical ones as well. In the end, it wasn't his mind that failed Michael, it was his heart. And his heart had been giving him trouble for some time. But when I kissed him goodbye as they loaded him into the ambulance last week, I didn't let the thought in. If I had, I might have hugged him harder, longer. If I had, my last words to him probably wouldn't have been "See you on taco night."
Three days later, he was dead.
And we, the staff, were devastated. But we had more important things to do than grieve: we had to help the other residents not just come to terms with death, but understand what it means.
The lovely and talented Queen of Spain just wrote a great post about explaining death to kids, but these aren't children. Developmentally, they may be a lot like children, but in terms of life experience, they're like wizened octogenarians. They've fought wars of discrimination, they live in institutions, they're in and out of hospitals, they've watched friends and family disappear from their lives, they've been denied what others might consider the fundamentals of life. They are old souls in naive bodies.
And when their friend disappears suddenly, they want to know why.
But death is one of those slippery subjects. I have a degree in psychology and took several courses in death and dying, but I still don't know what to say to them.
The mood in the house is eerie; there are no tears, but there is quiet, all-encompassing quiet.
I go to the kitchen and get to work. I am making brownies because brownies are the best comfort I know how to give.
Soon the residents join me. They are still quiet, but inquisitive.
Annie says to me Michael is not coming back. We took the sheets off his bed.
I know, I tell her. Does that make you sad?
Well, she says, I think he should still keep a bed because maybe he'll still be tired.
Michael is dead, Annie. Do you know what that means?
And then Antwone, a new resident, chimes in with When you get dead, you don't ever come back because you go in the ground and you don't need to sleep anymore because your eyes are always closed anyway.
Oh, says Annie, and I don't know if this has helped her or not. Are the brownies for us?
I thought it would be nice if we made brownies to bring to Michael's funeral. Do you want to help me?
I'll help you, says Peter, and he arms himself with a wooden spoon.
So...we're not going to eat the brownies? Annie has a sweet tooth.
Not yet, I tell her. When somebody dies their friends and family are very sad because they miss them so much. To help them feel better, sometimes people give them good food.
But Michael loves tacos, not brownies!
The brownies are not for Michael, they're for the people at Michael's funeral. When people are dead, they don't eat or sleep anymore.
Not even Pringles? (Peter loves Pringles).
Not even Pringles. When you're dead, your body stops working. When we go to the funeral, we will see Michael's body, but it won't be working. He won't be talking or eating or watching TV. We have to say goodbye to his body because after the funeral we won't ever see it again. That's why he won't need his bed. But do you know where Michael will still exist?
In pictures! someone shouted.
Yes, in pictures, I say, and also in our memories. We can remember Michael because we loved him so much.
So we made our brownies, and all agreed that they looked yummy and that they would make Michael's Mom feel loved.
And then we had subdued craft time, and we all made flowers out of tissue paper and drew memories of Michael on the petals. We had a lot of hugs.
Later, at home with bags of tissue-paper flowers, I cried over the pictures: Michael watching Canadian Idol, Michael playing Twister, Michael watering the plants, Michael helping Peter to make his bed. Grief is different for these people, but they have clearly illustrated that the loss of Michael leaves a big hole in their lives, and I don't know how to heal it.
The next day, seeing Michael's coffin overflow with our flowers, I thought about what his loss meant to me. I thought how sad it was that such a good person was taken so early. I thought how sad it was how none of had the chance to say goodbye, and how he had slipped away quietly, and alone. I thought about never hearing his greeting again, never admiring his leaf collection again, never listening to him sing Aerosmith songs as we did the dishes again. Ever, ever again.
Yes, a hole. A definite hole in my heart. Our society would not call his a "tragic" death - he didn't leave behind small children, he wasn't a hero, he didn't contribute in the normal way that people do. But let me tell you - Michael was a special person, and he made a difference in a lot of lives. He made a difference in mine.
The plan was to attend the reception after the funeral, but we never did make it. The gang was restless after the funeral. Annie cried because she'd tried to shake Michael awake and Michael hadn't woken. It was finally sinking in: Michael is dead.
The brownies never made it to the reception either, but that's okay. The brownies were made to make Michael's family feel better, and that's what they did. We were Michael's family. So we sat, one big family, in a van in the funeral home's parking lot, and ate brownies, and remembered our friend and brother.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
You Rock My World
There was a U.P.O.S. between two benches of the subway (an unidentified pile of "something") so all the passengers were sitting rather intimately as far away from it as possible, myself included. It would have been kind of romantic, in a polygamist kind of way, had it not been for the fact that the woman beside me had obviously been bathing in french onion soup and brushing her teeth with hummus, and the man beside her thought that pants were optional, and the sexless person beside him was blowing bubbles with his spit and then trying to catch them in a piece of tupperware, and of course, there was the stench of the abandoned pile of probable-vomit. Despite the obvious stinking attraction of this pile, the riders were all looking at me, and I thought, Great, so it's written on my forehead. Everyone knows that I am riding this train toward my death.
So right off the bat, you gotta be thinking: death, vomit, polygamy...this can only mean that Date Night lives again. And you know what? You're right!
Although, for the record, any date spent clinging to a wall instead of a man is not much of a date, in my opinion.
We went rockclimbing. Actually, we went indoor wall climbing, but they paint the wall grey and make it kind of craggly, which doesn't convince you it's a rock, but you're supposed to want to climb it anyway.
I'm not sure why rock climbing is supposed to be fun. I mean, it's hard to get to the top and there's not even a payoff. If they wanted to make rock climbing a more rational, rewarding experience, they'd put a steakhouse on top, or at least one of those vibrating arm chairs where you could rest your aching muscles.
But no. You get to the top, and then they just want you to come down again.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
We had made reservations at Joe Rockhead's, but in the few days between making the reservation and actually showing up, I had rethunk my position on life, and ending said life after falling head-first to the concrete floor below. I wanted to live.
As a couple of virgin climbers, we had hired a seasoned climbing whore to show us the ropes. But as it turns out, the rope was the least of our worries, because first comes The Harness. The Harness is is the ugliest piece of lingerie you'll ever see, and to make matters worse, you wear it outside your clothes.
"Haha!" I said, pointing to Jason's crotch. "It frames your package!"
"Haha!" he said, pointing to my ass. "It frames your cellulite!"
Just kidding. Jason couldn't tell cellulite from a bowl or raisins. He still thinks they're "cute booty dimples".
Then it was time for our lesson in belaying. Belaying means that one person controls the ropes while the other person dangles from a crevice smaller than half a banana - and between you and me, I wouldn't trust half a banana with my life. And for that matter, I'm not sure I trust Jason's belaying with my life, either. I mean, this is the guy who often washes his right armpit twice and his left not at all. Now, belaying would make me a lot happier if it prevented you from falling, but in fact, it only prevents you from falling to your death, hopefully. And trust me - in that split second between falling and not falling, the heart in your throat can barely distinguish the two.
So, being the chivalrous girl that I am, I let Jason go first. I wasn't necessarily hoping he'd die. I figured that even if he just bruised a couple of vertebrae, I'd still get to ride in the ambulance with him to the hospital and thus, miss my turn.
But stupid Jason managed to scale the whole wall in like 26 seconds. The dude is strong. He says he's strong from all those mornings he had to drag me out of bed before noon. Grumpy Jamie is great resistance training.
And then it was my turn. I was nervous, but not too nervous because I'd updated my will before leaving the house. I decided to make friends with the faux-rock wall. After all, the tiny toeholds and fingerholds that would allow me to preserve life were painted in bright primary colours to lull me into a (false) sense of security. So I climbed. And I climbed. And I climbed and I climbed and I climbed. And when I looked down, I realized I was still only 6 inches off the ground. Turns out, I'm not a vertical climber, I'm a horizontal one. I kept going sideways when I should have been going up.
Eventually I found up, one tiny plastic hold at a time. Most people stay attached to the wall via fingers and toes, but as I found out the hard way, those little plastic knobs have no sense of decency. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when Jason yelled up "Hey Jamie, I think you have a harness wedgie!", which was about as helpful as you might imagine. It's hard to find a spare hand when you're using both of yours to stave off death, but I cozied up to the wall and picked away. Unfortunately, I leaned right into a pink plastic toehold, and it immediately found a very private place to call home.
Did I mention that I thought rock climbing to be a bit ridiculous? It's true. I can't imagine a scenario in which my new rock climbing skills will come in handy. I mean, when am I likely to be trapped on a large, sheer rock? Barring a pterodactyl picking me up and depositing me there, I doubt it'll come up. And frankly, after my "special" relationship with a certain toehold, I am not eager to make love to any more rocks. I mean, I think I showed that rock a pretty good time, and what did I get? Apart from the chapping in awkward places, not a whole lot. Rocks are very inconsiderate lovers.
Anyway, after our lesson in getting felt up by an inanimate object, we went out for a drink - at a juice bar. A juice bar! How yuppie is that? But I figured, hey, I'm already wearing yoga clothes in public, I may as well play the part - so I said yes to the wheatgrass and let Jason pour the stuff down my throat (my arms were dead - turns out, I'm heavy, and gravity's a bitch). I even lied and said it "wasn't completely gross".
Yes, it's true. I am a total romantic at heart.
Death be damned - I love dating my husband.
So right off the bat, you gotta be thinking: death, vomit, polygamy...this can only mean that Date Night lives again. And you know what? You're right!
Although, for the record, any date spent clinging to a wall instead of a man is not much of a date, in my opinion.
We went rockclimbing. Actually, we went indoor wall climbing, but they paint the wall grey and make it kind of craggly, which doesn't convince you it's a rock, but you're supposed to want to climb it anyway.
I'm not sure why rock climbing is supposed to be fun. I mean, it's hard to get to the top and there's not even a payoff. If they wanted to make rock climbing a more rational, rewarding experience, they'd put a steakhouse on top, or at least one of those vibrating arm chairs where you could rest your aching muscles.
But no. You get to the top, and then they just want you to come down again.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
We had made reservations at Joe Rockhead's, but in the few days between making the reservation and actually showing up, I had rethunk my position on life, and ending said life after falling head-first to the concrete floor below. I wanted to live.
As a couple of virgin climbers, we had hired a seasoned climbing whore to show us the ropes. But as it turns out, the rope was the least of our worries, because first comes The Harness. The Harness is is the ugliest piece of lingerie you'll ever see, and to make matters worse, you wear it outside your clothes.
"Haha!" I said, pointing to Jason's crotch. "It frames your package!"
"Haha!" he said, pointing to my ass. "It frames your cellulite!"
Just kidding. Jason couldn't tell cellulite from a bowl or raisins. He still thinks they're "cute booty dimples".
Then it was time for our lesson in belaying. Belaying means that one person controls the ropes while the other person dangles from a crevice smaller than half a banana - and between you and me, I wouldn't trust half a banana with my life. And for that matter, I'm not sure I trust Jason's belaying with my life, either. I mean, this is the guy who often washes his right armpit twice and his left not at all. Now, belaying would make me a lot happier if it prevented you from falling, but in fact, it only prevents you from falling to your death, hopefully. And trust me - in that split second between falling and not falling, the heart in your throat can barely distinguish the two.
So, being the chivalrous girl that I am, I let Jason go first. I wasn't necessarily hoping he'd die. I figured that even if he just bruised a couple of vertebrae, I'd still get to ride in the ambulance with him to the hospital and thus, miss my turn.
But stupid Jason managed to scale the whole wall in like 26 seconds. The dude is strong. He says he's strong from all those mornings he had to drag me out of bed before noon. Grumpy Jamie is great resistance training.
And then it was my turn. I was nervous, but not too nervous because I'd updated my will before leaving the house. I decided to make friends with the faux-rock wall. After all, the tiny toeholds and fingerholds that would allow me to preserve life were painted in bright primary colours to lull me into a (false) sense of security. So I climbed. And I climbed. And I climbed and I climbed and I climbed. And when I looked down, I realized I was still only 6 inches off the ground. Turns out, I'm not a vertical climber, I'm a horizontal one. I kept going sideways when I should have been going up.
Eventually I found up, one tiny plastic hold at a time. Most people stay attached to the wall via fingers and toes, but as I found out the hard way, those little plastic knobs have no sense of decency. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when Jason yelled up "Hey Jamie, I think you have a harness wedgie!", which was about as helpful as you might imagine. It's hard to find a spare hand when you're using both of yours to stave off death, but I cozied up to the wall and picked away. Unfortunately, I leaned right into a pink plastic toehold, and it immediately found a very private place to call home.
Did I mention that I thought rock climbing to be a bit ridiculous? It's true. I can't imagine a scenario in which my new rock climbing skills will come in handy. I mean, when am I likely to be trapped on a large, sheer rock? Barring a pterodactyl picking me up and depositing me there, I doubt it'll come up. And frankly, after my "special" relationship with a certain toehold, I am not eager to make love to any more rocks. I mean, I think I showed that rock a pretty good time, and what did I get? Apart from the chapping in awkward places, not a whole lot. Rocks are very inconsiderate lovers.
Anyway, after our lesson in getting felt up by an inanimate object, we went out for a drink - at a juice bar. A juice bar! How yuppie is that? But I figured, hey, I'm already wearing yoga clothes in public, I may as well play the part - so I said yes to the wheatgrass and let Jason pour the stuff down my throat (my arms were dead - turns out, I'm heavy, and gravity's a bitch). I even lied and said it "wasn't completely gross".
Yes, it's true. I am a total romantic at heart.
Death be damned - I love dating my husband.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Why Science Fiction Sucks the Big One: An Expository Essay
Good lord I hate science fiction.
I tried to keep an open mind, I really did, but the first sentence that goes a little something like "and then we ate some freeze-dried meatloaf" or "you walk through this portal to get to the next planet" and my mind just slams firmly shut in a stunning display of superiority and snobbery.
I guess my main beef with stupid science fiction is that the authors' imaginations are always so limited. Space travel quickly becomes a bore: the aliens always look vaguely like humans, but maybe their skin is green, or their craniums are disproportionately large (as if all intelligent creatures are humanoid by default!); travel is quick, but somehow it's always done by a variation on the theme of rocket ship which is totally improbable (we move everything else virtually, or by fiber optics, but somehow for outer space, we like to travel by tin can); humans invariably start colonizing other planets, which are always conveniently similar to earth, even their atmospheres are amazingly not a problem for human lungs.
You can usually tell what decade a sci-fi story was written in. In the 70s, writers apparently believed that in the future, even centuries or millennia into the future, there would still be disco, but this disco would just have a lot more lasers and holograms to it, and the platform shoes would double as moon boots.
Lame!!!
But science-fiction writers appear to be even less able to imagine the future than the average cat. In the eighteenth century, science fiction consisted of: we travel to places quite quickly with our new hover-horses, and we wear hoop skirts with many pockets in them, convenient for storing our super-cool gadgets, like the combination garlic press\candle stick that comes in handy ever so often and we have no idea how people used to live without them, and a loaf of bread costs a whole 90 cents these days! Science fiction today is pretty much the same crap, with different hover crafts, and slightly different gadgets, but never different by much, and slightly different spellings, like putting a K where a C belonged.
Lame!!!!
Science fiction writers seem to only be able to predict, say, the next 20 minutes or so. I just finished reading Snow Crash, for example, which was a pretty decent read, except the entire novel was discredited for me by its constant referral to videotape. I mean, this story was written in 1992, which means that videotape was obsolete about 46 days after publication. How can I possibly envision this future when I already know that tape is a relic of the past?
Lame!!!!
It's painful for me to read this crap. It's also painful that this stuff is labeled 'science fiction'. Better possible names for the genre:
stunted imaginations
unscientific-barely-educated-conjecture
laser-licious
nerd alert!
books that will make fools of their authors about 30 minutes after they're published
God I hate science fiction.
Although....one of my all-time favourite books is The Handmaid's Tale, which seems misplaced to me in the science fiction section, but there it is. What's the difference?
Well, for one thing, it doesn't emphasize silver parachute pants as the major fashion statement of the year 3287. Gadget talk is kept to a minimum. The usual trappings that only serve to stem and date an author are cast aside for what's really interesting about the future - I mean, who cares how much storage my computer will have 15 minutes from now? Instead, Margaret Atwood tells us of the human experience, the psychology of the future, the moral implications of living in an ever-changing world. I was much, much less in love with Oryx and Crake. It hurts me to say that my favourite author may have fallen prey to the sci-fi formula that I find so repulsive.
But as I think about it, I realize I have also read and enjoyed a lot of Isaac Asimov's work. Normally, the merest mention of 'robot' would have me running for the hills, but Asimov has more in common with Atwood than you might first think. While she writes about human morality (or lack thereof), he writes about machine morality (or lack thereof). These are equally compelling when done right, and equally appalling when done wrong, which it so, so often is.
Dan Simmons, I am sorry to say, you are a moron. Your "frightening alien" seemed more to me like the recycling of "swamp thing", only with sharper fingers.
Lame!!!!
Douglas Coupland, I am not sorry to say, I seriously doubt that the future consists solely of people getting gayer. Why are all the men of your future nerdy metrosexuals?
Lame!!!!
After you read a few of these books, you quickly get the impression that these guys live in mouldy basements with the same curling Star Wars posters on the wall, and tatty underwear in their drawers, and underused toothbrushes drying out by their sinks. Science Fiction is often paired with or synonymous with fantasy, which is ironic, isn't it? I mean, what kind of fantasy is pretty much like reality, except with slightly smaller cellphones with slightly better reception?
Dream bigger, boys!
I know, I know, I'm being awfully hard on science fiction novels here.
If it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I hate more than reading science fiction, and that's watching it. George Lucas, you'd better know you're on my shit list too. I'm coming for you, baby.
I tried to keep an open mind, I really did, but the first sentence that goes a little something like "and then we ate some freeze-dried meatloaf" or "you walk through this portal to get to the next planet" and my mind just slams firmly shut in a stunning display of superiority and snobbery.
I guess my main beef with stupid science fiction is that the authors' imaginations are always so limited. Space travel quickly becomes a bore: the aliens always look vaguely like humans, but maybe their skin is green, or their craniums are disproportionately large (as if all intelligent creatures are humanoid by default!); travel is quick, but somehow it's always done by a variation on the theme of rocket ship which is totally improbable (we move everything else virtually, or by fiber optics, but somehow for outer space, we like to travel by tin can); humans invariably start colonizing other planets, which are always conveniently similar to earth, even their atmospheres are amazingly not a problem for human lungs.
You can usually tell what decade a sci-fi story was written in. In the 70s, writers apparently believed that in the future, even centuries or millennia into the future, there would still be disco, but this disco would just have a lot more lasers and holograms to it, and the platform shoes would double as moon boots.
Lame!!!
But science-fiction writers appear to be even less able to imagine the future than the average cat. In the eighteenth century, science fiction consisted of: we travel to places quite quickly with our new hover-horses, and we wear hoop skirts with many pockets in them, convenient for storing our super-cool gadgets, like the combination garlic press\candle stick that comes in handy ever so often and we have no idea how people used to live without them, and a loaf of bread costs a whole 90 cents these days! Science fiction today is pretty much the same crap, with different hover crafts, and slightly different gadgets, but never different by much, and slightly different spellings, like putting a K where a C belonged.
Lame!!!!
Science fiction writers seem to only be able to predict, say, the next 20 minutes or so. I just finished reading Snow Crash, for example, which was a pretty decent read, except the entire novel was discredited for me by its constant referral to videotape. I mean, this story was written in 1992, which means that videotape was obsolete about 46 days after publication. How can I possibly envision this future when I already know that tape is a relic of the past?
Lame!!!!
It's painful for me to read this crap. It's also painful that this stuff is labeled 'science fiction'. Better possible names for the genre:
stunted imaginations
unscientific-barely-educated-conjecture
laser-licious
nerd alert!
books that will make fools of their authors about 30 minutes after they're published
God I hate science fiction.
Although....one of my all-time favourite books is The Handmaid's Tale, which seems misplaced to me in the science fiction section, but there it is. What's the difference?
Well, for one thing, it doesn't emphasize silver parachute pants as the major fashion statement of the year 3287. Gadget talk is kept to a minimum. The usual trappings that only serve to stem and date an author are cast aside for what's really interesting about the future - I mean, who cares how much storage my computer will have 15 minutes from now? Instead, Margaret Atwood tells us of the human experience, the psychology of the future, the moral implications of living in an ever-changing world. I was much, much less in love with Oryx and Crake. It hurts me to say that my favourite author may have fallen prey to the sci-fi formula that I find so repulsive.
But as I think about it, I realize I have also read and enjoyed a lot of Isaac Asimov's work. Normally, the merest mention of 'robot' would have me running for the hills, but Asimov has more in common with Atwood than you might first think. While she writes about human morality (or lack thereof), he writes about machine morality (or lack thereof). These are equally compelling when done right, and equally appalling when done wrong, which it so, so often is.
Dan Simmons, I am sorry to say, you are a moron. Your "frightening alien" seemed more to me like the recycling of "swamp thing", only with sharper fingers.
Lame!!!!
Douglas Coupland, I am not sorry to say, I seriously doubt that the future consists solely of people getting gayer. Why are all the men of your future nerdy metrosexuals?
Lame!!!!
After you read a few of these books, you quickly get the impression that these guys live in mouldy basements with the same curling Star Wars posters on the wall, and tatty underwear in their drawers, and underused toothbrushes drying out by their sinks. Science Fiction is often paired with or synonymous with fantasy, which is ironic, isn't it? I mean, what kind of fantasy is pretty much like reality, except with slightly smaller cellphones with slightly better reception?
Dream bigger, boys!
I know, I know, I'm being awfully hard on science fiction novels here.
If it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I hate more than reading science fiction, and that's watching it. George Lucas, you'd better know you're on my shit list too. I'm coming for you, baby.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Funny things Jason says when he doesn't know he's being funny:
Jason had a charity dinner at a Chinese restaurant downtown this weekend.
When he came home, the first thing out of his mouth was "What is tallapia?"
"It's fish," I told him.
"Oh, thank god."
******
"I can't wash my face anymore."
"Can't? Why?"
"Well, maybe not can't. More like won't. I won't wash my face anymore."
"Why why why?"
"Well, if you stepped on a rat -"
"A rat? In the house?"
"In the shower!"
"In the shower?"
"Yes, in the shower. I was washing, and then I stepped on a rat, and it did this horrible squishing thing under my foot and I wanted to barf and it made this squeaking sound and it was the worst thing in the world."
"Oh my god, there was a rat in the shower and you didn't tell me! How did it get there?!?!?"
"Well, that's the thing. It wasn't really a rat. It turned out it was just the face scrub you gave me for Christmas. But it felt like a rat. And it spewed out all that exfoliant stuff and the whole bathroom smelled overwhelmingly of mango and I was really traumatized."
"Uh huh."
"So you see how I can't possibly wash my face anymore."
"Because all the face scrub went down the drain, or because of the trauma?"
"The trauma."
"Right."
****************
"Did you have a good day at work today, handsome?"
"Did I!" I must have went through 40, 50 rubbers. What a day!"
note: As I later found out, a "rubber" is a clever device that you stick on the end of a hanger so that slippery items like silk camis don't fall off of them.
*****************
"How'd you ever get to be such a bitch?"
"Oh, years and years of practise, mostly."
"Plus, it's pretty much the family business, right?"
"Well, there's that."
************
You made these just for me?"
"Yes sir."
"Bfthwogttt."
"What was that?"
"Sorry. I was saying they look too good to eat."
"But you had 4 of them in your mouth."
"Well, I meant it metaphorically, obviously."
"Good one."
"Thanks."
"Well, I meant it sarcastically, obviously."
**************
"You look really yummy today, Jame."
"Thanks."
"Is that they eyelet cami I brought home the other day?"
"The same."
"Hmm. I wouldn't have thought to layer it under green cashmere. Love the off-the-shoulder thing though."
"Yeah yeah yeah. You're late for work."
...
9ish hours later, I pick Jason up at his work.
There is a mannequin in the window looking awfully familiar. She's wearing my outfit.
And actually, the one beside her is dressed a lot like Jason.
The mannequins are touching hands.
"That's creepy. Why is that mannequin wearing my outfit?"
"I missed you today."
"And was she a good substitute?"
"Not really. I mean, the quiet was nice, but the kissing kind of sucked."
"Har har."
"You think I'm kidding?"
"Dear god I hope so."
When he came home, the first thing out of his mouth was "What is tallapia?"
"It's fish," I told him.
"Oh, thank god."
******
"I can't wash my face anymore."
"Can't? Why?"
"Well, maybe not can't. More like won't. I won't wash my face anymore."
"Why why why?"
"Well, if you stepped on a rat -"
"A rat? In the house?"
"In the shower!"
"In the shower?"
"Yes, in the shower. I was washing, and then I stepped on a rat, and it did this horrible squishing thing under my foot and I wanted to barf and it made this squeaking sound and it was the worst thing in the world."
"Oh my god, there was a rat in the shower and you didn't tell me! How did it get there?!?!?"
"Well, that's the thing. It wasn't really a rat. It turned out it was just the face scrub you gave me for Christmas. But it felt like a rat. And it spewed out all that exfoliant stuff and the whole bathroom smelled overwhelmingly of mango and I was really traumatized."
"Uh huh."
"So you see how I can't possibly wash my face anymore."
"Because all the face scrub went down the drain, or because of the trauma?"
"The trauma."
"Right."
****************
"Did you have a good day at work today, handsome?"
"Did I!" I must have went through 40, 50 rubbers. What a day!"
note: As I later found out, a "rubber" is a clever device that you stick on the end of a hanger so that slippery items like silk camis don't fall off of them.
*****************
"How'd you ever get to be such a bitch?"
"Oh, years and years of practise, mostly."
"Plus, it's pretty much the family business, right?"
"Well, there's that."
************
You made these just for me?"
"Yes sir."
"Bfthwogttt."
"What was that?"
"Sorry. I was saying they look too good to eat."
"But you had 4 of them in your mouth."
"Well, I meant it metaphorically, obviously."
"Good one."
"Thanks."
"Well, I meant it sarcastically, obviously."
**************
"You look really yummy today, Jame."
"Thanks."
"Is that they eyelet cami I brought home the other day?"
"The same."
"Hmm. I wouldn't have thought to layer it under green cashmere. Love the off-the-shoulder thing though."
"Yeah yeah yeah. You're late for work."
...
9ish hours later, I pick Jason up at his work.
There is a mannequin in the window looking awfully familiar. She's wearing my outfit.
And actually, the one beside her is dressed a lot like Jason.
The mannequins are touching hands.
"That's creepy. Why is that mannequin wearing my outfit?"
"I missed you today."
"And was she a good substitute?"
"Not really. I mean, the quiet was nice, but the kissing kind of sucked."
"Har har."
"You think I'm kidding?"
"Dear god I hope so."
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done
I made an important resolution for 2007, maybe not important to you, but very important to me.
It's not something I blog about, or talk about to my friends. I keep quiet about it because I'm embarrassed, I'm ashamed, I hate my weakness when I am strong, and I live in denial the rest of the time.
It's true what they say about the people in your life; some people will criticize you for your flaws, others will enable you. Some people have insisted that there is no problem, that I'm fine the way I am. But on the inside, I have been unhappy. I have felt insecure.
I have coping strategies. I try to hide it when I can, but it's hard, especially first thing in the morning. That's when I have the hardest time facing myself in the mirror.
Hello, my name is Jamie, and I'm an overplucker.
When I was a plucking virgin, I had a pair of hairy caterpillars squirming away across my brow, prompting complete strangers to ask whether I was a blood relation of Martin Scorsese. I felt this was not a flattering comparison, and so, one fateful night I allowed a friend of the family armed with tweezers, scissors, and a license to ill, to change my face forever.
Five pounds of eyebrow hair later, I was a changed woman. She took not only the stray hairs, but pieces of skin and nerve as well (I had a matching pair of black eyes for days). She did a lot of damage, and a lot of it was permanent. But I still somehow felt it was an improvement, and really, it was.
But instead of having oversized brows, I have sported undersized brows ever since. And though I always wished they were fuller, what could I do? Eyebrows do not grow in within days, or even weeks, and after the damage that was first inflicted, there are parts of my brows that just do not grow in at all.
But this year, I vowed to give myself a real gift - eyebrows. The first day was horrible. I stood in front of the mirror for 20 minutes willing myself to put down the tweezers. The hardest part is just to break the habit. Tweezing is my vice. I do it every day. I didn't know how to begin stopping, so I went to the pharmacy around the corner (with my toque pulled down real low), and though they have patches for almost everything else, there is no patch for tweezing. You have to quit cold turkey. There's not even a gum.
So I've been growing them. Every day I looked in the mirror and was horrified by the chaos above my baby blues. I wanted to hide in the house and keep my hairy secret to myself.
The first day I had the shakes. I sweated it out on the bathroom floor.
The second day I vomited until I hallucinated: Groucho Marx sang 'Moon River' to me until he was devoured slurpily by a caterpillar that crawled right off my face.
Withdrawal is a bitch.
But I think it's pretty much out of my system now. I only twitch a little when I see a pair of tweezers, but I JUST SAY NO, take it one day at a time, and all that crap. But I will probably always be an addict. I will always itch to tweeze. But I know now that I can beat this thing.
And you know what?
It's been two months, and I look totally hot.
Hawt.
Why in hell didn't I do this ages ago?
It's not something I blog about, or talk about to my friends. I keep quiet about it because I'm embarrassed, I'm ashamed, I hate my weakness when I am strong, and I live in denial the rest of the time.
It's true what they say about the people in your life; some people will criticize you for your flaws, others will enable you. Some people have insisted that there is no problem, that I'm fine the way I am. But on the inside, I have been unhappy. I have felt insecure.
I have coping strategies. I try to hide it when I can, but it's hard, especially first thing in the morning. That's when I have the hardest time facing myself in the mirror.
Hello, my name is Jamie, and I'm an overplucker.
When I was a plucking virgin, I had a pair of hairy caterpillars squirming away across my brow, prompting complete strangers to ask whether I was a blood relation of Martin Scorsese. I felt this was not a flattering comparison, and so, one fateful night I allowed a friend of the family armed with tweezers, scissors, and a license to ill, to change my face forever.
Five pounds of eyebrow hair later, I was a changed woman. She took not only the stray hairs, but pieces of skin and nerve as well (I had a matching pair of black eyes for days). She did a lot of damage, and a lot of it was permanent. But I still somehow felt it was an improvement, and really, it was.
But instead of having oversized brows, I have sported undersized brows ever since. And though I always wished they were fuller, what could I do? Eyebrows do not grow in within days, or even weeks, and after the damage that was first inflicted, there are parts of my brows that just do not grow in at all.
But this year, I vowed to give myself a real gift - eyebrows. The first day was horrible. I stood in front of the mirror for 20 minutes willing myself to put down the tweezers. The hardest part is just to break the habit. Tweezing is my vice. I do it every day. I didn't know how to begin stopping, so I went to the pharmacy around the corner (with my toque pulled down real low), and though they have patches for almost everything else, there is no patch for tweezing. You have to quit cold turkey. There's not even a gum.
So I've been growing them. Every day I looked in the mirror and was horrified by the chaos above my baby blues. I wanted to hide in the house and keep my hairy secret to myself.
The first day I had the shakes. I sweated it out on the bathroom floor.
The second day I vomited until I hallucinated: Groucho Marx sang 'Moon River' to me until he was devoured slurpily by a caterpillar that crawled right off my face.
Withdrawal is a bitch.
But I think it's pretty much out of my system now. I only twitch a little when I see a pair of tweezers, but I JUST SAY NO, take it one day at a time, and all that crap. But I will probably always be an addict. I will always itch to tweeze. But I know now that I can beat this thing.
And you know what?
It's been two months, and I look totally hot.
Hawt.
Why in hell didn't I do this ages ago?
Friday, February 02, 2007
Piece of Shit Car
If you live in the western hemisphere, then chances are, you've heard us coming.
When we bought the old Buick, she was a bargain. She was used, but barely. The previous owners were old people (aka, my grandparents), and as we all know, old people take really good care of their cars. I'm talking about flawless maintenance records, never being more than 5 minutes late for an oil change, never braking hard, never exceeding 26km\hr....and the back window was pleasantly decorated with hand-crafted doilies and shuffle board awards, so who could resist?
We overlooked the fact that it was powder blue because the price was right, and we tended not to care that she was as big as a boat because frankly, I was a little bit sentimental about the old thing: this is the car that I took (and passed) my driver's test in. This was the car that my grandfather would pick me up in at 5 am to go fishing with him for perch on the St Lawrence river, and then drive home half a day later, sunburnt and smelly fishy, at 19km\hr while while he recounted memories of his childhood which I was pretty sure weren't true.
Like I said, when we first got her, she was old (she's 10 years now) and she was ugly, but her tenacious spirit meant that she got us to where we were going. But the poor thing quickly went into shock. She had spent years under the gentle care of senior citizens, those kindly old people who put her to bed in a cozy garage at night, and took her out into the sunshine for nice sudsy baths, and never asked any more from her than to cart home the odd grocery bag filled with geritol and metamucil. But then one day she was replaced by a younger, sleeker model, and she fell into the hands of...dunh, dunh, dunh: the evil twenty-somethings!!!
These crazy kids ripped out the beaded seat cushions faster than you could eat a bran muffin. They played their voodoo music to decibel-splitting levels and steamed up the windows doing god-knows-what. They took her out for late-night slushie\pizza runs, and made her carry enormous loads, such as 17 of their drunk friends, who sometimes left behind smelly reminders of their ride home.
But worst of all - yes, worst of all - was their shocking and utter lack of consideration. They did not keep up with the old girl's maintenance regime.
True, we often thought to ourselves: well, we could rotate the tires...or, we could buy 3 cases of beer.
Guess which won out.
Yeah, like you had to guess.
So now our car is falling apart.
It started with the shaking. It shakes, constantly. For a while I was getting motion sickness while we were stopped at red lights, but this has been going on for so long that Jason has worked out a "solution." No, the solution does not involve spending money on fixing the car. It involves him keeping his foot on the gas while his other foot is on the brake. It doesn't stop the shaking altogether, but I've been biting my tongue a lot less.
Then the squirty part of the windshield wipers stopped working. They wipe, but they don't squirt fluid, so we can no longer drive behind trucks, on dirt roads, during springtime, or the fall.
And then Jason's (the driver's) power window stopped working. All the others are still fine, but Jason's is the one where we conduct all our best drive-thru business: the bank, the pharmacy, the cleaners...and for god's sake, don't forget the coffee! So now we have to stop and get out to do these things, which wouldn't be so awful except for the fact that whatever causes the car to shake also causes the battery to not get properly charged, which means either stalling at inappropriate times, or not starting at all, which is never appropriate. But if we take the chance and roll down that window, we have to drive an additional 25 minutes to get it back up. And we know now from experience that on the nights that we had to leave it open a crack, it WILL rain, the car seat WILL soak up the equivalent of an ocean (well, a small ocean, like maybe the Indian), and Jason WILL have to drive to work on top of 14 towels and 3 garbage bags just to keep his pants dry (however, it WILL be the wet seatbelt that leaves the dirty mark across his new shirt and tie).
Then my door (the passenger door) stopped opening from the inside. This has forced Jason to be chivalrous and open it for me from the outside, so perhaps this is just the car's way of getting back to her old-fashioned roots (emphasis on old).
Then the dashboard vents starting squirting anti-freeze into the car, upwards onto the windshield, and downwards onto my shoes, and all the other valuables, like my purse, mp3 player, laptop, and cellphone, that I keep there. We could probably deal with the weird fog that pools at my feet (and the fact that I have to keep all belongings on my lap). And we could probably deal with the noxious anti-freeze fumes that now give the car a "distinctive" scent that 678 tree-shaped air fresheners have so far failed to mask. What is harder to deal with is the film of anti-freeze that has accumulated on the inside of the windshield, which gives the world a dewy, hazy, bleary tinge that would reek of reduced visibility had not Jason come up with another of his patented "solutions": he bravely sacrificed (or stupidly ruined, whichever) one of his nicest shirts, which is now living a second life as a rag, one that gets rubbed on all the windows at least 8 kabillion times per trip (note: anti-freeze and cleaner are like oil and water, nothing cuts through this stuff, nothing gets rid of it...the best we can hope for is just to wipe it out of the way for small amounts of time).
And now the heater doesn't work. I told Jason not to despair, we had extra mittens, sure it would be cold, but we'd survive. But he said that actually, we might not survive, because on the coldest days, ice would freeze on the inside as well as out, and would be next to impossible to get off if the car wasn't warming, and driving in freezing rain would be extra hazardous, and then on the milder days, our breath would fog the windshield, and breath fog on top of anti-freeze fog would basically be like trying to see out the bottom of a mayonnaise jar, but with the mayonnaise still in it. Okay, so that was a better simile in my head. You get the point. But the good news is, now that we have no heater, the heater doesn't make that loud mating-call that it's been making for the past 2 months, which is good, because I'm tired of getting humped by geese.
So, to make a long story short (well, if you're reading this, then you've already read the long version...haha, I tricked you!) the car is almost not a car anymore.
So we have to decide whether to keep setting our money on fire (aka, fixing a car that just isn't ever going to be fixed) or just junking the thing completely. Because the way she drives now, we couldn't sell her for a box of donuts. She's not even worth much as scrap metal because one of these days I'll look in the driveway and see only a pile of rust dust where our car once was (you can tell, because our parking spot is the one with all the oil stains on it).
In the last year, we have invested in a new battery, new tires, new brakes, and other things that have names and functions I don't understand, and I feel like we're prolonging a life that has already run it's course. Time to pull the plug. Time to put her down. Time to get a bus pass.
But for now, she hobbles on her last legs because Jason knows I don't want to get a new car. Having this car has convinced me that we are terrible, irresponsible people who deserve to be pedestrians for the rest of our lives. We haven't earned the right to complain because we abused our poor car who only wanted to bring us the joy of getting places while obeying all posted traffic signs. We've been selfish. In the immortal words of Adam Sandler:
What the fuck did I do
What the fuck did I do
To get stuck with you
You're too wide for drive-thru
And you smell like the shoe
But I'm too broke to buy something new
Oh fuck me
I've got a piece of shit car.
When we bought the old Buick, she was a bargain. She was used, but barely. The previous owners were old people (aka, my grandparents), and as we all know, old people take really good care of their cars. I'm talking about flawless maintenance records, never being more than 5 minutes late for an oil change, never braking hard, never exceeding 26km\hr....and the back window was pleasantly decorated with hand-crafted doilies and shuffle board awards, so who could resist?
We overlooked the fact that it was powder blue because the price was right, and we tended not to care that she was as big as a boat because frankly, I was a little bit sentimental about the old thing: this is the car that I took (and passed) my driver's test in. This was the car that my grandfather would pick me up in at 5 am to go fishing with him for perch on the St Lawrence river, and then drive home half a day later, sunburnt and smelly fishy, at 19km\hr while while he recounted memories of his childhood which I was pretty sure weren't true.
Like I said, when we first got her, she was old (she's 10 years now) and she was ugly, but her tenacious spirit meant that she got us to where we were going. But the poor thing quickly went into shock. She had spent years under the gentle care of senior citizens, those kindly old people who put her to bed in a cozy garage at night, and took her out into the sunshine for nice sudsy baths, and never asked any more from her than to cart home the odd grocery bag filled with geritol and metamucil. But then one day she was replaced by a younger, sleeker model, and she fell into the hands of...dunh, dunh, dunh: the evil twenty-somethings!!!
These crazy kids ripped out the beaded seat cushions faster than you could eat a bran muffin. They played their voodoo music to decibel-splitting levels and steamed up the windows doing god-knows-what. They took her out for late-night slushie\pizza runs, and made her carry enormous loads, such as 17 of their drunk friends, who sometimes left behind smelly reminders of their ride home.
But worst of all - yes, worst of all - was their shocking and utter lack of consideration. They did not keep up with the old girl's maintenance regime.
True, we often thought to ourselves: well, we could rotate the tires...or, we could buy 3 cases of beer.
Guess which won out.
Yeah, like you had to guess.
So now our car is falling apart.
It started with the shaking. It shakes, constantly. For a while I was getting motion sickness while we were stopped at red lights, but this has been going on for so long that Jason has worked out a "solution." No, the solution does not involve spending money on fixing the car. It involves him keeping his foot on the gas while his other foot is on the brake. It doesn't stop the shaking altogether, but I've been biting my tongue a lot less.
Then the squirty part of the windshield wipers stopped working. They wipe, but they don't squirt fluid, so we can no longer drive behind trucks, on dirt roads, during springtime, or the fall.
And then Jason's (the driver's) power window stopped working. All the others are still fine, but Jason's is the one where we conduct all our best drive-thru business: the bank, the pharmacy, the cleaners...and for god's sake, don't forget the coffee! So now we have to stop and get out to do these things, which wouldn't be so awful except for the fact that whatever causes the car to shake also causes the battery to not get properly charged, which means either stalling at inappropriate times, or not starting at all, which is never appropriate. But if we take the chance and roll down that window, we have to drive an additional 25 minutes to get it back up. And we know now from experience that on the nights that we had to leave it open a crack, it WILL rain, the car seat WILL soak up the equivalent of an ocean (well, a small ocean, like maybe the Indian), and Jason WILL have to drive to work on top of 14 towels and 3 garbage bags just to keep his pants dry (however, it WILL be the wet seatbelt that leaves the dirty mark across his new shirt and tie).
Then my door (the passenger door) stopped opening from the inside. This has forced Jason to be chivalrous and open it for me from the outside, so perhaps this is just the car's way of getting back to her old-fashioned roots (emphasis on old).
Then the dashboard vents starting squirting anti-freeze into the car, upwards onto the windshield, and downwards onto my shoes, and all the other valuables, like my purse, mp3 player, laptop, and cellphone, that I keep there. We could probably deal with the weird fog that pools at my feet (and the fact that I have to keep all belongings on my lap). And we could probably deal with the noxious anti-freeze fumes that now give the car a "distinctive" scent that 678 tree-shaped air fresheners have so far failed to mask. What is harder to deal with is the film of anti-freeze that has accumulated on the inside of the windshield, which gives the world a dewy, hazy, bleary tinge that would reek of reduced visibility had not Jason come up with another of his patented "solutions": he bravely sacrificed (or stupidly ruined, whichever) one of his nicest shirts, which is now living a second life as a rag, one that gets rubbed on all the windows at least 8 kabillion times per trip (note: anti-freeze and cleaner are like oil and water, nothing cuts through this stuff, nothing gets rid of it...the best we can hope for is just to wipe it out of the way for small amounts of time).
And now the heater doesn't work. I told Jason not to despair, we had extra mittens, sure it would be cold, but we'd survive. But he said that actually, we might not survive, because on the coldest days, ice would freeze on the inside as well as out, and would be next to impossible to get off if the car wasn't warming, and driving in freezing rain would be extra hazardous, and then on the milder days, our breath would fog the windshield, and breath fog on top of anti-freeze fog would basically be like trying to see out the bottom of a mayonnaise jar, but with the mayonnaise still in it. Okay, so that was a better simile in my head. You get the point. But the good news is, now that we have no heater, the heater doesn't make that loud mating-call that it's been making for the past 2 months, which is good, because I'm tired of getting humped by geese.
So, to make a long story short (well, if you're reading this, then you've already read the long version...haha, I tricked you!) the car is almost not a car anymore.
So we have to decide whether to keep setting our money on fire (aka, fixing a car that just isn't ever going to be fixed) or just junking the thing completely. Because the way she drives now, we couldn't sell her for a box of donuts. She's not even worth much as scrap metal because one of these days I'll look in the driveway and see only a pile of rust dust where our car once was (you can tell, because our parking spot is the one with all the oil stains on it).
In the last year, we have invested in a new battery, new tires, new brakes, and other things that have names and functions I don't understand, and I feel like we're prolonging a life that has already run it's course. Time to pull the plug. Time to put her down. Time to get a bus pass.
But for now, she hobbles on her last legs because Jason knows I don't want to get a new car. Having this car has convinced me that we are terrible, irresponsible people who deserve to be pedestrians for the rest of our lives. We haven't earned the right to complain because we abused our poor car who only wanted to bring us the joy of getting places while obeying all posted traffic signs. We've been selfish. In the immortal words of Adam Sandler:
What the fuck did I do
What the fuck did I do
To get stuck with you
You're too wide for drive-thru
And you smell like the shoe
But I'm too broke to buy something new
Oh fuck me
I've got a piece of shit car.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Meant To Be
Right this very minute, are you, in your life, doing the thing you were meant to be doing?
How do you know?
When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a teacher. My mom kept one of those "school days" scrap books, and every year I wrote teacher as my life's big goal. Which is funny, because the only thing that I wouldn't hate about teaching is the chalk (except not the chalk handprints that all teachers have on their butts). A list of things I would rather do than teach:
1. Scoop rhinoceros poop out of zoo enclosures
2. Make hotdogs out of ground snouts and hooves
3. Edit James Joyce
4. Be Teen Abstinence Captain
So I really wonder where my 5-year old mind ever got the notion that I should be a teacher. When I was 7, we had "career day", and we were all compelled to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I drew this lovely picture of a no-necked nurse. On the back, it says: Jamie wanted to draw a teacher but she didn't know how, so she drew a nurse instead. So while I may have been confused about what I was going to be, I certainly knew what I would never be: an artist.
By the time I was 13, the whole teacher thing had completely disappeared. I was suffering greatly from the big fish, little pond syndrome. I was at the top of my class without any effort, so I started finding other ways to pass the hours between 9 and 3...and writing just happened to fit the bill. For every writing contest I entered, I was excused from the classroom so that I could copy out my essays on carbon paper whilst sitting on a cot in the sick room (incidentally, this is the same room where the priest would come to hear our confessions...we had mixed feelings about this room). The more I wrote, the less time I spent in class. And the more I wrote, the more I won. In fact, I didn't lose. I never lost. Which probably means that I would have quickly become bored with writing, except for some serendipitous good fortune:
1. Although some people mistakenly called me shy as a child, I was actually a lot more extroverted than most. At family functions I often performed for the adults. I remember at one anniversary party, my sister, cousin and I donned matching skorts, tie-dyed slouchie socks, and Vuarnet t-shirts and dazzled with our dancing. But then I started penning plays, even writing musicals with original songs, and once I went so far as to put on an adapted version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.
2. I started writing really bad poetry, and even worse, people indulged me. One particularly horrifying piece was even printed in the newspaper, in the "Poet's Corner" section. Apparently it was a slow news week.
3. It won me lots of cool stuff (although sometimes all I got was a trophy with a little golden man on top....you know, because my name is Jamie, people assumed I was a boy, and then got a worried look when I stood up to accept it). Once, I won my mother Mother of the Year - she got picked up in a limo, showered with roses and jewelry, treated to dinner and a night in a hotel. Another time I was invited to a banquet at the legion - I had written a poem about losing a grandfather to the war, which they loved. But during the dinner they kept telling the room how brave I was for writing about my grandfather, and I realized something about war veterans: they have no concept of "fiction." And also, 12 year old girls are loathe to explain it to them.
All of these things combined led to an inflated sense of ego, and soon my goal went from teacher to psychologist\prime minister\ "famous author" (note: even at the age of 13 I must have known the difference between 'famous author' and 'writer', the latter perhaps meaning a life as a starving artist, penniless in Paris).
And so a monster was created.
High school was much the same. I was bored to tears, but I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. When I graduated, I won 27 different scholarships, not counting the ones offered by all the schools I applied to. I went back and forth between psychology and medicine. And that's when I started having nothing in common with my family.
All I know is that the single greatest moment of my life was when Jason emailed me after reading a rough draft of mine, and said "Don't ever stop writing, you made me cry with this one." And from time to time, someone will write that they were touched by some of the drivel that gets posted here. I print out every single one, and tack them to the walls of my office. It's the steam that keeps me going; I've learned to take support where I can get it because it's not always easy to come by. Not everyone in your life will believe in you.
What are we meant to be, anyway?
Are we meant to follow in our parents' footsteps?
Are we meant to follow our own bliss?
Are we meant to try, even when it means poverty, even when it means disappointment?
And in 10 years, if my only accomplishment is to be a 2007 Bloggie Award finalist, what then? Does that mean my mother was right? When am I meant to give up?
How do you know what you are meant to be?
And what the hell kind of kid wants to scoop rhinoceros poop when they grow up anyway?
How do you know?
When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a teacher. My mom kept one of those "school days" scrap books, and every year I wrote teacher as my life's big goal. Which is funny, because the only thing that I wouldn't hate about teaching is the chalk (except not the chalk handprints that all teachers have on their butts). A list of things I would rather do than teach:
1. Scoop rhinoceros poop out of zoo enclosures
2. Make hotdogs out of ground snouts and hooves
3. Edit James Joyce
4. Be Teen Abstinence Captain
So I really wonder where my 5-year old mind ever got the notion that I should be a teacher. When I was 7, we had "career day", and we were all compelled to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I drew this lovely picture of a no-necked nurse. On the back, it says: Jamie wanted to draw a teacher but she didn't know how, so she drew a nurse instead. So while I may have been confused about what I was going to be, I certainly knew what I would never be: an artist.
By the time I was 13, the whole teacher thing had completely disappeared. I was suffering greatly from the big fish, little pond syndrome. I was at the top of my class without any effort, so I started finding other ways to pass the hours between 9 and 3...and writing just happened to fit the bill. For every writing contest I entered, I was excused from the classroom so that I could copy out my essays on carbon paper whilst sitting on a cot in the sick room (incidentally, this is the same room where the priest would come to hear our confessions...we had mixed feelings about this room). The more I wrote, the less time I spent in class. And the more I wrote, the more I won. In fact, I didn't lose. I never lost. Which probably means that I would have quickly become bored with writing, except for some serendipitous good fortune:
1. Although some people mistakenly called me shy as a child, I was actually a lot more extroverted than most. At family functions I often performed for the adults. I remember at one anniversary party, my sister, cousin and I donned matching skorts, tie-dyed slouchie socks, and Vuarnet t-shirts and dazzled with our dancing. But then I started penning plays, even writing musicals with original songs, and once I went so far as to put on an adapted version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.
2. I started writing really bad poetry, and even worse, people indulged me. One particularly horrifying piece was even printed in the newspaper, in the "Poet's Corner" section. Apparently it was a slow news week.
3. It won me lots of cool stuff (although sometimes all I got was a trophy with a little golden man on top....you know, because my name is Jamie, people assumed I was a boy, and then got a worried look when I stood up to accept it). Once, I won my mother Mother of the Year - she got picked up in a limo, showered with roses and jewelry, treated to dinner and a night in a hotel. Another time I was invited to a banquet at the legion - I had written a poem about losing a grandfather to the war, which they loved. But during the dinner they kept telling the room how brave I was for writing about my grandfather, and I realized something about war veterans: they have no concept of "fiction." And also, 12 year old girls are loathe to explain it to them.
All of these things combined led to an inflated sense of ego, and soon my goal went from teacher to psychologist\prime minister\ "famous author" (note: even at the age of 13 I must have known the difference between 'famous author' and 'writer', the latter perhaps meaning a life as a starving artist, penniless in Paris).
And so a monster was created.
High school was much the same. I was bored to tears, but I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. When I graduated, I won 27 different scholarships, not counting the ones offered by all the schools I applied to. I went back and forth between psychology and medicine. And that's when I started having nothing in common with my family.
All I know is that the single greatest moment of my life was when Jason emailed me after reading a rough draft of mine, and said "Don't ever stop writing, you made me cry with this one." And from time to time, someone will write that they were touched by some of the drivel that gets posted here. I print out every single one, and tack them to the walls of my office. It's the steam that keeps me going; I've learned to take support where I can get it because it's not always easy to come by. Not everyone in your life will believe in you.
What are we meant to be, anyway?
Are we meant to follow in our parents' footsteps?
Are we meant to follow our own bliss?
Are we meant to try, even when it means poverty, even when it means disappointment?
And in 10 years, if my only accomplishment is to be a 2007 Bloggie Award finalist, what then? Does that mean my mother was right? When am I meant to give up?
How do you know what you are meant to be?
And what the hell kind of kid wants to scoop rhinoceros poop when they grow up anyway?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Label Me
Someone asked me recently how I would label myself.
Label myself?
It reminds me of this strange Christmas gift I got one year, no doubt a relic from the sales bin that my relatives usually peruse when thoughtlessly selecting some piece of crap or other to put under the tree for me.
It was a Brother P Touch, maker of labels.
As we all know, when life gives me lemons, I like to make lemonade. So, good sport that I am, I went about showing my appreciation for this delightful gift by putting it to use. I labeled.
I labeled the sofa "sofa".
I labeled the door "door".
I labeled the vodka "BFF".
I labeled the label maker "label maker".
I labeled the salsa "stupid fucking jar that I can't get open, I don't even like salsa anyway".
You get the picture. And all the while I learned a very important lesson: never label anything that has pubic hair. Ouch. Of course, the label maker eventually ran out of labels, and I refused to spend perfectly good money on label refills, so I did the only thing that made sense: I donated that useless empty label maker to the homeless. I mean, who has trouble remember stuff like the homeless? "Stray dog", "my left foot", "nickel"....all kinds of applications.
But back to me.
So what would I label myself?
How about "self"?
Or maybe Jay. Probably not Jamie, though that was the first label ever given me when I came out of my mother's stomach, along with my blood type and weight (thank god we're not compelled to wear those bracelets all life long), although there was a time that I would have rather been known by my weight than my name. Oh how I hated being called Jamie. Everyone told me it was a boy's name, and in fact, I could not deny that I'd been named after my uncle. And everyone mispronounced it because I went to a French school where French tongues stumbled over English names (kids in my class would address me as "Gami" on my valentines). But eventually I came to think of my name as a gift rather than a curse, and Nickname Gods be thanked, my days as Spike were numbered but Jay was one that stuck. Until I met Jason, a fellow Jay, and an instant dilemma. As you can probably tell, I won, as I win all such contests in our house, because I have the all-mighty vagina, and he does not. There are only two instances where I am not Jay. The first is when we're in bed. He calls me Jamie then, apparently fucking is more formal than I thought, and every time he says it it sounds strange on his lips, almost as though he's saying another woman's name, which is maybe the point. The second is on government documents. The government is not a fan of nicknames, which is no surprise. The government has been a total square since the early days of democracy, although their stance against nicknames is a little hypocritical since I do notice they refer to themselves as "gov" in their web addresses. "Gov" is still a far cry from hip & cool, I'm afraid, but then, governments are known for bungling. Although, to be honest, I would probably be anti-nickname myself if everyone referred to me as "those stupid fucks".
So Jay it is, as far as labels go.
Unless you expect the existential rather than the rudimentary.
Would I label myself as kind, for example?
Well, I guess I would say I'm kind of funny. Kind of weird. Kind of thirsty.
I might also subscribe to:
"Keep out of reach of children."
"May cause irritation."
"Extremely flammable."
"Not dishwasher safe."
Not that I've ever been inside a dish washer. I'm just assuming.
Okay, so maybe I suck at labels.
But could you really do any better, ya punk?
Prove it.
Label myself?
It reminds me of this strange Christmas gift I got one year, no doubt a relic from the sales bin that my relatives usually peruse when thoughtlessly selecting some piece of crap or other to put under the tree for me.
It was a Brother P Touch, maker of labels.
As we all know, when life gives me lemons, I like to make lemonade. So, good sport that I am, I went about showing my appreciation for this delightful gift by putting it to use. I labeled.
I labeled the sofa "sofa".
I labeled the door "door".
I labeled the vodka "BFF".
I labeled the label maker "label maker".
I labeled the salsa "stupid fucking jar that I can't get open, I don't even like salsa anyway".
You get the picture. And all the while I learned a very important lesson: never label anything that has pubic hair. Ouch. Of course, the label maker eventually ran out of labels, and I refused to spend perfectly good money on label refills, so I did the only thing that made sense: I donated that useless empty label maker to the homeless. I mean, who has trouble remember stuff like the homeless? "Stray dog", "my left foot", "nickel"....all kinds of applications.
But back to me.
So what would I label myself?
How about "self"?
Or maybe Jay. Probably not Jamie, though that was the first label ever given me when I came out of my mother's stomach, along with my blood type and weight (thank god we're not compelled to wear those bracelets all life long), although there was a time that I would have rather been known by my weight than my name. Oh how I hated being called Jamie. Everyone told me it was a boy's name, and in fact, I could not deny that I'd been named after my uncle. And everyone mispronounced it because I went to a French school where French tongues stumbled over English names (kids in my class would address me as "Gami" on my valentines). But eventually I came to think of my name as a gift rather than a curse, and Nickname Gods be thanked, my days as Spike were numbered but Jay was one that stuck. Until I met Jason, a fellow Jay, and an instant dilemma. As you can probably tell, I won, as I win all such contests in our house, because I have the all-mighty vagina, and he does not. There are only two instances where I am not Jay. The first is when we're in bed. He calls me Jamie then, apparently fucking is more formal than I thought, and every time he says it it sounds strange on his lips, almost as though he's saying another woman's name, which is maybe the point. The second is on government documents. The government is not a fan of nicknames, which is no surprise. The government has been a total square since the early days of democracy, although their stance against nicknames is a little hypocritical since I do notice they refer to themselves as "gov" in their web addresses. "Gov" is still a far cry from hip & cool, I'm afraid, but then, governments are known for bungling. Although, to be honest, I would probably be anti-nickname myself if everyone referred to me as "those stupid fucks".
So Jay it is, as far as labels go.
Unless you expect the existential rather than the rudimentary.
Would I label myself as kind, for example?
Well, I guess I would say I'm kind of funny. Kind of weird. Kind of thirsty.
I might also subscribe to:
"Keep out of reach of children."
"May cause irritation."
"Extremely flammable."
"Not dishwasher safe."
Not that I've ever been inside a dish washer. I'm just assuming.
Okay, so maybe I suck at labels.
But could you really do any better, ya punk?
Prove it.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
It's an honour just to be nominated?
You know you've really hit it big when your "amigos" at latingossip.com email you congratulations about your recent nomination (incidentally, I would have preferred champagne).
Yes, my friends, what you've read about me in Star Magazine is true: I am a Bloggie award finalist, and I say that with all the sincere pride and gravitas such a distinction deserves.
Kill the Goat is nominated in the Best Canadian Blog category, which is somewhat fitting, because it is a blog, and I do write it in Canada, for the most part. But let me tell you, the competition is stiff. You can kind of tell that in this fine country of mine, there are 4 "big" blogs out there (and by "big", I mean the kind that refer to themselves as "we" because they have editors and contributers, and their own domain and blog design) and that I'm the wildcard (and by "wildcard" I mean, the only one who still uses blogger, and who has nothing of importance to say, and what I do say I say without style because I don't even know how to use italics).
But it's an honour just to be nominated anyway.
Well, not really, but it's the right thing to say.
It's kind of akin to saying "it's what's inside that counts" and you just know that only ugly chicks say stuff like that.
But it is an awful lot of fun to be the underdog, to be the only one in the bunch who actually writes about the banalities of life, you know, like:
I ate 4 clementines today. I really like clementines. And geez my elbows are dry lately. Jason's boss bought him body butter for Christmas, so of course it was re-gifted to me, but it mostly just stinks and doesn't hydrate the skin at all. I think I would have nicer skin if I just rubbed the clementines all over my body. Why doesn't spell checker like the word clementine? Am I not spelling it right, or is blogger just anti-tangerine?
Yeah. Like that.
So obviously I have no delusions about winning. I mean, when fellow nominees include Boing Boing, Dooce, and Postsecret, you pretty much know that the goat is doomed. So I won't ask you to vote for me, but I will suffer you to sit through my would-be acceptance speech.
First of all, I would like to thank The Lord. Because we all know that God loves rappers best, football players second, and bloggers third.
I couldn't be here without my mother, who provided me with the kind of childhood that breeds the ultimate blogging material: neurosis and bleeding ulcers.
I would also like to thank UPS for constantly giving me something to rant about, insomnia for giving me the time to rant about UPS, vodka for making me think that anyone cares, and of course, the penis, because it always gives me something to think (and write) about.
Seriously, I know that a blogger only gets anywhere when she has some good friends who drop by and pretend to read her ravings on a semi-regular basis, and to all of you who have done that for me, I thank you. An especially big thank you to those who take further time out of their day to write comments or send emails. Comments are like crack - intoxicating until they run out, and then I just want more.
And finally, thank you to the prestigious 2007 Weblog Awards for bestowing upon me this dubious honour and for letting me fill the "Doesn't Stand a Chance" slot this year.
Buckle up for safety, everyone.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Yes, my friends, what you've read about me in Star Magazine is true: I am a Bloggie award finalist, and I say that with all the sincere pride and gravitas such a distinction deserves.
Kill the Goat is nominated in the Best Canadian Blog category, which is somewhat fitting, because it is a blog, and I do write it in Canada, for the most part. But let me tell you, the competition is stiff. You can kind of tell that in this fine country of mine, there are 4 "big" blogs out there (and by "big", I mean the kind that refer to themselves as "we" because they have editors and contributers, and their own domain and blog design) and that I'm the wildcard (and by "wildcard" I mean, the only one who still uses blogger, and who has nothing of importance to say, and what I do say I say without style because I don't even know how to use italics).
But it's an honour just to be nominated anyway.
Well, not really, but it's the right thing to say.
It's kind of akin to saying "it's what's inside that counts" and you just know that only ugly chicks say stuff like that.
But it is an awful lot of fun to be the underdog, to be the only one in the bunch who actually writes about the banalities of life, you know, like:
I ate 4 clementines today. I really like clementines. And geez my elbows are dry lately. Jason's boss bought him body butter for Christmas, so of course it was re-gifted to me, but it mostly just stinks and doesn't hydrate the skin at all. I think I would have nicer skin if I just rubbed the clementines all over my body. Why doesn't spell checker like the word clementine? Am I not spelling it right, or is blogger just anti-tangerine?
Yeah. Like that.
So obviously I have no delusions about winning. I mean, when fellow nominees include Boing Boing, Dooce, and Postsecret, you pretty much know that the goat is doomed. So I won't ask you to vote for me, but I will suffer you to sit through my would-be acceptance speech.
First of all, I would like to thank The Lord. Because we all know that God loves rappers best, football players second, and bloggers third.
I couldn't be here without my mother, who provided me with the kind of childhood that breeds the ultimate blogging material: neurosis and bleeding ulcers.
I would also like to thank UPS for constantly giving me something to rant about, insomnia for giving me the time to rant about UPS, vodka for making me think that anyone cares, and of course, the penis, because it always gives me something to think (and write) about.
Seriously, I know that a blogger only gets anywhere when she has some good friends who drop by and pretend to read her ravings on a semi-regular basis, and to all of you who have done that for me, I thank you. An especially big thank you to those who take further time out of their day to write comments or send emails. Comments are like crack - intoxicating until they run out, and then I just want more.
And finally, thank you to the prestigious 2007 Weblog Awards for bestowing upon me this dubious honour and for letting me fill the "Doesn't Stand a Chance" slot this year.
Buckle up for safety, everyone.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Alternatives to Lemonade.
Sometimes,
when life gives you lemons
all you can do
is cut them into wedges
and do tequila shots
until you're on the floor
in a pool of your own vomit.
when life gives you lemons
all you can do
is cut them into wedges
and do tequila shots
until you're on the floor
in a pool of your own vomit.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Constant Cravings
It sucks to be on the rag in this city.
Now, I realize that I may be in the minority here, but chocolate is not my thing. I'm just not a sweet person, I guess. I'm a salty girl.
What I want, and what I need, is pizza. Drippy cheese, burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth, grease on the napkins good pizza. But this stupid city doesn't have any. Not a single decent pizza in the whole goddamned city. At first I couldn't believe my dumb luck, and I combed the city for a worthy pizzeria. There were none. None!
This frigging city that prides itself on its diversity and international fare cannot make a pizza to save itself. In less than 50 steps from my door, I can find really great indian food, terrific mongolian grill, impressive thai food, and spicy caribbean, and a pretty good steak. But there ain't no pizza in this city, despite the yellow pages' 408 pizzeria listings for the Greater Toronto Area.
Clearly, I think about this subject way too much, but I've had about 5 days per each of the 16 months I've been here - 80 days of crampy, cranky, craving contemplation. The problem seems to be that the city relies on chains - crappy Pizza Pizza, Dominos, Pizza Nova, Pizzaville - and they all make the same crappy slices. Puke.
I grew up in eastern Ontario, where pizza is serious business. Back in the day, the mob in Montreal was running ingredients -cheese and pepperoni - and thus, they greatly encouraged restaurant owners to order generously, and those that wanted to live did just that. So pizzas were loaded with this stuff. Where I come from, pepperoni is not those gross little circles that dot most pizzas, it's ultra-thin shavings that are layered maybe an inch think over the crust (yes, ingredients go under the cheese, people!) and cheese is piled on at least that thickly over that. It's rich with calories, but worth every single one. This pizza has a heart attack waiting to happen right in the middle - a small ball of dough is placed in the middle of the pizza, and while it bakes, the grease runs toward the middle and gets trapped in the ball. Everyone would fight over this ball when the delivery guy would arrive - this is the po' man's delicacy.
I myself am very fond of the plain cheese pizza, but don't let the name deceive you. To me, if sex had a taste, that would be it. Pure indulgence. It's so sloppy and greasy and wonderful that you have to eat it with a knife and fork - the crust could never support the heaven that sits atop it. Jason, of course, prefers the "all-dressed" variety, which does not even exist in this retarded city. In Toronto, a pizza with everything on it is called "deluxe". How pansy is that? And in the lovely city of Ottawa, all of the worthy pizzerias have a special that combines pepperoni, bacon, green olives, green peppers, and mushrooms. Now that's good pizza. But the wester you get in this province, the grosser the pizza becomes.
It's probably not healthy to obsess over food like this, right? But this time of the month, I honestly believe I might die without a taste. I wonder to myself how much it might cost to have a couple of them fed-exed to the black hole of pizza (otherwise known as central Ontario). And I know that when Jason gets home from work, he'll see that look in my eye, and offer to make the trip (5-6 hours each way). He offers every time. I haven't let him yet, but every month I grow weaker.
Must.
Get.
...
Pizza...
Ah, fuck it. I guess I'll just become a raging bitch instead.
Now, I realize that I may be in the minority here, but chocolate is not my thing. I'm just not a sweet person, I guess. I'm a salty girl.
What I want, and what I need, is pizza. Drippy cheese, burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth, grease on the napkins good pizza. But this stupid city doesn't have any. Not a single decent pizza in the whole goddamned city. At first I couldn't believe my dumb luck, and I combed the city for a worthy pizzeria. There were none. None!
This frigging city that prides itself on its diversity and international fare cannot make a pizza to save itself. In less than 50 steps from my door, I can find really great indian food, terrific mongolian grill, impressive thai food, and spicy caribbean, and a pretty good steak. But there ain't no pizza in this city, despite the yellow pages' 408 pizzeria listings for the Greater Toronto Area.
Clearly, I think about this subject way too much, but I've had about 5 days per each of the 16 months I've been here - 80 days of crampy, cranky, craving contemplation. The problem seems to be that the city relies on chains - crappy Pizza Pizza, Dominos, Pizza Nova, Pizzaville - and they all make the same crappy slices. Puke.
I grew up in eastern Ontario, where pizza is serious business. Back in the day, the mob in Montreal was running ingredients -cheese and pepperoni - and thus, they greatly encouraged restaurant owners to order generously, and those that wanted to live did just that. So pizzas were loaded with this stuff. Where I come from, pepperoni is not those gross little circles that dot most pizzas, it's ultra-thin shavings that are layered maybe an inch think over the crust (yes, ingredients go under the cheese, people!) and cheese is piled on at least that thickly over that. It's rich with calories, but worth every single one. This pizza has a heart attack waiting to happen right in the middle - a small ball of dough is placed in the middle of the pizza, and while it bakes, the grease runs toward the middle and gets trapped in the ball. Everyone would fight over this ball when the delivery guy would arrive - this is the po' man's delicacy.
I myself am very fond of the plain cheese pizza, but don't let the name deceive you. To me, if sex had a taste, that would be it. Pure indulgence. It's so sloppy and greasy and wonderful that you have to eat it with a knife and fork - the crust could never support the heaven that sits atop it. Jason, of course, prefers the "all-dressed" variety, which does not even exist in this retarded city. In Toronto, a pizza with everything on it is called "deluxe". How pansy is that? And in the lovely city of Ottawa, all of the worthy pizzerias have a special that combines pepperoni, bacon, green olives, green peppers, and mushrooms. Now that's good pizza. But the wester you get in this province, the grosser the pizza becomes.
It's probably not healthy to obsess over food like this, right? But this time of the month, I honestly believe I might die without a taste. I wonder to myself how much it might cost to have a couple of them fed-exed to the black hole of pizza (otherwise known as central Ontario). And I know that when Jason gets home from work, he'll see that look in my eye, and offer to make the trip (5-6 hours each way). He offers every time. I haven't let him yet, but every month I grow weaker.
Must.
Get.
...
Pizza...
Ah, fuck it. I guess I'll just become a raging bitch instead.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
If God was a DJ...
I skied once, I think, while in utero, if that even counts. I mean, I know a fetus has no rights and isn't a person, but since I inhaled my mother's cigarette smoke and inherited her stupid fat calves while in her belly, I think I have a right to lay claim to the Wild Whistler adventures that she had in the months before my birth.
Little embryonic Jamie was enjoying the slopes but delightfully insulated from the cold thanks to mommy's belly fat and attractive layers of 1970's ski-bunny clothing (in powder blue). My eyelids were still sealed shut, but I was just beginning to move around (although, at about an ounce, my movements probably didn't do much to disturb my mother's equilibrium....god, what I'd give to get back to my embryonic weight).
I can only guess if I enjoyed my first skiing experience, because I sure as hell haven't been back since.
I mean, first, there's my fear of heights (or, as I prefer to say, my fear of falling from great heights, or of falling even from rather small heights, as far as that matters). I went on a ski lift post-natally, once, at Mont Cascades, because in the summer it turns into a water park. But that once time was enough to convince me that Jamie + oversized innertube + ski lift = bad was probably much akin to Jamie + poles + skis that are taller than me = just as bad, maybe worse. I also have a strong dislike of speed. I get carsick when Jason backs out of the driveway. I also have an aversion to: winter clothing, wind-blown hair, log cabins, frostbite, broken legs, wind-chapped lips....well, you get the picture.
But if all of that wasn't enough to dissuade me, I have an even better reason not to ski: God.
True story.
One night, God came to me, and he said "Jamie, sweetie, you know I think you're a great gal. You really are. You make awesome spinach dip and you have an ass that won't quit. But I have one tiny request to make. Now, you may be too young to remember this, but some time ago, oh, say, a few thousand years now I guess. Jeez. It feels like it was just last millenium. Where has the time gone? But anyway, you may have heard of this little incident I had wherein I may have flooded the earth, annihilating all creatures except Noah and the animals. Ring a bell? I know I come off kind of harsh in that story, but really it was just bad spin. I had a really bad PR guy back then. And before you even say it, yes, I do regret bringing the rats aboard. Not my finest moment. But anyway, my point is that after the waters receded, I pulled that neat rainbow trick and I told Noah that it was my promise to him, blah, blah, blah, and that I would never again "curse the ground", etc, etc. And that's how you fit in. Because, let's be honest here, babe: a girl like you should not go hurtling down a crowded mountain with sharp potential weapons in her hands, and this thing about not killing off all the people, well, I'd really like to honour that. I've made a lot of resolutions in my time, but my follow-through isn't always that great. Obviously the platypus is an animal I never quite got around to finishing, and I just got lazy and covered lots of the earth with either ice or water neither were really in the blueprints but with my deadline looming, well.... and I can't even drop a pants size ever since Julia Child got me hooked on cream sauces. Get what I'm saying? This is it for me. For the sake of humanity's safety, just stay off the slopes."
Now, normally I'm a pretty accommodating girl. If he had bought me two appletinis, I would have agreed to almost anything, and probably would have let him get to second base. But frankly, he just showed up without a hostess gift or anything. So I said "Well, God, what's in it for me?"
And he looked at me for a second, and I could tell that this was a guy used to getting his way. But let's face it: Moses was a stuttering introvert, Noah was the town drunk. These guys were just pushovers waiting to be given direction. I, on the other hand, am woman. Hear me roar.
So God said to me "What more do you want? I pretty much emptied my back of tricks when you were born: beauty, brains, wit, modesty....what is there that you don't have?"
I had to think for a moment before I answered "the perfect man."
So he sent me Mark, who was handsome and funny, and a pretty good lay.
But then I dumped him and married Jason, because what does God know about relationships? That boy is an old maid if ever I saw one.
And don't worry, I'll probably never ski anyway.
Little embryonic Jamie was enjoying the slopes but delightfully insulated from the cold thanks to mommy's belly fat and attractive layers of 1970's ski-bunny clothing (in powder blue). My eyelids were still sealed shut, but I was just beginning to move around (although, at about an ounce, my movements probably didn't do much to disturb my mother's equilibrium....god, what I'd give to get back to my embryonic weight).
I can only guess if I enjoyed my first skiing experience, because I sure as hell haven't been back since.
I mean, first, there's my fear of heights (or, as I prefer to say, my fear of falling from great heights, or of falling even from rather small heights, as far as that matters). I went on a ski lift post-natally, once, at Mont Cascades, because in the summer it turns into a water park. But that once time was enough to convince me that Jamie + oversized innertube + ski lift = bad was probably much akin to Jamie + poles + skis that are taller than me = just as bad, maybe worse. I also have a strong dislike of speed. I get carsick when Jason backs out of the driveway. I also have an aversion to: winter clothing, wind-blown hair, log cabins, frostbite, broken legs, wind-chapped lips....well, you get the picture.
But if all of that wasn't enough to dissuade me, I have an even better reason not to ski: God.
True story.
One night, God came to me, and he said "Jamie, sweetie, you know I think you're a great gal. You really are. You make awesome spinach dip and you have an ass that won't quit. But I have one tiny request to make. Now, you may be too young to remember this, but some time ago, oh, say, a few thousand years now I guess. Jeez. It feels like it was just last millenium. Where has the time gone? But anyway, you may have heard of this little incident I had wherein I may have flooded the earth, annihilating all creatures except Noah and the animals. Ring a bell? I know I come off kind of harsh in that story, but really it was just bad spin. I had a really bad PR guy back then. And before you even say it, yes, I do regret bringing the rats aboard. Not my finest moment. But anyway, my point is that after the waters receded, I pulled that neat rainbow trick and I told Noah that it was my promise to him, blah, blah, blah, and that I would never again "curse the ground", etc, etc. And that's how you fit in. Because, let's be honest here, babe: a girl like you should not go hurtling down a crowded mountain with sharp potential weapons in her hands, and this thing about not killing off all the people, well, I'd really like to honour that. I've made a lot of resolutions in my time, but my follow-through isn't always that great. Obviously the platypus is an animal I never quite got around to finishing, and I just got lazy and covered lots of the earth with either ice or water neither were really in the blueprints but with my deadline looming, well.... and I can't even drop a pants size ever since Julia Child got me hooked on cream sauces. Get what I'm saying? This is it for me. For the sake of humanity's safety, just stay off the slopes."
Now, normally I'm a pretty accommodating girl. If he had bought me two appletinis, I would have agreed to almost anything, and probably would have let him get to second base. But frankly, he just showed up without a hostess gift or anything. So I said "Well, God, what's in it for me?"
And he looked at me for a second, and I could tell that this was a guy used to getting his way. But let's face it: Moses was a stuttering introvert, Noah was the town drunk. These guys were just pushovers waiting to be given direction. I, on the other hand, am woman. Hear me roar.
So God said to me "What more do you want? I pretty much emptied my back of tricks when you were born: beauty, brains, wit, modesty....what is there that you don't have?"
I had to think for a moment before I answered "the perfect man."
So he sent me Mark, who was handsome and funny, and a pretty good lay.
But then I dumped him and married Jason, because what does God know about relationships? That boy is an old maid if ever I saw one.
And don't worry, I'll probably never ski anyway.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Acting Rashly.
An army of small but persistent bumps have infiltrated Ground Jamie, and have launched Operation Itch Like Crazy. Attempts to repulse the enemy with scratchy fingernails and calamine have thus far failed.
The bumps pop up unexpectedly pretty much anywhere they want, but seem to favour my neck.
I've been raking my nails over them like crazy, to no avail. I sometimes imagine myself using a vegetable peeler to grate at them, and I can see the slice of skin curling around the blade like a piece of parmesan cheese.
Instead, I sit on my hands and try to negotiate a peaceful treaty.
The bumps pop up unexpectedly pretty much anywhere they want, but seem to favour my neck.
I've been raking my nails over them like crazy, to no avail. I sometimes imagine myself using a vegetable peeler to grate at them, and I can see the slice of skin curling around the blade like a piece of parmesan cheese.
Instead, I sit on my hands and try to negotiate a peaceful treaty.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Losing the True Meaning
You know the feeling of warm, fuzzy, proud sense of accomplishment you're supposed to get from volunteering your time?
Well, it doesn't always work that way.
Say you're working at the foodbank of the small town where you grew up.
Pretend you've just spent 20 minutes replenishing the shelf of canned corn before opening the door of the pretend-grocery-store where non-perishable items normally costing a dollar or more per item are now priced at a nickel each, and that's just for show, because if the woman in line doesn't have enough nickels to feed her kids mac and cheese this week, you let her take it anyway.
Imagine that the town's main industry has laid off a good portion of employees just 5 weeks before Christmas, and a good many of these people, seemingly comfortably middle class last week, are now perusing the pretend-grocery-store aisle of the foodbank, trying to make their nickels stretch as far as they'll go.
Look the other way when the woman who is tearfully insisting that she has enough coin to feed her children lunch or dinner, but not both, is the exact same woman who cashed her government cheque in front of you in line at the liquor store last night.
Fake some cheerfulness as another woman counts out what she owes from a very small change purse, mumbling about the "extravagance" of some tinned ham flakes, "but it's the holidays after all."
And when your supervisor asks if you might like to take over a different assignment, you try not to seem too desperate when you shout "God yes!" because the prospect of trying to coax these shoppers into making what the foodbank deems "responsible purchases" is too depressing to even contemplate for much longer.
But don't think you're getting away with anything, or from anything.
Because your new assignment is in some ways much worse.
On this day, there is a long line snaking around the building of the foodbank, stretching past the small soup kitchen (where, perversely, the thing that bothers me most is that the patrons rarely wash their hands before digging in), and even past the thrift store selling old toques and scarred furniture.
Today is Christmas Hamper day.
Today the needy will line up to prove they are worthy of charity. If they are desperate enough, hungry enough, they will leave their dignity at home. They all look at the ground, they don't want to notice or be noticed. The amount of people lined up will break your heart. It broke mine.
Imagine how, without looking you in the eye, they tell you their secrets.
"My family hasn't had meat in 3 months."
"I don't normally like to ask for help, but..."
"I cannot afford to give my children a Christmas."
"I don't want my kids to know how poor we are."
They tell you about their situations, how they live, how they eat, how they get by.
Some are the newly poor, dying of embarrassment, almost angry at you, at the world.
Some are the chronic poor, complacent, destitute.
Many are the working poor, teetering on the outskirts of poverty, scraping by week after week, but undone by the holidays.
And every single one of them swallows their pride and asks you for help, for a Christmas Hamper that will include the fixings for a very modest meal, and maybe a couple of cheap presents for the kids. This is the best they can do, and the best you can do.
The day is dismal, and you know your shift will end before the line runs out. But not before a young woman walks in, whom you instantly recognize.
She was the very good friend of your younger sister. She spent days swimming in your pool, nights eating at your table. At birthday parties, she'd throw her fishing pole over the staircase banister chanting "Here, fishie, fishie" while you sneakily attached a prize and gave the line a tug to let her know that she'd caught a big one.
She recognizes you too, and you can see in her eyes that she is wrestling between her pride and her need, and you know that she can tell by your hot cheeks that you are wrestling too.
How can you keep it professional when you've seen her dancing around the toadstool at Brownies? What is there to say?
Well, I'll tell you.
I said hello.
She said hello.
Then she cried.
And then I cried. Because this is how I help people, by crying with them. Because I couldn't take away her poverty, I didn't know how. And I couldn't take away her embarrassment, because I shared it, and I was ashamed that I did. And I was frustrated. And I kept remembering the little girl in the party dress, and how it'd only been a few years, and would she ever get out of this way of life, and who was looking out for her, and did my sister know, and would she ever forget that I was the one, I was the one who had to hear her plea?
I marked her name on the list, so that a day or two before Christmas she received a basket that wasn't really a basket, really it was just a cardboard box, and in it was off-brand crackers, dented tins of spaghetti sauce, and maybe a turkey but maybe not a turkey. And she ate that food knowing that I know. And across town, I ate my food, knowing what I knew, and it was one of the worst meals of my life.
I'd like to say otherwise, I'd like to say that it made me grateful for what I had, that it made me appreciate the food in my belly and the gifts under the tree, and the love in the room, but it didn't, not particularly. Instead I thought of the hundreds of families who were making do with paltry baskets, of the kids who Santa didn't visit, and I felt a loss that I had never felt before.
It's different when hunger has a face.
Jason and I are not wealthy people, but we contribute to Toy Mountain, and the Adopt-A-Family program. And every time we do groceries, I buy a few extra items for the foodbank bin, but I make these donations knowing the truth: that I have taken the coward's way out. I donate food now instead of time, because the food costs us money, but the time cost me a debt that I am still figuring out how to repay.
I still think of her, I still cry for her, and though it's not usually my thing, around this time of year, I might even say a prayer for her.
Well, it doesn't always work that way.
Say you're working at the foodbank of the small town where you grew up.
Pretend you've just spent 20 minutes replenishing the shelf of canned corn before opening the door of the pretend-grocery-store where non-perishable items normally costing a dollar or more per item are now priced at a nickel each, and that's just for show, because if the woman in line doesn't have enough nickels to feed her kids mac and cheese this week, you let her take it anyway.
Imagine that the town's main industry has laid off a good portion of employees just 5 weeks before Christmas, and a good many of these people, seemingly comfortably middle class last week, are now perusing the pretend-grocery-store aisle of the foodbank, trying to make their nickels stretch as far as they'll go.
Look the other way when the woman who is tearfully insisting that she has enough coin to feed her children lunch or dinner, but not both, is the exact same woman who cashed her government cheque in front of you in line at the liquor store last night.
Fake some cheerfulness as another woman counts out what she owes from a very small change purse, mumbling about the "extravagance" of some tinned ham flakes, "but it's the holidays after all."
And when your supervisor asks if you might like to take over a different assignment, you try not to seem too desperate when you shout "God yes!" because the prospect of trying to coax these shoppers into making what the foodbank deems "responsible purchases" is too depressing to even contemplate for much longer.
But don't think you're getting away with anything, or from anything.
Because your new assignment is in some ways much worse.
On this day, there is a long line snaking around the building of the foodbank, stretching past the small soup kitchen (where, perversely, the thing that bothers me most is that the patrons rarely wash their hands before digging in), and even past the thrift store selling old toques and scarred furniture.
Today is Christmas Hamper day.
Today the needy will line up to prove they are worthy of charity. If they are desperate enough, hungry enough, they will leave their dignity at home. They all look at the ground, they don't want to notice or be noticed. The amount of people lined up will break your heart. It broke mine.
Imagine how, without looking you in the eye, they tell you their secrets.
"My family hasn't had meat in 3 months."
"I don't normally like to ask for help, but..."
"I cannot afford to give my children a Christmas."
"I don't want my kids to know how poor we are."
They tell you about their situations, how they live, how they eat, how they get by.
Some are the newly poor, dying of embarrassment, almost angry at you, at the world.
Some are the chronic poor, complacent, destitute.
Many are the working poor, teetering on the outskirts of poverty, scraping by week after week, but undone by the holidays.
And every single one of them swallows their pride and asks you for help, for a Christmas Hamper that will include the fixings for a very modest meal, and maybe a couple of cheap presents for the kids. This is the best they can do, and the best you can do.
The day is dismal, and you know your shift will end before the line runs out. But not before a young woman walks in, whom you instantly recognize.
She was the very good friend of your younger sister. She spent days swimming in your pool, nights eating at your table. At birthday parties, she'd throw her fishing pole over the staircase banister chanting "Here, fishie, fishie" while you sneakily attached a prize and gave the line a tug to let her know that she'd caught a big one.
She recognizes you too, and you can see in her eyes that she is wrestling between her pride and her need, and you know that she can tell by your hot cheeks that you are wrestling too.
How can you keep it professional when you've seen her dancing around the toadstool at Brownies? What is there to say?
Well, I'll tell you.
I said hello.
She said hello.
Then she cried.
And then I cried. Because this is how I help people, by crying with them. Because I couldn't take away her poverty, I didn't know how. And I couldn't take away her embarrassment, because I shared it, and I was ashamed that I did. And I was frustrated. And I kept remembering the little girl in the party dress, and how it'd only been a few years, and would she ever get out of this way of life, and who was looking out for her, and did my sister know, and would she ever forget that I was the one, I was the one who had to hear her plea?
I marked her name on the list, so that a day or two before Christmas she received a basket that wasn't really a basket, really it was just a cardboard box, and in it was off-brand crackers, dented tins of spaghetti sauce, and maybe a turkey but maybe not a turkey. And she ate that food knowing that I know. And across town, I ate my food, knowing what I knew, and it was one of the worst meals of my life.
I'd like to say otherwise, I'd like to say that it made me grateful for what I had, that it made me appreciate the food in my belly and the gifts under the tree, and the love in the room, but it didn't, not particularly. Instead I thought of the hundreds of families who were making do with paltry baskets, of the kids who Santa didn't visit, and I felt a loss that I had never felt before.
It's different when hunger has a face.
Jason and I are not wealthy people, but we contribute to Toy Mountain, and the Adopt-A-Family program. And every time we do groceries, I buy a few extra items for the foodbank bin, but I make these donations knowing the truth: that I have taken the coward's way out. I donate food now instead of time, because the food costs us money, but the time cost me a debt that I am still figuring out how to repay.
I still think of her, I still cry for her, and though it's not usually my thing, around this time of year, I might even say a prayer for her.
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