Well, besides the fact that I have a slight obsession with all things container/storage/rubbermaid related....
the world's most ethnically diverse city just added two more scoops of plain old vanilla.
So there you have it. Jason and I will be officially installed in Toronto by Saturday afternoon, and I shall be back up and posting regularly soon after that.
Until then, we are currently recovering from a gruelling 20 hours on the road to hunt for apartments, from which we came home much poorer, but with a set of keys to the world's smallest apartment in what was perversely referred to as a "basement suite."
Thursday: pack like a mofo
Friday: load trucks like packing mules
Saturday: fake an injury to get out of unloading truck
Sunday: greet hunky cable hookup guy in my flimsiest peignoir
Monday: recover from claustrophobia induced from world's smallest apartment
Tuesday: tell you guys all about it in detail you never knew you needed to know!
Wish us luck.
This just in: no internet or cable until October 9th. Yikes. Same with the phone. Someone will come to install between 8am and 11am for the first; 2pm to 5pm for the second. Sorry Jason, guess you can't have your Chucky Cheese birthday party after all.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
1. Dudes, the OC premiered, and no one told me? Okay, so I missed last season's finale for the same reason. I am TV-disorganized. And don't even say the word Tivo to me, unless you have no further use for your kidneys, which I will punch into pancakes. Anyhow, I caught this week's episode (well, I accidentally taped it, but that totally counts). And I was watching Ryan and Marisa "do it", and I realized that I was watching child pornography. I mean, they're high school kids, which means they're minors. They ain't legal. So if I watch minors perform sexual acts, well, that's what perverts go to prison for. Yikes.
2. So, we're hoarding boxes. Okay? That's just a premise you'll have to accept for this next bit to make sense. Jason and I went for an evening walk, and we stopped by the grocery store to get Jason a 50cent Kit Kat because somehow he just knew that his blood sugar was dangerously low. So anyway, for the last month or so it has been my policy not to give the grocery store my business unless I could bring my food home in boxes, and there are several times during the week when there's slim pickins as far as boxes are concerned. But there was an abundance of boxes on this particular night, so I took 2. Yes, 2 boxes to carry home Jason's chocolate bar, which he actually ate before we even reached the sidewalk. Whatever. But then we had to carry these suckers home. So I fiddled annoyingly with mine until Jason offered to take it too (it was small enough to fit inside of his). But on the last leg of the walk, Jason was exasperated by its awkward size, so I took them back. And almost instantly, like half a dozen cars drove by, where none had been before. And Jason just couldn't deal with all these people seeing me carry home a box (which, I'm sure most people would assume was not empty), so his pride made him take them back. Heh. I love male pride!
3. My grandparents are dealers. Their current stash is large enough to get them busted not just for possession, but for trafficking, even though they're very careful and "only sell to people they know." But the law is tightening its belt, and the simple precautions of yore just aren't enough these days. Just last week, a total stranger knocked on their door to inquire as to how good a take they had on them. My grandparents denied knowing anything about it, and got rid of him quickly. Still, they're getting a bit too old for these shenanigans. My grandfather is thinking about selling off his equipment and giving up the business altogether. This is unfortunate, because they were never in it for the selling; they just enjoyed it recreationally. And not to be selfish, but man, I really loved being able to get the stuff for free! And I'll miss all the paraphenalia around their house, and the cute set-up they had for packaging the stuff themselves, and the scales for measuring, and the mysterious packages in the freezer. Good times. When I was a kid, I even went on runs with my grandfather. Those were some of the best times we had together. Even my grandmother, who often complained about the dangers of his going out by himself, will end up missing it in the end. And I think that we all took comfort in the fact that old fishermen never die, they just smell that way.
4. If the bible was really meant to be read, I think that:
a) they would have hired editors - at least 85% of it could have been cut, no problem.
b) they would have taken out the awkward phrasings, particularly the 'thou didsts' and the 'thou mayest nots'.
c) they would have planned for a happy ending. No one likes a downer. Bonus points if you leave some wiggle room for a sequel.
5. Jason has this thing where rims really bother him, and it seems that there are more and more cars with really ridiculous rims. I mean, if you drive a car that costs less than a good bottle of wine, you don't need rims. No, scratch that. You don't need rims no matter what kind of car you drive. Especially the twirly kind. You look like a goof. And what's even more annoying, is that Jason cannot stop himself from pointing out and mocking each and every specimen of this. EVERY one, and believe me, we live in a town of goofs. They may be on welfare, relying on other people's charity to clothe their kids, and getting evicted 3 times a month from roach-infested holes in the wall, but they have money for 3 things: fast food, beer, and pimping out their 1986 Ford Tempo. Classy.
6. Jason's grandparents recently had a trip out East, and they took the route that goes through Maine, and took some sort of high-speed catamaran to save them 6 hours of driving time. They had to drive like mad to make the boat on time, which left at 4pm and required them to be checked in by 3. But after a series of unfortunate events, they did not arrive until 3:59 which would mean losing their money, having to stay in a hotel, and losing a whole day of vacation. But for some odd reason, they were allowed to board the boat. Why? Well, it seems that on that very boat sat the elusive Richard Hatch, Mister "Oops I forgot to pay the taxes on my million dollar Survivor prize" and just then, the law had finally caught up with him. So, as he was arrested and led away, the boat was delayed, and Jason's grandparents now owe a debt to the fat naked guy that America loved to hate.
2. So, we're hoarding boxes. Okay? That's just a premise you'll have to accept for this next bit to make sense. Jason and I went for an evening walk, and we stopped by the grocery store to get Jason a 50cent Kit Kat because somehow he just knew that his blood sugar was dangerously low. So anyway, for the last month or so it has been my policy not to give the grocery store my business unless I could bring my food home in boxes, and there are several times during the week when there's slim pickins as far as boxes are concerned. But there was an abundance of boxes on this particular night, so I took 2. Yes, 2 boxes to carry home Jason's chocolate bar, which he actually ate before we even reached the sidewalk. Whatever. But then we had to carry these suckers home. So I fiddled annoyingly with mine until Jason offered to take it too (it was small enough to fit inside of his). But on the last leg of the walk, Jason was exasperated by its awkward size, so I took them back. And almost instantly, like half a dozen cars drove by, where none had been before. And Jason just couldn't deal with all these people seeing me carry home a box (which, I'm sure most people would assume was not empty), so his pride made him take them back. Heh. I love male pride!
3. My grandparents are dealers. Their current stash is large enough to get them busted not just for possession, but for trafficking, even though they're very careful and "only sell to people they know." But the law is tightening its belt, and the simple precautions of yore just aren't enough these days. Just last week, a total stranger knocked on their door to inquire as to how good a take they had on them. My grandparents denied knowing anything about it, and got rid of him quickly. Still, they're getting a bit too old for these shenanigans. My grandfather is thinking about selling off his equipment and giving up the business altogether. This is unfortunate, because they were never in it for the selling; they just enjoyed it recreationally. And not to be selfish, but man, I really loved being able to get the stuff for free! And I'll miss all the paraphenalia around their house, and the cute set-up they had for packaging the stuff themselves, and the scales for measuring, and the mysterious packages in the freezer. Good times. When I was a kid, I even went on runs with my grandfather. Those were some of the best times we had together. Even my grandmother, who often complained about the dangers of his going out by himself, will end up missing it in the end. And I think that we all took comfort in the fact that old fishermen never die, they just smell that way.
4. If the bible was really meant to be read, I think that:
a) they would have hired editors - at least 85% of it could have been cut, no problem.
b) they would have taken out the awkward phrasings, particularly the 'thou didsts' and the 'thou mayest nots'.
c) they would have planned for a happy ending. No one likes a downer. Bonus points if you leave some wiggle room for a sequel.
5. Jason has this thing where rims really bother him, and it seems that there are more and more cars with really ridiculous rims. I mean, if you drive a car that costs less than a good bottle of wine, you don't need rims. No, scratch that. You don't need rims no matter what kind of car you drive. Especially the twirly kind. You look like a goof. And what's even more annoying, is that Jason cannot stop himself from pointing out and mocking each and every specimen of this. EVERY one, and believe me, we live in a town of goofs. They may be on welfare, relying on other people's charity to clothe their kids, and getting evicted 3 times a month from roach-infested holes in the wall, but they have money for 3 things: fast food, beer, and pimping out their 1986 Ford Tempo. Classy.
6. Jason's grandparents recently had a trip out East, and they took the route that goes through Maine, and took some sort of high-speed catamaran to save them 6 hours of driving time. They had to drive like mad to make the boat on time, which left at 4pm and required them to be checked in by 3. But after a series of unfortunate events, they did not arrive until 3:59 which would mean losing their money, having to stay in a hotel, and losing a whole day of vacation. But for some odd reason, they were allowed to board the boat. Why? Well, it seems that on that very boat sat the elusive Richard Hatch, Mister "Oops I forgot to pay the taxes on my million dollar Survivor prize" and just then, the law had finally caught up with him. So, as he was arrested and led away, the boat was delayed, and Jason's grandparents now owe a debt to the fat naked guy that America loved to hate.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Uldukis
Uldukis has lived more than nine decades and though she is small and withered, only common sense indicates that this will be her last one. Her mind is sharp, her body is still a vehicle, if a slow-moving one. Her room in the nursing home is small and cramped with 93 years worth of accumulated stuff: photographs of a husband who has been dead nearly thirty years; knick-knacks from dozens of mother's days; primitive preschool paintings, yellowed and curling around the edges, done by grandchildren now in high school; books so numerous that her 6 shelves don't hold them all, so they line the walls at least waist-high, an awkward kind of wainscoting.
It is painful for Uldukis to tie her shoelaces because her knuckles are swollen from arthritis, but she is meticulous about her appearance. She never leaves the confines of her room without a brooch, a silk scarf tied around her neck, and at least 2 barrettes holding back her thin white hair. She is among the oldest residents of her nursing home, but also among the liveliest. She has made many friends during her 25-year stay, and has since watched most of them die. Thank goodness for these friends, though, because despite having 2 sons, 1 daughter, 6 grandchildren and 1 great-grandchild all living within 100 km, she rarely has a visitor.
On this frigid November day, Uldukis is going out. She bundles up in a long coat the colour of an eggplant, and tiny gray boots that you would have otherwise suspected belonged to a child. The senior's van drops her alone at a department store and she gets herself a shopping cart more for its support and aid in walking than for its intended purpose.
Uldukis has shopping to do; Christmas is fast approaching. She wields the cart around the store, the creaky wheel crying only slightly louder than her creaking bones. Every step is an effort, but she works hard to hide it. Uldukis is a proud woman. She is conscious of her decrepit appearance, and even more conscious of the disparity it has with the way she feels. Inside, she is still the caring mother, devoted wife, beloved school teacher, determined cancer survivor (twice), and strong matriarch which defined her all these years. But when death approaches, no matter how subtly, it wipes away all that has come before. Uldukis knows that she has no place in the world. Uldukis knows that she has hardly even a place in the very family that she founded. Uldukis knows she is forgotten.
Forgotten, yes, but Uldukis does not forget. And so she is shopping for a family that she rarely sees. A picture of her great-grandchild burns inside her wallet. She loves him fiercely even if she hasn't met him yet. He's almost 2.
She selects a gift for him first: a conservative woman, her instinct is always towards the practical. She picks out an outfit for him, and closes her eyes to remember how big a 22 month child would be. The clothing is of the sturdy, every-day kind, the kind that will withstand wear, and washing, and life. To balance out the gift, she guides her wobbly cart to the toy section, where she is instantly overwhelmed. Of the many, many things that line the shelves, she recognizes almost none of them as actual toys. And so she goes for what she knows best, a book.
Uldukis teeters around the store thoughtfully picking up gifts for all her family members. Several hours into her shopping, she spots a store employee who is setting up a display of sale merchandise. Uldukis trudges over to her, and asks for her help. She has several blouses in her cart, and she is trying to read the care labels in each one. Her failing eyesight is helped by the giant magnifying glass that she has brought with her for this very purpose, but it's not enough. The employee greets the tiny old woman with a smile, but she works in merchandise, behind the scenes, and this isn't her job. But there are no sales associates around, and so she does her best. Uldukis has several questions stored up: which colour do “the young people” prefer? Is it probable that her grandson would want a movie on the disc, rather than the tape? Where can she find the tea towels?
The store employee spends the next 3 hours following Uldukis around. Uldukis is so delighted with the company that she invents questions just to keep the shop girl from leaving. She boasts of her family members, and wants the girl's honest opinion on whether her grandson's girlfriend would like particular set of earrings. Even the young girl is exhausted by the time every person has been crossed off Uldukis' list, and her shift has ended long ago.
The girl waits with Uldukis in line at the cash, afraid that Uldukis's short arms won't reach to the bottom of the cart, and aware that she should probably be saved from all the bending and lifting anyway. Before she can get away, Uldukis asks for a favour: will she call the nursing home to let them know that she needs to be picked up now?
The girl calls, and the nurse who answers is gruff. She seems angry at the hassle. The girl aches for her little shopping companion, and the life she must lead, always feeling like an imposition even after such a formidable life.
Uldukis and the girl wait together at the entrance for the nursing home van to arrive. During the long wait, Uldukis shyly hands the girl a gift- a box of chocolates that she has purchased to say thank you for all her help. The girl feels the prickle of tears behind her eyes as she refuses the gift, and tells Uldukis that the pleasure of her company has been reward enough. Uldukis likes this answer so much, she grabs the girl around the waist, and holds on tight.
Finally, the van arrives. The driver is a somewhat friendly man, though he has the annoying habit of talking about Uldukis as though she isn't there.
“Uldukis sure is a generous gift-giver” he notes, as he loads the packages. “Last year all the presents sat wrapped in her room well past Christmas because her family never took her home for the holidays. They sat there until the end of March, when we had to call her son because she had a minor stroke.”
When Uldukis is ready to go, she reaches up to the girl, a virtual stranger, for a hug. The girl hugs her as fiercely as she dares embrace such brittle bones, surprised at her feeling. Uldukis waves at her friend-for-an-afternoon as the van pulls out of the parking lot.
The girl is so moved by this woman that she makes a point of visiting Uldukis before Christmas, and the visit is so well-received it is repeated several times that winter and spring. In fact, when Uldukis quietly passes away in her sleep that June, the department store employee has been her sole visitor that year. The Christmas gifts, so lovingly bought and wrapped brilliantly, are still piled in the room where Uldukis took her last breath.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Succinctity.
Friday: Got a headache from Jesus 3D.
Saturday: Ran out of purple thread.
Sunday: Ate chinese food with the grandparents.
Saturday: Ran out of purple thread.
Sunday: Ate chinese food with the grandparents.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Nippola Nippola Nippola Nippola Nippolaaaa!
Following in the series of Ask Jamie, Stephen wants to know: why do men have nipples?
First, as a woman, let me just say this: it is perfectly okay to have a body part (or 2, or 3) that is reserved just for pleasure. As a matter of fact, it's great. It's 2 chocolate brownie sundaes, the kind with french vanilla ice cream that's just beginning to melt, and fresh homemade whipped cream, all covered in gooey hot fudge sauce. Oh yes, it's that good.
So if your nipples serve no other purpose than "oh my...oh my...oh yessss", then you should be okay with that.
However, if you must search for a higher meaning for your nipples, then look no further. If you want an answer, then I'll give you an answer, even if I have to make one up (which I am in no way doing, just to set the record straight).
Like other body parts that seemingly have no real function (the appendix for one, and ah...the um, earlobe, for another), many people believe that male nipples may simply be leftover from a time when we did need them. Evidence of evolution, you might say. For example, many yorn ago (and this is purely conjecture), appendixes (appendi?) served as homing devices. As you know, our hairy ancestors (and no, I am not referring to Jason's uncle Ned, although...whoa buddy, keep your shirt on) were nomads. Burger Kings were spaced really far apart back then, so they'd have to pack up their animal pelts (again, not referring to uncle Ned, although yes, I did call him that one Christmas after too much egg nog) and follow the meat. And unfortunately, no one had invented those yellow-tinted snow goggles that all the hottie snowboarders wear, and we all know that cavemen are much too manly to hold hands, and so the nomads got separated, but every spring their appendixes would put out silent homing signals so the people could meet up and fuck like rabbits.
So yeah. In conclusion, appendixes once were useful. Now all they do is cause trouble. Other useless appendages located on the outside of the body are usually pierced. If they can't be useful, they might as well be pretty (much like me).
However, it is my belief that nipples are not leftover from some prior use. I believe that man-nipples have only "recently" evolved and are in fact destined for some future use. That's right folks, you heard it here first: man-nipples may be dormant right now, but some day soon, maybe as soon as next Tuesday, they could suddenly come to life and take over the world!!!!!
Or, serve some less hostile function, other than world domination.
Possible future uses for man-nipples:
1. Podcasts. Don't ask me how; I can't reveal everything.
2. Portable paprika and saffron shakers. Trust me on this: salt and pepper are on their way out.
3. An identification system that replaces fingerprints or eye-scans or codes to your bank card that everyone forgets as soon as they choose them.
4. Ambient temperature gauge.
5. Really personal secret handshakes, perfect for the modern polygamous marriage.
6. Reference point for a highly-tuned Global Positioning System.
7. Home to entire (albeit tiny) universes populated by subatomic men named Alfred.
8. Using each nipple as a point plotted in star constellations, men will finally be able to "discover" that elusive passageway to China.
9. System of superior measurement - tossing aside both the yard and meter, human beings worldwide will now measure things in terms of the 'nippola', the distance between one nipple and the other.
10. After discovering that the male nipple will indeed produce (after being milked repeatedly for about a month's duration) a viscous green substance unfit for human consumption, it will be found to be perfect for gassing up cars, thus solving the oil crisis, restoring world peace, and causing George W. Bush to repent of his evil ways while suctioning up his teats.
First, as a woman, let me just say this: it is perfectly okay to have a body part (or 2, or 3) that is reserved just for pleasure. As a matter of fact, it's great. It's 2 chocolate brownie sundaes, the kind with french vanilla ice cream that's just beginning to melt, and fresh homemade whipped cream, all covered in gooey hot fudge sauce. Oh yes, it's that good.
So if your nipples serve no other purpose than "oh my...oh my...oh yessss", then you should be okay with that.
However, if you must search for a higher meaning for your nipples, then look no further. If you want an answer, then I'll give you an answer, even if I have to make one up (which I am in no way doing, just to set the record straight).
Like other body parts that seemingly have no real function (the appendix for one, and ah...the um, earlobe, for another), many people believe that male nipples may simply be leftover from a time when we did need them. Evidence of evolution, you might say. For example, many yorn ago (and this is purely conjecture), appendixes (appendi?) served as homing devices. As you know, our hairy ancestors (and no, I am not referring to Jason's uncle Ned, although...whoa buddy, keep your shirt on) were nomads. Burger Kings were spaced really far apart back then, so they'd have to pack up their animal pelts (again, not referring to uncle Ned, although yes, I did call him that one Christmas after too much egg nog) and follow the meat. And unfortunately, no one had invented those yellow-tinted snow goggles that all the hottie snowboarders wear, and we all know that cavemen are much too manly to hold hands, and so the nomads got separated, but every spring their appendixes would put out silent homing signals so the people could meet up and fuck like rabbits.
So yeah. In conclusion, appendixes once were useful. Now all they do is cause trouble. Other useless appendages located on the outside of the body are usually pierced. If they can't be useful, they might as well be pretty (much like me).
However, it is my belief that nipples are not leftover from some prior use. I believe that man-nipples have only "recently" evolved and are in fact destined for some future use. That's right folks, you heard it here first: man-nipples may be dormant right now, but some day soon, maybe as soon as next Tuesday, they could suddenly come to life and take over the world!!!!!
Or, serve some less hostile function, other than world domination.
Possible future uses for man-nipples:
1. Podcasts. Don't ask me how; I can't reveal everything.
2. Portable paprika and saffron shakers. Trust me on this: salt and pepper are on their way out.
3. An identification system that replaces fingerprints or eye-scans or codes to your bank card that everyone forgets as soon as they choose them.
4. Ambient temperature gauge.
5. Really personal secret handshakes, perfect for the modern polygamous marriage.
6. Reference point for a highly-tuned Global Positioning System.
7. Home to entire (albeit tiny) universes populated by subatomic men named Alfred.
8. Using each nipple as a point plotted in star constellations, men will finally be able to "discover" that elusive passageway to China.
9. System of superior measurement - tossing aside both the yard and meter, human beings worldwide will now measure things in terms of the 'nippola', the distance between one nipple and the other.
10. After discovering that the male nipple will indeed produce (after being milked repeatedly for about a month's duration) a viscous green substance unfit for human consumption, it will be found to be perfect for gassing up cars, thus solving the oil crisis, restoring world peace, and causing George W. Bush to repent of his evil ways while suctioning up his teats.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I Probably Hate You If...
1. You refer to your pets as your children.
Cappy says: Love your dogs, just don't love your dogs.
2. You've ever seen an episode of Dr. Phil.
Dr. Phil: as helpful as he is handsome.
3. You eat meat for breakfast.
4. Your favourite author is Stephen King. Or John Grisham.
Try instead: Margaret Atwood, Saul Bellow, John Cheever, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Henry James, Ian McEwan, Toni Morrison, Alice Munro, Michael Ondaatje, Ayn Rand, Mordecai Richler, John Steinbeck. There is better stuff out there.
5. You have a ringtone. Any ringtone. If your cellphone does anything other than just ring, you deserve to be shot. In the neck. And as the blood gurgles in your throat, and bubbles out the bullethole, you should be conscious enough to know that you are drowning in your own blood and about to burn in the special hell reserved for people with ringtones.
6. You can't shut up about your damn kids.
7. You don't drink.
Ummm, I think you're missing the point.
8. Your idea of funny is constantly recycling old Simpsons jokes.
9. You still own anything acid-washed.
Dude, you are so not my friend.
10. You think all Canadians grow crops.
11. You think fruit is art.
Ah, sir, I think you ARE the fruit.
12. You let your toenails grow long - and worse still, you think your long toenails are so wonderful that you give them a french pedicure. Puke. People like you don't deserve to have feet.
13. You pencil-in extra "quotation marks" on greeting cards.
14. You keep a wad of kleenex up your sleeve - worse still if your sleeves are sheer and you're my 6th grade teacher and every time you gesture the whole class has to watch your dirty kleenex travel up to your armpit, get stuck there, and then travel back down as you tell us that the world is going to end in 7 years.
15. You're not black, but you think you are.
Hey, nice bling.
16. You watch any kind of cop/detective/medical/forensics drama.
CSI: Another Lame Attempt at Maudlin Programming
17. You dropped my favourite book in the pool, and then returned it to me swollen, mouldy, and back broken as if nothing had happened.
18. You've rammed your grocery cart into the backs of my heels.
Slow the fuck down. Respect the buffer of space.
19. You endanger your life but save 3 precious seconds by darting into traffic before the walk sign is lit.
Sign should read: Don't walk you idiot.
20. You spit.
I know, I know. It isn't fair to always pick on the camels.
21. You dip your grilled cheese in ketchup.
22. You drive a PT Cruiser or an Aztek.
Ugliest car on earth?
Oh wait. Toss up.
23. You work retail but can't make change.
24. You order a salad at McDonald's.
Newsflash: McDonald's is not healthy. Deal with it, or go somewhere else where a salad makes sense.
25. You think cheerleading is a sport.
26. You talk about yourself in the third person.
27. You've ever worn socks with sandals.
28. You own a velour track suit.
If you're an elf, then you have my blessing. Everyone else, burn the velour. That shit is nasty.
29. You wear your cell phone on your belt.
Ah, the epitome of cool.
30. You think milk is a mixer.
Curdle, curdle, curdle.
Cappy says: Love your dogs, just don't love your dogs.
2. You've ever seen an episode of Dr. Phil.
Dr. Phil: as helpful as he is handsome.
3. You eat meat for breakfast.
4. Your favourite author is Stephen King. Or John Grisham.
Try instead: Margaret Atwood, Saul Bellow, John Cheever, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Henry James, Ian McEwan, Toni Morrison, Alice Munro, Michael Ondaatje, Ayn Rand, Mordecai Richler, John Steinbeck. There is better stuff out there.
5. You have a ringtone. Any ringtone. If your cellphone does anything other than just ring, you deserve to be shot. In the neck. And as the blood gurgles in your throat, and bubbles out the bullethole, you should be conscious enough to know that you are drowning in your own blood and about to burn in the special hell reserved for people with ringtones.
6. You can't shut up about your damn kids.
7. You don't drink.
Ummm, I think you're missing the point.
8. Your idea of funny is constantly recycling old Simpsons jokes.
9. You still own anything acid-washed.
Dude, you are so not my friend.
10. You think all Canadians grow crops.
11. You think fruit is art.
Ah, sir, I think you ARE the fruit.
12. You let your toenails grow long - and worse still, you think your long toenails are so wonderful that you give them a french pedicure. Puke. People like you don't deserve to have feet.
13. You pencil-in extra "quotation marks" on greeting cards.
14. You keep a wad of kleenex up your sleeve - worse still if your sleeves are sheer and you're my 6th grade teacher and every time you gesture the whole class has to watch your dirty kleenex travel up to your armpit, get stuck there, and then travel back down as you tell us that the world is going to end in 7 years.
15. You're not black, but you think you are.
Hey, nice bling.
16. You watch any kind of cop/detective/medical/forensics drama.
CSI: Another Lame Attempt at Maudlin Programming
17. You dropped my favourite book in the pool, and then returned it to me swollen, mouldy, and back broken as if nothing had happened.
18. You've rammed your grocery cart into the backs of my heels.
Slow the fuck down. Respect the buffer of space.
19. You endanger your life but save 3 precious seconds by darting into traffic before the walk sign is lit.
Sign should read: Don't walk you idiot.
20. You spit.
I know, I know. It isn't fair to always pick on the camels.
21. You dip your grilled cheese in ketchup.
22. You drive a PT Cruiser or an Aztek.
Ugliest car on earth?
Oh wait. Toss up.
23. You work retail but can't make change.
24. You order a salad at McDonald's.
Newsflash: McDonald's is not healthy. Deal with it, or go somewhere else where a salad makes sense.
25. You think cheerleading is a sport.
26. You talk about yourself in the third person.
27. You've ever worn socks with sandals.
28. You own a velour track suit.
If you're an elf, then you have my blessing. Everyone else, burn the velour. That shit is nasty.
29. You wear your cell phone on your belt.
Ah, the epitome of cool.
30. You think milk is a mixer.
Curdle, curdle, curdle.
Monday, September 12, 2005
A List of Things That Have Recently Occurred to Me, In No Particular Order:
1. It is September. September sucks. Everyone knows that only evil ever comes from September: Star Trek first aired in September; the first Miss America pageant ran in September; Alberta and Saskatchewan joined confederation in September, and I think we can all agree that's when Canada started to go downhill; Play-Doh was introduced to the world in September, and 30 years later I would consume it one unsupervised September morning, and boy does that stuff hurt when it's passing through you. Anyhoo, in short, screw off, September!
2. Math is unnatural. Nowhere else in life are answers so black and white, right or wrong. Like anything else worthwhile, you should be able to argue almost any answer with false logic, loud statements, and the use of multiple exclamation points. For example, which of these makes the most intuitive sense?
a) 2 x 3 = 6
or
b) 2 x 3 = in the conservatory with a candlestick dammit. Any fool can see that Colonel Mustard is clearly the culprit. What are you, stupid? Huh? Are you too stupid to see what's right in front of your face? Candlestick!!!!!
Yeah. Eerie, isn't it?
3. Rejection can be a blessing.
4. Sleeping in a car gives you quite the crick in your neck.
5. You know how they say "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you". Well here's the thing. Neither sticks nor stones have ever broken my bones. I mean, once I fell off my bike and a bunch of gravel got stuck in my knee, but I think that was more the bike's fault. On the other hand, names HAVE hurt me. Oh yes.
6. I have a prize iris, just the one, that I sing to and care for and love immensely. Her name is Fauna. She's white and delicate and usually very thirsty. I have a toy poodle that I also adore. She is white and delicate, and less thirsty, but needs almost constant grooming. Her name is Flora. Flora and Fauna are imaginary but they give as much satisfaction as solving a math equation a la #2. Hehe. I just said #2.
7. Don't you think that the whole "black hole" thing is just a tad convenient? I mean, there can never be proof because its gravity is so strong that nothing could ever escape it, such as post cards. Fishy, no? And it's not like we've ever heard anything from black holes...
Dear Stephen Hawking,
Hi. I'm a black hole. How are you doing? I am fine just a little lonely, and oh yeah, I exist.
Nope. It's just a prediction thanks to the theory of general relativity, which frankly, is also on my shit list. I mean, if you're so important, shouldn't you have a better name than general relativity. That's like calling me general person. At least I have a proper name. But this theory still only predicts that black holes can exist, and black holes aren't exactly stepping up to the plate. So I think you should all track down an encyclopedia today and do the world a favour by blacking out the black hole entry. An exacto knife will also do the trick. I have taken the further liberty of saving future generations from other entries, such as general relativity, math, vegetarianism, breast feeding, covered stadiums, and weaving.
Oh, and here's another prediction*: black holes are dumb even if they do exist, not to mention useless, and The Leafs will take the cup.
*I realize this prediction sounds a lot like opinion, but trust me, it's a prediction.
8. I know Americans don't like to admit to being wrong, but I think it's high time they abandon their strange spellings and awkward wording and revert to the English that is used by the British. I mean, you have to admit that the English more or less invented English. I think they know what they're talking about. And sometimes you have to wonder if the English settlers who eventually made their way over here and shared their language with us, were playing some joke on us. They probably still can't believe they got us to call trousers pants for goodness sake, and who knows what other offensive things we've been saying? In Canada we have it much worse because we have a warbly combination of both Englishes. We have a u in humour but a z(ed) in realize. I mean, bless those Americans: even when they make mistakes, they go all the way and hang on tight. If they're doing something wrong you can be sure it's going to be REALLY WRONG, more wrong than any other country in the world!! But I think that in this age of globalization, when we are faced with the many languages of the world, we should make every effort to at least be able to understand our fellow Anglos, eh?
9. If aliens exist, and I for one believe they do, then I rather think it's a safe supposition to say that their technology will far outstrip ours should they ever choose to visit. And if that's so, I dare say that their spacecraft will not be made out of tin and flashy lights, as constantly depicted by stupid, unimaginative humans. I mean, you'd think they would travel by light waves, or energy, or some form of teletransportation, not some dome that looks suspiciously like a pimped-out Honda Civic. Sheesh.
10. I like getting ready to go out when Jason is out of the house. I mean, what is the point of putting on mascara if you're seen applying it? Doesn't that burst the illusion and defeat the whole point? So I rather like having a whole afternoon to primp. The only problem is, I still have not worked out a good system for curling the back of my own head. I mean, what was God thinking, putting hair in the most inconvenient of places, and then giving us arms that are just not able to fully extend? God is so not a woman. A woman would either have designed us with hair on our chests where it's easier to reach, or given us multi-jointed super long arms in order to get back there with a curling iron (also giving us the ability to do up our own dress zippers, which are thoughtlessly located on the back!). Maybe evolution will adapt us to this modern complexity. We can only hope. Meanwhile, those of us (me) with two-toned hair are in big trouble, because the slut-blonde in the front consistently looks lovely, while the lilac purple in the back falls flat. Is there some trick to this that I'm just not getting?
11. Speaking of evolution, how many more years do you think we have until us humans are locked up in cages? I mean, I think that evolution must really sneak up on you, and even if it didn't, the next guy in line is going to be more highly evolved and therefore much smarter, so we don't stand a chance. I mean, apparently we come from monkeys, right? But monkeys didn't just disappear when humans evolved from them. Now there are monkeys AND humans, and the monkeys are all in zoos. So it follows that when these long-armed people with hairy chests evolve from us, they'll decide we're awfully cute, lock us up, watch us throw shit at each other, and test their cosmetics and drugs out on us. In fact, I believe that the rise of the cubicle is just a higher life form trying to ready us for our future homes and get us used to small confined spaces where we are robbed of all dignity. Pretty grim future, isn't it?
Jason's not-so-distant relative
2. Math is unnatural. Nowhere else in life are answers so black and white, right or wrong. Like anything else worthwhile, you should be able to argue almost any answer with false logic, loud statements, and the use of multiple exclamation points. For example, which of these makes the most intuitive sense?
a) 2 x 3 = 6
or
b) 2 x 3 = in the conservatory with a candlestick dammit. Any fool can see that Colonel Mustard is clearly the culprit. What are you, stupid? Huh? Are you too stupid to see what's right in front of your face? Candlestick!!!!!
Yeah. Eerie, isn't it?
3. Rejection can be a blessing.
4. Sleeping in a car gives you quite the crick in your neck.
5. You know how they say "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you". Well here's the thing. Neither sticks nor stones have ever broken my bones. I mean, once I fell off my bike and a bunch of gravel got stuck in my knee, but I think that was more the bike's fault. On the other hand, names HAVE hurt me. Oh yes.
6. I have a prize iris, just the one, that I sing to and care for and love immensely. Her name is Fauna. She's white and delicate and usually very thirsty. I have a toy poodle that I also adore. She is white and delicate, and less thirsty, but needs almost constant grooming. Her name is Flora. Flora and Fauna are imaginary but they give as much satisfaction as solving a math equation a la #2. Hehe. I just said #2.
7. Don't you think that the whole "black hole" thing is just a tad convenient? I mean, there can never be proof because its gravity is so strong that nothing could ever escape it, such as post cards. Fishy, no? And it's not like we've ever heard anything from black holes...
Dear Stephen Hawking,
Hi. I'm a black hole. How are you doing? I am fine just a little lonely, and oh yeah, I exist.
Nope. It's just a prediction thanks to the theory of general relativity, which frankly, is also on my shit list. I mean, if you're so important, shouldn't you have a better name than general relativity. That's like calling me general person. At least I have a proper name. But this theory still only predicts that black holes can exist, and black holes aren't exactly stepping up to the plate. So I think you should all track down an encyclopedia today and do the world a favour by blacking out the black hole entry. An exacto knife will also do the trick. I have taken the further liberty of saving future generations from other entries, such as general relativity, math, vegetarianism, breast feeding, covered stadiums, and weaving.
Oh, and here's another prediction*: black holes are dumb even if they do exist, not to mention useless, and The Leafs will take the cup.
*I realize this prediction sounds a lot like opinion, but trust me, it's a prediction.
8. I know Americans don't like to admit to being wrong, but I think it's high time they abandon their strange spellings and awkward wording and revert to the English that is used by the British. I mean, you have to admit that the English more or less invented English. I think they know what they're talking about. And sometimes you have to wonder if the English settlers who eventually made their way over here and shared their language with us, were playing some joke on us. They probably still can't believe they got us to call trousers pants for goodness sake, and who knows what other offensive things we've been saying? In Canada we have it much worse because we have a warbly combination of both Englishes. We have a u in humour but a z(ed) in realize. I mean, bless those Americans: even when they make mistakes, they go all the way and hang on tight. If they're doing something wrong you can be sure it's going to be REALLY WRONG, more wrong than any other country in the world!! But I think that in this age of globalization, when we are faced with the many languages of the world, we should make every effort to at least be able to understand our fellow Anglos, eh?
9. If aliens exist, and I for one believe they do, then I rather think it's a safe supposition to say that their technology will far outstrip ours should they ever choose to visit. And if that's so, I dare say that their spacecraft will not be made out of tin and flashy lights, as constantly depicted by stupid, unimaginative humans. I mean, you'd think they would travel by light waves, or energy, or some form of teletransportation, not some dome that looks suspiciously like a pimped-out Honda Civic. Sheesh.
10. I like getting ready to go out when Jason is out of the house. I mean, what is the point of putting on mascara if you're seen applying it? Doesn't that burst the illusion and defeat the whole point? So I rather like having a whole afternoon to primp. The only problem is, I still have not worked out a good system for curling the back of my own head. I mean, what was God thinking, putting hair in the most inconvenient of places, and then giving us arms that are just not able to fully extend? God is so not a woman. A woman would either have designed us with hair on our chests where it's easier to reach, or given us multi-jointed super long arms in order to get back there with a curling iron (also giving us the ability to do up our own dress zippers, which are thoughtlessly located on the back!). Maybe evolution will adapt us to this modern complexity. We can only hope. Meanwhile, those of us (me) with two-toned hair are in big trouble, because the slut-blonde in the front consistently looks lovely, while the lilac purple in the back falls flat. Is there some trick to this that I'm just not getting?
11. Speaking of evolution, how many more years do you think we have until us humans are locked up in cages? I mean, I think that evolution must really sneak up on you, and even if it didn't, the next guy in line is going to be more highly evolved and therefore much smarter, so we don't stand a chance. I mean, apparently we come from monkeys, right? But monkeys didn't just disappear when humans evolved from them. Now there are monkeys AND humans, and the monkeys are all in zoos. So it follows that when these long-armed people with hairy chests evolve from us, they'll decide we're awfully cute, lock us up, watch us throw shit at each other, and test their cosmetics and drugs out on us. In fact, I believe that the rise of the cubicle is just a higher life form trying to ready us for our future homes and get us used to small confined spaces where we are robbed of all dignity. Pretty grim future, isn't it?
Jason's not-so-distant relative
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Boys & Girls
I rush out of the room to tell Jason that I am blind with hunger. Ravenous, I tell him; in need of sustenance, and fast. I confirm that a tomato sandwich sounds wonderful, and that a cup of milk would really hit the spot.
He places before me a tall, sweating glass filled with cold milk. Sharp intake of breath. I waver, and then thank him. But on the inside, I am screaming: glass! I said cup!
I might not normally be so exacting, except for the fact that I have been working hard with Jason to teach him the difference between these two things. After 4 years of prompts and 6 months of intensive instruction, Jason still does not realize that a cup and a glass are two very different things.
And this is not the half of it! If I ask for a napkin, more often than not, he'll bring me paper towel, even if the napkins are closer. Sometimes he'll tear off a square, other times he'll plop the whole roll off its holder and toss it into my lap, leaving a trail of unraveled paper towels to cover the trajectory. When he's being fancy, he'll fold the paper towel in half, making an awkward rectangle that dwarfs the place setting. I have told him that napkins are for the civilized; that paper towels are for cleaning up messes and napkins are for dabbing at the mouth. He just shrugs that shrug of his and says "Well, I have a big mouth."
And really, how can I argue that?
Oh, I've tried during our 6 looooooong years together to turn him into a gentleman, but I still see glimpses of the bachelor he was before he met me. I have this image in my mind of the bachelor way of life, basically consisting of layers of dirt and foodstuffs whose main ingredients are corn oil and powdered cheese. And when Jason manages to talk about the dark ages before I came along, he mostly confirms these ideas of mine.
I remember when we first moved in together, I woke up one morning to the sight of him making grilled cheese and helping himself to a glass of 7up. He was proud of himself for making such a nice little meal, while I could barely contain my disgust. My delicate stomach does not allow for the sight or smell of these things - lunch foods for breakfast, oh my! And when he lived on his own, things were much, much worse. He once confessed to eating day-old pizza that had not been refrigerated overnight! Oh, my stomach still turns at the thought of that one. And so it has been my duty to instruct him on the inclusion of vegetables with every meal, and the benefits of clean kitchen surfaces.
But every now and then, the age of Before Jamie rears its ugly little head, and we have to have little refresher courses on why one condiment at a time will quite suffice and why men who hope to get laid should always shell out for nice shoes.
Oh, the shoes. The shoes! The horror! When Jason and I first started "dating", he wore a ratty pair of lace-up dress shoes that his mother had hurriedly bought him for a funeral when he was 15. They were bargain-basement shoes and they made me want to dump him, fast. And the most amazing part was that he would show up all svelte in expensive suits...and then the footwear just ruined it all. He quite happily accepted my gift of a very nice pair of shoes shortly thereafter, but was appalled when I brought him round immediately to the dumpster out back so we could be rid of the thighs-slamming-shut shoes he had before. He pleaded for their salvation of course; insisted he'd get blisters wearing the new ones right off the bat.
So I made him a deal: either the shoes went, or I did.
A year and a half later he was married wearing those spiffy new shoes, and nowadays when I tease him about his shoes BJ, his eyes glaze over and he claims to have no memory of them. Good man.
So, he's learning. Slooooowly. One day at a time. He doesn't complain when I ask him to grab the laundry off the floor, but he still administers the sniff test when sorting clean from dirty. In fact, he is mystified at how I determine the cleanliness of my clothes since according to his nose, they always smell so nice. Oh, boys.
But anyways, the point is, I didn't say anything about the milk in the glass because boys are very skittish. You have to lead them by the hand very carefully, and ply them with plenty of praise. You have to pretend to be mightily impressed when they make the bed, and the more you can equate sex with housework, the more successful you will be. But it's a pain-staking process and it doesn't come without sacrifice.
Like when you finish your tomato sandwich and wipe your mouth daintily with the big honking chunk of paper towel that's been ripped off and handed to you, and your husband asks how many more you can eat, and you say none, and there's a pregnant pause before your husband exclaims "You said you were blind with hunger! One sandwich does not fill you up!!!" and all you can really do is shake your head, because some things will never change.
He places before me a tall, sweating glass filled with cold milk. Sharp intake of breath. I waver, and then thank him. But on the inside, I am screaming: glass! I said cup!
I might not normally be so exacting, except for the fact that I have been working hard with Jason to teach him the difference between these two things. After 4 years of prompts and 6 months of intensive instruction, Jason still does not realize that a cup and a glass are two very different things.
And this is not the half of it! If I ask for a napkin, more often than not, he'll bring me paper towel, even if the napkins are closer. Sometimes he'll tear off a square, other times he'll plop the whole roll off its holder and toss it into my lap, leaving a trail of unraveled paper towels to cover the trajectory. When he's being fancy, he'll fold the paper towel in half, making an awkward rectangle that dwarfs the place setting. I have told him that napkins are for the civilized; that paper towels are for cleaning up messes and napkins are for dabbing at the mouth. He just shrugs that shrug of his and says "Well, I have a big mouth."
And really, how can I argue that?
Oh, I've tried during our 6 looooooong years together to turn him into a gentleman, but I still see glimpses of the bachelor he was before he met me. I have this image in my mind of the bachelor way of life, basically consisting of layers of dirt and foodstuffs whose main ingredients are corn oil and powdered cheese. And when Jason manages to talk about the dark ages before I came along, he mostly confirms these ideas of mine.
I remember when we first moved in together, I woke up one morning to the sight of him making grilled cheese and helping himself to a glass of 7up. He was proud of himself for making such a nice little meal, while I could barely contain my disgust. My delicate stomach does not allow for the sight or smell of these things - lunch foods for breakfast, oh my! And when he lived on his own, things were much, much worse. He once confessed to eating day-old pizza that had not been refrigerated overnight! Oh, my stomach still turns at the thought of that one. And so it has been my duty to instruct him on the inclusion of vegetables with every meal, and the benefits of clean kitchen surfaces.
But every now and then, the age of Before Jamie rears its ugly little head, and we have to have little refresher courses on why one condiment at a time will quite suffice and why men who hope to get laid should always shell out for nice shoes.
Oh, the shoes. The shoes! The horror! When Jason and I first started "dating", he wore a ratty pair of lace-up dress shoes that his mother had hurriedly bought him for a funeral when he was 15. They were bargain-basement shoes and they made me want to dump him, fast. And the most amazing part was that he would show up all svelte in expensive suits...and then the footwear just ruined it all. He quite happily accepted my gift of a very nice pair of shoes shortly thereafter, but was appalled when I brought him round immediately to the dumpster out back so we could be rid of the thighs-slamming-shut shoes he had before. He pleaded for their salvation of course; insisted he'd get blisters wearing the new ones right off the bat.
So I made him a deal: either the shoes went, or I did.
A year and a half later he was married wearing those spiffy new shoes, and nowadays when I tease him about his shoes BJ, his eyes glaze over and he claims to have no memory of them. Good man.
So, he's learning. Slooooowly. One day at a time. He doesn't complain when I ask him to grab the laundry off the floor, but he still administers the sniff test when sorting clean from dirty. In fact, he is mystified at how I determine the cleanliness of my clothes since according to his nose, they always smell so nice. Oh, boys.
But anyways, the point is, I didn't say anything about the milk in the glass because boys are very skittish. You have to lead them by the hand very carefully, and ply them with plenty of praise. You have to pretend to be mightily impressed when they make the bed, and the more you can equate sex with housework, the more successful you will be. But it's a pain-staking process and it doesn't come without sacrifice.
Like when you finish your tomato sandwich and wipe your mouth daintily with the big honking chunk of paper towel that's been ripped off and handed to you, and your husband asks how many more you can eat, and you say none, and there's a pregnant pause before your husband exclaims "You said you were blind with hunger! One sandwich does not fill you up!!!" and all you can really do is shake your head, because some things will never change.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Survey Says:
Question:
Jason says it's rude for me to listen to my mp3 player when we're having sex.
Agree or disagree?
Jason says it's rude for me to listen to my mp3 player when we're having sex.
Agree or disagree?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Bad Habit? Why, I'll Give You A Bad Habit!
I was lying in bed almost all morning listening to the torrential rains slapping my bedroom windows. I wondered briefly whether any of our patio furniture remained, but was unable to see past the blur of raindrops into my own backyard. I heard the metallic creak of hinges at the side of the house, and felt sorry for the guy delivering mail on a day like this.
I am just biding my time until darkness falls again, and I am safe for going outside to splash in as many puddles as I can find (which obviously will be numerous...in fact, I am willing to bet that small creaks and a little river roughly the size and shape of the avenue upon which I live will be available for my puddle pleasure). Playing in the rain is one of my many, MANY bad habits. But seriously, it's like a disease, and I just cannot help myself. I know it will ruin my new suede boots. I know it will wipe out the 35 minutes I spent blow-drying my hair into a non-frizz mess. I know my mascara will run and I'll risk catching my death, but I'm out there anyway because splashing is fun.
The phrase 'bad habit' just has a negative connotation. That's why I move that we round up all of our bad habits (smoking, drinking, eating, etc, etc) and start calling them 'tradition' instead. It means the same basic thing...and it sounds a heck of a lot better. I mean, Christmas dinner is tradition. If I could, I would definitely avoid eating 7lbs of dead bird while trying not to breathe too deeply while telling stinky old aunt Milicent why it is that I am not afraid of burning in hell for living with a boy I am not married to (for the 3rd straight year in a row). Now this situation is truly BAD, and frankly I think that smoking 3 packs a day would be much healthier. But I subject myself to it routinely because it's tradition, and therefore no one hassles me about it. There are no government-sponsored PSAs warning me about the health risks of Grandma's stuffing that is surely just swimming with salmonella. Watching your fat uncle unbutton his pants after dinner while your mother tells the whole room about your inabilities to trap a man into the confines of marriage will induce years worth of intensive therapy, but who tries to prevent it? NO ONE! It's tradition!
Therefore, I move to make the following into tradition, starting today. Feel free to add your own:
1. Matinee martinis.
2. Dancing in the rain, even when it's somewhat dirty or somewhat cold.
3. Wearing a weather-inappropriate outfit because it's cute, even when it's freezing.
4. Not justifying crazy midnight romps.
5. Cigars on girls-night out.
6. Lusting after other men, especially the witty ones.
7. Going down in a movie theatre.
8. Letting boys buy me drinks, even though I'm an old married woman.
9. Telling lies.
10. Letting the milk sit in my cereal bowl in the sink all day long because I couldn't be bothered to rinse it out.
11. Not making my bed. Ever.
12. Hating math.
13. Refusing all invitations to the birthday parties of my friends' snotty-nosed children.
14. Objectifying men.
15. Wearing pjs past noon at least 5 days a week.
16. Overpaying for shoes.
17. Launching sprinklers through various front windows.
18. Being serviced first.
19. Going to Jamaica for Christmas.
20. Not proofreading anything at Kill the Goat.
21. Enjoying herbs.
22. Dancing to Whitney Houston in the shower.
23. Not answering when my mother-in-law is on the call display.
24. Returning the presents Jason lovingly picked out for me for cash.
25. Signing people up to be saved.
26. Taking out foul moods on our husbands.
27. Inspiring fist fights.
28. Being completely self-involved.
29. Getting hopelessly lost at Ikea every single time I go there.
30. Admiring myself in various reflective surfaces.
31. Eating our weight in chocolate.
32. Bucket margaritas.
33. A pack and a half a day.
34. Sex and the City repeats.
35. Hating people for no good reason.
36. Staying up all night to read a book.
37. Eating all the pringles.
"It's not my fault - it's tradition!!"
I am just biding my time until darkness falls again, and I am safe for going outside to splash in as many puddles as I can find (which obviously will be numerous...in fact, I am willing to bet that small creaks and a little river roughly the size and shape of the avenue upon which I live will be available for my puddle pleasure). Playing in the rain is one of my many, MANY bad habits. But seriously, it's like a disease, and I just cannot help myself. I know it will ruin my new suede boots. I know it will wipe out the 35 minutes I spent blow-drying my hair into a non-frizz mess. I know my mascara will run and I'll risk catching my death, but I'm out there anyway because splashing is fun.
The phrase 'bad habit' just has a negative connotation. That's why I move that we round up all of our bad habits (smoking, drinking, eating, etc, etc) and start calling them 'tradition' instead. It means the same basic thing...and it sounds a heck of a lot better. I mean, Christmas dinner is tradition. If I could, I would definitely avoid eating 7lbs of dead bird while trying not to breathe too deeply while telling stinky old aunt Milicent why it is that I am not afraid of burning in hell for living with a boy I am not married to (for the 3rd straight year in a row). Now this situation is truly BAD, and frankly I think that smoking 3 packs a day would be much healthier. But I subject myself to it routinely because it's tradition, and therefore no one hassles me about it. There are no government-sponsored PSAs warning me about the health risks of Grandma's stuffing that is surely just swimming with salmonella. Watching your fat uncle unbutton his pants after dinner while your mother tells the whole room about your inabilities to trap a man into the confines of marriage will induce years worth of intensive therapy, but who tries to prevent it? NO ONE! It's tradition!
Therefore, I move to make the following into tradition, starting today. Feel free to add your own:
1. Matinee martinis.
2. Dancing in the rain, even when it's somewhat dirty or somewhat cold.
3. Wearing a weather-inappropriate outfit because it's cute, even when it's freezing.
4. Not justifying crazy midnight romps.
5. Cigars on girls-night out.
6. Lusting after other men, especially the witty ones.
7. Going down in a movie theatre.
8. Letting boys buy me drinks, even though I'm an old married woman.
9. Telling lies.
10. Letting the milk sit in my cereal bowl in the sink all day long because I couldn't be bothered to rinse it out.
11. Not making my bed. Ever.
12. Hating math.
13. Refusing all invitations to the birthday parties of my friends' snotty-nosed children.
14. Objectifying men.
15. Wearing pjs past noon at least 5 days a week.
16. Overpaying for shoes.
17. Launching sprinklers through various front windows.
18. Being serviced first.
19. Going to Jamaica for Christmas.
20. Not proofreading anything at Kill the Goat.
21. Enjoying herbs.
22. Dancing to Whitney Houston in the shower.
23. Not answering when my mother-in-law is on the call display.
24. Returning the presents Jason lovingly picked out for me for cash.
25. Signing people up to be saved.
26. Taking out foul moods on our husbands.
27. Inspiring fist fights.
28. Being completely self-involved.
29. Getting hopelessly lost at Ikea every single time I go there.
30. Admiring myself in various reflective surfaces.
31. Eating our weight in chocolate.
32. Bucket margaritas.
33. A pack and a half a day.
34. Sex and the City repeats.
35. Hating people for no good reason.
36. Staying up all night to read a book.
37. Eating all the pringles.
"It's not my fault - it's tradition!!"
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
I really don't know clouds at all.
I have unexplained happiness lately. Just, bursting at the seams, skipping down the road like a fool, exclaiming over interesting pieces of lint, laughing like I can't stop, kind of happy, and all for no discernible reason.
I am so happy that I almost broke my hip dancing in the shower to Whitney Houston songs.
I am so happy that even my cries are happy. I burst into tears yesterday; fat plentiful tears that streamed down my face and into my wine. I sobbed from the soles of my feet, and it was delicious. It was one of the best cries of my life.
I am so happy that my pockets are full. Everything in the world seems worth exclaiming over. I went out to lunch with a friend and was so bowled over by the little toothpick in my wrap, the kind with coloured cellophane on top, that I shoved them both in my pocket to bring home for my scrapbook. Then in her car, I found a piece of string that was balled up in the shape of my friend Thomas. As soon as I picked it up it didn't look much like Thomas anymore, but I found it so noteworthy that I put it in my pocket so I could mail it to him later. At the end of every day, I empty my pockets in show-and-tell fashion for Jason. Neither of us can remember ever using pockets before this, for anything.
I am so happy that Jason has gained 5 pounds. I've been roasting turkeys and boiling lobsters, and baking my famous cheesecakes. I send him to work with 7 course lunches. You can smell things cooking from 3 blocks away. I pile his plate high with all of my happiness, and things are so happy that Jason is just 2 steaks away from a happiness coronary.
I am so happy that the house is brimming with my artistic endeavors. I have sketchbooks filled with happiness; canvasses still dripping in it. I am so happy that I sewed up some throw pillows last night, and I don't even know how to sew.
I am so happy that I have a headache. I am a happy person to begin with. I try to live my life with much passion. I live big. I like my days to rate 10 out of 10 on the happiness scale, but somehow my scale has been amplified and I'm experiencing 57s. My head throbs with happy; my heart races with happy; the little hairs on the back up of my neck stand up on end with happy. I have so much happiness that it's falling out my ears and I have to carry tupperware around with me to pick up the excess.
I am so happy that I haven't slept in 4 days. It's been over 100 hours since I last slept. Every time I lay down, happiness brims over and I jump to my feet to be happy some more. I am shaking with happiness, and having hot flashes of happiness.
I am so happy that Jason brought me to the doctor. "She's crazy" he said. "I am not!" I retorted. "I'm just happy." The doctor looked at us both, and said "Actually, she's euphoric. It's the pills." And I was so happy that I kicked her in the shins.
I am so happy that I almost broke my hip dancing in the shower to Whitney Houston songs.
I am so happy that even my cries are happy. I burst into tears yesterday; fat plentiful tears that streamed down my face and into my wine. I sobbed from the soles of my feet, and it was delicious. It was one of the best cries of my life.
I am so happy that my pockets are full. Everything in the world seems worth exclaiming over. I went out to lunch with a friend and was so bowled over by the little toothpick in my wrap, the kind with coloured cellophane on top, that I shoved them both in my pocket to bring home for my scrapbook. Then in her car, I found a piece of string that was balled up in the shape of my friend Thomas. As soon as I picked it up it didn't look much like Thomas anymore, but I found it so noteworthy that I put it in my pocket so I could mail it to him later. At the end of every day, I empty my pockets in show-and-tell fashion for Jason. Neither of us can remember ever using pockets before this, for anything.
I am so happy that Jason has gained 5 pounds. I've been roasting turkeys and boiling lobsters, and baking my famous cheesecakes. I send him to work with 7 course lunches. You can smell things cooking from 3 blocks away. I pile his plate high with all of my happiness, and things are so happy that Jason is just 2 steaks away from a happiness coronary.
I am so happy that the house is brimming with my artistic endeavors. I have sketchbooks filled with happiness; canvasses still dripping in it. I am so happy that I sewed up some throw pillows last night, and I don't even know how to sew.
I am so happy that I have a headache. I am a happy person to begin with. I try to live my life with much passion. I live big. I like my days to rate 10 out of 10 on the happiness scale, but somehow my scale has been amplified and I'm experiencing 57s. My head throbs with happy; my heart races with happy; the little hairs on the back up of my neck stand up on end with happy. I have so much happiness that it's falling out my ears and I have to carry tupperware around with me to pick up the excess.
I am so happy that I haven't slept in 4 days. It's been over 100 hours since I last slept. Every time I lay down, happiness brims over and I jump to my feet to be happy some more. I am shaking with happiness, and having hot flashes of happiness.
I am so happy that Jason brought me to the doctor. "She's crazy" he said. "I am not!" I retorted. "I'm just happy." The doctor looked at us both, and said "Actually, she's euphoric. It's the pills." And I was so happy that I kicked her in the shins.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
A Night At the Movies
There are movies, and then there are movies. These movies I sincerely hope you will see, because they represent the very best in film-making. They are movies that I prefer to call films, because to call them movies and to class them with the likes of such stinkers as Catwoman, or Gigli, seems a crime.
Closer- This movie is not about love. It's not even about lust. It's about infidelity, boredom, dishonesty. It's the itch you can't scratch, and then when you do scratch it, you realize you're scratching the wrong thing, and now you're even itchier. Except, not as lame as that analogy. It's really good, and really frustrating, and really raw. It's painful to watch grownups go through life with so little integrity for themselves, or for others. There is no sense of happiness, or even of calm. It's pathetic to watch, and even more so because it feels so real. It's not that they make the wrong choices, but that they refuse to choose at all. In having everything, anything (every one, anyone), they have nothing. And you know that they never will. In fact, the characters aren't really any closer to anything at all; in fact, they end up further than where they started from. It's compelling, and sad, and needs to be seen.
Directed by Mike Nichols; written by Patrick Marber; starring Julia Robers, Jude Law, Natalie Portman, and Clive Owen. Closer is available to rent or own today!
Spanglish - If you could get pneumonia from going from one emotional extreme to another over and over, I would be a phlegmatic mess right now. This movie delighted and surprised me with how good it was. In principle, it is thematically similar to Closer. In execution, it is nothing like it. Yes, it's about infidelity. But it's also about growing up, and having priorities, and being honest, and nurturing sustaining relationships. These characters are heart-breaking in their sincerity. You'll laugh, and then cry, and then laugh, and then cry. And you won't want to throttle the child actors, which is usually a big problem for me. You will ache for the characters who know there is more to life than enjoying the now, and that where children are concerned, there are some risks you cannot afford to take. The maturity will kill you, and then save you in the end. And the luminescence of Paz Vega will almost blind you, and leave you with the distinct feeling that the language barrier has never been more beautiful. James L. Brooks, I salute you for writing such likeable, well-rounded characters.
Directed and written by the funny and talented Mr. James L Brooks; starring Adam Sandler, Tea Leoni, Paz Vega and the sweet and endearing Cloris Leachman. Spanglish is available for your viewing pleasure today!
Crash- If the first 2 deserve the title Film, then this one deserves to be classified as Art. It is nothing short of a masterpiece. While Spanglish takes a look at the clash of cultures between one family, this film broadens the scope and puts several situations under the microscope. I can't even begin to tell you what it all means; the truth is, you owe it to yourself to watch, and to find out what it means to you, personally. I believe that it will mean something to you personally. I believe that it is meaningful, and difficult to watch, and Beautiful with a capital B. If there was something bigger than a capital B, I'd give it that too, because it is truly worthy and touching and wonderful. Paul Haggis is nothing short of brilliant. I hope someday to shake his hand and tell him that to his face. In writing about racism, he has written about humanity. As we delve into intimacies with a range of characters, we come to know ourselves a little bit better. We react. We see that the characters are never as bad as we think, nor as good. No one is 100% anything. We see a little bit of every colour; every race, ethnicity, creed, religion, class. We are presented over and over with Them, They, Them, that by the end, Them is Us, because we are all united; we are all the same in our differences. If none of my other pleas have entreatied you, I hope this one does. Everyone needs to see this film, experience it, own it, possess it, admire it often. Like all great Art, it will get under your skin. You will want to talk about it, and in this aspect it accomplishes its greatest stroke of magnificence: the power of discussion.
Directed and written by Paul Haggis; starring the wise and wonderful Don Cheadle, Sandra Bullock, Matt Dillon, Brendan Fraser, Ryan Phillippe, and the astonishing Micheal Pena, soon to properly famed and acclaimed, among many others. Crash will be released on video next week, September 6th, and should be at the top of your list.
Closer- This movie is not about love. It's not even about lust. It's about infidelity, boredom, dishonesty. It's the itch you can't scratch, and then when you do scratch it, you realize you're scratching the wrong thing, and now you're even itchier. Except, not as lame as that analogy. It's really good, and really frustrating, and really raw. It's painful to watch grownups go through life with so little integrity for themselves, or for others. There is no sense of happiness, or even of calm. It's pathetic to watch, and even more so because it feels so real. It's not that they make the wrong choices, but that they refuse to choose at all. In having everything, anything (every one, anyone), they have nothing. And you know that they never will. In fact, the characters aren't really any closer to anything at all; in fact, they end up further than where they started from. It's compelling, and sad, and needs to be seen.
Directed by Mike Nichols; written by Patrick Marber; starring Julia Robers, Jude Law, Natalie Portman, and Clive Owen. Closer is available to rent or own today!
Spanglish - If you could get pneumonia from going from one emotional extreme to another over and over, I would be a phlegmatic mess right now. This movie delighted and surprised me with how good it was. In principle, it is thematically similar to Closer. In execution, it is nothing like it. Yes, it's about infidelity. But it's also about growing up, and having priorities, and being honest, and nurturing sustaining relationships. These characters are heart-breaking in their sincerity. You'll laugh, and then cry, and then laugh, and then cry. And you won't want to throttle the child actors, which is usually a big problem for me. You will ache for the characters who know there is more to life than enjoying the now, and that where children are concerned, there are some risks you cannot afford to take. The maturity will kill you, and then save you in the end. And the luminescence of Paz Vega will almost blind you, and leave you with the distinct feeling that the language barrier has never been more beautiful. James L. Brooks, I salute you for writing such likeable, well-rounded characters.
Directed and written by the funny and talented Mr. James L Brooks; starring Adam Sandler, Tea Leoni, Paz Vega and the sweet and endearing Cloris Leachman. Spanglish is available for your viewing pleasure today!
Crash- If the first 2 deserve the title Film, then this one deserves to be classified as Art. It is nothing short of a masterpiece. While Spanglish takes a look at the clash of cultures between one family, this film broadens the scope and puts several situations under the microscope. I can't even begin to tell you what it all means; the truth is, you owe it to yourself to watch, and to find out what it means to you, personally. I believe that it will mean something to you personally. I believe that it is meaningful, and difficult to watch, and Beautiful with a capital B. If there was something bigger than a capital B, I'd give it that too, because it is truly worthy and touching and wonderful. Paul Haggis is nothing short of brilliant. I hope someday to shake his hand and tell him that to his face. In writing about racism, he has written about humanity. As we delve into intimacies with a range of characters, we come to know ourselves a little bit better. We react. We see that the characters are never as bad as we think, nor as good. No one is 100% anything. We see a little bit of every colour; every race, ethnicity, creed, religion, class. We are presented over and over with Them, They, Them, that by the end, Them is Us, because we are all united; we are all the same in our differences. If none of my other pleas have entreatied you, I hope this one does. Everyone needs to see this film, experience it, own it, possess it, admire it often. Like all great Art, it will get under your skin. You will want to talk about it, and in this aspect it accomplishes its greatest stroke of magnificence: the power of discussion.
Directed and written by Paul Haggis; starring the wise and wonderful Don Cheadle, Sandra Bullock, Matt Dillon, Brendan Fraser, Ryan Phillippe, and the astonishing Micheal Pena, soon to properly famed and acclaimed, among many others. Crash will be released on video next week, September 6th, and should be at the top of your list.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Friday Fuckfest
This week's fucktard:
Mark Ruffalo. I'm not sure if I spelled that correctly, and I don't care to look it up. My beef with him is that he is boring, just fucking boring as hell, so boring I can't even motivate myself to google him.
He pisses me off with every third-rate movie that he's in because he can't help but be boring old Mark Ruffalo in each and every one of them. The poor guy cannot act to save his life. Look, here's Mark Ruffalo standing beside that annoying chick from Alias. Vomit. And he's only slightly good looking in that 'inoffensive' way that basically means he would be better off being ugly because at least then he'd be interesting.
Now, I might be able to forgive him for being painfully bland....maybe. I mean, I have nothing against him personally, I just hate mediocrity in general. But the thing is, his generic presence is ruining otherwise perfectly good movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The sight of him "dancing" in his tightie whities was embarrassing to me. He was supposed to be high, and yet, he was so stiff and awkward it takes you right out of the scene, and makes you incredibly aware that you are merely watching a white guy pretending he's not hurtling toward being forgotten before he was ever really discovered. Yes, it's that bad. I mean, anyone who can distract me from the retchedness of Kirsten Dunst obviously has some issues. And the only reason I can think of that he continues to be a movie presence (albeit rather slight) is that he comes cheap, which frankly, is not a good reason at all.
Friday's Stupid Conversation:
Inspired by the earlier conversation found shamefully printed word for word, I was ordered to try including other inane conversations in the Friday Fuckfest, and because Julia Said, I'm going to do it. This one sadly took place just this morning...and as you may notice, should hardly even be labeled a conversation....but let's face it: if you've ever been in a relationship for more than 30 seconds, then you know that the things you don't say are often the most important.
Setting the scene: 8 am this morning, in bed
Jamie stirs in bed. She has had a rough night. After heaving for 90 minutes straight (unfortunately, not all of it dry), hot flashes overcame her, and she sat outside in the cool night air until well after 3am trying not to die. She opens one eye, and finds that Jason also has one eye open.
Jamie: Good morning!
Jason: Garumph. In his head, Jason is thinking but not saying: dear god, she cannot be up this early! Fuck fuck fuck! Why did I have to make eye contact?!? Keep calm. Look away. Pretend to fall back asleep immediately.
Beside him, Jamie is sitting up in bed, and stretching.
Jason: with barely concealed panic in his voice, Oh, are you getting up?
Jamie: Yeah, I have to pee. Thinking: hehe, look at the panic in those eyes. I am soooo going to milk this!
For some reason, Jason follows his wife to the bathroom, where she does sit and pee.
Jason: So, um, late night last night, eh? What time did you fall asleep? 3, 4 am?
Jamie: Yeah, something like that. Thinking: Look at that. He's trying to be logical with an irrational woman while she pees! He's so desperate!
When I'm finished, I stand about, hugging on my husband. He looks bewildered.
Jason: So, um, do you think you might try going back to bed?
Jamie: I suppose so.
Jason: Great! He is so relieved his knees actually give out a little, and I have to help him limp back to bed, where is asleep again before his head even hits the pillow.
Not one minute later, I am fiddling with my housecoat again. Jason peaks at me from the corner of his eye.
Jason: Oh, are you getting up again?
Jamie: Yeah, I don't feel well.
Jason sits up. I think he may cry, but he's trying really hard not to.
Jamie: No worries, I'll yell if I need you. Try to get some sleep.
Jason: Oh, well, if you're sure....his puppy dog eyes are pleading with me to be 'sure'.
Jamie: Yes, dear, I am sure. Sleep. But he already is.
Friday's Most Fuckable:
Steve Martin, funny man.
He has this irresistible quality to him, where I would gladly jump his bones, not just because I find him incredibly attractive, but because I'd like to laze around in bed, laughing and enjoying the morning with him afterward.
Mark Ruffalo. I'm not sure if I spelled that correctly, and I don't care to look it up. My beef with him is that he is boring, just fucking boring as hell, so boring I can't even motivate myself to google him.He pisses me off with every third-rate movie that he's in because he can't help but be boring old Mark Ruffalo in each and every one of them. The poor guy cannot act to save his life. Look, here's Mark Ruffalo standing beside that annoying chick from Alias. Vomit. And he's only slightly good looking in that 'inoffensive' way that basically means he would be better off being ugly because at least then he'd be interesting.
Now, I might be able to forgive him for being painfully bland....maybe. I mean, I have nothing against him personally, I just hate mediocrity in general. But the thing is, his generic presence is ruining otherwise perfectly good movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The sight of him "dancing" in his tightie whities was embarrassing to me. He was supposed to be high, and yet, he was so stiff and awkward it takes you right out of the scene, and makes you incredibly aware that you are merely watching a white guy pretending he's not hurtling toward being forgotten before he was ever really discovered. Yes, it's that bad. I mean, anyone who can distract me from the retchedness of Kirsten Dunst obviously has some issues. And the only reason I can think of that he continues to be a movie presence (albeit rather slight) is that he comes cheap, which frankly, is not a good reason at all.
Friday's Stupid Conversation:
Inspired by the earlier conversation found shamefully printed word for word, I was ordered to try including other inane conversations in the Friday Fuckfest, and because Julia Said, I'm going to do it. This one sadly took place just this morning...and as you may notice, should hardly even be labeled a conversation....but let's face it: if you've ever been in a relationship for more than 30 seconds, then you know that the things you don't say are often the most important.
Setting the scene: 8 am this morning, in bed
Jamie stirs in bed. She has had a rough night. After heaving for 90 minutes straight (unfortunately, not all of it dry), hot flashes overcame her, and she sat outside in the cool night air until well after 3am trying not to die. She opens one eye, and finds that Jason also has one eye open.
Jamie: Good morning!
Jason: Garumph. In his head, Jason is thinking but not saying: dear god, she cannot be up this early! Fuck fuck fuck! Why did I have to make eye contact?!? Keep calm. Look away. Pretend to fall back asleep immediately.
Beside him, Jamie is sitting up in bed, and stretching.
Jason: with barely concealed panic in his voice, Oh, are you getting up?
Jamie: Yeah, I have to pee. Thinking: hehe, look at the panic in those eyes. I am soooo going to milk this!
For some reason, Jason follows his wife to the bathroom, where she does sit and pee.
Jason: So, um, late night last night, eh? What time did you fall asleep? 3, 4 am?
Jamie: Yeah, something like that. Thinking: Look at that. He's trying to be logical with an irrational woman while she pees! He's so desperate!
When I'm finished, I stand about, hugging on my husband. He looks bewildered.
Jason: So, um, do you think you might try going back to bed?
Jamie: I suppose so.
Jason: Great! He is so relieved his knees actually give out a little, and I have to help him limp back to bed, where is asleep again before his head even hits the pillow.
Not one minute later, I am fiddling with my housecoat again. Jason peaks at me from the corner of his eye.
Jason: Oh, are you getting up again?
Jamie: Yeah, I don't feel well.
Jason sits up. I think he may cry, but he's trying really hard not to.
Jamie: No worries, I'll yell if I need you. Try to get some sleep.
Jason: Oh, well, if you're sure....his puppy dog eyes are pleading with me to be 'sure'.
Jamie: Yes, dear, I am sure. Sleep. But he already is.
Friday's Most Fuckable:
Steve Martin, funny man.
He has this irresistible quality to him, where I would gladly jump his bones, not just because I find him incredibly attractive, but because I'd like to laze around in bed, laughing and enjoying the morning with him afterward.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Peroxide Dependent
Blame the blonde, or the pills, or Jason, but my mind has really been jumpy lately:
Why do Americans always say they're "having BBQ"? That's pretty much the dumbest thing I have ever heard. If you are having steak on the BBQ, then you are having steak. That goes for whatever else you might be having: shrimp, chicken, salmon, kebabs, etc. Barbecues are merely appliances. We don't have "stove" for supper, or "oven" or "crockpot."
Logic, in my opinion, is taking the easy way out. Notice how the "logical" answer is always the easiest. Logic is clearly for the unimaginative.
It has come to my attention recently that my Friday Fuckfests follow a pattern. Oh my. Looking over them, I see that this is true: tall, dark, handsome. Basically Jason, only with more money. This makes me sadly predictable, and shallow, and superficial. Actually, I'm okay with the superficial part, because that gives me the freedom to also add fat wallets, summer villas in Tuscany and a working knowledge of fine wines on my list of Qualities I'd Like In My Second Husband.
Also, I just remembered what is currently most offending me: The Wishbook is here! What the fuck.
WHAT THE FUCK!
The wishbook...as in, the Sears Christmas Catalogue, has landed on our doorstep. This is August, people!!!!! It's not even 'back to school' yet, and the Christmas catalogue is here? Personally,I threw mine right in the trash. Well, right after I checked it out for all the presents I can't wait to get. And made my list. And checked it twice. A coin purse shaped like a watermelon! Superman undies! A pink parka! New jammies! Oh, who am I kidding? I want presents! Gimme gimme gimme.
Why do Americans always say they're "having BBQ"? That's pretty much the dumbest thing I have ever heard. If you are having steak on the BBQ, then you are having steak. That goes for whatever else you might be having: shrimp, chicken, salmon, kebabs, etc. Barbecues are merely appliances. We don't have "stove" for supper, or "oven" or "crockpot."
Logic, in my opinion, is taking the easy way out. Notice how the "logical" answer is always the easiest. Logic is clearly for the unimaginative.
It has come to my attention recently that my Friday Fuckfests follow a pattern. Oh my. Looking over them, I see that this is true: tall, dark, handsome. Basically Jason, only with more money. This makes me sadly predictable, and shallow, and superficial. Actually, I'm okay with the superficial part, because that gives me the freedom to also add fat wallets, summer villas in Tuscany and a working knowledge of fine wines on my list of Qualities I'd Like In My Second Husband.
Also, I just remembered what is currently most offending me: The Wishbook is here! What the fuck.
WHAT THE FUCK!
The wishbook...as in, the Sears Christmas Catalogue, has landed on our doorstep. This is August, people!!!!! It's not even 'back to school' yet, and the Christmas catalogue is here? Personally,I threw mine right in the trash. Well, right after I checked it out for all the presents I can't wait to get. And made my list. And checked it twice. A coin purse shaped like a watermelon! Superman undies! A pink parka! New jammies! Oh, who am I kidding? I want presents! Gimme gimme gimme.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
I Said I Don't Feel Good!!!
Jason, you have to come home. It's an emergency.
Emergency?
Yes.
Are you bleeding?
No.
Well what kind of emergency are we talking about here? The kind of emergency like you had last week, when you couldn't live without string beans?
No. A real emergency. Today is the worst day of my life.
Oh, hun, I'm sorry. What's wrong?
Everything!
Everything?
Well, yeah. I mean, nothing really. I just don't feel good.
Are you sick?
No. Stop asking me questions! I said I don't feel good!
Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It was rude of me to question you.
Oh fuck, don't be so condescending. I won't like you just because you're being falsely apologetic.
You don't sound all that sick....
I said I wasn't sick! Don't you ever listen?!!?!?!? I just don't feel good.
What part doesn't feel good?
Sobbing: Every part! I'm tired and cranky and headachy and no one is taking care of me.
Oh, poor sweetie.
So come home already.
But hun, I'm at work.
I know you're at work. That's why I called you at work. That's why I'm telling you to come home, because you're at work and you shouldn't be. You need to get your damned priorities in order mister! This is the worst day of my life and somebody needs to be here to get me some damned orange juice. Why are you being so obstinate!?!
Jamie, is it the tiniest bit possible that this is your new meds talking?
No! What?
I just mean that your doctor told us you might be a little more...ah, edgy, than usual. And it sounds like your emergency consists mainly of other side effects from the pills, so I just thought maybe...
Well you thought wrong. Sobbing again: I just thought you would be more understanding. I just thought that someone who loves me would be concerned that I am having the worst day ever and would want to make me feel better, but I guess I was wrong. I guess you don't really love me after all.
Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic? I love you very much, and I don't want -
Oh shut up already. I don't feel well and I don't want to be on the phone right now. If you just want to get a divorce, fine, just leave me alone.
With barely restrained laughter in his voice: Jame, slow down. I'll come home if you really need me to.
Oh no, don't bother yourself. I'd hate to inconvenience you!
You're not inconveniencing me. I'll come home right now if you think it will make you feel better.
No. It won't.
But you said...I mean, didn't you call me because you wanted me to come home?
That was before.
Before what?
Before I knew your true feelings! Now I know that you don't really care about my well being and I don't want you around here, poisoning my environment. Probably you'll just make me feel worse.
Jamie, I do care about you. I promise not to make things worse -
I don't believe you! Sobbing again: all I wanted was for someone to rub my back! Is that so much to ask?!?! This is the worst day ever!
Jamie, I'm sorry you're having such a bad day. I'm on my way home right now. Would it cheer you up at all if I picked up a milkshake on my way?
Tiny voice: chocolate?
Of course chocolate! It's your favourite, isn't it?
Tinier voice: yes...
Great. So I'll stop at the bank, get you a milkshake and be home in a jiffy.
Screaming rage again: The bank!?!? I said this was an emergency! You don't run errands when your wife is having an emergency. What the hell is wrong with you?
Sorry, sorry, my mistake. I just had it in my mind that I had to go to the bank, since you asked me to stop there this morning, and -
Well that was this morning!
Yes, right. Sorry. I'll come right home. No stops.
Fuck you.
What?
I said fuck you.
Yeah, I heard you, but why?
You can't just dangle a milkshake in front of me and then take it away like I'm some kind of child.
Jay, of course I'll still get the milkshake. But that's it, I promise, straight home after that.
Fine.
Fine?
Yes, fine. Only I might be asleep by the time you get here, so if I am, you may as well go back to work. Leave the milkshake in the fridge.
Okay, hun. See you soon.
Emergency?
Yes.
Are you bleeding?
No.
Well what kind of emergency are we talking about here? The kind of emergency like you had last week, when you couldn't live without string beans?
No. A real emergency. Today is the worst day of my life.
Oh, hun, I'm sorry. What's wrong?
Everything!
Everything?
Well, yeah. I mean, nothing really. I just don't feel good.
Are you sick?
No. Stop asking me questions! I said I don't feel good!
Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It was rude of me to question you.
Oh fuck, don't be so condescending. I won't like you just because you're being falsely apologetic.
You don't sound all that sick....
I said I wasn't sick! Don't you ever listen?!!?!?!? I just don't feel good.
What part doesn't feel good?
Sobbing: Every part! I'm tired and cranky and headachy and no one is taking care of me.
Oh, poor sweetie.
So come home already.
But hun, I'm at work.
I know you're at work. That's why I called you at work. That's why I'm telling you to come home, because you're at work and you shouldn't be. You need to get your damned priorities in order mister! This is the worst day of my life and somebody needs to be here to get me some damned orange juice. Why are you being so obstinate!?!
Jamie, is it the tiniest bit possible that this is your new meds talking?
No! What?
I just mean that your doctor told us you might be a little more...ah, edgy, than usual. And it sounds like your emergency consists mainly of other side effects from the pills, so I just thought maybe...
Well you thought wrong. Sobbing again: I just thought you would be more understanding. I just thought that someone who loves me would be concerned that I am having the worst day ever and would want to make me feel better, but I guess I was wrong. I guess you don't really love me after all.
Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic? I love you very much, and I don't want -
Oh shut up already. I don't feel well and I don't want to be on the phone right now. If you just want to get a divorce, fine, just leave me alone.
With barely restrained laughter in his voice: Jame, slow down. I'll come home if you really need me to.
Oh no, don't bother yourself. I'd hate to inconvenience you!
You're not inconveniencing me. I'll come home right now if you think it will make you feel better.
No. It won't.
But you said...I mean, didn't you call me because you wanted me to come home?
That was before.
Before what?
Before I knew your true feelings! Now I know that you don't really care about my well being and I don't want you around here, poisoning my environment. Probably you'll just make me feel worse.
Jamie, I do care about you. I promise not to make things worse -
I don't believe you! Sobbing again: all I wanted was for someone to rub my back! Is that so much to ask?!?! This is the worst day ever!
Jamie, I'm sorry you're having such a bad day. I'm on my way home right now. Would it cheer you up at all if I picked up a milkshake on my way?
Tiny voice: chocolate?
Of course chocolate! It's your favourite, isn't it?
Tinier voice: yes...
Great. So I'll stop at the bank, get you a milkshake and be home in a jiffy.
Screaming rage again: The bank!?!? I said this was an emergency! You don't run errands when your wife is having an emergency. What the hell is wrong with you?
Sorry, sorry, my mistake. I just had it in my mind that I had to go to the bank, since you asked me to stop there this morning, and -
Well that was this morning!
Yes, right. Sorry. I'll come right home. No stops.
Fuck you.
What?
I said fuck you.
Yeah, I heard you, but why?
You can't just dangle a milkshake in front of me and then take it away like I'm some kind of child.
Jay, of course I'll still get the milkshake. But that's it, I promise, straight home after that.
Fine.
Fine?
Yes, fine. Only I might be asleep by the time you get here, so if I am, you may as well go back to work. Leave the milkshake in the fridge.
Okay, hun. See you soon.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
I have never hated Tuesday as much as I hate it today.
I should write. All kinds of potential topics are swirling about in my head, in a mucky whirlpool just waiting to be flushed out onto my blog, including:
1-August is almost over and I can't believe it. And not just in the way that people always say they can't believe it, but in the way that I truly cannot believe it because I barely remember it turning June.
2-The weather was crappy yesterday, so I painted indoors and dripped Royal Purple on the couch. And I can't even flip the cushion, for reasons that I don't care to remind myself.
3-I got this terrible blister on my thumb from mowing the lawn on Sunday. It actually didn't hurt while I was getting it, and only hurt a little once it swelled with fluid but I still used that thumb for raking, whipper-snippering, and sweeping the driveway of my neighbour because I thoughtlessly pointed the mower the wrong way, but then when it popped yesterday, oozing yucky puss everywhere, it suddenly because EXTREMELY SORE. And still is right now.
4-My grandparents got back from their trip to Vancouver B.C. to visit my uncle (their son) and his family, and so I heard the abbreviated summation of events. Which basically means that I tried to understand what the hell my Nanny was talking about. When she tells a story, you have to decipher as you go along, because the words get tangled up in her head. Like for example, when they went to ride the condos up Swizzler's Mountain, by which she of course meant ride gondolas up Whislter Mountain, and so if you're not doing some heavy mental work the entire conversation, you get left behind the dust rather quickly. But generally she leaves you time to catch up, like when she was telling me about the beautiful view out of my uncle's new office, and the room where he makes coffee, and the room where his secretary sits, and the offices for his lawyers - LADY LAWYERS - she corrects herself. Right. And of course, there's the fact that she mixes up names like crazy - mostly she called my uncle by my other uncle's name, and her daughers -in-law were reversed, and she kept calling my cousin Jeremy Jamie, which is me, but she didn't catch herself even though I was right there. This is really my mom's fault for calling me Jamie in the first place, because she named me after my uncle James, whom my Nanny called Jamie up until I was born, at which time he became Jim. Which is confusing for all of us. For years she called my aunt Tammy Pammy. I mean years. And she calls Jason Dave, and calls Dave Kevin, because all the boyfriends get muddled in her head, but it's awfully cute that she tries. But what is there to discourage her? She never knows she's wrong.
5- Betty was interred on Saturday. We didn't go. We didn't go because no one told Jason until Friday night. All of the rest of the family was there; they came in from all around the province. Everyone else knew weeks in advance. We did not know because Jason's dad cannot be bothered to write down our telephone number. We barely found out that his grandmother had died in the first place. Jason's dad is upset at Jason for not magically being able to get the time off. Jason doesn't bother getting upset at his dad, because this is how he is. He was so awful to Jason when Betty died I had to refrain from punching him in the teeth several times.
But actually, I won't write any of that. I have a million words in me today, but no direction. I started new medication. Did I forget to mention that? I started new meds and they're making me crazy because I cannot hold on to a single thought. Side effects: nausea, vomiting, severe headaches, heart palpitations, hot flashes, sheets of cold sweat, feelings of disassociation, agitation, panic attacks, mood swings, irritability. "The first week you'll think you're dying" says my doctor, "but you'll feel much better after that. And if you start to feel like your throat is closing, get to the ER immediately." Meanwhile, I'm making friends with my bathroom floor. I feel like I'm running in a race, and it's vitally important that I win, but everyone else gets to run on pavement while I am running underwater. And we can't tell how many of the side effects I'm really having because I'm generally irritable to begin with. But I did yell awfully loud at the turkey I was roasting yesterday for claiming to be pre-basted, whatever that means. So maybe that's a clue.
1-August is almost over and I can't believe it. And not just in the way that people always say they can't believe it, but in the way that I truly cannot believe it because I barely remember it turning June.
2-The weather was crappy yesterday, so I painted indoors and dripped Royal Purple on the couch. And I can't even flip the cushion, for reasons that I don't care to remind myself.
3-I got this terrible blister on my thumb from mowing the lawn on Sunday. It actually didn't hurt while I was getting it, and only hurt a little once it swelled with fluid but I still used that thumb for raking, whipper-snippering, and sweeping the driveway of my neighbour because I thoughtlessly pointed the mower the wrong way, but then when it popped yesterday, oozing yucky puss everywhere, it suddenly because EXTREMELY SORE. And still is right now.
4-My grandparents got back from their trip to Vancouver B.C. to visit my uncle (their son) and his family, and so I heard the abbreviated summation of events. Which basically means that I tried to understand what the hell my Nanny was talking about. When she tells a story, you have to decipher as you go along, because the words get tangled up in her head. Like for example, when they went to ride the condos up Swizzler's Mountain, by which she of course meant ride gondolas up Whislter Mountain, and so if you're not doing some heavy mental work the entire conversation, you get left behind the dust rather quickly. But generally she leaves you time to catch up, like when she was telling me about the beautiful view out of my uncle's new office, and the room where he makes coffee, and the room where his secretary sits, and the offices for his lawyers - LADY LAWYERS - she corrects herself. Right. And of course, there's the fact that she mixes up names like crazy - mostly she called my uncle by my other uncle's name, and her daughers -in-law were reversed, and she kept calling my cousin Jeremy Jamie, which is me, but she didn't catch herself even though I was right there. This is really my mom's fault for calling me Jamie in the first place, because she named me after my uncle James, whom my Nanny called Jamie up until I was born, at which time he became Jim. Which is confusing for all of us. For years she called my aunt Tammy Pammy. I mean years. And she calls Jason Dave, and calls Dave Kevin, because all the boyfriends get muddled in her head, but it's awfully cute that she tries. But what is there to discourage her? She never knows she's wrong.
5- Betty was interred on Saturday. We didn't go. We didn't go because no one told Jason until Friday night. All of the rest of the family was there; they came in from all around the province. Everyone else knew weeks in advance. We did not know because Jason's dad cannot be bothered to write down our telephone number. We barely found out that his grandmother had died in the first place. Jason's dad is upset at Jason for not magically being able to get the time off. Jason doesn't bother getting upset at his dad, because this is how he is. He was so awful to Jason when Betty died I had to refrain from punching him in the teeth several times.
But actually, I won't write any of that. I have a million words in me today, but no direction. I started new medication. Did I forget to mention that? I started new meds and they're making me crazy because I cannot hold on to a single thought. Side effects: nausea, vomiting, severe headaches, heart palpitations, hot flashes, sheets of cold sweat, feelings of disassociation, agitation, panic attacks, mood swings, irritability. "The first week you'll think you're dying" says my doctor, "but you'll feel much better after that. And if you start to feel like your throat is closing, get to the ER immediately." Meanwhile, I'm making friends with my bathroom floor. I feel like I'm running in a race, and it's vitally important that I win, but everyone else gets to run on pavement while I am running underwater. And we can't tell how many of the side effects I'm really having because I'm generally irritable to begin with. But I did yell awfully loud at the turkey I was roasting yesterday for claiming to be pre-basted, whatever that means. So maybe that's a clue.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Ground Control to Major Tom: Has Anyone Seen Jay?
We accidentally disappeared again. I don't know how we keep getting sucked into the voidy vortex of space, but somehow we manage to disappear for large chunks of time without really meaning to. This weekend, for example, we meant to go camping, or do something productive like catch up on sleep and eat up all the leftovers in the fridge to free up some of the prime pieces of tupperware. But no.
Admittedly, the prime suspect in lost time is my insomnia. I don't think I slept at all this week, although there was this brief time around Tuesday when I believed myself to be Gary Oldman, so you can argue that it was either a vivid dream, or another of my burning delusions. Either way, I was not well rested. Thursday, my system finally crashed. I think I passed out in the driveway again, but Jason located my body eventually, and hauled me in to bed. Or, I assume that's what happened because when I woke up 9 hours later, I wasn't wearing pants and my thighs were covered in hickeys. So let's hope that's what it was.
This brings us to Thursday night. I woke up at about 9pm and was only slightly disoriented. A scalding shower and a few slaps from Jason (in the vein of: what the fuck, woman, soup is not a meal!!) and I was practically conscious, for all intents and purposes. What to do, what to do?
By my calculations, we must have sat and thought about that for approximately 4 hours, because it was 1am before we were in the car with any sort of plan. And bearing in mind that we live in Cornwall, 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning, if you must) does not leave you with a lot of options. So we drove off toward Casselman, a mere 60km in the distance, where Jason remembered spotting a 24-hour grocery store the last time we drove through.
1:42 am - Jason slams on the breaks on the 138. A deer scampers across the road, mere inches from our car. The deer is blissfully unconcerned.
1:51 am - Since our internal clocks are completely askew, we have decided to gather enough food for a feast, to be made and consumed in the wee hours of the morning. We spend a good deal of the car trip selecting a menu from my various recipe boxes. Jason's stomach growls in anticipation.
1:56 am - Enthusiastically enjoying the playlist, I suddenly find my fist bloodied. In a fit of appreciation for the music (playlist: "Fuck Yeah!") I seem to have fuck-yeahed the rearview mirror (ie, punched the hell out of it).
2:09 am - Arrived in Casselman, we discover that the 24-hour grocery store has since turned into a 17 hour grocery store. We're out of luck.
2:10 am - Back on the highway, but not headed toward home. In mere seconds we seem to have scrapped all previous plans, and are now undertaking the remaining 50km toward Ottawa. When pressed later, neither of us will admit to being the one to propose this crazy plan.
3:15 am - We've been walking around downtown Ottawa. I stare down a small rabbit in Major Hill Park. I think I won, fair and square, but I hear he's been talking smack about me ever since.
3:55 am - We scurry back to the car. My bladder is screaming obscenities at me.
4:22 am - We stop at a coffee house for "a milk", proposed by Jason. While I am relieving myself in cramped quarters, Jason orders "a milk" for me, and coffee for himself.
4:40 am - We drop by my mother-in-law's house for a visit. She is completely and understandably bewildered to see us. She gives us a Texas cookbook from the Cracker Barrel (Texas caviar = black eyed peas) from her recent visit to Waco and tells us about how difficult it is to tell if her boyfriend has shingles because his skin is black.
5:20 am - We drive Nancy (mil) to work, which in her case is Curves, one of those fitness centres for women. Jason has the privilege of being the only man to have ever worked his glutes on the machinery. He works out on the "pec dec" to the groovy sounds of the Beach Boys.
6:13 am - Finally the sun has come up. Jason rustles around in the back of the car for a bag, because he "might throw up, but probably I'm just hungry." Frankly, I don't like those odds.
6:30 am - After an excellent parallel park, Jason and I find ourselves at our old haunt, the Moon Dog. The nostalgia factor is high, but the nostalgia factor fails us in the end, because the pub ain't open yet, and won't be for an hour. Since Jason is feeling pukey, but maybe hungry, we decide the priority is for him to eat, so we take off to find a place that serves breakfast NOW.
7:05 am - Driving alongside the Rideau canal, a putrid smell hits us through the rolled-down windows. "Ugh," I complain immediately, "that smells like B.O."........."I was just going to say that!" shouts Jason, looking greener by the minute. We blame the B.O. on all the joggers.
7:22 am - Seated at the Elgin Street Diner we worry about the parking meter. A loonie bought us only 24 minutes. In Cornwall, you can park for a penny per minute. Making change appears to be beyond our waitress's capabilities, so when the meter runs out, our only defense against a ticket is hope. Scanning the breakfast menu, I realize that this is not the Moon Dog. I sweat looking at all the breakfast options that do not please me in the least. Finally, Jason points out the breakfast club for me, which is oddly printed in a non-breakfast section. Every breakfast item seems to come with a side of baked beans. I insist to the waitress that no bean should come into contact with my plate. I pound my fist for gentle emphasis. Still, I worry about beans for 6 minutes straight, until my plate arrives bean-free. Jason, in a mystifying move, does not finish his breakfast. Now I worry about the obvious wedge that has obviously been driven between us. I do not know this man who cannot finish his breafkast.
8:02 am - No ticket!
8:22 am - Stopped at a pedestrian crossing that isn't a pedestrian crossing, but an "elderly crossing." And indeed, the elderly are crossing. One gentleman grabs our attention: tall and impossibly skinny, he is dressed in track pants and a suit jacket, both of which are tailored to cling to his slim contours. His bushy white beard is so huge it seems disproportionate to the rest of his body; makes him look top-heavy. He runs across the crossing although no one is rushing him, and his running reminds me of a top-heavy really old gazelle. Sort of.
9:06 am - We hit a "super super-market" that was still in construction last time we lived in the city. It's a grocery store that also contains everything else under the sun that you could possibly want, including a diamond jewelry counter, an optician centre, a fitness centre, etc, etc. We browse through the aisles of furniture and other home furnishings. Jason tries in vain to distract me from noticing the totally enviable stand-mixers. Dividing the home furnishings from the food are shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, for the whole family. I have to refrain Jason from browsing the food, feeling that this would be indicative of a whole new low for us. The front of the store warns customers that it has a LOAD CAPACITY OF 2500 but we fail to notice any check system in place.
9:45 am - We hit some stores that we are deprived of in Hicktown, ON. I give Jason armfuls of clothes to try on. I let him choose what stuff to buy. When we exit the store with purchases in tow, he proclaims that he has bought all the wrong things, not the stuff he really wanted at all. I feel like an exasperated mother.
10:00 am - We daringly walk into Ikea, which is already teaming with screaming children and mindless drones pushing massive, creaking shopping carts. Somehow, nothing calls our name. The throw-pillow selection is depressing. Not even the wrapping section cheers me up. "Look, Jamie - generic art!" shouts Jason, hoping that this will snap me out of my disappointed trance. It's usually good for a 20 minute rant at least, but today it sparks nothing. I'm dressed for a car trip to Casselman, not an all-day jaunt in Ottawa. My feet hurt in my stupid sandals. I am turning pouty, and only a nice tall drink of Diet Pepsi can retrieve me from this funk.
10:40 am - I despair at the fact that Margaret Atwood is "bargain fiction" in Chapters. We hit our favourite mom-and-pop bookstores instead, and Jason pleads for permission to buy me the millions of books I crave. Denied.
11 :11 am - I exchange the stuff Jason "mistakenly" bought, and come out of the store with triple the original purchase. We squabble about me spending money on him, but not allowing to spend on me, but our hearts aren't in it because Jason is thrilled with his new clothes, and so am I. "You think I look soooooo hot" he tells me. It's true, I do. Still, our inability to fight even little is jolting: we must be tired!
11:20 am - A small trip to Bulk Barn is unavoidable. No such thing exists in Cornwall: bins and bins and bins filled with candy and other consumables, all to be had for cheap. I load up on chocolate covered pretzels since they exist only in this haven these days. I worry that they won't last the ride home.
11:34 am - We gas up the car. It's damn expensive.
12:10 pm - All this driving is starting to get to Jason. He sets the cruise and does a series of stretches in the driver's seat of the car. It's pretty hilarious. Or, I am so tired that almost everything seems like the funniest thing ever. Either way, I hornked.
12:32 pm - We find ourselves discussing the "merits" of freezing to death. We blame this morbid conversation on the slaughterhouse we passed a few kilometres back, which boasted of "custom killing."
Back in Cornwall, we're both bleary eyed. But we set ourselves the objective of staying up until a "decent" hour, which we arbitrarily set at 8pm. We busy ourselves with some errands, a trip to the library which makes us unwitting witnesses to a house fire. Jason is repulsed by several sets of spandex, and wonders why it is that homeless men so often wear suit jackets. At home, we watch a movie and paint some canvasses. Finally, we lie down to read...and within minutes, I realize that 8pm is not realistic. We turn out the lights at 5:30 pm and sleep soundly. I wake up at 7:14 and cannot for the life of me determine whether it is am or pm. I compromise, and just go back to sleep.
And so we were up early this morning of course, with time for some of our usual antics before I saw Jason off to work. And now, even with every minute of the past few days accounted for, I cannot help but ask: where the hell did our weekend go?
Admittedly, the prime suspect in lost time is my insomnia. I don't think I slept at all this week, although there was this brief time around Tuesday when I believed myself to be Gary Oldman, so you can argue that it was either a vivid dream, or another of my burning delusions. Either way, I was not well rested. Thursday, my system finally crashed. I think I passed out in the driveway again, but Jason located my body eventually, and hauled me in to bed. Or, I assume that's what happened because when I woke up 9 hours later, I wasn't wearing pants and my thighs were covered in hickeys. So let's hope that's what it was.
This brings us to Thursday night. I woke up at about 9pm and was only slightly disoriented. A scalding shower and a few slaps from Jason (in the vein of: what the fuck, woman, soup is not a meal!!) and I was practically conscious, for all intents and purposes. What to do, what to do?
By my calculations, we must have sat and thought about that for approximately 4 hours, because it was 1am before we were in the car with any sort of plan. And bearing in mind that we live in Cornwall, 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning, if you must) does not leave you with a lot of options. So we drove off toward Casselman, a mere 60km in the distance, where Jason remembered spotting a 24-hour grocery store the last time we drove through.
1:42 am - Jason slams on the breaks on the 138. A deer scampers across the road, mere inches from our car. The deer is blissfully unconcerned.
1:51 am - Since our internal clocks are completely askew, we have decided to gather enough food for a feast, to be made and consumed in the wee hours of the morning. We spend a good deal of the car trip selecting a menu from my various recipe boxes. Jason's stomach growls in anticipation.
1:56 am - Enthusiastically enjoying the playlist, I suddenly find my fist bloodied. In a fit of appreciation for the music (playlist: "Fuck Yeah!") I seem to have fuck-yeahed the rearview mirror (ie, punched the hell out of it).
2:09 am - Arrived in Casselman, we discover that the 24-hour grocery store has since turned into a 17 hour grocery store. We're out of luck.
2:10 am - Back on the highway, but not headed toward home. In mere seconds we seem to have scrapped all previous plans, and are now undertaking the remaining 50km toward Ottawa. When pressed later, neither of us will admit to being the one to propose this crazy plan.
3:15 am - We've been walking around downtown Ottawa. I stare down a small rabbit in Major Hill Park. I think I won, fair and square, but I hear he's been talking smack about me ever since.
3:55 am - We scurry back to the car. My bladder is screaming obscenities at me.
4:22 am - We stop at a coffee house for "a milk", proposed by Jason. While I am relieving myself in cramped quarters, Jason orders "a milk" for me, and coffee for himself.
4:40 am - We drop by my mother-in-law's house for a visit. She is completely and understandably bewildered to see us. She gives us a Texas cookbook from the Cracker Barrel (Texas caviar = black eyed peas) from her recent visit to Waco and tells us about how difficult it is to tell if her boyfriend has shingles because his skin is black.
5:20 am - We drive Nancy (mil) to work, which in her case is Curves, one of those fitness centres for women. Jason has the privilege of being the only man to have ever worked his glutes on the machinery. He works out on the "pec dec" to the groovy sounds of the Beach Boys.
6:13 am - Finally the sun has come up. Jason rustles around in the back of the car for a bag, because he "might throw up, but probably I'm just hungry." Frankly, I don't like those odds.
6:30 am - After an excellent parallel park, Jason and I find ourselves at our old haunt, the Moon Dog. The nostalgia factor is high, but the nostalgia factor fails us in the end, because the pub ain't open yet, and won't be for an hour. Since Jason is feeling pukey, but maybe hungry, we decide the priority is for him to eat, so we take off to find a place that serves breakfast NOW.
7:05 am - Driving alongside the Rideau canal, a putrid smell hits us through the rolled-down windows. "Ugh," I complain immediately, "that smells like B.O."........."I was just going to say that!" shouts Jason, looking greener by the minute. We blame the B.O. on all the joggers.
7:22 am - Seated at the Elgin Street Diner we worry about the parking meter. A loonie bought us only 24 minutes. In Cornwall, you can park for a penny per minute. Making change appears to be beyond our waitress's capabilities, so when the meter runs out, our only defense against a ticket is hope. Scanning the breakfast menu, I realize that this is not the Moon Dog. I sweat looking at all the breakfast options that do not please me in the least. Finally, Jason points out the breakfast club for me, which is oddly printed in a non-breakfast section. Every breakfast item seems to come with a side of baked beans. I insist to the waitress that no bean should come into contact with my plate. I pound my fist for gentle emphasis. Still, I worry about beans for 6 minutes straight, until my plate arrives bean-free. Jason, in a mystifying move, does not finish his breakfast. Now I worry about the obvious wedge that has obviously been driven between us. I do not know this man who cannot finish his breafkast.
8:02 am - No ticket!
8:22 am - Stopped at a pedestrian crossing that isn't a pedestrian crossing, but an "elderly crossing." And indeed, the elderly are crossing. One gentleman grabs our attention: tall and impossibly skinny, he is dressed in track pants and a suit jacket, both of which are tailored to cling to his slim contours. His bushy white beard is so huge it seems disproportionate to the rest of his body; makes him look top-heavy. He runs across the crossing although no one is rushing him, and his running reminds me of a top-heavy really old gazelle. Sort of.
9:06 am - We hit a "super super-market" that was still in construction last time we lived in the city. It's a grocery store that also contains everything else under the sun that you could possibly want, including a diamond jewelry counter, an optician centre, a fitness centre, etc, etc. We browse through the aisles of furniture and other home furnishings. Jason tries in vain to distract me from noticing the totally enviable stand-mixers. Dividing the home furnishings from the food are shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, for the whole family. I have to refrain Jason from browsing the food, feeling that this would be indicative of a whole new low for us. The front of the store warns customers that it has a LOAD CAPACITY OF 2500 but we fail to notice any check system in place.
9:45 am - We hit some stores that we are deprived of in Hicktown, ON. I give Jason armfuls of clothes to try on. I let him choose what stuff to buy. When we exit the store with purchases in tow, he proclaims that he has bought all the wrong things, not the stuff he really wanted at all. I feel like an exasperated mother.
10:00 am - We daringly walk into Ikea, which is already teaming with screaming children and mindless drones pushing massive, creaking shopping carts. Somehow, nothing calls our name. The throw-pillow selection is depressing. Not even the wrapping section cheers me up. "Look, Jamie - generic art!" shouts Jason, hoping that this will snap me out of my disappointed trance. It's usually good for a 20 minute rant at least, but today it sparks nothing. I'm dressed for a car trip to Casselman, not an all-day jaunt in Ottawa. My feet hurt in my stupid sandals. I am turning pouty, and only a nice tall drink of Diet Pepsi can retrieve me from this funk.
10:40 am - I despair at the fact that Margaret Atwood is "bargain fiction" in Chapters. We hit our favourite mom-and-pop bookstores instead, and Jason pleads for permission to buy me the millions of books I crave. Denied.
11 :11 am - I exchange the stuff Jason "mistakenly" bought, and come out of the store with triple the original purchase. We squabble about me spending money on him, but not allowing to spend on me, but our hearts aren't in it because Jason is thrilled with his new clothes, and so am I. "You think I look soooooo hot" he tells me. It's true, I do. Still, our inability to fight even little is jolting: we must be tired!
11:20 am - A small trip to Bulk Barn is unavoidable. No such thing exists in Cornwall: bins and bins and bins filled with candy and other consumables, all to be had for cheap. I load up on chocolate covered pretzels since they exist only in this haven these days. I worry that they won't last the ride home.
11:34 am - We gas up the car. It's damn expensive.
12:10 pm - All this driving is starting to get to Jason. He sets the cruise and does a series of stretches in the driver's seat of the car. It's pretty hilarious. Or, I am so tired that almost everything seems like the funniest thing ever. Either way, I hornked.
12:32 pm - We find ourselves discussing the "merits" of freezing to death. We blame this morbid conversation on the slaughterhouse we passed a few kilometres back, which boasted of "custom killing."
Back in Cornwall, we're both bleary eyed. But we set ourselves the objective of staying up until a "decent" hour, which we arbitrarily set at 8pm. We busy ourselves with some errands, a trip to the library which makes us unwitting witnesses to a house fire. Jason is repulsed by several sets of spandex, and wonders why it is that homeless men so often wear suit jackets. At home, we watch a movie and paint some canvasses. Finally, we lie down to read...and within minutes, I realize that 8pm is not realistic. We turn out the lights at 5:30 pm and sleep soundly. I wake up at 7:14 and cannot for the life of me determine whether it is am or pm. I compromise, and just go back to sleep.
And so we were up early this morning of course, with time for some of our usual antics before I saw Jason off to work. And now, even with every minute of the past few days accounted for, I cannot help but ask: where the hell did our weekend go?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Growing Up Is Hard To Do
Today I am taking a little stroll down memory lane, which in this case is probably more appropriately termed 'a walk into the bowels of hell', but hey, I'm resilient, you're resilient, we can take it. This little piece of self-indulgence can be credited to Miss 3T herself, who stumbles through life and finds that the third time's the charm. She writes with insight and warmth, sharing the mistakes we all make with such dignity that I can hardly express how proud I am of her strength. She asked: what one event or aspect of your childhood has affected you the most psychologically?
And the answer is....
By the time I was 5 and a half, I had 3 younger sisters. I don't ever remember having a single moment alone with my mother, though I often craved it. The youngest ones always came first, and if I could get a word in of complaint (which was rare), I was told that "you are the oldest, and you should know better."
I ached badly, longing for a mother who was right in front of me the whole time, but always just out of reach. I struggled with this confusion as a kid, and I am at a loss to put it into words even now. I knew I couldn't have her to myself, but I also knew that I never even got a piece of her. Someone else was always holding her hand. Someone else got to help push the grocery cart. Someone else sat beside her at supper. And it's not to say that she was a bad mother, because she wasn't. She did her best as a mother, and as a substitute father. But from a young age, I was acutely aware of not belonging. My sisters formed a trifecta that was always in opposition to me. They vetoed my choice of television shows, restaurants, vacation spots, movie rentals. It was so constant that I didn't really feel outnumbered, I just felt lonely.
I didn't have a bad childhood. I did well in school and had lots of friends. At home, I turned inward. It was easier to sit in a quiet corner of the house reading than to butt heads with the family. But looking back, I just cannot escape this underlying current of separateness that I always felt. When all the hours of a day were spent, there just never seemed enough to get around to me.
Still, it all went rather smoothly until the 4 girls all living in one house started hitting puberty one after the other, all the while our parents were going through one of the worst divorces in history. There was a decisive crack in the foundation of our family, and we all went our separate ways and dealt with it on our own. To keep track of each other, we kept a family log book where we left each other funny messages. We were probably closer than we had been in years through that book. It was easier to pour your thoughts out onto a blank page than it ever was to talk to one another. But that book was also my undoing.
One day, after another bout with my abusive father, I locked myself into the bathroom (the only room in the house where I had any privacy), and I set pen to paper. I penned an angry poem filled with teenage angst and frustration. I wrote until my tears dried and my blood stopped boiling. I left the poem in the log book, where eventually my mother and sisters would come to read it, and leave comments.
When I happened upon the poem a few days later, I found one single comment, left by my mother. It basically said that I should refrain from leaving such "serious" words in the family log book. She made me feel badly for daring to write them. And that was it.
That's still it. That is the one event of my childhood that has had the most profound psychological effect on me. I was crushed at her lack of empathy, her lack of basic understanding of me. I was young, maybe 11 or 12, but already I was winning awards for my writing and starting to think of my words as not just an escape from an unsatisfactory existence, but as a means to an end. Her response crushed me. I would have taken criticism more kindly because even that would have meant acknowledgment.
From that day on, I felt like I hadn't a friend in the family. It was Me against Them. I realize how black and white it sounds, and I know that there must have been a lot of gray in the following years. Certainly we had some good times. I still loved them. But I wasn't part of them. I was separate.
I never felt like my mother didn't love me, but I often felt that her love was more the obligatory kind, like the kind you have for a distant, elderly aunt whom you barely know. Of her 3 younger daughters, she had the clingy one, the cuddly one, and of course, her Baby. That was enough. They kept her busy. I kept myself busy.
My mother and I didn't have a lot to say to each other when I was growing up. In many ways, it was like she was growing up too. She and I would fight over who would take the car out on our date on Friday nights, and then which one of us would get up early Saturday morning to drive the girls to work, or hockey, or a friend's house. She had boyfriends, and I had boyfriends. I didn't like hers, and she didn't like mine. When I told her so, she called me insolent. When she told me so, she forbade me to see them, and grounded me for weeks. We both pretended I didn't sneak out at night. When her boyfriend slept over, we looked the other way. When mine slept over, I became the Bad Daughter.
But I had my eye on the ball: I was moving out. When high school was over, I made sure to pick a long-distance University. I asked for her input, she flatly refused to even look at the brochures. Suddenly, I was made to feel that post-secondary education was just further evidence of my being the Bad Daughter.
I moved out, and on, anyway. She saw me off to university, and on our parting, she pinched my cheek and cried. I sat in my room, void of sisters or mothers, for a long, long time, thinking about what that meant. Why had she cried?
When there was distance between us, there was a growing closeness between us. Eventually, my mother treated me as a contemporary. She talked to me as a friend. She confided in me about her ongoing battles with her ex-husband and my ex-father, and about my sisters as they when through the Terrible Teenage phase too. It was surprising and refreshing to have her back in my life in this capacity, or any capacity, but it didn't last long. In fact, it ended with my marriage.
She didn't like it much when I moved in with Jason. I don't think she cared much for our engagement either, but to her credit, once she accepted it, she launched herself into wedding plans like there was no tomorrow. At times, she seemed genuinely happy for me. I could have sworn it was so. I remember crying myself to sleep for the sheer happiness it brought me to be deep in the bosom of my family.
But once I was married, she backed off. She turned cold. I questioned her, and she told me that she didn't want to "horn in." I quashed her worries, but wondered to myself whether she was being honest. Nothing much had changed; Jason and I had always lived together. She wasn't any more or less of a nuisance post-wedding as pre-. But the chasm grew.
All of my sisters still lived with my mother, and life went on. I had mine, and they had theirs. I thought that given time, they would adjust to having a grown-up family, but to my dismay, they simply counted me out. News from them was sporadic. I heard about them from second and third hand sources. I approached them about it once. I said that I was hurt to be so thoroughly excluded, but I knew that whatever I said, it was pointless. It all goes back to the poem in the book. If I'm upset, I should keep it bottled up. I am not entitled to my own hurts and feelings. The four of them bond together, and have a mob mentality when it comes to outsiders. I am an Outsider.
I suppose it is inevitable to find out that your family is not infallible. Maybe I expected too much. I remember when I was little, my mother used to eschew the cool relationships between the extended family, and it was a point of pride with her that we would never be like that. I guess I believed the hype. But we are like that. If I have a falling out with one of them, I have a falling out with all of them. I will always be a misunderstood poem, AND I'M OKAY.
It is a lucky and rare thing for family and friend to be synonymous. I feel lucky myself, in that my friends have become my family. My husband is my undisputed best friend, and we have an extensive network of friends that now span several cities, and that is where we feel at home.
That one aspect of my childhood has made me who I am today. I am not dependent on family. I choose the people I let into my life. I refuse to repress feelings for fear of the response they'll illicit. My mother has often insisted that if I feel out of place in the family, then I am either jealous, or depressed, or both. I think maybe she's just afraid of what people will think of her family. But you know what? It is my belief, and philosophy in life, that you are poisoned by all the things you keep inside. I don't hold things back. If you were a fly on the wall of my home, your tiny fly ears would ring with all the words exchanged between Jason and I. But I am committed enough in our love to air our differences, and her cares enough to hear me out and take me seriously.
Now I find that whatever relationship I have with my family, I am fine. And better than fine. I am fabulous.
And the answer is....
By the time I was 5 and a half, I had 3 younger sisters. I don't ever remember having a single moment alone with my mother, though I often craved it. The youngest ones always came first, and if I could get a word in of complaint (which was rare), I was told that "you are the oldest, and you should know better."
I ached badly, longing for a mother who was right in front of me the whole time, but always just out of reach. I struggled with this confusion as a kid, and I am at a loss to put it into words even now. I knew I couldn't have her to myself, but I also knew that I never even got a piece of her. Someone else was always holding her hand. Someone else got to help push the grocery cart. Someone else sat beside her at supper. And it's not to say that she was a bad mother, because she wasn't. She did her best as a mother, and as a substitute father. But from a young age, I was acutely aware of not belonging. My sisters formed a trifecta that was always in opposition to me. They vetoed my choice of television shows, restaurants, vacation spots, movie rentals. It was so constant that I didn't really feel outnumbered, I just felt lonely.
I didn't have a bad childhood. I did well in school and had lots of friends. At home, I turned inward. It was easier to sit in a quiet corner of the house reading than to butt heads with the family. But looking back, I just cannot escape this underlying current of separateness that I always felt. When all the hours of a day were spent, there just never seemed enough to get around to me.
Still, it all went rather smoothly until the 4 girls all living in one house started hitting puberty one after the other, all the while our parents were going through one of the worst divorces in history. There was a decisive crack in the foundation of our family, and we all went our separate ways and dealt with it on our own. To keep track of each other, we kept a family log book where we left each other funny messages. We were probably closer than we had been in years through that book. It was easier to pour your thoughts out onto a blank page than it ever was to talk to one another. But that book was also my undoing.
One day, after another bout with my abusive father, I locked myself into the bathroom (the only room in the house where I had any privacy), and I set pen to paper. I penned an angry poem filled with teenage angst and frustration. I wrote until my tears dried and my blood stopped boiling. I left the poem in the log book, where eventually my mother and sisters would come to read it, and leave comments.
When I happened upon the poem a few days later, I found one single comment, left by my mother. It basically said that I should refrain from leaving such "serious" words in the family log book. She made me feel badly for daring to write them. And that was it.
That's still it. That is the one event of my childhood that has had the most profound psychological effect on me. I was crushed at her lack of empathy, her lack of basic understanding of me. I was young, maybe 11 or 12, but already I was winning awards for my writing and starting to think of my words as not just an escape from an unsatisfactory existence, but as a means to an end. Her response crushed me. I would have taken criticism more kindly because even that would have meant acknowledgment.
From that day on, I felt like I hadn't a friend in the family. It was Me against Them. I realize how black and white it sounds, and I know that there must have been a lot of gray in the following years. Certainly we had some good times. I still loved them. But I wasn't part of them. I was separate.
I never felt like my mother didn't love me, but I often felt that her love was more the obligatory kind, like the kind you have for a distant, elderly aunt whom you barely know. Of her 3 younger daughters, she had the clingy one, the cuddly one, and of course, her Baby. That was enough. They kept her busy. I kept myself busy.
My mother and I didn't have a lot to say to each other when I was growing up. In many ways, it was like she was growing up too. She and I would fight over who would take the car out on our date on Friday nights, and then which one of us would get up early Saturday morning to drive the girls to work, or hockey, or a friend's house. She had boyfriends, and I had boyfriends. I didn't like hers, and she didn't like mine. When I told her so, she called me insolent. When she told me so, she forbade me to see them, and grounded me for weeks. We both pretended I didn't sneak out at night. When her boyfriend slept over, we looked the other way. When mine slept over, I became the Bad Daughter.
But I had my eye on the ball: I was moving out. When high school was over, I made sure to pick a long-distance University. I asked for her input, she flatly refused to even look at the brochures. Suddenly, I was made to feel that post-secondary education was just further evidence of my being the Bad Daughter.
I moved out, and on, anyway. She saw me off to university, and on our parting, she pinched my cheek and cried. I sat in my room, void of sisters or mothers, for a long, long time, thinking about what that meant. Why had she cried?
When there was distance between us, there was a growing closeness between us. Eventually, my mother treated me as a contemporary. She talked to me as a friend. She confided in me about her ongoing battles with her ex-husband and my ex-father, and about my sisters as they when through the Terrible Teenage phase too. It was surprising and refreshing to have her back in my life in this capacity, or any capacity, but it didn't last long. In fact, it ended with my marriage.
She didn't like it much when I moved in with Jason. I don't think she cared much for our engagement either, but to her credit, once she accepted it, she launched herself into wedding plans like there was no tomorrow. At times, she seemed genuinely happy for me. I could have sworn it was so. I remember crying myself to sleep for the sheer happiness it brought me to be deep in the bosom of my family.
But once I was married, she backed off. She turned cold. I questioned her, and she told me that she didn't want to "horn in." I quashed her worries, but wondered to myself whether she was being honest. Nothing much had changed; Jason and I had always lived together. She wasn't any more or less of a nuisance post-wedding as pre-. But the chasm grew.
All of my sisters still lived with my mother, and life went on. I had mine, and they had theirs. I thought that given time, they would adjust to having a grown-up family, but to my dismay, they simply counted me out. News from them was sporadic. I heard about them from second and third hand sources. I approached them about it once. I said that I was hurt to be so thoroughly excluded, but I knew that whatever I said, it was pointless. It all goes back to the poem in the book. If I'm upset, I should keep it bottled up. I am not entitled to my own hurts and feelings. The four of them bond together, and have a mob mentality when it comes to outsiders. I am an Outsider.
I suppose it is inevitable to find out that your family is not infallible. Maybe I expected too much. I remember when I was little, my mother used to eschew the cool relationships between the extended family, and it was a point of pride with her that we would never be like that. I guess I believed the hype. But we are like that. If I have a falling out with one of them, I have a falling out with all of them. I will always be a misunderstood poem, AND I'M OKAY.
It is a lucky and rare thing for family and friend to be synonymous. I feel lucky myself, in that my friends have become my family. My husband is my undisputed best friend, and we have an extensive network of friends that now span several cities, and that is where we feel at home.
That one aspect of my childhood has made me who I am today. I am not dependent on family. I choose the people I let into my life. I refuse to repress feelings for fear of the response they'll illicit. My mother has often insisted that if I feel out of place in the family, then I am either jealous, or depressed, or both. I think maybe she's just afraid of what people will think of her family. But you know what? It is my belief, and philosophy in life, that you are poisoned by all the things you keep inside. I don't hold things back. If you were a fly on the wall of my home, your tiny fly ears would ring with all the words exchanged between Jason and I. But I am committed enough in our love to air our differences, and her cares enough to hear me out and take me seriously.
Now I find that whatever relationship I have with my family, I am fine. And better than fine. I am fabulous.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Christine and The String
If you have somehow missed the character that is Christine, here's a refresher: big, hairy, exuberant. Her multiple-diagnosis includes (but is not limited to) autistic tendencies, mental handicaps (emotionally and intellectually, she scores on par of about a 3 year old, despite being over 30) and obsessive-compulsive behaviours. This last disease was never more prominent than with The String.
As mentioned previously, Christine never left the house without her trusty fanny pack. She was particularly proud of it, because tipping the scales at well over 300lbs, it was only due to a recent weight loss to get down to this fighting weight that allowed her to finally squeeze into her already-modified butt-bag. But she always had a back pack on top of the fanny pack for carrying all her actual necessities (necessities for a 30 year old mentally challenged woman: her baton, for all her twirling needs, Oreo crumbs, and a handful of Barbie shoes). So if she had all her important stuff stowed away in the back pack, what could she need the fanny pack for? Why, string of course.
The String was her most prized possession. She took it out on the bus, at the dinner table, basically, everywhere and anywhere, all the time. To my inexperienced eye, it looked actually like several pieces of twine twisted together to form one piece of thin, woolly rope. Christine didn't talk about The String. But it was always there. She would twist it up and then let it untwist, like kids do on tire swings, over and over and over. Then she would dangle it over the surface (table top, bus seat, her lap or mine, when she was in a fix) and scrunch it down until the tip of the string lightly grazed the surface, then she'd jerk it back up, let it hover, and then gently lower it down again. And she watched it, transfixed, as if God himself might somehow appear to her in the string. As far as I know, he never did, but it wasn't for lack of her rapt attention. That string could keep her busy for hours. In fact, it was the only thing in the whole word that could hold her attention for more than 30 seconds.
The string was old and worn from so much use. I began to despair that one day it would just wear away, or worse, she would forget to put it back in the fanny pack for safe keeping and it would be left behind. My mission in life was to keep a sharp eye on The String. Christine, being the manic depressive that she was, would surely produce waterworks of catastrophic proportions if The String ever met its demise. At the very least (and quite selfishly, I admit), I at least hoped it wouldn't happen on my watch. So when Christine and I were out, I'm sure we both looked to be obsessive-compulsive because neither of us could take our eyes off the precious cargo.
I became not only Christine's mentor, but The String's body guard. I took this post quite seriously. Christine, in her lifetime, had already met with such heartache that I knew without really considering it, that I would do anything to prevent her with meeting with more.
Now, I have neglected so far to mention one nifty thing about our girl Christine. You see, Christine had "a gift". The media has made a lot of so-called idiot-savants ever since it was so cleverly illustrated by Rainman. Raymond (Dustin Hoffman) despite (or perhaps because of) autism, is able to do complex mathematical problems. When a boxful of toothpicks fall to the ground, he seemingly instantly calculates how many there are. Obviously, onlookers are dumbfounded. He could count cards at the casino, and yet lacked the ability to dress himself. While this case is of course typical of the hyperbole in Hollywood, it is not uncommon for the mentally challenged to sometimes have a special gift, or one highly developed area of expertise. Christine did not count toothpicks - instead, her head was an infallible calendar. Her mother had supposedly helped Christine learn about keeping a simple count (1, then 2, then 3, then 4) by marking it on a calendar. Somehow, in Christine's mottled brain, this took hold.
The first thing that Christine would do when she meet someone was to ask their birthdate. The second you responded (she always insisted on a year - modesty is unacceptable to the Christines of the world), she would tell you on which day of the week you were born. Many of us do not recall the exact day on which we were born, but no matter what you responded - confirmation, uncertainty, etc - she give a very firm shake of the head. There was no reason to doubt Christine. There was no question. She was always right.
It was uncanny, and there was no limit to this ability. She could regurgitate the date for hundreds of years back. She somehow always accounted for leap years and so forth. It was an amazing thing to see, especially for those of us who knew her and her many diseases. This was Christine's way to shine. We don't know where this knowledge comes from. The knowledge, which is extremely limited (called a splinter skill), is not traceable by modern science. Christine's brain anatomically looks like yours and mine. Her IQ hovers around the 25 point range, which makes her a barely functional human being. And yet, as far as dates and calendars are concerned, she is a savant (savant means learned one in french). Sadly, Christine is not intelligent enough to grasp the concept that her skill is unusual. She knows without understanding. It's hard to accept this trait in the mentally handicapped; often times her mother would have been glad to have traded in this "gift" if only Christine could learn to tie her own shoes, or regulate her food intake. But we don't pick and choose. Christine is who she is.
She swears like a sailor. She can't remember to look both ways before crossing the street. She cannot follow even the simplest directions. She must be constantly supervised. She has the attention span of a flea. And she loves her string.
Once I had been working with Christine for a few months, The String was looking truly pathetic. It was dirty (if you dropped your most prized possession repeatedly on the floor of the bus, it wouldn't look so hot either), it was splayed, and I feared its lifespan was drawing to a close. I literally had heart palpitations thinking about what might happen without The String around to keep Christine company. I thought about setting up a meeting with her support team to discuss the imminent possibilities when one day, out of the blue, Christine granted me the ultimate sign of her respect - I was entrusted with The String.
She handed it over to me gingerly. I remember being quite glad I was wearing mittens that could be washed since The String was beyond grubby. Christine was busy trying on ratty sweatshirts at the local thrift store (Christine believed that Valu Village was the highest end clothing store in the world, and never "shopped" anywhere else), and I waited outside with The String and the fanny pack (gladly - as we know, I could just as easily have been accosted with more nudity). Christine yelled at me through the not-wide-enough-curtain of her dressing room to place The String inside the fanny pack.
I sweated a little at the thought of this important task. I agonized over the possibility of getting it snagged in the zipper, and it being all my fault. I barely managed to muster the courage to break open ye olde fanny pack, but I'm glad I did because I have never before or sense enjoyed such a hearty belly laugh. Inside the fanny pack were dozens of identical pieces of string. It was a plethora of string, an unending supply, a sure source of many more hours of devoted string activities. I was never more relieved and glad than on that dreary afternoon in Valu Village.
Previous Christine found here.
As mentioned previously, Christine never left the house without her trusty fanny pack. She was particularly proud of it, because tipping the scales at well over 300lbs, it was only due to a recent weight loss to get down to this fighting weight that allowed her to finally squeeze into her already-modified butt-bag. But she always had a back pack on top of the fanny pack for carrying all her actual necessities (necessities for a 30 year old mentally challenged woman: her baton, for all her twirling needs, Oreo crumbs, and a handful of Barbie shoes). So if she had all her important stuff stowed away in the back pack, what could she need the fanny pack for? Why, string of course.
The String was her most prized possession. She took it out on the bus, at the dinner table, basically, everywhere and anywhere, all the time. To my inexperienced eye, it looked actually like several pieces of twine twisted together to form one piece of thin, woolly rope. Christine didn't talk about The String. But it was always there. She would twist it up and then let it untwist, like kids do on tire swings, over and over and over. Then she would dangle it over the surface (table top, bus seat, her lap or mine, when she was in a fix) and scrunch it down until the tip of the string lightly grazed the surface, then she'd jerk it back up, let it hover, and then gently lower it down again. And she watched it, transfixed, as if God himself might somehow appear to her in the string. As far as I know, he never did, but it wasn't for lack of her rapt attention. That string could keep her busy for hours. In fact, it was the only thing in the whole word that could hold her attention for more than 30 seconds.
The string was old and worn from so much use. I began to despair that one day it would just wear away, or worse, she would forget to put it back in the fanny pack for safe keeping and it would be left behind. My mission in life was to keep a sharp eye on The String. Christine, being the manic depressive that she was, would surely produce waterworks of catastrophic proportions if The String ever met its demise. At the very least (and quite selfishly, I admit), I at least hoped it wouldn't happen on my watch. So when Christine and I were out, I'm sure we both looked to be obsessive-compulsive because neither of us could take our eyes off the precious cargo.
I became not only Christine's mentor, but The String's body guard. I took this post quite seriously. Christine, in her lifetime, had already met with such heartache that I knew without really considering it, that I would do anything to prevent her with meeting with more.
Now, I have neglected so far to mention one nifty thing about our girl Christine. You see, Christine had "a gift". The media has made a lot of so-called idiot-savants ever since it was so cleverly illustrated by Rainman. Raymond (Dustin Hoffman) despite (or perhaps because of) autism, is able to do complex mathematical problems. When a boxful of toothpicks fall to the ground, he seemingly instantly calculates how many there are. Obviously, onlookers are dumbfounded. He could count cards at the casino, and yet lacked the ability to dress himself. While this case is of course typical of the hyperbole in Hollywood, it is not uncommon for the mentally challenged to sometimes have a special gift, or one highly developed area of expertise. Christine did not count toothpicks - instead, her head was an infallible calendar. Her mother had supposedly helped Christine learn about keeping a simple count (1, then 2, then 3, then 4) by marking it on a calendar. Somehow, in Christine's mottled brain, this took hold.
The first thing that Christine would do when she meet someone was to ask their birthdate. The second you responded (she always insisted on a year - modesty is unacceptable to the Christines of the world), she would tell you on which day of the week you were born. Many of us do not recall the exact day on which we were born, but no matter what you responded - confirmation, uncertainty, etc - she give a very firm shake of the head. There was no reason to doubt Christine. There was no question. She was always right.
It was uncanny, and there was no limit to this ability. She could regurgitate the date for hundreds of years back. She somehow always accounted for leap years and so forth. It was an amazing thing to see, especially for those of us who knew her and her many diseases. This was Christine's way to shine. We don't know where this knowledge comes from. The knowledge, which is extremely limited (called a splinter skill), is not traceable by modern science. Christine's brain anatomically looks like yours and mine. Her IQ hovers around the 25 point range, which makes her a barely functional human being. And yet, as far as dates and calendars are concerned, she is a savant (savant means learned one in french). Sadly, Christine is not intelligent enough to grasp the concept that her skill is unusual. She knows without understanding. It's hard to accept this trait in the mentally handicapped; often times her mother would have been glad to have traded in this "gift" if only Christine could learn to tie her own shoes, or regulate her food intake. But we don't pick and choose. Christine is who she is.
She swears like a sailor. She can't remember to look both ways before crossing the street. She cannot follow even the simplest directions. She must be constantly supervised. She has the attention span of a flea. And she loves her string.
Once I had been working with Christine for a few months, The String was looking truly pathetic. It was dirty (if you dropped your most prized possession repeatedly on the floor of the bus, it wouldn't look so hot either), it was splayed, and I feared its lifespan was drawing to a close. I literally had heart palpitations thinking about what might happen without The String around to keep Christine company. I thought about setting up a meeting with her support team to discuss the imminent possibilities when one day, out of the blue, Christine granted me the ultimate sign of her respect - I was entrusted with The String.
She handed it over to me gingerly. I remember being quite glad I was wearing mittens that could be washed since The String was beyond grubby. Christine was busy trying on ratty sweatshirts at the local thrift store (Christine believed that Valu Village was the highest end clothing store in the world, and never "shopped" anywhere else), and I waited outside with The String and the fanny pack (gladly - as we know, I could just as easily have been accosted with more nudity). Christine yelled at me through the not-wide-enough-curtain of her dressing room to place The String inside the fanny pack.
I sweated a little at the thought of this important task. I agonized over the possibility of getting it snagged in the zipper, and it being all my fault. I barely managed to muster the courage to break open ye olde fanny pack, but I'm glad I did because I have never before or sense enjoyed such a hearty belly laugh. Inside the fanny pack were dozens of identical pieces of string. It was a plethora of string, an unending supply, a sure source of many more hours of devoted string activities. I was never more relieved and glad than on that dreary afternoon in Valu Village.
Previous Christine found here.
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