This story goes out to Miss Mishap herself, who asked the question: What happened in 2001 to bring on the onslaught of nosebleeds? and she barely even flinched. I think Miss Mishap deserves an answer, don't you?
Let me start at the beginning.
I was born prematurely, upside down, and with jaundice.
Well, okay, I wasn't actually born upside down, but I tried to be. I was coming out feet-first, and apparently that's a faux-pas (obviously left out of my baby birthing handbook...if those handbooks are anything like the ones you get on airplanes, then no wonder it went right over my head). But anyway, the doctors had to give my poor mother a cesarean section to get me out. So I came out in a medical quandary and have somehow managed to stay there for 23 years now.
I'm not usually seriously sick, just annoyingly sick.
When I was a kid, I had every ear and throat infection known to humankind. Many of my childhood memories involve me lying on my mother's bed on my side, letting the drops slide down my ear hole. Fun, eh? But the fun doesn't stop there. The first time I went to Brownie camp, I looked at the beach the wrong way, and it gave me an infection. Being in another province at the time it was a huge hassle to get the meds that I needed. And it sucked up Brownie camp for me (why are infections embarrassing to 6 year olds?). After the age of 6, it was pretty much established that going to the beach was completely ruled out for me. And then followed the measures to be taken in my very own backyard pool. One birthday, probably my 8th or 9th, I was having a pool party, and while all my friends swam, I cried in my bedroom. I had to wear putty in my ears, and a bathing cap over top, and I was too embarrassed to leave my room.
Even more often than infections were the many bumps and bruises I sustained from being a kid. My husband was an only child; he has no scars. I had 3 sisters; I am covered with scars. Scars from biking on gravel roads, from being dragged downhill by my overzealous dog while rollerblading, from the time I believed I could skateboard, from being pushed while double-dutch skipping...Well, apparently after the first 10 litres worth of bloodshed, my mother was no longer impressed by the sight of my blood. When I cut my foot on the jagged metal edge of the pool my mother yelled "Don't bleed on the carpet!". When I came home with a good chunk of my knee missing, my mother yelled "You ruined your new green jeans!" (yes, I now feel ashamed for having owned coloured denim).
When I was 9 and couldn't breathe, my mother said the equivalent of "Buck up you pussy", and then felt badly when I was diagnosed with pneumonia and hospitalized for a week.
I don't even think she batted an eye when I missed 2 months of high school due to mono.
That's just me: I catch everything (except balls; god I hate balls). And usually I also throw in some funny illnesses just for good measure.
Like the nosebleed, for instance.
I originally blamed the government, and at least partly still do. That summer, I was working in the Center Block of the Parliament buildings, right under the Peace Tower. I worked in a smallish room that had an air conditioner that sucked the air dry but didn't do a damn thing to cool it off. Suffering from heat stroke as usual, I spent a good deal of my time throwing up in Parliament, but also a significant amount of time bleeding from the nose because of how dry the air was. But for whatever reason, my nose continued to bleed when not at work. And when it wasn't even bad air conditioning season anymore. It just kept going. And then one day I had the mother of all nosebleeds, where I ended up being rushed to the hospital. Turns out, I had a vitamin deficiency. So a series of painful shots later, my night blindness had improved, and my nosebleeds decreased in frequency but never really went away.
But the nosebleeds took a back seat a short while later, when I got shingles in my eye. You heard me right. Shingles in my eye. The whole right side of my face was swollen and sore. My eye was swollen shut, red, angry, sore, puffy, and disgusting. And this, of course, was just days before my wedding.
My mother made me a wedding eye patch, complete with googly eye, fake eyelashes, and lace trim. I grieved for the wedding pictures that would haunt me for the rest of my life. But the day before the wedding, it magically cleared up (and the reappeared the day after). A very, very high dose of medication finally got rid of it.
And now I'm in the middle of what I can only hope is the last chapter in the stupid-diseases-that-Jamie-gets book. It started a year ago now with what I called a sore tailbone. And then one day a sore opened up and I couldn't really ignore that. In the ER, the doctor immediately cut me open (not even pausing to put me to sleep, thank you very much) to alleviate me of the infection that had pooled in a tumor at the base of my spine. Another surgery soon followed ( a surgery called marsupialization...basically I can now carry my young in a pouch on my back. Okay, that's not true. Did you know that marsupials have 2 vaginas? So do hamsters and spiny anteaters and sharks {I do not}. I bet that was more information than you really needed to know). Then I went through months of at-home nurses (who are sadists, by the way), recuperation, and physical therapy. And now, at the one year anniversary, what do I have? Pain. Almost literally a pain in the ass (just a tad higher). And the doctor tells me another surgery will be in store. I'm hoping for something even cooler this time around, like maybe dolphinization. Dolphins are pretty cool. And I always dreamed of performing at Marine Land.
Anyhoo, that little synopsis didn't even include the blood clot/pimp syndrome that I entertain people with now. But I'm just about all typed out, so you can just call me Gimpy and we'll call it even.
Good night!
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Saturday, December 04, 2004
The Shocking, Lusty Details of My Sex Life
Well, what a day. It's Saturday night to you, but due to a hellish schedule, Monday night to me. And everyone knows, Mondays are god's joke on all of us. One time, I cut out all the Mondays on my calendar. I taped the Sunday strip to Tuesday, and I didn't have any Mondays that whole year. What a great year! I mean, I flunked out of school and lost my job, but that's a small price to pay for avoiding Mondays. But this year the joke's on me, because my Mondays happen on Saturdays, and real Mondays are actually my Wednesdays, which I don't hate at all. So I'm a little slow in adapting. I don't know how pathetic I should feel for being at home right now, writing a blog just shortly before midnight on a night known to most as Saturday.
To be fair, I did do something today. I shaved my legs. That's kind of a Saturday thing to do, right? No matter that they hadn't been shaved in weeks, prompting my husband to ask whether I was trying to grow my own silk. I still did it, and I still want credit for it. SO BACK OFF. Man, now that I think about it, that was a crappy shower. My first shower all I had time to do was brush my teeth before the hot water ran out. So I got out, squeegeed the shower, toweled off, moisturized, and read Jane Austen for what I thought was time enough for the hot water tank to refill. Boy was I wrong. Shower #2 was just as cold as the first, but I toughed it out: I washed my parts and shaved my legs. I did not wash my hair, but since this is not really my Saturday, I think unwashed hair is just fine for a theoretical Monday. So I squeegeed and toweled and moisturized again.
Still following me?
And then nothing else funny happened to me for the rest of the goddamn day. But my sister told me I don't have to be funny; that I could in fact increase readership if only I would start publishing the details of my sex life. Of course, I would also have to start censoring material pertaining to unshaved legs, and I think we can all agree that that's some of my best stuff. I just don't do the whole 'sexy' thing very well I think. Sexy, to me, means 'Let's go have sex.' I don't go in for the candle crap. I have never used the phrase 'milky white breasts' in my life (well, except for just then). So, sorry sister, but I think I'd better stick to just writing about life.
Hey, wait a minute.
Why am I even having this conversation with my sister? She's my little sister! We should be playing with our tub toys, or pretending that our matching pink 10-speeds are matching pink motorcycles. Since when did we start admitting to sex? I remember when we used to giggle when the parents would hold hands. Now we're discussing the publication of lurid details (okay, I guess I'm flattering myself that my details would qualify as lurid...but I do know enough about sexy to rule out tepid or modest as good descriptions) and arguing about which one of us is most likely to become accidentally pregnant (hint: it's not me). I think we need to go back to a time where we still think that sneaking in Barbies at bedtime is the most fun you can have between the sheets. As far as little sisters go, I am much more comfortable with denial and repression than any of the possibilities of reality.
Good. I guess I can go back to not shaving my legs now.
Note to significant other: No, I don't think you're tepid. You have hot, hot sex.
Note to sister: I don't know anything about hot, hot sex.
To be fair, I did do something today. I shaved my legs. That's kind of a Saturday thing to do, right? No matter that they hadn't been shaved in weeks, prompting my husband to ask whether I was trying to grow my own silk. I still did it, and I still want credit for it. SO BACK OFF. Man, now that I think about it, that was a crappy shower. My first shower all I had time to do was brush my teeth before the hot water ran out. So I got out, squeegeed the shower, toweled off, moisturized, and read Jane Austen for what I thought was time enough for the hot water tank to refill. Boy was I wrong. Shower #2 was just as cold as the first, but I toughed it out: I washed my parts and shaved my legs. I did not wash my hair, but since this is not really my Saturday, I think unwashed hair is just fine for a theoretical Monday. So I squeegeed and toweled and moisturized again.
Still following me?
And then nothing else funny happened to me for the rest of the goddamn day. But my sister told me I don't have to be funny; that I could in fact increase readership if only I would start publishing the details of my sex life. Of course, I would also have to start censoring material pertaining to unshaved legs, and I think we can all agree that that's some of my best stuff. I just don't do the whole 'sexy' thing very well I think. Sexy, to me, means 'Let's go have sex.' I don't go in for the candle crap. I have never used the phrase 'milky white breasts' in my life (well, except for just then). So, sorry sister, but I think I'd better stick to just writing about life.
Hey, wait a minute.
Why am I even having this conversation with my sister? She's my little sister! We should be playing with our tub toys, or pretending that our matching pink 10-speeds are matching pink motorcycles. Since when did we start admitting to sex? I remember when we used to giggle when the parents would hold hands. Now we're discussing the publication of lurid details (okay, I guess I'm flattering myself that my details would qualify as lurid...but I do know enough about sexy to rule out tepid or modest as good descriptions) and arguing about which one of us is most likely to become accidentally pregnant (hint: it's not me). I think we need to go back to a time where we still think that sneaking in Barbies at bedtime is the most fun you can have between the sheets. As far as little sisters go, I am much more comfortable with denial and repression than any of the possibilities of reality.
Good. I guess I can go back to not shaving my legs now.
Note to significant other: No, I don't think you're tepid. You have hot, hot sex.
Note to sister: I don't know anything about hot, hot sex.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Christmas Threw Up in My Apartment
After 3 days of an intensive decorative process, I am finally satisfied that there is not a spare inch left to cram a bow on to save my life. The stockings are hung, the garlands are strung, the midget tree is up and sparkling, and by tomorrow it will all be giving me a migraine and I'll have to scale wayyyy back. But tonight I think it's cute and twinkly and lovely. And I'm only slightly injured: both feet dented, and one cut finger (why can I never handle a picture frame without cutting myself or dropping it on my toe?).
The holiday insanity is definitely setting in, even in me, because today I violated rule #1 of surviving Christmas: Never get within 100 meters of a Walmart during the month of December.
Also, in the eastern area of Ontario in which I live, we had our first thin covering of snow today. Not that that stopped me from going out in my sandals...which I now admit was a mistake. They're not flipflops or anything, they're heels with the toe part of the shoe and the heel part of the shoe, but with nothing in between, leaving the bare middle of my foot exposed to snow and slush. Ick. But I looked good. Until I slipped. In Walmart.
Now, it wasn't a collossol slip, like the winter of 2000 in front of hundreds of students at the University of Ottawa (big patch of ice, busy intersection, short skirt). But my pretty heels momentarily lost traction and though I held on and did not bruise my butt, I did give Jason a good scare. Actually, it may have been better if I had ended up sprawled on the floor with 2 (or so) broken vertebrae. Then I could live off my $54 000 settlement and people would feel compelled to call me Lucky. And I always wanted a cheesy nickname like that.
In keeping with the Christmas spirit, we drove by 'Christmas House' again tonight, because these people take festive to a whole nother level, and people like that deserve to have cars drive by slowly, some honking, others just rocking slightly due to the laughter of the occupants. Every blade of grass is sufficiently smothered by Christmas paraphenalia: reindeers that pretend to eat, inflatable 12-foot snowmen, santa's sleigh, and enough lights to knock their electricity bill into a whole nother tax bracket. But to me, the funniest part is the roof, which features Frosty, the Grinch, and the baby Jesus, all smiling side by side. Is that the spirit or what?
Kinda like the TraveLodge in London, which is generously offering a free night's stay to couples named Mary and Joseph during the Christmas holidays. I guess that's supposed to make up for the original Mary and Joseph meeting up with all those 'no vacancy' signs and having to stay in a crappy manger. Which is still better than some of the couches that I've stayed on, but I guess it's a nice sentiment no matter how you look at it (with proper id of course).
The holiday insanity is definitely setting in, even in me, because today I violated rule #1 of surviving Christmas: Never get within 100 meters of a Walmart during the month of December.
Also, in the eastern area of Ontario in which I live, we had our first thin covering of snow today. Not that that stopped me from going out in my sandals...which I now admit was a mistake. They're not flipflops or anything, they're heels with the toe part of the shoe and the heel part of the shoe, but with nothing in between, leaving the bare middle of my foot exposed to snow and slush. Ick. But I looked good. Until I slipped. In Walmart.
Now, it wasn't a collossol slip, like the winter of 2000 in front of hundreds of students at the University of Ottawa (big patch of ice, busy intersection, short skirt). But my pretty heels momentarily lost traction and though I held on and did not bruise my butt, I did give Jason a good scare. Actually, it may have been better if I had ended up sprawled on the floor with 2 (or so) broken vertebrae. Then I could live off my $54 000 settlement and people would feel compelled to call me Lucky. And I always wanted a cheesy nickname like that.
In keeping with the Christmas spirit, we drove by 'Christmas House' again tonight, because these people take festive to a whole nother level, and people like that deserve to have cars drive by slowly, some honking, others just rocking slightly due to the laughter of the occupants. Every blade of grass is sufficiently smothered by Christmas paraphenalia: reindeers that pretend to eat, inflatable 12-foot snowmen, santa's sleigh, and enough lights to knock their electricity bill into a whole nother tax bracket. But to me, the funniest part is the roof, which features Frosty, the Grinch, and the baby Jesus, all smiling side by side. Is that the spirit or what?
Kinda like the TraveLodge in London, which is generously offering a free night's stay to couples named Mary and Joseph during the Christmas holidays. I guess that's supposed to make up for the original Mary and Joseph meeting up with all those 'no vacancy' signs and having to stay in a crappy manger. Which is still better than some of the couches that I've stayed on, but I guess it's a nice sentiment no matter how you look at it (with proper id of course).
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Hmm.
Today a dear friend of mine, who is not nearly so dear anymore, brought up an interesting point: I don't work, I don't "do" anything, so how come I don't blog a hell of a lot more often? And I was like, hello, to my mind I already write a damn lot. See how much my English has improved? The proof is in the pudding! In my defense, I do 'do' plenty of things in my day, and here are but a few:
1. I brush my teeth.
Okay, raise your eyebrows. Roll your eyes. Snicker under your breath. I'm not saying this takes up hours, but I am doing a lot of it lately. Well, to clarify, I have been brushing my teeth since I've had teeth, and for me it's a mostly enjoyable experience. I have a small thing about clean teeth, I like and appreciate fresh breath. But recently I bought some new toothpaste, the kind with the mini breath-strips in it that dissolves when you brush. Neat, right? It's so great that I find myself going back for some extra brushing time more than is really necessary. In the mornings I like to brush my teeth in the shower. This is because I am a very messy brusher. I never knew I had a problem until I lived in a dorm and everyone else had clean chins. Meanwhile, I have foam dripping all over my face. What am I doing that's so wrong? But no matter, in the shower messes don't matter (except that my skin is really sensitive, and any part of me that comes into contact with toothpaste turns bright red). So this morning, for example, during my first brush of the day in the shower, a glob of the paste landed on my chest before in even reached my mouth. Jason pointed this out to me, so I wiped it off mine and onto his (my husband and I always shower together, it's the only place we can have serious conversations). I thought it would be neat to be able to see the actual dissolving process of the mini breath strips. But then we stood there watching the blue glob in his chest hair for a really long time, and nothing happened. Quelle disappointment! So now I think maybe they're actually little pieces of candy, and this doesn't bother me too much. In fact, as soon as he left for work, I snuck back in the bathroom and brushed my teeth again.
2. I think about future careers.
There's is something about a long stint of unemployment (note: not because I can't get a job, but because I can't work. That sounds dumb, but I am technically 'disabled') that really makes you think hard about ever going back. I mean, what do I really want to do with my life? If plans had gone accordingly, I would have gone from graduation to a job in my field almost seamlessly. And the job I landed was a great job that I would have found challenging and rewarding, and would have made a great stepping-stone. But it was not meant to be, and lately I find myself wondering what else there might be for me. Today I have decided that I can really see myself as being the lady in the casino in a long sparkly gown giving out those oversized novelty cheques to the big jackpot winners. I don't know how well it would pay, but my guess is that it must pay at least a little more than sitting at home and writing blogs all day long.
3. I take walks.
Well, I used to anyway. This week I've been doing a lot of sitting because I have another blood clot in my leg. Yup, I'm only 23 and I've got my second clot in as many years, so apparently things are serious enough to restart the process of doctors trying to guess what I have. But for now I'm just doing the baby aspirin thing, because I have to clear things up with my surgeon first, and I keep getting more bad news on that front. But anyway, my leg is swollen and very sore, so I would need a cane to do any significant walking, and significant walking is discouraged since a blood clot could dislodge and shoot into my heart or brain. And I'm pretty sure that's not much fun. If I do get a cane, I'll have to wear a big floppy hat with a feather in it, and play 70s porno music everywhere I go for comedic effect. Otherwise it would just be sad and pathetic, and I am so tired of being sad and pathetic! So I haven't been for a good walk in a while, which means all the old ladies on my street are more bored than usual. You see, I live in the middle of Seniorsville, and every time I leave my house, I feel old eyes on me. They are peeking out from behind their curtains, or not bothering to conceal themselves at all out on their porches. They know when I leave, and when I return, how long I was gone. And they keep notes and discuss it amongst themselves. Sometimes I try to sneak out so when they eventually see me returning they'll all fly into a panic, and just knowing that can be the most exciting part of my day. It's even better if I can come home with bags filled with unidentified objects, the contents ambiguous but suggestive. And the best was in the summer when I used to go outside barefoot (barefoot!), man, what a scandal! We would turn up the Beastie Boys, play games, chase each other around the yard. It was so much excitement for the old fogeys that they all had to go to bed much earlier than usual for a while, and yet they hate to because we often go out for drives after dark, and they'd hate to be out of the loop the next day. So by this point of my indoorsiness, they might all think that Jason has killed me and stuffed my body in a closet or something. They're probably sniffing around, trying to detect the odour of decay...gosh, I hope their hearts can take it!
4. I clean some random thing.
My house is always tidy. Well, almost always. But there is always something I can tear apart and reorganize, and that is something I just loooove to do. It used to be my passion only during exam time. Man, if I had a paper to write or a final to study for, you can bet your ass that I knew where all my pens were! And I would categorize the stuff in my closet by colour (which looks neat but isn't very practical). Now I don't have to wait for exam time to get down to business, I can do it any day. There are certain areas of most homes that can always be tackled in the event of a sudden urge to clean: your husband's sock drawer (is it just me or do men have some sort of genetic inability to roll up their socks?), the cupboard where you put your pots and pans, the drawer where you put your makeup, and the infamous junk drawer. Sadly, I do not currently have a junk drawer since I do not currently have any junk, or any spare drawers, but I do have an additional space that I adore organizing: my artsy crap. It's more than a drawer, it's a whole half a storage unit that's massive, floor to ceiling. In it, I have a bin full of scrapbooking supplies (stickers, markers, glues (hot, white, stick, glitter), cut-outs, foam shapes, felt letters, and all kinds of other stuff that I am equally embarrassed to admit to. I also have wrapping supplies, because I believe that any gift is automatically 10% if you wrapped it real pretty. I have all kinds of gift bags, and wrapping papers, ribbons, cellophane, and tissue paper and curls and tags and bows. I make my gifts look so good that the leftovers of my wrapping supplies become my mother's scrapbooking supplies. I also have stationary (I am maybe the last real-letter writer left of my generation), thank you cards, boxes and boxes of photos, because I never have enough photo albums, decorating stuff like crepe paper, balloons, construction paper, and of course paints, and chalk, and about a medium-sized forest's worth of paper in all shapes, sizes, and colours (although I have yet to see the pink trees where these are coming from!). So that's always an organizer's dream to dig their hands into, and a good hour's worth of really hard work. Hurrah!
5. I clean up after my nosebleeds.
Now, up until the year 2001, I had had exactly 1 nosebleed before in my entire life. And it was given to me by my youngest sister, Jan, who was sitting with me in a cardboard box (we were ages 2, and 8, respectively), and I was making such realistic car noises that she was squealing with joy, and she threw her head back to let out a tremendous giggle, and crack went my nose. Of course, being the eldest, my Mom probably yelled at me for letting someone crack me in the nose, and that I should have known better, and I should be setting the example. But that was it. And then something happened in 2001 that caused on onslaught of nosebleeds that I would not wish on my worst enemies. Sadly, I have become accustomed to waking up in a pool of blood. I have certain shirts designated 'nosebleed shirts' (although admittedly many of these are shirts that Jason purchased before he met me, and were at some point going to meet a violent fate). So by the end of any given day, I probably will have bled somewhere, and blood is a real bitch to get out of EVERYTHING! So I use the stain master at Tide.com on a fairly regular basis, and this actually probably takes up more time in my day than even brushing my teeth!
6. I dispense some sort of advice.
Everyone eventually comes to Jamie for advice. Friends have broken hearts, or crappy jobs, or annoying parents, and even if I can't help, I can always listen. And that's cool with me, I mean, I did go into psychology, right? Obviously I have some sort of aptitude for this, and since people keep coming back, I gotta believe it's not just for those brownies with the Bailey's Irish Icing that I make. Plus, now that I can't really leave the house, I'm readily available! I can't even get away if I want to!
7. I read and I write.
On the reading front, I always have a book on the go. I have a list going of all the 'classic' novels that I want to read, or at least feel I should read, and I am slowly making my way through it. Because I have a bad memory for the things I've read, I now write a synopsis when I've finished a book. So far this year, I've read 80 of the books on my list (but quite a few others that don't deserve to be on the list, but sometimes you just need a crappy pop-culture book to cleanse your palette after the likes of James Joyce!). Jason thinks I read just to feel superior to him (he started 2 books this year, and will never finish either of them). That's complete bull though, because I read to feel superior to almost everyone. Just kidding. I just like to read, and Jason shouldn't complain, because it took him all of 1 hour to read the synopses of Charles Dickens, Norman Mailer, Toni Morrison, Dostoevsky, Faulkner, Homer (Homer!), Gogol, Thomas Hardy, Nathanial Hawthorne, ...well, obviously I could go on X 80, but you get the picture. He sounds snotty without having done the work, so why is he complaining?
On the writing front, well I have lots of things on the go. I started this blog thing in October, and I think it's funny that anyone should ready this stuff. I also have a personal journal that I only wish I had started much much sooner, because it's really funny to look back on your own history. I have 5 books of my own poems, a guided journal that I'm constantly working on, plus I write a tonne of letters and emails almost every day. And I have a lot of unfinished stories that I add to when I can't sleep. And I have 2 lists that I am constantly working on, the first being 'One Million Things that Bother Me', and the second being 'One Million and One Things that Make Me Smile' (I always want there to be more goods than bads!). The first hundred items were a breeze, but it's hard to keep it going. Currently, I have 2126 items on the first list, and 4789 on the second. Maybe some day I'll post some, because Jason says they're always good for a laugh.
8. I cry.
Finally, no day is complete until I've bawled during Oprah. I never really watched Oprah until a couple of years ago (probably when Rosie went off the air), and I still don't NEED an Oprah fix, but if she's on and I'm around, I'll watch. And odds are, I'll cry. I'm a crier. I cry all the time, at books, at commercials (especially those touching Bell commercials they haul out around Christmas time), at my friends' problems, at my frustrations (particularly when making pie crust), really just whenever. It's like I'm pregnant, except I'm not. Whoa there: do not, I repeat, DO NOT start spreading that rumour!
So there you have it, I am a deceptively busy girl. So go on, get out of my hair!
1. I brush my teeth.
Okay, raise your eyebrows. Roll your eyes. Snicker under your breath. I'm not saying this takes up hours, but I am doing a lot of it lately. Well, to clarify, I have been brushing my teeth since I've had teeth, and for me it's a mostly enjoyable experience. I have a small thing about clean teeth, I like and appreciate fresh breath. But recently I bought some new toothpaste, the kind with the mini breath-strips in it that dissolves when you brush. Neat, right? It's so great that I find myself going back for some extra brushing time more than is really necessary. In the mornings I like to brush my teeth in the shower. This is because I am a very messy brusher. I never knew I had a problem until I lived in a dorm and everyone else had clean chins. Meanwhile, I have foam dripping all over my face. What am I doing that's so wrong? But no matter, in the shower messes don't matter (except that my skin is really sensitive, and any part of me that comes into contact with toothpaste turns bright red). So this morning, for example, during my first brush of the day in the shower, a glob of the paste landed on my chest before in even reached my mouth. Jason pointed this out to me, so I wiped it off mine and onto his (my husband and I always shower together, it's the only place we can have serious conversations). I thought it would be neat to be able to see the actual dissolving process of the mini breath strips. But then we stood there watching the blue glob in his chest hair for a really long time, and nothing happened. Quelle disappointment! So now I think maybe they're actually little pieces of candy, and this doesn't bother me too much. In fact, as soon as he left for work, I snuck back in the bathroom and brushed my teeth again.
2. I think about future careers.
There's is something about a long stint of unemployment (note: not because I can't get a job, but because I can't work. That sounds dumb, but I am technically 'disabled') that really makes you think hard about ever going back. I mean, what do I really want to do with my life? If plans had gone accordingly, I would have gone from graduation to a job in my field almost seamlessly. And the job I landed was a great job that I would have found challenging and rewarding, and would have made a great stepping-stone. But it was not meant to be, and lately I find myself wondering what else there might be for me. Today I have decided that I can really see myself as being the lady in the casino in a long sparkly gown giving out those oversized novelty cheques to the big jackpot winners. I don't know how well it would pay, but my guess is that it must pay at least a little more than sitting at home and writing blogs all day long.
3. I take walks.
Well, I used to anyway. This week I've been doing a lot of sitting because I have another blood clot in my leg. Yup, I'm only 23 and I've got my second clot in as many years, so apparently things are serious enough to restart the process of doctors trying to guess what I have. But for now I'm just doing the baby aspirin thing, because I have to clear things up with my surgeon first, and I keep getting more bad news on that front. But anyway, my leg is swollen and very sore, so I would need a cane to do any significant walking, and significant walking is discouraged since a blood clot could dislodge and shoot into my heart or brain. And I'm pretty sure that's not much fun. If I do get a cane, I'll have to wear a big floppy hat with a feather in it, and play 70s porno music everywhere I go for comedic effect. Otherwise it would just be sad and pathetic, and I am so tired of being sad and pathetic! So I haven't been for a good walk in a while, which means all the old ladies on my street are more bored than usual. You see, I live in the middle of Seniorsville, and every time I leave my house, I feel old eyes on me. They are peeking out from behind their curtains, or not bothering to conceal themselves at all out on their porches. They know when I leave, and when I return, how long I was gone. And they keep notes and discuss it amongst themselves. Sometimes I try to sneak out so when they eventually see me returning they'll all fly into a panic, and just knowing that can be the most exciting part of my day. It's even better if I can come home with bags filled with unidentified objects, the contents ambiguous but suggestive. And the best was in the summer when I used to go outside barefoot (barefoot!), man, what a scandal! We would turn up the Beastie Boys, play games, chase each other around the yard. It was so much excitement for the old fogeys that they all had to go to bed much earlier than usual for a while, and yet they hate to because we often go out for drives after dark, and they'd hate to be out of the loop the next day. So by this point of my indoorsiness, they might all think that Jason has killed me and stuffed my body in a closet or something. They're probably sniffing around, trying to detect the odour of decay...gosh, I hope their hearts can take it!
4. I clean some random thing.
My house is always tidy. Well, almost always. But there is always something I can tear apart and reorganize, and that is something I just loooove to do. It used to be my passion only during exam time. Man, if I had a paper to write or a final to study for, you can bet your ass that I knew where all my pens were! And I would categorize the stuff in my closet by colour (which looks neat but isn't very practical). Now I don't have to wait for exam time to get down to business, I can do it any day. There are certain areas of most homes that can always be tackled in the event of a sudden urge to clean: your husband's sock drawer (is it just me or do men have some sort of genetic inability to roll up their socks?), the cupboard where you put your pots and pans, the drawer where you put your makeup, and the infamous junk drawer. Sadly, I do not currently have a junk drawer since I do not currently have any junk, or any spare drawers, but I do have an additional space that I adore organizing: my artsy crap. It's more than a drawer, it's a whole half a storage unit that's massive, floor to ceiling. In it, I have a bin full of scrapbooking supplies (stickers, markers, glues (hot, white, stick, glitter), cut-outs, foam shapes, felt letters, and all kinds of other stuff that I am equally embarrassed to admit to. I also have wrapping supplies, because I believe that any gift is automatically 10% if you wrapped it real pretty. I have all kinds of gift bags, and wrapping papers, ribbons, cellophane, and tissue paper and curls and tags and bows. I make my gifts look so good that the leftovers of my wrapping supplies become my mother's scrapbooking supplies. I also have stationary (I am maybe the last real-letter writer left of my generation), thank you cards, boxes and boxes of photos, because I never have enough photo albums, decorating stuff like crepe paper, balloons, construction paper, and of course paints, and chalk, and about a medium-sized forest's worth of paper in all shapes, sizes, and colours (although I have yet to see the pink trees where these are coming from!). So that's always an organizer's dream to dig their hands into, and a good hour's worth of really hard work. Hurrah!
5. I clean up after my nosebleeds.
Now, up until the year 2001, I had had exactly 1 nosebleed before in my entire life. And it was given to me by my youngest sister, Jan, who was sitting with me in a cardboard box (we were ages 2, and 8, respectively), and I was making such realistic car noises that she was squealing with joy, and she threw her head back to let out a tremendous giggle, and crack went my nose. Of course, being the eldest, my Mom probably yelled at me for letting someone crack me in the nose, and that I should have known better, and I should be setting the example. But that was it. And then something happened in 2001 that caused on onslaught of nosebleeds that I would not wish on my worst enemies. Sadly, I have become accustomed to waking up in a pool of blood. I have certain shirts designated 'nosebleed shirts' (although admittedly many of these are shirts that Jason purchased before he met me, and were at some point going to meet a violent fate). So by the end of any given day, I probably will have bled somewhere, and blood is a real bitch to get out of EVERYTHING! So I use the stain master at Tide.com on a fairly regular basis, and this actually probably takes up more time in my day than even brushing my teeth!
6. I dispense some sort of advice.
Everyone eventually comes to Jamie for advice. Friends have broken hearts, or crappy jobs, or annoying parents, and even if I can't help, I can always listen. And that's cool with me, I mean, I did go into psychology, right? Obviously I have some sort of aptitude for this, and since people keep coming back, I gotta believe it's not just for those brownies with the Bailey's Irish Icing that I make. Plus, now that I can't really leave the house, I'm readily available! I can't even get away if I want to!
7. I read and I write.
On the reading front, I always have a book on the go. I have a list going of all the 'classic' novels that I want to read, or at least feel I should read, and I am slowly making my way through it. Because I have a bad memory for the things I've read, I now write a synopsis when I've finished a book. So far this year, I've read 80 of the books on my list (but quite a few others that don't deserve to be on the list, but sometimes you just need a crappy pop-culture book to cleanse your palette after the likes of James Joyce!). Jason thinks I read just to feel superior to him (he started 2 books this year, and will never finish either of them). That's complete bull though, because I read to feel superior to almost everyone. Just kidding. I just like to read, and Jason shouldn't complain, because it took him all of 1 hour to read the synopses of Charles Dickens, Norman Mailer, Toni Morrison, Dostoevsky, Faulkner, Homer (Homer!), Gogol, Thomas Hardy, Nathanial Hawthorne, ...well, obviously I could go on X 80, but you get the picture. He sounds snotty without having done the work, so why is he complaining?
On the writing front, well I have lots of things on the go. I started this blog thing in October, and I think it's funny that anyone should ready this stuff. I also have a personal journal that I only wish I had started much much sooner, because it's really funny to look back on your own history. I have 5 books of my own poems, a guided journal that I'm constantly working on, plus I write a tonne of letters and emails almost every day. And I have a lot of unfinished stories that I add to when I can't sleep. And I have 2 lists that I am constantly working on, the first being 'One Million Things that Bother Me', and the second being 'One Million and One Things that Make Me Smile' (I always want there to be more goods than bads!). The first hundred items were a breeze, but it's hard to keep it going. Currently, I have 2126 items on the first list, and 4789 on the second. Maybe some day I'll post some, because Jason says they're always good for a laugh.
8. I cry.
Finally, no day is complete until I've bawled during Oprah. I never really watched Oprah until a couple of years ago (probably when Rosie went off the air), and I still don't NEED an Oprah fix, but if she's on and I'm around, I'll watch. And odds are, I'll cry. I'm a crier. I cry all the time, at books, at commercials (especially those touching Bell commercials they haul out around Christmas time), at my friends' problems, at my frustrations (particularly when making pie crust), really just whenever. It's like I'm pregnant, except I'm not. Whoa there: do not, I repeat, DO NOT start spreading that rumour!
So there you have it, I am a deceptively busy girl. So go on, get out of my hair!
Ach, I Stepped in Veal
Luckily, Mayor Rudy G. assures us that stepping in veal in New York City is actually a very rare occurrence, and we have no reason to fear that such a thing might happen to us. But just to be sure, you should always wear shoes in NYC, even in your hotel room. Make that: especially in your hotel room. Don't you just love Rudy? He's a good guy, and I have formed that opinion based on his inspired cameo appearance in Anger Management. It almost makes me forgive him for being a Republican. Almost.
When I grow up, I want to be one of those ladies who carry little yappy dogs with them everywhere. God, that is so annoying and self-indulgent. But during the past year that I have not had a real job (and therefore, according to my darling mother, no real purpose to my life...gee thanks mom), I have been contemplating all sorts of different career choice, and quite a few appeal to me. I know the above is not technically a career, but it is an aspiration, so in my book, it counts.
The word niggardly is pretty funny. It sounds a little bit non-PC, so I hope it doesn't actually come from those roots. The dictionary says it means a mean, stingy person. Which is not funny. But the word still is.
So lately I'm going through this phase where I call everyone Matt. And I'm not really sure why, because even wracking my brains, I can't even think of a single person that I know named Matt, so it's not like I have Matt on the brain. I used to have this thing where I called Jason my sister's name (also a J), and called my sister Jason. But I think this is mostly when I'm yelling at them, and I seem to have gotten over this lately. I also went through this phase where I giggled constantly when I saw Jamie and Jesse at school. Jamie is one of my dearest friends, and in case you haven't noticed, Jamie is also my name. That's kind of how we met actually: a teacher at our school congratulated Jamie on winning a writing contest, and she was quite bewildered, not having even entered any contests. Eventually we figured out that people were confusing us (we also happened to be alphabetically listed one right after the other, our last names both starting with the same letter, and it being a really small school). So naturally we just became friends. Another friend of mine was Jesse, and as noted above, I have a sister named similarly. So for 15 years, when people said 'Jamie and Jesse', it meant me and my little sister. It blew my mind a little bit every time I heard those names referring to other people. Maybe that was a pathetic and pointless story. Sorry, Matt.
So last night held one of those crummy decisions that life is all about: to watch Jay Leno, or not to. Tom Green was on. I hate Tom Green. I hate him. This one time, I won tickets to go see Freddy Got Fingered from an Ottawa radio station (I know I know, someone from Ottawa should have a little more loyalty for Tom Green, right? Wrong!). I went to see this movie, and actually when we arrived, the radio 'personalities' were making grilled cheese. Then we went into the theatre, where I promptly won a gift pack, including the Freddy Got Fingered t-shirt, visor, soundtrack, and some other crap. Great! So I actually sat through the whole movie, mostly only because I was sitting in the middle of the row and I don't like being responsible for disrupting moviegoers. And the next day I wrote an angry letter to said radio personality asking for those 2 hours of my life back, and should that be impossible, then I would gladly accept tickets to the Survivor party they were hosting at SilverCity (this was back when Survivor was new and cool, like season 2, and the tickets were impossible to get). Well somehow, the guy wrote me back, told me to call in during the show the next day, and I actually got the tickets (sadly CBS shut down the party). But anyway, the whole experience was the final nail in the Tom Green coffin, after years of being not at all amused by his road kill hats, and pranks on his parents. So of course I want to change the channel when I hear that Tom Green is on, but also on: Adam Sandler, who is #2 on my list (#1 in my heart, shhh). Conundrum! Well, not really. I'll even watch Tom Green for Adam. But I won't like it. Ohhhh nooo, I will not like it.
When I grow up, I want to be one of those ladies who carry little yappy dogs with them everywhere. God, that is so annoying and self-indulgent. But during the past year that I have not had a real job (and therefore, according to my darling mother, no real purpose to my life...gee thanks mom), I have been contemplating all sorts of different career choice, and quite a few appeal to me. I know the above is not technically a career, but it is an aspiration, so in my book, it counts.
The word niggardly is pretty funny. It sounds a little bit non-PC, so I hope it doesn't actually come from those roots. The dictionary says it means a mean, stingy person. Which is not funny. But the word still is.
So lately I'm going through this phase where I call everyone Matt. And I'm not really sure why, because even wracking my brains, I can't even think of a single person that I know named Matt, so it's not like I have Matt on the brain. I used to have this thing where I called Jason my sister's name (also a J), and called my sister Jason. But I think this is mostly when I'm yelling at them, and I seem to have gotten over this lately. I also went through this phase where I giggled constantly when I saw Jamie and Jesse at school. Jamie is one of my dearest friends, and in case you haven't noticed, Jamie is also my name. That's kind of how we met actually: a teacher at our school congratulated Jamie on winning a writing contest, and she was quite bewildered, not having even entered any contests. Eventually we figured out that people were confusing us (we also happened to be alphabetically listed one right after the other, our last names both starting with the same letter, and it being a really small school). So naturally we just became friends. Another friend of mine was Jesse, and as noted above, I have a sister named similarly. So for 15 years, when people said 'Jamie and Jesse', it meant me and my little sister. It blew my mind a little bit every time I heard those names referring to other people. Maybe that was a pathetic and pointless story. Sorry, Matt.
So last night held one of those crummy decisions that life is all about: to watch Jay Leno, or not to. Tom Green was on. I hate Tom Green. I hate him. This one time, I won tickets to go see Freddy Got Fingered from an Ottawa radio station (I know I know, someone from Ottawa should have a little more loyalty for Tom Green, right? Wrong!). I went to see this movie, and actually when we arrived, the radio 'personalities' were making grilled cheese. Then we went into the theatre, where I promptly won a gift pack, including the Freddy Got Fingered t-shirt, visor, soundtrack, and some other crap. Great! So I actually sat through the whole movie, mostly only because I was sitting in the middle of the row and I don't like being responsible for disrupting moviegoers. And the next day I wrote an angry letter to said radio personality asking for those 2 hours of my life back, and should that be impossible, then I would gladly accept tickets to the Survivor party they were hosting at SilverCity (this was back when Survivor was new and cool, like season 2, and the tickets were impossible to get). Well somehow, the guy wrote me back, told me to call in during the show the next day, and I actually got the tickets (sadly CBS shut down the party). But anyway, the whole experience was the final nail in the Tom Green coffin, after years of being not at all amused by his road kill hats, and pranks on his parents. So of course I want to change the channel when I hear that Tom Green is on, but also on: Adam Sandler, who is #2 on my list (#1 in my heart, shhh). Conundrum! Well, not really. I'll even watch Tom Green for Adam. But I won't like it. Ohhhh nooo, I will not like it.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
I don't get mad, I get stabby.
Now, why would I get stabby? Well, maybe I should rewind and tell this story in sequence.
Happy December 1st, by the way. I woke up this morning, which is like a Saturday for us because Jason works Saturday through Tuesday and ideally has Wednesday through Friday off, although this week he's all about overtime, and that's where he is now, leaving me enough peace and quiet to sit down and write. Well, sort of semi-sit down, and I'll get to that too. We woke up kind of early because I was volunteering this morning at 11:30, and before I left my house I needed to dye my hair because the colour was beautiful in the front but faded in the back, which is worse than if it was equally faded all the way around. So we woke up at 8am on our technical Saturday, which I think we can all agree is crazy.
So anyway, I go into the Agape Center, and talk to Charlie for like an hour, he is a sweet man, though a little 'slow'. Our conversation covers such hot topics such as "Have you ever seen 2 rainbows at the same time?", "Is blue your favourite colour?", "One time when I was tuna fishing in Prince Edward Island, I threw up 7 hot dogs", and "I used to play hockey up north where they train NATO pilots in -50 degree weather, but when I lived in Edmonton for 17 years it would be -90 with the windchill". I could only get him to shut up when he was served his 33cent lunch. I was anxious to cut the visit a little short because we spent this whole time sitting on the only seat available, an old church pew. As most people know, I have had some surgeries on my back, in that tender spot that bends when you sit, and so sitting can be really uncomfortable for me, and this morning, it was just dreadful. When I shifted my weight, I could tell I was bleeding. But I can't just blurt that all out as an explanation for why I can't sit much longer, and Charlie is just paying rapt attention to me today, so I was trying to tough it out. And just as we were saying goodbye, I saw the potential reason why I had kept him captivated so completely for the past hour: the pivotal buttons of my blouse were open, spilling forth my jumblies. I mean, I was EXPOSED. Big time. And the room was completely crowded, particularly with men who can't see their children until they complete anger management programs. So it was a pretty good idea for me to just get out at that point.
So Jason is there, ready to pick me up and I catch him playing air-guitar. Again. Now, I keep telling him to cut that out, he looks like such a dork when he does that. So yes, air-guitar makes me mad enough to get stabby. Now I admit that once I played air-xylophone. But come on, that's funny. Plus, I apparently go around showing my breasts, and everyone knows that girls who do that get away with a lot. And I've also played air-saxophone, pretty much every time that I hear this one song off the New Kids On The Block Christmas album. If you had any idea what I was talking about, you'd be nodding in agreement right now. But you don't, and you aren't. In my defense, I only had that album way back when, and it's my mother who has made it 'tradition'.
So it was only 1pm, but I was tired, and it was rainy, and I was feeling kind of bummed out, and Jason kept making his frowny face when I told him that I thought we should go cut down a little tree somewhere. I figure that there are parks and wooded lots, and even people's yards that are just littered with trees that would make perfect Christmas decorations. And besides, trees belong to everyone, right? Well, I don't think Jason particularly agreed with that, and he did not feel like going into covert operations in the rain on this particular Wednesday, so I was doing the pouty thing. But he was driving and couldn't see how far my bottom lip as sticking out, so it didn't work its magic. Instead, he told me that he remembered me once telling him about a court case involving a man who felt that he was God, and that because God makes everything, everything belonged to him and therefore he was allowed to shoplift. The judge did not agree with him, and the man was diagnosed as schizophrenic and sent to cool his heels in a psychiatric ward. Apparently my husband thought it suitable to compare my feelings about trees with this man's feelings about whatever he could stuff under his shirt. And the saddest part is, if he's calling me a schizo, it's still more polite than last week when he told me I had B.I.T.C.H.Y.
At the very least, we had to go get our Christmas stuff out of storage, and that's what we did. Of course, I had an unfortunate accident involving the tie of my sweater coat. Apparently it had been caught in the door from Cornwall past Long Sault, dragging in the rain. So it was a sopping mess by the time I made this discovery. Oh, and at some point in there, the rain turned into snow. It's probably about time (in fact, it's long overdue) but I hate snow, I hate cold, I will gladly sacrifice the belts on all of my coats if only we could forget about snow this year.
I thankfully sent Jason off to work late in the afternoon, and I had some time to myself to put on my Christmas CDs and get down to the serious business of decorating. I put up my little 3 foot tree, and even I have to admit it's cute. I put out my gingerbread house cookie jar, but since I don't care for cookies, it's filled with clementines. And I hung the ornaments, admiring each one, remembering (or not remembering) how and when we got them. Finally I got to the last box, the one containing the fragile stuff. Any bets as to what will happen next? Obviously some sort of crash will be involved, but how will it happen? Well, would you believe that I was being so very careful with this fragile box that I didn't notice what my feet were doing, and I stepped right on my bag of Christmas thumbtacks. I immediately threw the breakable stuff across the room, right into the wall, and screamed some of my favourite obscenities. When I lifted my foot to see what the hell was going on, the bag was still attached to my foot via the dozens of tacks that were piercing the sole of my foot. So that was nice. At this rate, I can't afford to be sentimental about any of our ornaments!
Now for tonight, I plan to curl up and watch 8 Crazy Nights. I have denied myself that privilege all year long so that I can keep it sacred for my holiday time (which is ironic, since I celebrate Christmas, but since when do I make distinctions like that?). I plan to watch it every single night between now and the 25th. So, if I miss 8 crazy blogs, don't be surprised.
Happy December 1st, by the way. I woke up this morning, which is like a Saturday for us because Jason works Saturday through Tuesday and ideally has Wednesday through Friday off, although this week he's all about overtime, and that's where he is now, leaving me enough peace and quiet to sit down and write. Well, sort of semi-sit down, and I'll get to that too. We woke up kind of early because I was volunteering this morning at 11:30, and before I left my house I needed to dye my hair because the colour was beautiful in the front but faded in the back, which is worse than if it was equally faded all the way around. So we woke up at 8am on our technical Saturday, which I think we can all agree is crazy.
So anyway, I go into the Agape Center, and talk to Charlie for like an hour, he is a sweet man, though a little 'slow'. Our conversation covers such hot topics such as "Have you ever seen 2 rainbows at the same time?", "Is blue your favourite colour?", "One time when I was tuna fishing in Prince Edward Island, I threw up 7 hot dogs", and "I used to play hockey up north where they train NATO pilots in -50 degree weather, but when I lived in Edmonton for 17 years it would be -90 with the windchill". I could only get him to shut up when he was served his 33cent lunch. I was anxious to cut the visit a little short because we spent this whole time sitting on the only seat available, an old church pew. As most people know, I have had some surgeries on my back, in that tender spot that bends when you sit, and so sitting can be really uncomfortable for me, and this morning, it was just dreadful. When I shifted my weight, I could tell I was bleeding. But I can't just blurt that all out as an explanation for why I can't sit much longer, and Charlie is just paying rapt attention to me today, so I was trying to tough it out. And just as we were saying goodbye, I saw the potential reason why I had kept him captivated so completely for the past hour: the pivotal buttons of my blouse were open, spilling forth my jumblies. I mean, I was EXPOSED. Big time. And the room was completely crowded, particularly with men who can't see their children until they complete anger management programs. So it was a pretty good idea for me to just get out at that point.
So Jason is there, ready to pick me up and I catch him playing air-guitar. Again. Now, I keep telling him to cut that out, he looks like such a dork when he does that. So yes, air-guitar makes me mad enough to get stabby. Now I admit that once I played air-xylophone. But come on, that's funny. Plus, I apparently go around showing my breasts, and everyone knows that girls who do that get away with a lot. And I've also played air-saxophone, pretty much every time that I hear this one song off the New Kids On The Block Christmas album. If you had any idea what I was talking about, you'd be nodding in agreement right now. But you don't, and you aren't. In my defense, I only had that album way back when, and it's my mother who has made it 'tradition'.
So it was only 1pm, but I was tired, and it was rainy, and I was feeling kind of bummed out, and Jason kept making his frowny face when I told him that I thought we should go cut down a little tree somewhere. I figure that there are parks and wooded lots, and even people's yards that are just littered with trees that would make perfect Christmas decorations. And besides, trees belong to everyone, right? Well, I don't think Jason particularly agreed with that, and he did not feel like going into covert operations in the rain on this particular Wednesday, so I was doing the pouty thing. But he was driving and couldn't see how far my bottom lip as sticking out, so it didn't work its magic. Instead, he told me that he remembered me once telling him about a court case involving a man who felt that he was God, and that because God makes everything, everything belonged to him and therefore he was allowed to shoplift. The judge did not agree with him, and the man was diagnosed as schizophrenic and sent to cool his heels in a psychiatric ward. Apparently my husband thought it suitable to compare my feelings about trees with this man's feelings about whatever he could stuff under his shirt. And the saddest part is, if he's calling me a schizo, it's still more polite than last week when he told me I had B.I.T.C.H.Y.
At the very least, we had to go get our Christmas stuff out of storage, and that's what we did. Of course, I had an unfortunate accident involving the tie of my sweater coat. Apparently it had been caught in the door from Cornwall past Long Sault, dragging in the rain. So it was a sopping mess by the time I made this discovery. Oh, and at some point in there, the rain turned into snow. It's probably about time (in fact, it's long overdue) but I hate snow, I hate cold, I will gladly sacrifice the belts on all of my coats if only we could forget about snow this year.
I thankfully sent Jason off to work late in the afternoon, and I had some time to myself to put on my Christmas CDs and get down to the serious business of decorating. I put up my little 3 foot tree, and even I have to admit it's cute. I put out my gingerbread house cookie jar, but since I don't care for cookies, it's filled with clementines. And I hung the ornaments, admiring each one, remembering (or not remembering) how and when we got them. Finally I got to the last box, the one containing the fragile stuff. Any bets as to what will happen next? Obviously some sort of crash will be involved, but how will it happen? Well, would you believe that I was being so very careful with this fragile box that I didn't notice what my feet were doing, and I stepped right on my bag of Christmas thumbtacks. I immediately threw the breakable stuff across the room, right into the wall, and screamed some of my favourite obscenities. When I lifted my foot to see what the hell was going on, the bag was still attached to my foot via the dozens of tacks that were piercing the sole of my foot. So that was nice. At this rate, I can't afford to be sentimental about any of our ornaments!
Now for tonight, I plan to curl up and watch 8 Crazy Nights. I have denied myself that privilege all year long so that I can keep it sacred for my holiday time (which is ironic, since I celebrate Christmas, but since when do I make distinctions like that?). I plan to watch it every single night between now and the 25th. So, if I miss 8 crazy blogs, don't be surprised.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Ladies and Gentlemen, a Giant Has Fallen
Oh he's smart, but not unbeatable. Ken Jennings, Jeopardy champ extraordinaire, finally met his match tonight, and I've been strutting around smiling ever since. I have nothing against Ken, he seems like a lovable nerd to me, but there are two reasons why I'm happy:
1. He was beat by a woman.
2. I knew the answer to the question that was his undoing!
Another thing I would like to discuss today is that I am apparently not the typical blogger. I was looking a few of them randomly, and through my astute observational skills, I came to 2 somewhat alarming conclusions based on my lackings:
1. I am not an Asian girl.
2. I do not feel the compulsion to write about how much I love Jesus.
I cannot stand the excitement any longer, and yet by my count, there are still 17 days left. 17 long, agonizing days, and I'm just not sure I'll be able to make it. I could collapse from excitement right now, and flop around on the living room floor, sweaty and salivating like crazy, but I guess that wouldn't make it December 17th any sooner, right? So all I can do is sit here pretending that patience is a virtue, for two and a half more weeks. Loooong weeks. But on December 17th, I will so be lined up, ready to fall in love with Adam all over again, in his new movie Spanglish.
God my hair smells delicious. I mean, how do people keep their hands off me? Just by smell alone, I must drive at least half the population absolutely bonkers. I'm feeling kind of turned on right now, and it's me!
Well, obviously British accents are quite appealing. It's the reason why Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, while not inherently good looking, make us North American ladies swoon. And there are a few words that British people use (that we, over here, do not) that consistently make me laugh:
1. Dodgy, as in "Boy that's a dodgy sweater you're wearing." And believe you me, dodgy is not a compliment.
2. Wonky, as in "Boy that 8th beer has made you pretty wonky." (shaky, unreliable)
I mean, where do these people come up with this material! Priceless!
Once in a blue moon, a new product comes along that just completely changes the way you live your life. I imagine that the washing machine was one of these products, because in the past a woman would have had to dedicate a good 10 minutes of intense elbow grease of scrubbing for each article of clothing. And for someone like me, who has so many nose bleeds and pepsi spills every single day, I could be spending my whole life down by the creek. And then a machine comes along that you just throw in your laundry and sprinkle in some soap, and ta-da. The TV was probably like that, and the car, and the fridge, and flushing toilets (flushing toilets!), the light bulb, the computer...well you can see where this is going. Imagine if you were alive when they invented the washing machine...would you be 100% happy, or would a part of you always be resentful for all the time wasted doing it the "old" way? Well, I have had such an experience, and I think nowadays it's rare to have a new product out since most of the latest things are either just improvements on old ones (usually only slight improvements), or else just plain crap we don't need that won't change your life at all. But then I found Clorox Wipes. That's right, you heard me: Clorox Wipes! I am a de-bacterializing machine! Raw chicken? No problem! Grody keyboard? Busted! Sticky remote control (listen, for the last time, I didn't mean to spill the juice directly on it, it just happened that way)? Wiped clean, my friend. You just pull the little rag thingy out, and Ole! If you don't have these wipes, you need them. Now I know that there's all this buzz about about all this consumerism being a bad thing, but take it from me, that's just drivel. Everyone knows that materialism and rampant spending are what drive our economy. So go ahead, and wipe away!
1. He was beat by a woman.
2. I knew the answer to the question that was his undoing!
Another thing I would like to discuss today is that I am apparently not the typical blogger. I was looking a few of them randomly, and through my astute observational skills, I came to 2 somewhat alarming conclusions based on my lackings:
1. I am not an Asian girl.
2. I do not feel the compulsion to write about how much I love Jesus.
I cannot stand the excitement any longer, and yet by my count, there are still 17 days left. 17 long, agonizing days, and I'm just not sure I'll be able to make it. I could collapse from excitement right now, and flop around on the living room floor, sweaty and salivating like crazy, but I guess that wouldn't make it December 17th any sooner, right? So all I can do is sit here pretending that patience is a virtue, for two and a half more weeks. Loooong weeks. But on December 17th, I will so be lined up, ready to fall in love with Adam all over again, in his new movie Spanglish.
God my hair smells delicious. I mean, how do people keep their hands off me? Just by smell alone, I must drive at least half the population absolutely bonkers. I'm feeling kind of turned on right now, and it's me!
Well, obviously British accents are quite appealing. It's the reason why Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, while not inherently good looking, make us North American ladies swoon. And there are a few words that British people use (that we, over here, do not) that consistently make me laugh:
1. Dodgy, as in "Boy that's a dodgy sweater you're wearing." And believe you me, dodgy is not a compliment.
2. Wonky, as in "Boy that 8th beer has made you pretty wonky." (shaky, unreliable)
I mean, where do these people come up with this material! Priceless!
Once in a blue moon, a new product comes along that just completely changes the way you live your life. I imagine that the washing machine was one of these products, because in the past a woman would have had to dedicate a good 10 minutes of intense elbow grease of scrubbing for each article of clothing. And for someone like me, who has so many nose bleeds and pepsi spills every single day, I could be spending my whole life down by the creek. And then a machine comes along that you just throw in your laundry and sprinkle in some soap, and ta-da. The TV was probably like that, and the car, and the fridge, and flushing toilets (flushing toilets!), the light bulb, the computer...well you can see where this is going. Imagine if you were alive when they invented the washing machine...would you be 100% happy, or would a part of you always be resentful for all the time wasted doing it the "old" way? Well, I have had such an experience, and I think nowadays it's rare to have a new product out since most of the latest things are either just improvements on old ones (usually only slight improvements), or else just plain crap we don't need that won't change your life at all. But then I found Clorox Wipes. That's right, you heard me: Clorox Wipes! I am a de-bacterializing machine! Raw chicken? No problem! Grody keyboard? Busted! Sticky remote control (listen, for the last time, I didn't mean to spill the juice directly on it, it just happened that way)? Wiped clean, my friend. You just pull the little rag thingy out, and Ole! If you don't have these wipes, you need them. Now I know that there's all this buzz about about all this consumerism being a bad thing, but take it from me, that's just drivel. Everyone knows that materialism and rampant spending are what drive our economy. So go ahead, and wipe away!
Monday, November 29, 2004
The Funniest Thing That Happened to Me Today
Here's the only hazard of having your grandparents as neighbours:
I was sitting here, just minding my own business, innocent as all get-out, nursing my probable blood clot and trying to decide if a 3pm bedtime is completely out of the question, when I hear Nanny's footsteps on the stairs. Knock, knock, knock. "It's just me!" as if I could mistake her for anyone else.
"Are you going out for New Year's?" No hello, no good morning, how are you today? She just gets right to the point and leaves me dumb. Uhh...
Well, that is a good question. Isn't this still November? Jason and I aren't exactly long-term planners. We plan the day on the day of the day. And not much before. We're still figuring out the whole Christmas thing, and we're not even doing very well at that. So to be honest, we have not discussed any new year's plans. In fact, we haven't even admitted that there will be a new year, or that this one will end. But still, do I want to say this? I can't get a good read on Nanny this morning, and usually I like to tailor my answers in order to steer the conversation down comfortable paths. But I don't know where this one is going, so how do I know what kind of answer may potentially get me into a tight spot?
"Well Nanny, I don't know yet." I am half-afraid that she is about to invite me for bridge and beer, and I'm already thinking up excuses why I can't possibly do that for New Year's.
But no, the conversation suddenly veers down a completely different path than the one I am imagining:
"It's because I have this dress that I thought you might like to wear." Oh yeah? You know, just the other day, I was flipping through Cosmo and I noticed that old people stuff was really in style now.
Not.
"It's black and has a scoop neck and has sleeves "like this" and is made of that material that's loose and crinkly."
OOooooh.
"Oh, that sounds ... nice..." (yeah, it didn't sound convincing to me either, but I did try).
"The dress will probably look really good on you because you have bigger boobs than me (well, I think she said bust, maybe, or bosom). And it has a jacket that goes with it, but you probably won't want to wear that because you're young and you don't have the bags of fat under your arms (my Nanny is a bit weight-obsessed, and I recognize the opportunity to once again assure her that she is not fat, she looks wonderful, blah blah blah)." So she rushes upstairs to retrieve the dress for me.
Well.
She shows me the dress, and I immediately think it would better belong in a costume department somewhere, in a box marked "old lady". It's made of this god awful synthetic material, some kind of acrylic-lycra stretchy fabric that should not be known to humankind for any reason. And the jacket? Not a jacket, more like a little short sleeve shirt that ties at the neck with one gold button. Wait, there's more! It's embroidered with corn stalks in gold thread. Sexy. Not exactly the kind of thing I might wear to the Liquor Dome. But she thinks that it might also be good for Christmas dinner or going out for holiday dinners.
And the best part: "You don't have to tell anyone it's mine. I've only worn it to The Moose once or twice, so the family hasn't seen me in it yet." Oh boy! Now will my sister will just think I borrowed it from some other 70 year old lady that I know. The secret is safe!
So I can't exactly say "I wouldn't wear that for anything", therefore I am committed to hanging it in my closet at least until the new year before I return it to her with profuse thanks. But my morbid curiosity is getting the best of me, so of course I have to go try it on. That's just the kind of desperate-for-laughs mood I was in this afternoon.
First of all, she was right: my boobs did look fabulous in the dress. I will be the hottest gal at the Legion! Oh wait, I keep forgetting that I'm not 70 and that Jason and I did not buy tickets for all-you-can-eat roast beef for New Year's at the Legion. So she prepared me on the boob front, even though I think it's a bad sign for the rest of my week that my grandmother and I already discussing my chest, and it's only Monday. What she didn't tell me was that it also accentuates the shoulders by means of sewn-in shoulder pads. Oh yes.
It's horrible. I mean, she said that it would suit my complexion (oh yeah, cause lots of girls can't wear black!) and that everything looks nice on me because I have such a pretty face (huh?). But clearly Nanny woke up on the wrong side of dellusional this morning. What is Nanny thinking? Did she just want an excuse to visit? Did she wake up this morning and think "Maybe if I let Jamie borrow a dress of mine, she'll let me borrow her Doc Martens for that rave Bob and I are going to..."?
I am incredibly tempted to wear the damn thing, at least to Christmas this year. That way, the next time Nanny wears it to the Legion she can say "This old thing? Oh, my granddaughter just borrowed it the other day...". It doesn't really work the other way, but what do I care? There was a time when I thought crocheted vests and stirrup pants were the height of fashion so maybe I'm not that credible a source myself. But I'm not trying to get Nanny to wear my shirt that says 'Pete's weiners, 50 cents each'. And besides, I already have the perfect shoes to go with the outfit; Nanny gave me a pair this summer, and shock of all shocks, I haven't really had the opportunity to wear them yet. Now I have to wonder: is she nuts, or am I?
I was sitting here, just minding my own business, innocent as all get-out, nursing my probable blood clot and trying to decide if a 3pm bedtime is completely out of the question, when I hear Nanny's footsteps on the stairs. Knock, knock, knock. "It's just me!" as if I could mistake her for anyone else.
"Are you going out for New Year's?" No hello, no good morning, how are you today? She just gets right to the point and leaves me dumb. Uhh...
Well, that is a good question. Isn't this still November? Jason and I aren't exactly long-term planners. We plan the day on the day of the day. And not much before. We're still figuring out the whole Christmas thing, and we're not even doing very well at that. So to be honest, we have not discussed any new year's plans. In fact, we haven't even admitted that there will be a new year, or that this one will end. But still, do I want to say this? I can't get a good read on Nanny this morning, and usually I like to tailor my answers in order to steer the conversation down comfortable paths. But I don't know where this one is going, so how do I know what kind of answer may potentially get me into a tight spot?
"Well Nanny, I don't know yet." I am half-afraid that she is about to invite me for bridge and beer, and I'm already thinking up excuses why I can't possibly do that for New Year's.
But no, the conversation suddenly veers down a completely different path than the one I am imagining:
"It's because I have this dress that I thought you might like to wear." Oh yeah? You know, just the other day, I was flipping through Cosmo and I noticed that old people stuff was really in style now.
Not.
"It's black and has a scoop neck and has sleeves "like this" and is made of that material that's loose and crinkly."
OOooooh.
"Oh, that sounds ... nice..." (yeah, it didn't sound convincing to me either, but I did try).
"The dress will probably look really good on you because you have bigger boobs than me (well, I think she said bust, maybe, or bosom). And it has a jacket that goes with it, but you probably won't want to wear that because you're young and you don't have the bags of fat under your arms (my Nanny is a bit weight-obsessed, and I recognize the opportunity to once again assure her that she is not fat, she looks wonderful, blah blah blah)." So she rushes upstairs to retrieve the dress for me.
Well.
She shows me the dress, and I immediately think it would better belong in a costume department somewhere, in a box marked "old lady". It's made of this god awful synthetic material, some kind of acrylic-lycra stretchy fabric that should not be known to humankind for any reason. And the jacket? Not a jacket, more like a little short sleeve shirt that ties at the neck with one gold button. Wait, there's more! It's embroidered with corn stalks in gold thread. Sexy. Not exactly the kind of thing I might wear to the Liquor Dome. But she thinks that it might also be good for Christmas dinner or going out for holiday dinners.
And the best part: "You don't have to tell anyone it's mine. I've only worn it to The Moose once or twice, so the family hasn't seen me in it yet." Oh boy! Now will my sister will just think I borrowed it from some other 70 year old lady that I know. The secret is safe!
So I can't exactly say "I wouldn't wear that for anything", therefore I am committed to hanging it in my closet at least until the new year before I return it to her with profuse thanks. But my morbid curiosity is getting the best of me, so of course I have to go try it on. That's just the kind of desperate-for-laughs mood I was in this afternoon.
First of all, she was right: my boobs did look fabulous in the dress. I will be the hottest gal at the Legion! Oh wait, I keep forgetting that I'm not 70 and that Jason and I did not buy tickets for all-you-can-eat roast beef for New Year's at the Legion. So she prepared me on the boob front, even though I think it's a bad sign for the rest of my week that my grandmother and I already discussing my chest, and it's only Monday. What she didn't tell me was that it also accentuates the shoulders by means of sewn-in shoulder pads. Oh yes.
It's horrible. I mean, she said that it would suit my complexion (oh yeah, cause lots of girls can't wear black!) and that everything looks nice on me because I have such a pretty face (huh?). But clearly Nanny woke up on the wrong side of dellusional this morning. What is Nanny thinking? Did she just want an excuse to visit? Did she wake up this morning and think "Maybe if I let Jamie borrow a dress of mine, she'll let me borrow her Doc Martens for that rave Bob and I are going to..."?
I am incredibly tempted to wear the damn thing, at least to Christmas this year. That way, the next time Nanny wears it to the Legion she can say "This old thing? Oh, my granddaughter just borrowed it the other day...". It doesn't really work the other way, but what do I care? There was a time when I thought crocheted vests and stirrup pants were the height of fashion so maybe I'm not that credible a source myself. But I'm not trying to get Nanny to wear my shirt that says 'Pete's weiners, 50 cents each'. And besides, I already have the perfect shoes to go with the outfit; Nanny gave me a pair this summer, and shock of all shocks, I haven't really had the opportunity to wear them yet. Now I have to wonder: is she nuts, or am I?
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Good Charlotte
It starts with the perfect, moist chocolate cake, laced with honey and rum, and filled with surprising but delightful coffee-flavoured Bavarian cream. The whole thing is piped with chocolate chantilly cream, surrounded with Viennese hazelnut and cocoa cream piroulines, and topped with chocolate curls and shavings. And that, my friends, is a good charlotte. A great charlotte, even.
Now if you can add to this good charlotte some good company, or at least hungry tummies, then you have a wonderful mix. There is nothing better than an appreciative audience for your delectable creations. I only wish I had more time to devote to baking new masterpieces, especially since I seem to have moved on to treats that I can actually indulge in myself (unlike my trademark cheesecakes).
Being married to a great big walking hungry tummy, I have had plenty of practice for my new hobby, and hopefully my future career. One day, when I've had enough of whatever it is that I settle on doing, we can stake our whole life savings on my crackpot idea of opening up a dessert bar so I can spend all my days surrounded by chocolate and booze (what else could a girl want?). By then, I shall have tried out hundreds of samples on families and friends, and I will easily be able to pare down the choices to a very select menu of only the best, most mouth-watering desserts. By then, dear Jason, you will be able to buy me that stand mixer ($400!) and write it off, so it won't hurt you so much. I can spend the whole day in a kitchen making everything perfect and pretty. And if need be, I already have a list of people willing to accept positions at Sweet J's Dessert Bar as official taste-testers.
All of this, of course, is so far into the future that it's just a nice thing to think about when I lay awake at night, wondering what the future will look like. Will my hair turn grey, or will I still be dying it purple when I'm 60? Will I ever shop at Northern Reflections, and think that I look good in a sweater with ducks? Will I live in a big house that needs dusting, or will I have spent all my money on shoes that pinch too much to wear, and live in a little houseboat down South? Will I ever learn to play the banjo, or stop after 8 tattoos, or start a collection of brooches, or take up lawn-bowling? I guess the thing about being 23 is that all of these questions are unanswered, and should be. I don't even know what tomorrow will bring, although I think I have a pretty good idea. And I must say, that as long as I have a nice cake (or a good charlotte) to soften the blows, I can be brave about what lies ahead. Life is sweet.
Now if you can add to this good charlotte some good company, or at least hungry tummies, then you have a wonderful mix. There is nothing better than an appreciative audience for your delectable creations. I only wish I had more time to devote to baking new masterpieces, especially since I seem to have moved on to treats that I can actually indulge in myself (unlike my trademark cheesecakes).
Being married to a great big walking hungry tummy, I have had plenty of practice for my new hobby, and hopefully my future career. One day, when I've had enough of whatever it is that I settle on doing, we can stake our whole life savings on my crackpot idea of opening up a dessert bar so I can spend all my days surrounded by chocolate and booze (what else could a girl want?). By then, I shall have tried out hundreds of samples on families and friends, and I will easily be able to pare down the choices to a very select menu of only the best, most mouth-watering desserts. By then, dear Jason, you will be able to buy me that stand mixer ($400!) and write it off, so it won't hurt you so much. I can spend the whole day in a kitchen making everything perfect and pretty. And if need be, I already have a list of people willing to accept positions at Sweet J's Dessert Bar as official taste-testers.
All of this, of course, is so far into the future that it's just a nice thing to think about when I lay awake at night, wondering what the future will look like. Will my hair turn grey, or will I still be dying it purple when I'm 60? Will I ever shop at Northern Reflections, and think that I look good in a sweater with ducks? Will I live in a big house that needs dusting, or will I have spent all my money on shoes that pinch too much to wear, and live in a little houseboat down South? Will I ever learn to play the banjo, or stop after 8 tattoos, or start a collection of brooches, or take up lawn-bowling? I guess the thing about being 23 is that all of these questions are unanswered, and should be. I don't even know what tomorrow will bring, although I think I have a pretty good idea. And I must say, that as long as I have a nice cake (or a good charlotte) to soften the blows, I can be brave about what lies ahead. Life is sweet.
Sometimes Evil Drives a Mini-Van
More musings:
Okay, I'll come out and say it, Harry Potter is hot. And I don't care who hears me say it; I've been saying it since the first movie, when he was just 11. So of course now that he's 15 and it's even less creepy, I'll be shouting it from the rooftops. Sometimes you can just tell when a kid is going to grow up to be a hottie, so my advice is to keep your eyes on this guy! One of these days he'll even be legal!
I have recently learned, to my horror and embarrassment, that my husband is sneaking around behind my back, so if someone tells you that we're separated, it's probably true. There are a lot of possibilities that you must consider when you get married, and at some point, almost everyone wonders what they would do should the worst ever happen to them. But none of us ever believe that our wonderful husbands would actually lie, deceive, and generally just become a whole different person. If we believed it could happen, why would we marry? So even though we may think about the worst, we never think it will happen to us, and then it does. I should have seen all the signs...I mean, as it turns out, it was happening right here in my own house, and that's what makes it hurt so much. There were little plastic chips scattered on the carpet. Like a fool, I picked them up while vacuuming and never even mentioned them to him. Then he started inexplicably buying troll dolls, and he actually had me convinced it was for a prank Christmas gift for his dad. But then I caught him in the act one day, and now everything is different, everything is clear to me, and it makes my stomach churn. I asked him how he could do such a thing, and he said he didn't know. He said he doesn't even enjoy it! And how could he? Jason is playing bingo all alone at night when I'm asleep or during the day when I'm gone out. There's no one to call the numbers for him. There's no one racing to fill up their card before him. He's so ashamed, he felt he had to hide it from me. But now the secret's out, and it's all I can do to honour my vows, for better or for worse.
Charles Dickens is giving me nightmares again. I mean, I'm innocently reading A Tale of Two Cities, and it's all nice, all happy little family, and then suddenly it's all blood and guts: first he'll be "drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters." And believe me, that's the friendliest sentence, because it doesn't involve any hot oil. Those people were really into their punishements back then. And then whole town would gather to watch this happen, for entertainment. And they had food vendors and kegs of beer to make it even more of a social gathering. Which is sickening, but it reminds me of a lot of stuff that goes on today. Oh, we don't watch that stuff live, but lots of people do pay $8 a seat to watch in on the big screen, all the while munching on their buttery popcorn. I do not like to go see horror movies, or excessively violent movies. I don't think it's entertaining to watch people die, and I think it's a really sad commentary on our society that this is a billion dollar enterprise. I mean, we can read that above quote and agree that it is "barbaric", and yet people were lined up to see Saw in theatres just last week. And I can tell you, there is no artistic merit in that movie. It's not a story that needed to be told. It's just a movie where you can watch a bunch of people die agonizing and horrifying deaths. And why does anyone want to see that? We may as well be the angry mob, foaming at the mouth, that Dickens was describing back in 1775. I can maybe understand a movie like Saving Private Ryan, which is also very bloody and violent, but it serves a purpose other than just shock and titilation. War IS terrible, and hopefully we can learned from our mistakes and not have to go through that again. I had a hard time watching that movie, especially knowing that for a lot of scared young men, it was reality. But when watching it in a theatre with 200 other people, I realized I was the only person turning away. And that's because people are used to seeing the spray of blood. It's normal. And it shouldn't be.
Jason has a thing for hot apple cider from Tim Horton's lately. Which I think is gross, but I indulge him in these things, and I try to keep my comments to myself. And he keeps urging me to try it, I might like it, even though I keep insisting that I have tried it, and I don't like it, I don't even like apple juice, and I don't need to keep putting things I consider disgusting in my mouth just to test his theories. But anyway, Jason likes to go to Tim's a lot, because he is also a coffee drinker (large double double), though I am also not a fan of coffee. He wanted to bring some to work, but they have a policy concerning drinks that states it either has to be in a resealable bottle, or a spill-proof cup. I told him I had such a thing at home, my thermal coffee mug that I received from my last place of employment, and promptly never once used. But then Jason confessed that he'd already shattered it months ago, and needed a new one. So we bought one from Tim Horton's, filled with apple cider, and of course they were conveniently out of the normal sizes and we had to spring for the EXTRA LARGE which I will from here forward refer to as Penis Cup, because if ever I saw a phallic image, this was it. Definitely compensating for something. And filled with cider, our car was smelling like an orchard (I was going to say it smelled like the diaper of a baby who's had too much apple sauce, but that's just mean). Anyway, Jason brought the Penis Cup to work (and boy does he hate it when I call it that!) and by first break, he realized that his bladder can contain about one sip less than what a Penis Cup contains, because on the tail end of his last call, he was standing in his office doing the dance, and then he slammed the phone down and made a run for it. So the Penis Cup stayed home today, empty. Hah.
Okay, I'll come out and say it, Harry Potter is hot. And I don't care who hears me say it; I've been saying it since the first movie, when he was just 11. So of course now that he's 15 and it's even less creepy, I'll be shouting it from the rooftops. Sometimes you can just tell when a kid is going to grow up to be a hottie, so my advice is to keep your eyes on this guy! One of these days he'll even be legal!
I have recently learned, to my horror and embarrassment, that my husband is sneaking around behind my back, so if someone tells you that we're separated, it's probably true. There are a lot of possibilities that you must consider when you get married, and at some point, almost everyone wonders what they would do should the worst ever happen to them. But none of us ever believe that our wonderful husbands would actually lie, deceive, and generally just become a whole different person. If we believed it could happen, why would we marry? So even though we may think about the worst, we never think it will happen to us, and then it does. I should have seen all the signs...I mean, as it turns out, it was happening right here in my own house, and that's what makes it hurt so much. There were little plastic chips scattered on the carpet. Like a fool, I picked them up while vacuuming and never even mentioned them to him. Then he started inexplicably buying troll dolls, and he actually had me convinced it was for a prank Christmas gift for his dad. But then I caught him in the act one day, and now everything is different, everything is clear to me, and it makes my stomach churn. I asked him how he could do such a thing, and he said he didn't know. He said he doesn't even enjoy it! And how could he? Jason is playing bingo all alone at night when I'm asleep or during the day when I'm gone out. There's no one to call the numbers for him. There's no one racing to fill up their card before him. He's so ashamed, he felt he had to hide it from me. But now the secret's out, and it's all I can do to honour my vows, for better or for worse.
Charles Dickens is giving me nightmares again. I mean, I'm innocently reading A Tale of Two Cities, and it's all nice, all happy little family, and then suddenly it's all blood and guts: first he'll be "drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters." And believe me, that's the friendliest sentence, because it doesn't involve any hot oil. Those people were really into their punishements back then. And then whole town would gather to watch this happen, for entertainment. And they had food vendors and kegs of beer to make it even more of a social gathering. Which is sickening, but it reminds me of a lot of stuff that goes on today. Oh, we don't watch that stuff live, but lots of people do pay $8 a seat to watch in on the big screen, all the while munching on their buttery popcorn. I do not like to go see horror movies, or excessively violent movies. I don't think it's entertaining to watch people die, and I think it's a really sad commentary on our society that this is a billion dollar enterprise. I mean, we can read that above quote and agree that it is "barbaric", and yet people were lined up to see Saw in theatres just last week. And I can tell you, there is no artistic merit in that movie. It's not a story that needed to be told. It's just a movie where you can watch a bunch of people die agonizing and horrifying deaths. And why does anyone want to see that? We may as well be the angry mob, foaming at the mouth, that Dickens was describing back in 1775. I can maybe understand a movie like Saving Private Ryan, which is also very bloody and violent, but it serves a purpose other than just shock and titilation. War IS terrible, and hopefully we can learned from our mistakes and not have to go through that again. I had a hard time watching that movie, especially knowing that for a lot of scared young men, it was reality. But when watching it in a theatre with 200 other people, I realized I was the only person turning away. And that's because people are used to seeing the spray of blood. It's normal. And it shouldn't be.
Jason has a thing for hot apple cider from Tim Horton's lately. Which I think is gross, but I indulge him in these things, and I try to keep my comments to myself. And he keeps urging me to try it, I might like it, even though I keep insisting that I have tried it, and I don't like it, I don't even like apple juice, and I don't need to keep putting things I consider disgusting in my mouth just to test his theories. But anyway, Jason likes to go to Tim's a lot, because he is also a coffee drinker (large double double), though I am also not a fan of coffee. He wanted to bring some to work, but they have a policy concerning drinks that states it either has to be in a resealable bottle, or a spill-proof cup. I told him I had such a thing at home, my thermal coffee mug that I received from my last place of employment, and promptly never once used. But then Jason confessed that he'd already shattered it months ago, and needed a new one. So we bought one from Tim Horton's, filled with apple cider, and of course they were conveniently out of the normal sizes and we had to spring for the EXTRA LARGE which I will from here forward refer to as Penis Cup, because if ever I saw a phallic image, this was it. Definitely compensating for something. And filled with cider, our car was smelling like an orchard (I was going to say it smelled like the diaper of a baby who's had too much apple sauce, but that's just mean). Anyway, Jason brought the Penis Cup to work (and boy does he hate it when I call it that!) and by first break, he realized that his bladder can contain about one sip less than what a Penis Cup contains, because on the tail end of his last call, he was standing in his office doing the dance, and then he slammed the phone down and made a run for it. So the Penis Cup stayed home today, empty. Hah.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Never trust anything that bleeds for 5 days and doesn't die
Some musings from the past few days:
-I am currently reading A Tale of Two Cities, you know, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." and I am realizing how everyone knows those first 12 words and not much else about it. So I asked Jason what two cities he even thought were involved, and without missing a beat, he guessed Seattle and France. First of all, this book takes place in 1775, which means Seattle did not exist (not until 1869, in fact) and secondly, France is a country, not a city. So the bottom line, friends: don't trust Jason on anything literary or common sensical.
-Nanny and Pa just got back from an exhilarating 3-day trip to Niagara Falls. They packed beers for the bus, enjoyed gambling at yet another casino, and ate a good meal in the revolving restaurant. Their favourite part of the trip seems to be the piece of roast beef Pa ordered for dinner at this restaurant, because they both had to show me the yay by yay by yay dimensions of this slab of beef, which according to its length, width, and height, was about the size of a platform shoe, and frankly, all 3 of us are surprised that Pa is still able to walk around.
-The other day when Jason and I were on Pitt St, we saw a truck that said "Oh les phoques" on the back. Now, I am not a fan of any stenciling of any sort on cars...in Cornwall, there is an abundance of little boys either peeing or giving the finger, and I wonder when we started giving 8 year olds the right to drive. It's about as trailer trash as you can get, and you just know whoever gets out of said car will have a mullet and buck teeth and will barely speak the good English. But this les phoques truck takes the cake, as I'm sure you agree. If you don't know, a phoque is the French word for seal...but you know very well this guy is not just enthusiastic about seals. Apparently it is funny to him to have a French word that sounds like a dirty English word on his truck...which I can totally understand, because I remember going through that phase myself in grade 2. But my mom wouldn't let me spray-paint it on my Blue Angel bike, and I got over it quickly. Yeah.
-Jason started on his new team at work, and after a grim first day, he had only this to say: "No one else on my team is under 60 or under 400 lbs." It's just a bunch of old ladies with hacking coughs who are quite pleased to have such a nice young man join their ranks...they even invited him to their weekly trip to the 5th Wheel for some chain-smoking and gossip on Tuesday night. Jason passed on that one. His second day was maybe a bit worse, because of the persimmons. You see, strolling through the produce section on Saturday inspired us to pick up 2 persimmons (for 98 cents) to try them out. Jason took one to work with him yesterday, and a few hours later I found this urgent message from him in my email: "Do not eat that persimmon!!!" Apparently it was much like eating a sponge, because it sucked all the saliva right out of his mouth, and didn't taste much better than a sponge either. Then he had to work the rest of his shift with no spit, which apparently is a lot harder than it sounds. Let's hope day 3 goes a little better.
-Last night when we were going to bed, I was trying to align the coffee table, and Jason accused me of having O.C.D. (obsessive-compulsive disorder). Let me explain: our coffee table sits in between 2 couches that are at a right angle to each other, so it's a tricky thing to make the coffee table line up with both of them, so I'm often nudging it one way or another, stepping back for a better view, and trying again. But I do not have O.C.D. and you'd think my husband would be a little more appreciate of the aesthetically pleasing lines of the house I keep for him. But no, he just diagnoses me (I knew I would regret asking him to help me study!). So when I denied having even a touch of O.C.D., he then pronounced that I had some B.I.T.C.H.Y. How do you like that? Raise your hand if you think Jason slept on the couch last night.
-I am currently reading A Tale of Two Cities, you know, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." and I am realizing how everyone knows those first 12 words and not much else about it. So I asked Jason what two cities he even thought were involved, and without missing a beat, he guessed Seattle and France. First of all, this book takes place in 1775, which means Seattle did not exist (not until 1869, in fact) and secondly, France is a country, not a city. So the bottom line, friends: don't trust Jason on anything literary or common sensical.
-Nanny and Pa just got back from an exhilarating 3-day trip to Niagara Falls. They packed beers for the bus, enjoyed gambling at yet another casino, and ate a good meal in the revolving restaurant. Their favourite part of the trip seems to be the piece of roast beef Pa ordered for dinner at this restaurant, because they both had to show me the yay by yay by yay dimensions of this slab of beef, which according to its length, width, and height, was about the size of a platform shoe, and frankly, all 3 of us are surprised that Pa is still able to walk around.
-The other day when Jason and I were on Pitt St, we saw a truck that said "Oh les phoques" on the back. Now, I am not a fan of any stenciling of any sort on cars...in Cornwall, there is an abundance of little boys either peeing or giving the finger, and I wonder when we started giving 8 year olds the right to drive. It's about as trailer trash as you can get, and you just know whoever gets out of said car will have a mullet and buck teeth and will barely speak the good English. But this les phoques truck takes the cake, as I'm sure you agree. If you don't know, a phoque is the French word for seal...but you know very well this guy is not just enthusiastic about seals. Apparently it is funny to him to have a French word that sounds like a dirty English word on his truck...which I can totally understand, because I remember going through that phase myself in grade 2. But my mom wouldn't let me spray-paint it on my Blue Angel bike, and I got over it quickly. Yeah.
-Jason started on his new team at work, and after a grim first day, he had only this to say: "No one else on my team is under 60 or under 400 lbs." It's just a bunch of old ladies with hacking coughs who are quite pleased to have such a nice young man join their ranks...they even invited him to their weekly trip to the 5th Wheel for some chain-smoking and gossip on Tuesday night. Jason passed on that one. His second day was maybe a bit worse, because of the persimmons. You see, strolling through the produce section on Saturday inspired us to pick up 2 persimmons (for 98 cents) to try them out. Jason took one to work with him yesterday, and a few hours later I found this urgent message from him in my email: "Do not eat that persimmon!!!" Apparently it was much like eating a sponge, because it sucked all the saliva right out of his mouth, and didn't taste much better than a sponge either. Then he had to work the rest of his shift with no spit, which apparently is a lot harder than it sounds. Let's hope day 3 goes a little better.
-Last night when we were going to bed, I was trying to align the coffee table, and Jason accused me of having O.C.D. (obsessive-compulsive disorder). Let me explain: our coffee table sits in between 2 couches that are at a right angle to each other, so it's a tricky thing to make the coffee table line up with both of them, so I'm often nudging it one way or another, stepping back for a better view, and trying again. But I do not have O.C.D. and you'd think my husband would be a little more appreciate of the aesthetically pleasing lines of the house I keep for him. But no, he just diagnoses me (I knew I would regret asking him to help me study!). So when I denied having even a touch of O.C.D., he then pronounced that I had some B.I.T.C.H.Y. How do you like that? Raise your hand if you think Jason slept on the couch last night.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
The 10 Men I'd Like to Find Under my Tree this Year!
10. Pacey
I have a pedophile-ish confession to make: I have had a crush on Joshua Jackson since 1992, when the first Mighty Ducks movie came out. Thank heavens in 1998 the world gave us some more acceptable images of him, so I was no longer forced to swoon in private. It was while watching Dawson's Creek that I first decided that the back of a man's neck was a luscious, luscious thing, and it was my hots for Pacey that got me through the show's sappier moments. By the end of its run, Pacey was the only thing that made the show worth watching, and in my opinion, he was VERY worth watching. That devillish smile coupled with his witty remarks...my Wednesday night just has not been the same since!
9. Matthew Broderick
This man will be 87 and still have a baby face…those dimples are to die for, he's got a wink on him worth a million dollars, and those puppy dog eyes... he is the only man in the world who makes me think that cute is not such a bad thing. Adorable, really! He is the kind of brooding quiet that is mysterious and very attractive He's got that kind-of-nerdy- but- incredibly
-delectable thing going for him. You just can't take your eyes off of him in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and he makes a god-awful movie called Godzilla almost bearable if you keep your focus on his shy smile and the bumbling way he makes any cheesy line seem actually funny. I just want to eat him right up!
8. Hugh Grant
What the hell is it about this guy? There is nothing about him that is obviously sexy: he often has that floppy hair thing, so mid-90s, his body is thin, his grin is lop-sided. And yet the whole thing culminates into this alluring package that drives me crazy. The accent probably helps a lot, and the little wrinkles around his eyes. And the way that even when he's playing the bastard, he still comes off sweet and charming. And when he really smiles, it gets me every time.
7. Thom Filicia
When I first started watching Queer Eye, I fell in love easily with Kyan, who has obvious good looks and the benefit or great hair. Then I went through my Ted phase, because a man who can cook is a total prize, plus he has this dry wit that holds the group together. But as the weeks go by, I realize that it is Thom that I absolutely want under my tree. He is not only super good looking and totally funny (Quote: "Lemme get this straight: your friend is a straight hairstylist with wicker furniture? I have a feeling he's not telling you the whole truth."), but he is one talented dude! Yeah, I know he's gay, but I'd still totally make out with him. And even if he's never more than a shopping partner, he's still worth his weight in gold. What woman doesn't want a handsome man with great fashion sense and who knows the importance of throw pillows...plus, gay men can dance, and that is hard to find! To top it all off, he decorates beautifully...this man can do no wrong!
"Gays love their frostings!"
6. Robbie Williams
What is it about Robbie that I love? More like what isn't it! I mean come on, he's the ultimate bad boy, sooo hot, and sooo confident (I love cocky men!!) There is just something very magnetic about him, he looks at the camera and I start yelling "Take me, I'm yours!" at the TV. And the man looks as good in a suit as his he does in his underpants, and that says a lot. Ladies: if you haven't seen the video for Come Undone, I totally recommend it. Grrrr...why does a black eye just look so damn sexy on some guys?
5. Will Smith
When I watched him on Fresh Prince, he was just a funny guy. But he certainly made all us ladies take a second look when he started making movies. Tall, handsome, broad shoulders, and incredibly smart (he was accepted at MIT but didn't have the $): the total package. There's a scene in Bad Boys 2 when he's walking into a lobby pulling on his suit jacket, and you can literally hear dozens and dozens of panties sliding to the floor of the movie theatre. But he's most drool-worthy when he's wearing that bullet proof vest that says POLICE. Yum! Plus, he's a great guy, he treats his wife like a woman is meant to be treated, and that makes any man irresistable. Quote: "I'm human viagra. I'm Willagra. I'm a sex machine now. I'm raring to go every second of the day. My wife's loving it." What woman wouldn't? Perfect man much?
4. Dennis Quaid
I can't really remember a time when I didn't love Dennis Quaid. It must be those bedroom eyes, which is creepy, because I think I had a picture of him under my 90210 poster when I was 9. But anyway, he has the greatest smile on the face of the earth, and he only gets better with age. I have never seen anyone look better in a baseball shirt (in The Rookie), and lucky me: it rains when he's wearing the white one...hard.
3. Raine Maida
From the moment I first heard his voice, I was totally smitten. He has such a passion and power in his voice when he sings (as part of my favourite band, Our Lady Peace) that my heart literally beats a little quicker every single time I hear one of his songs. And his lyrics blow me away, so that I could love him without ever seeing him. But then I did see him (in the video for Naveed when he sings "trying hard to understand why Naveed would let a young man...die, it's during the ... that I completely melted and have been his ever since) I was like, "whoa, there's a total hotness factor here." I won't even begin to tell you about when I held his hand and sang with him. It's just too much for me. Feast your eyes on this:
This picture doesn't do him justice, but after all, he's just a Canadian rock god.
2. Mr. Adam Sandler
I don't know if words are necessary here, because there is probably not a person alive who hasn't heard me rant about Adam before. I have adored him since 1992 when I first fell in love with Opera Man and Lucy Brawn, the Gap girl. There has not since been one single thing about him that I don't like (later ammended: actually, he's republican. Eep.). Nothing makes me happier than the eager anticipation of seeing something new of his on the big screen (Stay tuned for Spanglish, hitting a theatre near you on December 17th). He makes me laugh constantly; I have seen Billy Madison more times than I've written my own name, and it still gives me the giggles. He is incredibly successful and yet still humble. I love him to pieces, which may turn out to be a problem when I'm 50 and still in line with teenage boys to be assaulted by scatological humour. And yes, I find him incredibly sexy.
1. Jason
He will do anything to make me laugh, and unlike Adam, I never have to wait for new material. He's as witty as Pacey, and yeah, the back of his neck is quite delightful, especially since I tattooed it (and he used to watch Dawson's Creek with me weekly, while hopelessly trying to explain geometry to me, back when we were just friends, and he and I were both seeing other people). He indulges my love of OLP and takes me to concerts and doesn't even complain when I'm swooning over another man. And he does try to sing to me, although his favourites are Toni Braxton songs, for some insane reason. His eyes put Matthew Broderick's to shame...they are the most interesting colour, brown with gold in the centre, and I could get lost in them for hours. And he wears the baseball shirt I got him from the Gap even though he knows it's an homage to Dennis Quaid. But he looks good, and he knows he looks good, so it all works out. Jason and Hugh Grant both shared a former penchant for bad haircuts, but miraculously, both have since recovered. Now he lets me tease him about it, and he teases me back, and that is the hallmark of a great, secure relationship. Jason is good to his wife, to all the women in his life, and though he doesn't earn $20 mil a movie like Will Smith, he does plan on becoming a cop, and promises to bring home his vest for some exciting Saturday nights. He may not be as cocky as Robbie Williams, but he drives me crazy anyway. I want him under my tree the most, this year and every year, and not just because I have to say that. He has absolutely nothing in common with Thom, but that's okay, I sort of prefer straight men for husbands. And as much as I love Adam, I wouldn't ever trade in my Jason. Because Jason was made just for me, and though I bug him all the time, but he knows I wouldn't change a thing.
I have a pedophile-ish confession to make: I have had a crush on Joshua Jackson since 1992, when the first Mighty Ducks movie came out. Thank heavens in 1998 the world gave us some more acceptable images of him, so I was no longer forced to swoon in private. It was while watching Dawson's Creek that I first decided that the back of a man's neck was a luscious, luscious thing, and it was my hots for Pacey that got me through the show's sappier moments. By the end of its run, Pacey was the only thing that made the show worth watching, and in my opinion, he was VERY worth watching. That devillish smile coupled with his witty remarks...my Wednesday night just has not been the same since!
9. Matthew Broderick
This man will be 87 and still have a baby face…those dimples are to die for, he's got a wink on him worth a million dollars, and those puppy dog eyes... he is the only man in the world who makes me think that cute is not such a bad thing. Adorable, really! He is the kind of brooding quiet that is mysterious and very attractive He's got that kind-of-nerdy- but- incredibly
-delectable thing going for him. You just can't take your eyes off of him in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and he makes a god-awful movie called Godzilla almost bearable if you keep your focus on his shy smile and the bumbling way he makes any cheesy line seem actually funny. I just want to eat him right up!
8. Hugh Grant
What the hell is it about this guy? There is nothing about him that is obviously sexy: he often has that floppy hair thing, so mid-90s, his body is thin, his grin is lop-sided. And yet the whole thing culminates into this alluring package that drives me crazy. The accent probably helps a lot, and the little wrinkles around his eyes. And the way that even when he's playing the bastard, he still comes off sweet and charming. And when he really smiles, it gets me every time.
7. Thom Filicia
When I first started watching Queer Eye, I fell in love easily with Kyan, who has obvious good looks and the benefit or great hair. Then I went through my Ted phase, because a man who can cook is a total prize, plus he has this dry wit that holds the group together. But as the weeks go by, I realize that it is Thom that I absolutely want under my tree. He is not only super good looking and totally funny (Quote: "Lemme get this straight: your friend is a straight hairstylist with wicker furniture? I have a feeling he's not telling you the whole truth."), but he is one talented dude! Yeah, I know he's gay, but I'd still totally make out with him. And even if he's never more than a shopping partner, he's still worth his weight in gold. What woman doesn't want a handsome man with great fashion sense and who knows the importance of throw pillows...plus, gay men can dance, and that is hard to find! To top it all off, he decorates beautifully...this man can do no wrong!
"Gays love their frostings!"
6. Robbie Williams
What is it about Robbie that I love? More like what isn't it! I mean come on, he's the ultimate bad boy, sooo hot, and sooo confident (I love cocky men!!) There is just something very magnetic about him, he looks at the camera and I start yelling "Take me, I'm yours!" at the TV. And the man looks as good in a suit as his he does in his underpants, and that says a lot. Ladies: if you haven't seen the video for Come Undone, I totally recommend it. Grrrr...why does a black eye just look so damn sexy on some guys?
5. Will Smith
When I watched him on Fresh Prince, he was just a funny guy. But he certainly made all us ladies take a second look when he started making movies. Tall, handsome, broad shoulders, and incredibly smart (he was accepted at MIT but didn't have the $): the total package. There's a scene in Bad Boys 2 when he's walking into a lobby pulling on his suit jacket, and you can literally hear dozens and dozens of panties sliding to the floor of the movie theatre. But he's most drool-worthy when he's wearing that bullet proof vest that says POLICE. Yum! Plus, he's a great guy, he treats his wife like a woman is meant to be treated, and that makes any man irresistable. Quote: "I'm human viagra. I'm Willagra. I'm a sex machine now. I'm raring to go every second of the day. My wife's loving it." What woman wouldn't? Perfect man much?
4. Dennis Quaid
I can't really remember a time when I didn't love Dennis Quaid. It must be those bedroom eyes, which is creepy, because I think I had a picture of him under my 90210 poster when I was 9. But anyway, he has the greatest smile on the face of the earth, and he only gets better with age. I have never seen anyone look better in a baseball shirt (in The Rookie), and lucky me: it rains when he's wearing the white one...hard.
3. Raine Maida
From the moment I first heard his voice, I was totally smitten. He has such a passion and power in his voice when he sings (as part of my favourite band, Our Lady Peace) that my heart literally beats a little quicker every single time I hear one of his songs. And his lyrics blow me away, so that I could love him without ever seeing him. But then I did see him (in the video for Naveed when he sings "trying hard to understand why Naveed would let a young man...die, it's during the ... that I completely melted and have been his ever since) I was like, "whoa, there's a total hotness factor here." I won't even begin to tell you about when I held his hand and sang with him. It's just too much for me. Feast your eyes on this:
This picture doesn't do him justice, but after all, he's just a Canadian rock god.
2. Mr. Adam Sandler
I don't know if words are necessary here, because there is probably not a person alive who hasn't heard me rant about Adam before. I have adored him since 1992 when I first fell in love with Opera Man and Lucy Brawn, the Gap girl. There has not since been one single thing about him that I don't like (later ammended: actually, he's republican. Eep.). Nothing makes me happier than the eager anticipation of seeing something new of his on the big screen (Stay tuned for Spanglish, hitting a theatre near you on December 17th). He makes me laugh constantly; I have seen Billy Madison more times than I've written my own name, and it still gives me the giggles. He is incredibly successful and yet still humble. I love him to pieces, which may turn out to be a problem when I'm 50 and still in line with teenage boys to be assaulted by scatological humour. And yes, I find him incredibly sexy.
1. Jason
He will do anything to make me laugh, and unlike Adam, I never have to wait for new material. He's as witty as Pacey, and yeah, the back of his neck is quite delightful, especially since I tattooed it (and he used to watch Dawson's Creek with me weekly, while hopelessly trying to explain geometry to me, back when we were just friends, and he and I were both seeing other people). He indulges my love of OLP and takes me to concerts and doesn't even complain when I'm swooning over another man. And he does try to sing to me, although his favourites are Toni Braxton songs, for some insane reason. His eyes put Matthew Broderick's to shame...they are the most interesting colour, brown with gold in the centre, and I could get lost in them for hours. And he wears the baseball shirt I got him from the Gap even though he knows it's an homage to Dennis Quaid. But he looks good, and he knows he looks good, so it all works out. Jason and Hugh Grant both shared a former penchant for bad haircuts, but miraculously, both have since recovered. Now he lets me tease him about it, and he teases me back, and that is the hallmark of a great, secure relationship. Jason is good to his wife, to all the women in his life, and though he doesn't earn $20 mil a movie like Will Smith, he does plan on becoming a cop, and promises to bring home his vest for some exciting Saturday nights. He may not be as cocky as Robbie Williams, but he drives me crazy anyway. I want him under my tree the most, this year and every year, and not just because I have to say that. He has absolutely nothing in common with Thom, but that's okay, I sort of prefer straight men for husbands. And as much as I love Adam, I wouldn't ever trade in my Jason. Because Jason was made just for me, and though I bug him all the time, but he knows I wouldn't change a thing.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Canadian Content
Corner Gas is the latest of a string of really bad Canadian shows that producers keep foisting on us because we have laws here that state that a certain percentage of TV programming must be Canadian. Only this this time there's one small difference: Corner Gas is not really bad. It's really good. And I say this with a lot of disbelief in my voice, because like many Canadians, I don't even believe that this is possible anymore. And so last year, I autimatically flipped right over that show, it may as well have been a blank screen for all the time I gave it. And I know that I am not alone; by definition, Canadian TV is crap TV. But finally, an exception to the rule!!
Corner Gas is distinctively Canadian; it stands out like a sore thumb from all the American programming that surrounds it, and I mean that in the best way possible. It's not full of slick characters who never seem to go to work and yet somehow inexplicably have the money for sexy life-styles far above the national average. It's not full of fast-paced one-liners, either, in fact, it is slow and laid-back, yet somehow manages to keep you laughing from start to finish. And I'm talking about genuine laugh-out-loud material here! The characters on the show are watchable, yet so realistic you could probably walk into any Tim Horton's and find a similar cross-section of characters wherever in Canada you live. The town, Dog River, reminds you of any small town in this vast country; the situations are oddly familiar, from the feeling that everyone knows everyone else, to the cheesy headlines on the cheesy local newspaper.
I'm not sure that non-Canadians would really "get" it, and that makes me feel all the more fondly of it; it seems to put a cultural stamp on Canada that I haven't really seen in anything else. Gone are the days when Canadian TV shows meant painful cliches: shows about duct tape (if you watch The Red Green Show, good for you, it's nice to support this "effort", but I haven't been able to stomach it myself), shows about Mounties , oh, and the ever-popular (and by popular, I mean vomit-inducing) "quaint" shows like Anne of Green Gables and Road to Avonlea which make me embarrassed to be Canadian, and then obvious rip-offs like Canadian Idol which just make me sad. I mean come on, we're not void of talent here, we can do better than this crap! And now, finally, we have. I am sad to have missed the first season of this show, although I believe we can now rent it on DVD...so if you're in the same boat, I suggest that you do so. As for the current season, it airs on Tuesday nights, 8:00 on CTV, and I am quite confident that you will like it.
My favourite quote from the show: (Emma and Oscar are an older couple who bicker like hell and drive each other crazy...hmm, sounds familiar)
Emma: What's this?
Oscar: I'm naked
Emma: Well I didn't think you were holding a wrinkly purse.
It's about time that we keep some funny people here. I can't remember willingly watching a Canadian show since Kids In The Hall (and man have I missed those boys!). It seems that Canada has been exporting our most entertaining people for a long time: Mike Myers, Jim Carrey, Michael J. Fox, Eugene Levy, Shatner, Eric MacCormack, John Candy, Brenden Fraser, Phil Hartman, Joshua Jackson, Dave Foley, Norm MacDonald...well, I could go on, but it's not necessary. You know who they are. We hear about them in the newspapers as in "Jim Carrey, formerly a Canadian, has completely sold out and now is an American citizen, and you guys can have him-good luck." And you can't help but wonder, if we could somehow keep even a fraction of these people here, maybe we wouldn't be stuck watching various perversions of Degrassi for the rest of our lives.
So far, it seems like we can only keep our musical talent here, and only until they crack the elusive American market. I remember the good old days when the Barenaked Ladies were just a bunch of goofy guys making good music and silly videos, and then some American bought their record, and all of a sudden they have product in their hair and pairs of $1400 sunglasses. It doesn't seem to matter that it was Canadian kids who bought their early stuff and got them off the ground. And Shania Twain, the ingrate, took 3 years to even come visit the tourist centre that was built here in her honour. Alanis Morrissette is a rarity in that even with success, she still occasionally visits us, and will possibly even marry in her hometown of Ottawa (she's engaged to Ryan Reynolds, a fellow Canadian I might add). It gets to the point where we find ourselves being very quiet about our top talent. I love Our Lady Peace but I would hesitate to tell an American about them, because one whiff of the American audience and they'd be saying "Canada who?"
Corner Gas is distinctively Canadian; it stands out like a sore thumb from all the American programming that surrounds it, and I mean that in the best way possible. It's not full of slick characters who never seem to go to work and yet somehow inexplicably have the money for sexy life-styles far above the national average. It's not full of fast-paced one-liners, either, in fact, it is slow and laid-back, yet somehow manages to keep you laughing from start to finish. And I'm talking about genuine laugh-out-loud material here! The characters on the show are watchable, yet so realistic you could probably walk into any Tim Horton's and find a similar cross-section of characters wherever in Canada you live. The town, Dog River, reminds you of any small town in this vast country; the situations are oddly familiar, from the feeling that everyone knows everyone else, to the cheesy headlines on the cheesy local newspaper.
I'm not sure that non-Canadians would really "get" it, and that makes me feel all the more fondly of it; it seems to put a cultural stamp on Canada that I haven't really seen in anything else. Gone are the days when Canadian TV shows meant painful cliches: shows about duct tape (if you watch The Red Green Show, good for you, it's nice to support this "effort", but I haven't been able to stomach it myself), shows about Mounties , oh, and the ever-popular (and by popular, I mean vomit-inducing) "quaint" shows like Anne of Green Gables and Road to Avonlea which make me embarrassed to be Canadian, and then obvious rip-offs like Canadian Idol which just make me sad. I mean come on, we're not void of talent here, we can do better than this crap! And now, finally, we have. I am sad to have missed the first season of this show, although I believe we can now rent it on DVD...so if you're in the same boat, I suggest that you do so. As for the current season, it airs on Tuesday nights, 8:00 on CTV, and I am quite confident that you will like it.
My favourite quote from the show: (Emma and Oscar are an older couple who bicker like hell and drive each other crazy...hmm, sounds familiar)
Emma: What's this?
Oscar: I'm naked
Emma: Well I didn't think you were holding a wrinkly purse.
It's about time that we keep some funny people here. I can't remember willingly watching a Canadian show since Kids In The Hall (and man have I missed those boys!). It seems that Canada has been exporting our most entertaining people for a long time: Mike Myers, Jim Carrey, Michael J. Fox, Eugene Levy, Shatner, Eric MacCormack, John Candy, Brenden Fraser, Phil Hartman, Joshua Jackson, Dave Foley, Norm MacDonald...well, I could go on, but it's not necessary. You know who they are. We hear about them in the newspapers as in "Jim Carrey, formerly a Canadian, has completely sold out and now is an American citizen, and you guys can have him-good luck." And you can't help but wonder, if we could somehow keep even a fraction of these people here, maybe we wouldn't be stuck watching various perversions of Degrassi for the rest of our lives.
So far, it seems like we can only keep our musical talent here, and only until they crack the elusive American market. I remember the good old days when the Barenaked Ladies were just a bunch of goofy guys making good music and silly videos, and then some American bought their record, and all of a sudden they have product in their hair and pairs of $1400 sunglasses. It doesn't seem to matter that it was Canadian kids who bought their early stuff and got them off the ground. And Shania Twain, the ingrate, took 3 years to even come visit the tourist centre that was built here in her honour. Alanis Morrissette is a rarity in that even with success, she still occasionally visits us, and will possibly even marry in her hometown of Ottawa (she's engaged to Ryan Reynolds, a fellow Canadian I might add). It gets to the point where we find ourselves being very quiet about our top talent. I love Our Lady Peace but I would hesitate to tell an American about them, because one whiff of the American audience and they'd be saying "Canada who?"
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Love Is Not Enough
I told her that when she woke up tomorrow, it would hurt a little less. And that when she woke up the day after that, even would hurt even less. But the truth is, and we both know it, that her pain will be reduced by such a tiny amount tomorrow that she will barely notice the difference. Same for the day after that, and the day after that. That's what we call a broken heart. But what else can I say to her over the phone to console her for the loss of her 5-year relationship? Absolutely nothing. It's times like these that make me feel like a failure as a friend.
I ache for her. She is so great, and so fun, and so alive, and I think that if someone like her can be so unappreciated by the man who has claimed to love her for the past two years, who actually got down on one knee and proposed marriage not that long ago, then how can the rest of us ever feel safe? We all used to double date all the time, and the thing about her stupid good for nothing boyfriend is that he's really a nice guy. Isn't that infuriating? He tells funny stories, he likes her mom, he makes sure she brings mittens. They're a sweet couple. At least, they are out in public. At home, it's a different story, and it has been for a while. We could sit in a pub all night, the 4 of us laughing until our sides hurt, and then the next day she and I would go to lunch, and her eyes would be swollen from crying all night. But they always stayed together because they love each other. Even from the outside looking in, it's always been easy to see that. But I also saw how much she would be hurt at the thought that sometimes, love is not enough. And you know, it's not. It's not enough to just love someone. Relationships are a lot more than that.
So I asked her, 'Does he love you the way you want to be loved?' and I think that pretty much sums up their trouble. He loves her, and Jason talked to him the other day long enough to know that he is suffering every bit as much as she is during their separation. But he doesn't show her that he loves her. He doesn't love her in a way that she can feel loved. Some people want to hear the words, others want grand gestures or quiet time or cuddles. And if to you, love means back rubs and deep kisses, and you're not getting that, then you don't feel loved. And for all practical purpuses, feeling love is being loved. If you can't feel it, then it might as well not be. And that's the problem: he thinks it's enough to bring her flowers and leave her little notes in their apartment. And I know for a fact that while she appreciates these gestures, it's not enough. They will go a whole week without really having any time to themselves, no time to talk and relax and connect emotionally. She tells him this regularly, they have a fight about it, and then the next day he thinks to himself 'Oh, she's upset, I should bring her flowers.' And they get caught in the cycle.
I want them to be together, she wants them to be together, he wants them to be together. But will they ever be able to bridge the gap and both be getting what they need out of this relationship? I don't know. But I just can't help but think that if he loves her enough, then he'd be willing to do anything to save them. I know that's how she sees things too. She's not asking him to do anything that he can't, but she is asking him to change the way he thinks about love, and love is pretty much the first concept that gets cemented in our hearts and in our heads. So it is a big job to remodel that concept in this stage in the game, but it's not impossible. And I just want to call him up and tell him that in all his years, he will never find anyone as perfect and wonderful as she is. I think he suspects this himself, but I'm afraid that he's willing to settle for someone a little less wonderful if only things will be easier than they are now. That terrifies me, because I know that love is not always easy. People have to be willing to work at it, and sometimes, work hard. And I think that she is worth it, and he used to too. Where did that go?
I am pretty confident that this is not it for them; that they will have another go at things. But I am a little less confident that this is a good idea. If this task is insurmountable, then I guess it's best to cut their losses right now and start the difficult job of healing and moving on. That's a hard choice to make: hurt right now, or risk hurting again, and even worse, in the future.
And all I can do is hold her hand and tell her that there is definitely someone out there that will love her and cherish her as much as she deserves. It's not what she wants to hear, she wants me to tell her that the man she planned to marry will in fact be the man she marries and loves for the rest of her life. But I don't know that for sure, I guess no one does. I will be there for her as she makes this decision, but I know I can't be of much use because when it comes to love, we're rarely rational. Loves makes is blind, delusional, optimistic, pessimistic, light-headed, heavy-hearted, hopeful, dreamy, but rarely rational. And we keep putting ourselves through hell and back, we keep trying, we keep making the same mistakes, and for what? Well, if you've ever been in love, then you know. Love is lovely, when it works. Horrid when it doesn't, but just lovely when it does.
I ache for her. She is so great, and so fun, and so alive, and I think that if someone like her can be so unappreciated by the man who has claimed to love her for the past two years, who actually got down on one knee and proposed marriage not that long ago, then how can the rest of us ever feel safe? We all used to double date all the time, and the thing about her stupid good for nothing boyfriend is that he's really a nice guy. Isn't that infuriating? He tells funny stories, he likes her mom, he makes sure she brings mittens. They're a sweet couple. At least, they are out in public. At home, it's a different story, and it has been for a while. We could sit in a pub all night, the 4 of us laughing until our sides hurt, and then the next day she and I would go to lunch, and her eyes would be swollen from crying all night. But they always stayed together because they love each other. Even from the outside looking in, it's always been easy to see that. But I also saw how much she would be hurt at the thought that sometimes, love is not enough. And you know, it's not. It's not enough to just love someone. Relationships are a lot more than that.
So I asked her, 'Does he love you the way you want to be loved?' and I think that pretty much sums up their trouble. He loves her, and Jason talked to him the other day long enough to know that he is suffering every bit as much as she is during their separation. But he doesn't show her that he loves her. He doesn't love her in a way that she can feel loved. Some people want to hear the words, others want grand gestures or quiet time or cuddles. And if to you, love means back rubs and deep kisses, and you're not getting that, then you don't feel loved. And for all practical purpuses, feeling love is being loved. If you can't feel it, then it might as well not be. And that's the problem: he thinks it's enough to bring her flowers and leave her little notes in their apartment. And I know for a fact that while she appreciates these gestures, it's not enough. They will go a whole week without really having any time to themselves, no time to talk and relax and connect emotionally. She tells him this regularly, they have a fight about it, and then the next day he thinks to himself 'Oh, she's upset, I should bring her flowers.' And they get caught in the cycle.
I want them to be together, she wants them to be together, he wants them to be together. But will they ever be able to bridge the gap and both be getting what they need out of this relationship? I don't know. But I just can't help but think that if he loves her enough, then he'd be willing to do anything to save them. I know that's how she sees things too. She's not asking him to do anything that he can't, but she is asking him to change the way he thinks about love, and love is pretty much the first concept that gets cemented in our hearts and in our heads. So it is a big job to remodel that concept in this stage in the game, but it's not impossible. And I just want to call him up and tell him that in all his years, he will never find anyone as perfect and wonderful as she is. I think he suspects this himself, but I'm afraid that he's willing to settle for someone a little less wonderful if only things will be easier than they are now. That terrifies me, because I know that love is not always easy. People have to be willing to work at it, and sometimes, work hard. And I think that she is worth it, and he used to too. Where did that go?
I am pretty confident that this is not it for them; that they will have another go at things. But I am a little less confident that this is a good idea. If this task is insurmountable, then I guess it's best to cut their losses right now and start the difficult job of healing and moving on. That's a hard choice to make: hurt right now, or risk hurting again, and even worse, in the future.
And all I can do is hold her hand and tell her that there is definitely someone out there that will love her and cherish her as much as she deserves. It's not what she wants to hear, she wants me to tell her that the man she planned to marry will in fact be the man she marries and loves for the rest of her life. But I don't know that for sure, I guess no one does. I will be there for her as she makes this decision, but I know I can't be of much use because when it comes to love, we're rarely rational. Loves makes is blind, delusional, optimistic, pessimistic, light-headed, heavy-hearted, hopeful, dreamy, but rarely rational. And we keep putting ourselves through hell and back, we keep trying, we keep making the same mistakes, and for what? Well, if you've ever been in love, then you know. Love is lovely, when it works. Horrid when it doesn't, but just lovely when it does.
Monday, November 15, 2004
My Oldest Friend
Tonight I was thinking about what exactly people mean when they say 'oldest friend' because strictly speaking, Trevor, age 36, is my oldest friend. And that's a bit weird when I think about it because my mother is only in her early 40s. But I think that by and large, age is not really the main determinant that people use when they say 'oldest friend'. It seems to refer to the friend they've had the longest, which is odd, because the 2 friends that I've had the longest are both younger than I am.
My absolute oldest friend is Glen, who I have known since I was just 85 days old. I was her best friend the minute she came out of the womb (lucky girl, right?) and from day one, she and I were constantly paired together because we were only 3 months apart in age, and cousins to boot. Lots of people are friendly with their cousins, but she and I were honest to goodness friends aside from that, even though when I think about it, we're not very much alike. She is blonde (naturally), petite, quiet, demure, all the things that I am not. Maybe we are complimentary, or maybe we're just another odd pair, we certainly wouldn't be the first odd couple around. When we were little, our favourite thing to do was to play Barbies of course, and make bridal gowns out of toilet paper for them. And I would write plays, and we would perform them for the family (once, we did a dance, and we wore matching Vuarnet t-shirts and tye-dyed pushed-down tube socks). And we would play boardgames at Grandma's (Payday in particular) or else we'd play princess. Over the years, we have been to Chuck E. Cheese together, been stuck in an elevator together (thank goodness for Tiger Beat!), we've been on the Maid of the Mist together, seen Donny Osmond together, we bought the same skort (definition: part skirt and part shorts) sundress for our grade 8 graduations, sat in a heart-shaped jaccuzzi together, we've appeared in a calendar clinking glasses together, and once, when we were quite small, we "ran away from home" together, by which I mean we ran away from her home, and got almost to the end of her street before aunt Carol picked us up. And the funny thing is, we weren't so much running away, as going on a trip, because Carol had just given us brand new matching book bags, and we felt these bags were just so glamourous that they deserved some sort of destination.
When her sister got married, we were 12, and it inspired us to look through bridal magazines and dream about what our weddings would be like...of course we would be each other's maid of honour when the time came (note: when the time came for me, I didn't have any bridal party at all, since I married in another country). We also dreamed of going off to high school together, and sharing a locker (totally unrealistic, since I am a self-confessed locker slob), none of which ever happened, because we didn't even go to the same school as it turned out! When we went away to University, it was harder and harder to see each other while living in different cities, and last winter we briefly lived in the same city, but I spent most of my time unconscious or in the hospital, so except for a few daiquiris, we didn't see much of each other. But Glen is always in my heart, and always will be.
Lisa is my oldest non-relative friend. I first met her when we were in kindergarten, at the age of 5. That means we've been friends for 18 years, so we've seen each other through a lot of things. And when I stop to think about it, I realize that I've known Lisa longer than I've known Jana, my youngest sister! Isn't that crazy? I have memories of her from waaaayyyy back, and though we've had our ups and downs, she's always been there. When we were 9, I showed up to school one day with a new haircut, and Lisa was devastated. I had previously had hair down to my ass and Lisa had often entertained herself with my ponytail when we stood in line at the end of recess. I was there when she threw up on her desk during O Canada (and suspiciously, perhaps not coincidentally, she had tried her first sip of sambuca the night before....yes, this is still during elementary school).
She and I shared the common bond of being the most cultured 10-year olds in the school, and having both seen Les Miserables, we enlisted a couple of boys and put on a reenactment of it, filmed it, and had it shown at rassemblement, which was our school's version of a Friday afternoon assembly. I'm sure this must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but looking back, it was probably quite embarrassing. When we were 11, I spent a whole afternoon trying to show Lisa how to draw a diamond (many of you are incredulous at this, because my art skills are quite dubious...however, Lisa's are simply atrocious!!). At the end of the afternoon, the best we could do was to have her draw a square, and then tilt the paper. On one of our sleepovers, we discovered that we had the same bedding...unicorns! and we spent lots of time playing Family Feud on her computer (the "graphics", if you can even call them that back in 1991, are something I would just love to revisit now!). At 13 we started showing signs of multiple personalities, manifested as Liza and Everfresh (perhaps this is one of the reasons we both ended up pursuing psychology), which was a good excuse to be giddy and goofy, which we both are.
And she and I did end up going to high school together, though no, she was wise enough not to share a locker with me. And so I was there when the coupledom of Lisa and Doug began. In fact, and I hope to share this memory with her on her wedding day, just to embarrass her because I know how much she teased me for mine, I remember sitting in the library with her one day and Chris coming in and asking if she was going out with Doug. Lisa was very vehement in her denial --- NOOO!!, but rumours were swirling because of their cutesy behaviour at badminton practice. Of course, by the very next day, the NO had turned into a YES, and the rest, as the say, is history. I could not have known then that they would still be going strong today, but I'm glad my stupid brain bothered to make that memory, because with time, it has become precious. And Lisa was there for the various stages of my relationship too...the engagement party, the bridal shower, the reception. Gosh, it's been a wild ride, hasn't it? And things are really only getting started, we're both in our early 20s with lots more excitement to come, I'm sure.
So I think it's pretty safe to say that the position of my oldest friend is pretty unavailable, because there's just no getting rid of Glen :). We've shared secrets and dreams, but we also share common blood, and the half of my last name that comes before the hyphen. Over the years, I have had so many good friends and great experiences, many of them still in my life, some of them not, but leaving behind memories and valuable lessons so that I won't ever forget them. And the great thing is, I'm still making friends, still meeting new people. I can't say that I've recently written or produced any plays, and the last time I dressed something up in a wedding dress, it was T, and it was in my actual gown. I don't have any unicorns in the house anymore, I can't even say skort with a straight face. I don't want to be a New Kids on the Block groupie anymore, and I haven't been in a ball pit in Chuck E. Cheese or any other fine eatery since that episode of 20/20 that told us all the things you could accidentally touch when inside one of those things (believe me, you don't want to know). But as much as things have changed, for some reason, some friends are able to stay in your life and change right along with the times. One day I will hold Lisa's baby in my arms, and cry copiously at Glen's wedding. One day I will invite them both to my 40th birthday party and we'll all get drunk. One day we'll dance the funky chicken at a 50th wedding anniversary. What makes some friends go while others stay? Maybe I won't ever know for sure, and I certainly can't put it into words, so for now, I'll let someone else say it better:
The best mirror is an old friend - George Herbert
Age appears to be best in four things: old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read - Alonso of Aragon
It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them - Ralph Waldo Emerson
The best antiques are old friends -unknown
Cherish friendship in your breast,
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold. -Joseph Parry
My absolute oldest friend is Glen, who I have known since I was just 85 days old. I was her best friend the minute she came out of the womb (lucky girl, right?) and from day one, she and I were constantly paired together because we were only 3 months apart in age, and cousins to boot. Lots of people are friendly with their cousins, but she and I were honest to goodness friends aside from that, even though when I think about it, we're not very much alike. She is blonde (naturally), petite, quiet, demure, all the things that I am not. Maybe we are complimentary, or maybe we're just another odd pair, we certainly wouldn't be the first odd couple around. When we were little, our favourite thing to do was to play Barbies of course, and make bridal gowns out of toilet paper for them. And I would write plays, and we would perform them for the family (once, we did a dance, and we wore matching Vuarnet t-shirts and tye-dyed pushed-down tube socks). And we would play boardgames at Grandma's (Payday in particular) or else we'd play princess. Over the years, we have been to Chuck E. Cheese together, been stuck in an elevator together (thank goodness for Tiger Beat!), we've been on the Maid of the Mist together, seen Donny Osmond together, we bought the same skort (definition: part skirt and part shorts) sundress for our grade 8 graduations, sat in a heart-shaped jaccuzzi together, we've appeared in a calendar clinking glasses together, and once, when we were quite small, we "ran away from home" together, by which I mean we ran away from her home, and got almost to the end of her street before aunt Carol picked us up. And the funny thing is, we weren't so much running away, as going on a trip, because Carol had just given us brand new matching book bags, and we felt these bags were just so glamourous that they deserved some sort of destination.
When her sister got married, we were 12, and it inspired us to look through bridal magazines and dream about what our weddings would be like...of course we would be each other's maid of honour when the time came (note: when the time came for me, I didn't have any bridal party at all, since I married in another country). We also dreamed of going off to high school together, and sharing a locker (totally unrealistic, since I am a self-confessed locker slob), none of which ever happened, because we didn't even go to the same school as it turned out! When we went away to University, it was harder and harder to see each other while living in different cities, and last winter we briefly lived in the same city, but I spent most of my time unconscious or in the hospital, so except for a few daiquiris, we didn't see much of each other. But Glen is always in my heart, and always will be.
Lisa is my oldest non-relative friend. I first met her when we were in kindergarten, at the age of 5. That means we've been friends for 18 years, so we've seen each other through a lot of things. And when I stop to think about it, I realize that I've known Lisa longer than I've known Jana, my youngest sister! Isn't that crazy? I have memories of her from waaaayyyy back, and though we've had our ups and downs, she's always been there. When we were 9, I showed up to school one day with a new haircut, and Lisa was devastated. I had previously had hair down to my ass and Lisa had often entertained herself with my ponytail when we stood in line at the end of recess. I was there when she threw up on her desk during O Canada (and suspiciously, perhaps not coincidentally, she had tried her first sip of sambuca the night before....yes, this is still during elementary school).
She and I shared the common bond of being the most cultured 10-year olds in the school, and having both seen Les Miserables, we enlisted a couple of boys and put on a reenactment of it, filmed it, and had it shown at rassemblement, which was our school's version of a Friday afternoon assembly. I'm sure this must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but looking back, it was probably quite embarrassing. When we were 11, I spent a whole afternoon trying to show Lisa how to draw a diamond (many of you are incredulous at this, because my art skills are quite dubious...however, Lisa's are simply atrocious!!). At the end of the afternoon, the best we could do was to have her draw a square, and then tilt the paper. On one of our sleepovers, we discovered that we had the same bedding...unicorns! and we spent lots of time playing Family Feud on her computer (the "graphics", if you can even call them that back in 1991, are something I would just love to revisit now!). At 13 we started showing signs of multiple personalities, manifested as Liza and Everfresh (perhaps this is one of the reasons we both ended up pursuing psychology), which was a good excuse to be giddy and goofy, which we both are.
And she and I did end up going to high school together, though no, she was wise enough not to share a locker with me. And so I was there when the coupledom of Lisa and Doug began. In fact, and I hope to share this memory with her on her wedding day, just to embarrass her because I know how much she teased me for mine, I remember sitting in the library with her one day and Chris coming in and asking if she was going out with Doug. Lisa was very vehement in her denial --- NOOO!!, but rumours were swirling because of their cutesy behaviour at badminton practice. Of course, by the very next day, the NO had turned into a YES, and the rest, as the say, is history. I could not have known then that they would still be going strong today, but I'm glad my stupid brain bothered to make that memory, because with time, it has become precious. And Lisa was there for the various stages of my relationship too...the engagement party, the bridal shower, the reception. Gosh, it's been a wild ride, hasn't it? And things are really only getting started, we're both in our early 20s with lots more excitement to come, I'm sure.
So I think it's pretty safe to say that the position of my oldest friend is pretty unavailable, because there's just no getting rid of Glen :). We've shared secrets and dreams, but we also share common blood, and the half of my last name that comes before the hyphen. Over the years, I have had so many good friends and great experiences, many of them still in my life, some of them not, but leaving behind memories and valuable lessons so that I won't ever forget them. And the great thing is, I'm still making friends, still meeting new people. I can't say that I've recently written or produced any plays, and the last time I dressed something up in a wedding dress, it was T, and it was in my actual gown. I don't have any unicorns in the house anymore, I can't even say skort with a straight face. I don't want to be a New Kids on the Block groupie anymore, and I haven't been in a ball pit in Chuck E. Cheese or any other fine eatery since that episode of 20/20 that told us all the things you could accidentally touch when inside one of those things (believe me, you don't want to know). But as much as things have changed, for some reason, some friends are able to stay in your life and change right along with the times. One day I will hold Lisa's baby in my arms, and cry copiously at Glen's wedding. One day I will invite them both to my 40th birthday party and we'll all get drunk. One day we'll dance the funky chicken at a 50th wedding anniversary. What makes some friends go while others stay? Maybe I won't ever know for sure, and I certainly can't put it into words, so for now, I'll let someone else say it better:
The best mirror is an old friend - George Herbert
Age appears to be best in four things: old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read - Alonso of Aragon
It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them - Ralph Waldo Emerson
The best antiques are old friends -unknown
Cherish friendship in your breast,
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold. -Joseph Parry
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Dinner For Two
(a post by Jason)
Tonight was lasagna night. Now in most households that may not sound like a big deal, but that means you've never been here for lasagna night. If you have, then you know what I am talking about. There is someone who lives here who makes the best lasagna in the world, and I'll give you a hint (it's not me). I cannot say exactly what makes it so special, but I think it's love. You won't find it on the recipe card but you can certainly taste it. One time she made a black forest cake and forgot the love, I don't even want to tell you what happened. The point being, I eat really well around here. I'm not sure if all husbands do, but certainly the ones who gain weight after getting married do. I'm not exactly sure how much I've gained, but I have a lot of pants that don't fit, and shoes, but I'm not quite sure how that happened.
Guess what?
I'll tell you anyways as I'm sure you weren't going to sit there and actually guess. It was the Cornwall christmas parade today. It was an evening one, it started at 4:30 and almost all the floats were lit up like, yup, you guessed it, christmas trees. I was a little worried that there wouldn't be a good turnout, but once that sun set people came out in droves. Hmmm, actually I'm not sure how many people make a drove. Let me check....Dictionary.com says that a drove is " A large mass of people moving or acting as a body.", so in other words a large mass of people came to the parade at once. But I'm officially in the mood for Christmas now so I told Jamie I need to put a festive tape in the car so I can Jingle Bell rock all the way to the office, more on that another time though.
Peace out,
J
Tonight was lasagna night. Now in most households that may not sound like a big deal, but that means you've never been here for lasagna night. If you have, then you know what I am talking about. There is someone who lives here who makes the best lasagna in the world, and I'll give you a hint (it's not me). I cannot say exactly what makes it so special, but I think it's love. You won't find it on the recipe card but you can certainly taste it. One time she made a black forest cake and forgot the love, I don't even want to tell you what happened. The point being, I eat really well around here. I'm not sure if all husbands do, but certainly the ones who gain weight after getting married do. I'm not exactly sure how much I've gained, but I have a lot of pants that don't fit, and shoes, but I'm not quite sure how that happened.
Guess what?
I'll tell you anyways as I'm sure you weren't going to sit there and actually guess. It was the Cornwall christmas parade today. It was an evening one, it started at 4:30 and almost all the floats were lit up like, yup, you guessed it, christmas trees.
Peace out,
J
Friday, November 12, 2004
Know What's Obnoxious?
I'll tell you what's obnoxious. Old Navy commercials are obnoxious. And for some unfathomable reason, they keep coming out with these has-been celebrities, such as Morgan Fairchild, who either don't wear the clothing, or look silly in it. As if the sight of someone's aging not-so-gracefully grandmother who has suffered through one too many plastic surgeries is really going to compel me to think "Wow, that old lady with the too-tight face is so cool, I should dress just like her!" Um, no actually. I think that these commercials are not only bringing down the overall quality of commercials in general (smirk), but they are making me hate a shopping institution that I could otherwise really get into. I mean, you go into a store, and it's massive, bright, with tonnes of merchandise that's not too shabby and pretty well-priced, and it's hard not to find something that you'll like. But before you even walk in the door, you have to ask yourself if it's worth it, because inside, the PA system is constantly bombarding you with the audio version of their obnoxious commercials. Over and over and over and over and over. And I should know, because I used to get paid to fold t-shirts there. And until you have smiled through 8 hours of happy-happy-fun-happy-perky-smiley-happy-fun-happy-happy Old Navy commercials, you don't know how strong you really are.
Next on my list of obnoxious: people who ask to borrow kleenex. Borrow! Kleenex! To borrow means you are asking someone to lend you something temporarily, which you will then use and give back when you are done. So, do I want my used kleenex back when they are done with it? NO! I don't! I really, really, really don't. That is a truly offensive and disgusting proposition, one that I want no part of. To me, asking to borrown a kleenex is in the same obnoxious category as the return policy at Zellers...people, the let you return underwear! I mean, it's pathetic, they let you return anything because they're so desperate for customers...it's not even uncommon to find hangers that say Walmart right on them hanging on their racks. But underwear? That's outrageous! And gross! It's about as wrong as anything can be. If you need a kleenex, keep it. If you buy underwear, keep that too, even if you made a mistake. God.
Okay, just one more thing to toss on the obnoxious pile, and that is how McDonald's is now trying to convince us that they're healthy. I mean, is anyone buying this? If I go to McDonald's it's because I've made a conscious choice to indulge-I want McNuggets or something gross like that. If I'm in the mood for a great salad, well probably I'll just stay home because I make the best salads. I will never, ever go to McDonald's for their salad. I am haunted of images of their wilty lettuce with crumbled hamburger patties crumbled on top, and BigMac sauce drizzled over the whole thing. And maybe that is completely unfair and their salads are totally legit, but it doesn't matter because they're pointless. You will never make McDonald's synonymous with health food, it just can't happen. That's like sending people to Siberia for a nice sunny vacation. Sure there happens to be sun in Siberia, at least occasionally, but it's not ever going to be comparable to Jamaica. McDonald's has a niche, and it needs to stick to that. Know your market, people! But while I'm on the topic, let me just say this: if you eat at McDonald's consecutively for a month and get fat and sick from it, keep it to yourself. We all make our own choices, and if you like McDonald's, then treat yourself once in a while. If you like it a little too much, either learn self control or watch your tongue, because I don't want to hear about it. McDonald's is not a villain, it's a fast-food place, so take responsibility for your own actions, and don't ever, ever ask to borrow a kleenex from me.
Next on my list of obnoxious: people who ask to borrow kleenex. Borrow! Kleenex! To borrow means you are asking someone to lend you something temporarily, which you will then use and give back when you are done. So, do I want my used kleenex back when they are done with it? NO! I don't! I really, really, really don't. That is a truly offensive and disgusting proposition, one that I want no part of. To me, asking to borrown a kleenex is in the same obnoxious category as the return policy at Zellers...people, the let you return underwear! I mean, it's pathetic, they let you return anything because they're so desperate for customers...it's not even uncommon to find hangers that say Walmart right on them hanging on their racks. But underwear? That's outrageous! And gross! It's about as wrong as anything can be. If you need a kleenex, keep it. If you buy underwear, keep that too, even if you made a mistake. God.
Okay, just one more thing to toss on the obnoxious pile, and that is how McDonald's is now trying to convince us that they're healthy. I mean, is anyone buying this? If I go to McDonald's it's because I've made a conscious choice to indulge-I want McNuggets or something gross like that. If I'm in the mood for a great salad, well probably I'll just stay home because I make the best salads. I will never, ever go to McDonald's for their salad. I am haunted of images of their wilty lettuce with crumbled hamburger patties crumbled on top, and BigMac sauce drizzled over the whole thing. And maybe that is completely unfair and their salads are totally legit, but it doesn't matter because they're pointless. You will never make McDonald's synonymous with health food, it just can't happen. That's like sending people to Siberia for a nice sunny vacation. Sure there happens to be sun in Siberia, at least occasionally, but it's not ever going to be comparable to Jamaica. McDonald's has a niche, and it needs to stick to that. Know your market, people! But while I'm on the topic, let me just say this: if you eat at McDonald's consecutively for a month and get fat and sick from it, keep it to yourself. We all make our own choices, and if you like McDonald's, then treat yourself once in a while. If you like it a little too much, either learn self control or watch your tongue, because I don't want to hear about it. McDonald's is not a villain, it's a fast-food place, so take responsibility for your own actions, and don't ever, ever ask to borrow a kleenex from me.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Know What's Funny?
Cornflakes are funny. I mean, I'm sitting at the bar, eating my bowl of cornflakes with a little bran sprinkled on top because I have this notion that bran is healthy and so despite the fact that it tastes like cardboard, on it goes. And then I am hit by an epiphany: cornflakes aren't good either. To be good, you have to have some sort of flavour that is appealing to you, and cornflakes cannot be said to have any flavour at all, they're just bland. Bleck really. So why do I eat them? When did I give up on Count Chocula and Lucky Charms? True, my stomach is too delicate to eat crap like that in the morning now, but still. Maybe if I kept it up I would have built up a resistance to it. Now I'm eating cardboard for breakfast. What gives?
A few years ago, in a psych class called sexology, we learned that Mr. Kellog and Mr. Graham (as in Graham cracker) made their products, the crackers and the cornflakes, to discourage people from having too much sex. Well basically in that era of repression, everyone of moral standing was trying to discourage sex...even the table legs became boring because a curvy table leg with decorative embellishments was said to remind men of a woman's leg and drive them mad with desire! So these food products were made, according to my professor and some other scholars, because they made you spend more time in the bathroom, and therefore less time in the bedroom both directly (because you were occupied) and indirectly (because the two ideas were completely incompatible to such refined creatures). Other scholars say that bland foods were pushed because spicy foods boosted your libido and people were unable to control themselves. Either way, the consensus seems to be that a cornflake is supposed to squash desire. So, do I feel less sexy during breakfast?
The shameful truth is, most days I skip breakfast. I really don't like most breakfast foods...Jason drools over bacon and eggs and stuff (and I won't even mention sausage, because he'll start climbing the walls) and I think that's cool, as long as it's for supper. I just can't have that load of stuff sitting in my stomach all day long. Ugh. So if I wake up starving, cornflakes are basically what I resort to due to lack of options. I like Cheerios too, but Jason always eats those up. I know I can count on him not to eat the cornflakes, because cornflakes are gross. So if something is gross, it can't really be sexy, right? Especially not with bran sprinkled on top.
Everyone knows that bran is most definitely not sexy, although my Nanny is always trying to "sex it up" (not her expression) by smearing her bran muffins with chocolate icing...I may have been tricked by that when I was 6, but not any longer!
So we agree that the cereal is not sexy, and that's fine because the market for sexy foods seems to be dominated by chocolate and whipped cream and stuff like that, stuff that makes sense because it's spreadable and lickable and tastes indulgent.
Cornflakes, used in such a context, would roll right off and crumble, and once your mind is on the crumbs in your sheets, it's not on sex. And no, I'm not speaking from experience, so get your dirty mind out of the gutter.
So Mr. Kellogg was successful in making a product that could not be marketed as sexy. Lovers may break out the strawberries and champagne as a prelude to sex, but never cereal and milk. It's soggy, and sloppy, and a little milk dribbling down your hunny's chin may seem awwww but it's not grrrrroooowwwwrrr. So, it won't jump start your lust, but will it prevent it?
My unscientific answer is: I highly doubt it. If it were even remotely true, those boxes would remain on the shelves of the grocery stores everywhere, collecting dust. We live in the age of viagra, where nothing stands in the way of sex anymore. People are willing to pop pills, or have surgeries, or use pumps and other demeaning devices just to have sex....if there was an answer as simple as cutting out the cornflakes, we would know it. So for now, I'll just keep thinking that cornflakes are a funny, funny food.
A few years ago, in a psych class called sexology, we learned that Mr. Kellog and Mr. Graham (as in Graham cracker) made their products, the crackers and the cornflakes, to discourage people from having too much sex. Well basically in that era of repression, everyone of moral standing was trying to discourage sex...even the table legs became boring because a curvy table leg with decorative embellishments was said to remind men of a woman's leg and drive them mad with desire! So these food products were made, according to my professor and some other scholars, because they made you spend more time in the bathroom, and therefore less time in the bedroom both directly (because you were occupied) and indirectly (because the two ideas were completely incompatible to such refined creatures). Other scholars say that bland foods were pushed because spicy foods boosted your libido and people were unable to control themselves. Either way, the consensus seems to be that a cornflake is supposed to squash desire. So, do I feel less sexy during breakfast?
The shameful truth is, most days I skip breakfast. I really don't like most breakfast foods...Jason drools over bacon and eggs and stuff (and I won't even mention sausage, because he'll start climbing the walls) and I think that's cool, as long as it's for supper. I just can't have that load of stuff sitting in my stomach all day long. Ugh. So if I wake up starving, cornflakes are basically what I resort to due to lack of options. I like Cheerios too, but Jason always eats those up. I know I can count on him not to eat the cornflakes, because cornflakes are gross. So if something is gross, it can't really be sexy, right? Especially not with bran sprinkled on top.
Everyone knows that bran is most definitely not sexy, although my Nanny is always trying to "sex it up" (not her expression) by smearing her bran muffins with chocolate icing...I may have been tricked by that when I was 6, but not any longer!
So we agree that the cereal is not sexy, and that's fine because the market for sexy foods seems to be dominated by chocolate and whipped cream and stuff like that, stuff that makes sense because it's spreadable and lickable and tastes indulgent.
Cornflakes, used in such a context, would roll right off and crumble, and once your mind is on the crumbs in your sheets, it's not on sex. And no, I'm not speaking from experience, so get your dirty mind out of the gutter.
So Mr. Kellogg was successful in making a product that could not be marketed as sexy. Lovers may break out the strawberries and champagne as a prelude to sex, but never cereal and milk. It's soggy, and sloppy, and a little milk dribbling down your hunny's chin may seem awwww but it's not grrrrroooowwwwrrr. So, it won't jump start your lust, but will it prevent it?
My unscientific answer is: I highly doubt it. If it were even remotely true, those boxes would remain on the shelves of the grocery stores everywhere, collecting dust. We live in the age of viagra, where nothing stands in the way of sex anymore. People are willing to pop pills, or have surgeries, or use pumps and other demeaning devices just to have sex....if there was an answer as simple as cutting out the cornflakes, we would know it. So for now, I'll just keep thinking that cornflakes are a funny, funny food.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Just Your Typical Tuesday
Yesterday, like so many other days, I received a little visit from my Nanny, who likes to give and receive "the latest news" as she sees fit- considering she is 71, most of her news is health updates and obituary-watching (she tells me that she always reads this section of the newspaper first). But yesterday she had some especially juicy stories, and she said she felt like Ann Landers with all this gossip, just like in the paper. Well, first off, The Standard Freeholder publishes Dear Abby, not Ann Landers. In fact, Ann Landers has been dead for more than 2 years now, but I don't have the heart to tell that to Nanny. I just let her give me all the updates, and I tried not to get distracted by the flour on her face. I know that if she knew it was there, she would be very embarrassed, so I kept that to myself also.
This is the time of year when Nanny bakes a billion pies to put in her freezer. Yesterday she must have made half a dozen apple pies, which makes me sad, because in the past she could use apples from her own apple trees for at least some of those pies...on particularly abundant years, I also received some of the apples for my own pies. But this summer she got it in her head that the apple trees had to go, so they did. They called the stump removal guy, who never showed up, so Pa, a 73-year old man, was out there hacking away for days and days. Now the backyard is totally barren, and I remember when I was small there was a great big tree that we loved to play on because it had a swing. And then one summer it just disappeared. And this tree had been part of family lore for more than 30 years! My uncle Jim had been tied to it as a child and chased with a lawnmover (this never happened, but it's still one of his favourite stories...just like my mother and her toe jam, which leads one to believe that these kids were not read to enough as children, but that's another story).
So later yesterday night, I was lying on the hood of the car, star-gazing, and you know what I saw? I believe it was a constellation! Now, I know all about constellations in the abstract, and I have indeed looked up into the sky at night before, seeing stars and whatever else. But I've never really looked with deliberate intention, so this is the first real blending of theory and reality, and it was very exciting for me. They were tiny little stars in the shape of a little pot, which is what struck me most: it was tiny. But still obvious enough that I thought it couldn't be a coincidence. I'm pretty sure it was the big dipper, which is a misnomer if you ask me, but still beautiful. And it really makes you wonder at how these things come to be, because that shit's impressive! However, when it's -8 outside, it's not exactly the most opportune time to go outside and discover the sky. But I was already out there admiring the sky, so it just happened. I was in my pjs and wrapped in a comforter, so it was really only my feet that cold, because I have this mental block where I really don't like to wear shoes with pjs, so I just had on my Winnie the Pooh socks. But cold toes were worth it, because the sky was so pretty last night, it was glowing with gusts of light which I guess was the Northern Lights, which I have seen before, and frankly, never cease to amaze me.
So, all in all, a pretty great Tuesday. I seem to be healing pretty well after my fall off the Gazelle on Monday, my lungs are functioning again, so that's nice. You really miss them when you stun them into shutting down. It makes you wonder what could possibly be in store for Wednesday!
This is the time of year when Nanny bakes a billion pies to put in her freezer. Yesterday she must have made half a dozen apple pies, which makes me sad, because in the past she could use apples from her own apple trees for at least some of those pies...on particularly abundant years, I also received some of the apples for my own pies. But this summer she got it in her head that the apple trees had to go, so they did. They called the stump removal guy, who never showed up, so Pa, a 73-year old man, was out there hacking away for days and days. Now the backyard is totally barren, and I remember when I was small there was a great big tree that we loved to play on because it had a swing. And then one summer it just disappeared. And this tree had been part of family lore for more than 30 years! My uncle Jim had been tied to it as a child and chased with a lawnmover (this never happened, but it's still one of his favourite stories...just like my mother and her toe jam, which leads one to believe that these kids were not read to enough as children, but that's another story).
So later yesterday night, I was lying on the hood of the car, star-gazing, and you know what I saw? I believe it was a constellation! Now, I know all about constellations in the abstract, and I have indeed looked up into the sky at night before, seeing stars and whatever else. But I've never really looked with deliberate intention, so this is the first real blending of theory and reality, and it was very exciting for me. They were tiny little stars in the shape of a little pot, which is what struck me most: it was tiny. But still obvious enough that I thought it couldn't be a coincidence. I'm pretty sure it was the big dipper, which is a misnomer if you ask me, but still beautiful. And it really makes you wonder at how these things come to be, because that shit's impressive! However, when it's -8 outside, it's not exactly the most opportune time to go outside and discover the sky. But I was already out there admiring the sky, so it just happened. I was in my pjs and wrapped in a comforter, so it was really only my feet that cold, because I have this mental block where I really don't like to wear shoes with pjs, so I just had on my Winnie the Pooh socks. But cold toes were worth it, because the sky was so pretty last night, it was glowing with gusts of light which I guess was the Northern Lights, which I have seen before, and frankly, never cease to amaze me.
So, all in all, a pretty great Tuesday. I seem to be healing pretty well after my fall off the Gazelle on Monday, my lungs are functioning again, so that's nice. You really miss them when you stun them into shutting down. It makes you wonder what could possibly be in store for Wednesday!
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