Who at Hunt Insurance Wants a New Asshole?

So, our auto insurance just went up, like 230% unexpectedly.

I am ripping.

In fact, I am way more than that.

A prize to whomever can best define my anger.

I am a selfish bitch.

Sometimes, I tell Jason he can pick the movie/restaurant/sexual position. "Your choice" I tell him, as if I am a nice and generous person.

His face clouds over. He knows I am neither nice, nor generous. He declines my offer. "No, no, your pick," he'll insist, but I am steadfast. I make him pick.

And so he does.

And if he picks wrong, as in, picks anything other than what I was secretly hoping he'd pick all along, I will pout.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Can't sleep. Need sleep. When will I sleep? Please let me sleep. Can't live without sleep. Not sleeping makes me crazy. Cranky. Sleepy.

Can't sleep. Haven't slept all week. Cheese in bra still a mystery. Workin hard. So hard I can't even put the g in 'ing'. My poor archless feet groan in protest: the blisters have blisters. So many meetings, so many limp handshakes. Bought some red dishes. Too trendy? I like em. Also too busy to put the 'th' in 'them'. Considering red stemware - but how much red is too much red? Agonized over this problem so long I considered calling mother-in-law for a second opinion. But didn't. Saw Santa at the mall. And Frosty. And the Grinch. And SnowWhite. Since when is SnowWhite part of Santa's entourage? Got a courtesy invite from upstairs neighbours. Had to explain concept to Jason: no, dear, they don't really want us to go, they just don't want us to complain about the noise. And yet, 8 straight hours of loud Hindi music made us want to complain anyway. But we didn't. My blisters were oozing and I couldn't manage the stairs. First snowfall mercifully melted the next day. Car died, had to get a jump. Stayed up all night reading The Secret Life of Bees. Stayed up all the next night reading Atonement. Don't even remember reading Heart of the Matter. Bought some new lingerie. Receipt literally reads "Panties! Panties! Panties!" but this failed to cheer me up when the sleepy duckies became far too intimate with me on our first date. Missed the Christmas parade. Sad. But mostly tired. Oh sooo tired.....

Q: How do you know if you partied way too hard for a Monday night?

A: You find cheese in your bra the next morning.

Friday Fuckfest, Foo Style

Mmm mmm, Sweet Davey Grohl:



It wasn't just my eye he caught when he went from being the drummer in Nirvana to founder/guitarist/singer/songwriter of the Foo Fighters; pretty soon, the whole world was watching.

This year, the band celebrated its 10th anniversary (boy does that make me feel old) with the release of a two-disc album that is probably their best to date that highlights Dave's unique talent of writing songs that are equally relevant as hard-hitting rock songs and quiet-but-intense acoustic ones.



Dave Grohl gets my vote for this week's Most Fuckable, not just for his impressive breadth of talent, not just for his tattoos (which make me moist), not just for being a brown-eyed boy, but also for never taking himself too seriously. If you've seen any Foo videos, you know what I mean.

And, as luck would have it, this week they're playing Saturday Night Live, so be sure to tune in. And if they happen to play their recent single D.O.A., we'll all know it's meant for me. If that's not exciting enough, the show is hosted this week by none other than a veteran of the Friday Fuckfest, the delectable Jason Lee!

Fucktwat of the Week:



Yeah, yeah, I know, it's almost too easy to pick on Courtney Love. I mean, she's a train wreck teetering around on 2 pasty-white legs. But come on, isn't that half the fun of the Friday Fuckfest? I think so.

Also, being the arch nemesis of Dave Grohl, she falls into the role a little too well. You may remember that way back in the day, she was married to Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain. In fact, the song Heart Shaped Box was written for her:

Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel's Hair and baby's breath
Broken Hymen of your highness I'm left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back

Now, if you're thinking that those lyrics don't sound like the typical love song written for a beloved wife, ding ding ding, you're right on target. When Kurt Cobain committed suicide, he was in the process of divorcing Courtney. Now, as the ex-wife of a dead bandmate, she seems to think she should have control over the Nirvana songs, as opposed to say, oh, Dave Grohl, who was actually part of it. Tale as old as time, eh? Courtney is just a bleached blonde Yoko who knows the court system a little too well.

She's been in, and out, and in, and out, and in, in, in, because she just can't keep her nose out of the blow. Her husband killed himself, her bandmates (Hole) gave up a multi-million dollar career in music just to get away from her, and her daughter has been taken away. Besides the cocaine, she also has a hard time not assaulting people, including her fans. So, after Hole broke up, she released a solo album, and nobody cared. Ever since, she has stretcher out her 15 minutes of fame with a sure-fire 3-step process:

1. Have extensive plastic surgery:





Maybe it's just me, but if you go around saying you're addicted to plastic surgery, shouldn't your face not scare children anymore?

2. Flash your boobies:



I mean, they're not even nice for crying out loud!

3. Get arrested. A lot.



So, who wants to cleanse the palette with a little Bea Arthur after all of that nastiness?

Sheep Go To Heaven, Goats Go To Hell

Reasons why it's likely I will burn in hell:

1. Just yesterday I claimed that I was God. A tarot card reading then confirmed it.

2. I get annoyed by Jason's sneezes. I realize a more traditional response would be sympathy, or at least concern, but honestly, every time he starts sneezing, it grates on my nerves.

3. I covet Harry Potter. Even though he's like, 12. He's totally gonna be a hottie.



4. I don't wear my wedding rings when I go out with the girls. Actually, I don't wear them, period.

5. I routinely judge people on: what fruit they eat, where they get their hair cut, what books they have (and have not) read, and whether their pants are hemmed at the right place.

6. I don't apologize. In fact, I am adamant that I have never been wrong.

7. I get paid to lie professionally. I enjoy it.

8. Eavesdropping is one of my favourite hobbies.

9. I've practiced magic. In fact, I took a whole class where magic was referred to as a religion; I made my own candles in order to cast spells. I've been to a fortune teller. I've read palms. All of which is referred to as "prostitution against God" in the bible, which I refuse to capitalize, and have routinely critiqued.

10. The last time I was in the vicinity of a church, my elbow spontaneously combusted.

11. Of all the delicious, indulgent sex that I have ever had, none of it has ever been for procreation.



12. I am prideful and arrogant. Mostly arrogant, but for a good reason: I'm just plain better than everyone.

13. I once made a pact with the devil, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

14. I am a glutton. I drink 3 bottles of wine when technically I'm "drunk enough" after the first 1 1/2.



15. I'm greedy as hell. I take up all the bed, and the last Oreo, and Jason's favourite hoodie.

16. I routinely pray to a Troll doll. I believe it makes me a better bowler.



17. I believe that Sunday mornings are for sleeping in, Sunday afternoons are for sex, and Sunday nights are for poker.

18. I covet my neighbour's house. I mean, dude, he has a pool AND pink shutters. Life is SO not fair.

19. Sometimes I don't wear undies.

20. I want it all, but I don't want to work for it. I believe in delegating and profiting from the hard work of others. I live for sloth. I roll in it.

First Impressions

To commemorate the 1-month anniversary of our move, I have compiled a list of observations made living in a new place where we know absolutely no one:

1. On Thanksgiving Day, we found it funny to find that one mall in all of Canada remained open, that being The Pacific Mall. If you are unfamiliar with the Pacific Mall, all you need to know is that it's "the largest Chinese indoor mall in all of North America" - and they're not kidding. The mall contains no known brands - no Gap, no Toys R Us, no Body Shop. But there are over 400 stores, each of them more like cubicles than actual retail spaces. Many sell only a few products, and can fit only a couple of people at a time. And though it was almost 9 on Thanksgiving (Monday) night, the place was hopping. In fact, we had to wait a very long time to make a right turn into the place, during which time Jason played "count the Toyotas" but then got bored when he realized it wasn't much of a challenge - they're all Toyotas. There were a few different kareoke bars, lots of unfamiliar spices, and an awful lot of stores selling DVDs of movies I'm pretty sure are still in theatres (if you're not Asian, you can only purchase these if you're accompanied by an Asian friend...otherwise, expect to purchase a blank CD). Anyway, we were packed like sardines on an escalator, which is a big no-no for me, but we were unable to find stairs, when Jason remarked "Do you realize you are the only blonde in this entire building?" That was eerie, but not so eerie as when we realized that Jason had to duck in order not to whack his head on the light fixtures which, though lovely, were hung so low that anyone over 6' could not safely pass below them.

2. Our first weekend here was Jason's birthday. I made him chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. In doing so, I managed to set off the smoke detector. Luckily, it was 11:30am, so I don't think I woke anyone out of their beds, but I felt guilty that this was what I, the new girl, would now be known for. Setting of the fire alarm is particularly bad because:
a) When ours goes off, everyone's goes off.
b) Our apartment has no less than 4 sprinklers built in (keep in mind, it's a pretty small space). No one has told me just how sensitive these sprinklers are, and I really don't want to learn the hard way.
Anyhoo, I continued to feel embarrassed about this incident for about 3 days, until someone else set all the alarms off. We were still asleep that morning, and in our only half-awakened state, we immediately began opening our windows and fanning the air...for quite some time until we realized that this made no sense whatsoever. And a week after that, someone set them off at 12:30 at night. So we've been here a month, and we average 1 alarm per week, only one of which was caused by me. Phew.

3. We soon learned that we lived in "Phase 1" of a new composting endeavour - every week the city picks up our recycling and composting, but only picks up trash every two weeks, and even then, we're only allowed 1 bag of trash. At first I thought this was just a crazy Markham thing, but have since discovered that it doesn't encompass all of Markham at this time, but it does seep down past Steeles, so I have no idea who all is included in this exclusive Phase 1, but I think it's safe to call us all the "guinea pigs." Not that I mind. I am rather fond of the effort, and Jason and I are not great trash producers to begin with. Plus, knowing that they currently transport 50 000 tonnes of trash down to Michigan every year, I can kind of see where they're coming from. However, when the landlord was explaining the green bin program, I was greatly unsettled every time she'd list the compostables: tissues, food waste, nail clippings. But each time she came upon nail clippings, she'd look at me and lick her lips. I mean, you'd be frightened too, right? Anyway, these green bins come with their very own instructional DVDs, which claim the bins are rodent proof. No word on whether they're landlord-proof though, so we secure ours with bungee cord. Just in case.

4. The neighbours around here have complex names, at least to me. Guess how long it took me to learn those names? Actually, I still would not know them had I not finally seen them in print. I was beginning to think that these would be nodding-neighbours only. The best Jason could do was recall with some vagueness that "the girl name sounds like a car." Generally speaking, Jamie and Jason are not hard names for North American tongues, but we do wonder whether they struggled as much with ours as we did with theirs. Jason has also informed me that we probably smell like kraft dinner to them. Neither of us can remember the last time we ate that crap, but apparently this is our lot in life. You see, this particular area is known as one of the few places in North America where white people are the minority. Being from Ottawa, I am used to French and English. Here, there is no French at all, and few signs in English. There's a whole lot of Cantonese though, which made looking for stamps wayyyyy more of an adventure than it's ever been before!

5. As you know, I love to go on looong walks. However, out of the last 20 walks, I've gotten lost a good 19. There was one time I didn't get lost, but that's primarily because it started raining before I reached the end of my street, and I had to turn back. Luckily, the bread crumbs hadn't washed away yet. But every other time, I get lost. Not hopelessly, hug-a-tree lost, but just the kind of lost where I don't know where I am. I try to keep Steeles and McCowan as reference points, but if I get onto a street that loops, boy am I in trouble! My inner ear prevents me from knowing my North, South, East, or West. Especially west. That one's a real bugger. Getting mildly lost is one thing, but I've also gotten in the habit of walking right by my house, unnoticed. You see, I live in a large neighbourhood full of cookie-cutter houses. Every single one of them looks the same, and there are thousands of them! Once, I was strolling along happily, when I noticed that someone had the same ugly trash bin that we do. And then I noticed that our address was printed on the side of it. In my handwriting, with my Sharpie. And then I noticed that it was indeed my house that I was standing in front of. I felt like an idiot. I am an idiot.

6. As mentioned above, Jason and I are in the minority here. I thought I had encountered pretty much every accent there is, when I worked with tourists for the government. Boy was I wrong. I have this one acquaintance, Ricardo, who I somehow manage to bump into on a regular basis. He's a talker, and I'm a talker, but lord almighty, I have no idea what that man is saying.
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Pardon me?
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Um, what?
Ricardo: Wha wha wha
Jamie: Oh. 5 o'clock.
Seriously. I have this 2-whats-rule, and if I can't decode it by then, I just throw out an answer, and hope it applies. In all probability, this is what our conversations consist of:
Ricardo: Can you believe this weather we're having?
Jamie: What?
Ricardo: This weather. It's so warm, can you believe it?
Jamie: What?
Ricardo: This weather!
Jamie: Oh. 5 o'clock.

Any suggestions?

Toronto Public Library, Unite!

When moving to a new city, my first real concern is: where is the library? Is it lame?

Of course, the answer to these questions vary by location. For example, the downtown location in Ottawa on Metcalfe is awesome. The Gloucester version sucks: they had no Nabokov. None whatsoever. What kind of library is that?

The Cornwall library is actually pretty good for Cornwall (of course, it's consolidated, so there's only one branch). Still, they had all of 1 work of Stephen Leacock's. You know, Stephen Leacock, Canadian comedic genius and author extraordinaire? How can any Canadian city library have only one volume of his work for all of its 50 000 residents to share? This my friends, is a tragedy of libraric proportions.

Now, at the time of my move I was in the middle of reading The Brothers Karamazov, which was as good as I had anticipated, having very much enjoyed The Idiot, even though I still believe that all the great authors of yesteryear, Dostoevsky included, would have greatly benefited from an editor. But I didn't quite finish it, and I had to send it down the chute before I left town.

For the past month, I have relied on the stockpile of store-bought books I gathered up before the move. However, the pile was running low. Finally, during the last half of A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man, I began to sweat (and not just because I hate the Joyce). The last time I didn't have a book on the go was May 2001, and it didn't go well. Those 3 days were the worst days of my life; days I cared not to repeat.

But when I went through the awful process of sifting through Toronto's 99 branches to find the one closest to me, I made a disheartening discovery: my "local" branch not only keeps inconvenient hours and operates only 5 days a week, is actually closed for carpet cleaning for the next 3 weeks. Not good.

So we decided to try the Markham Public Library instead, so off we went to the closest branch, following signs marked 'library', into a building named 'library' and through a door labeled 'library', where we found...well, NOT a library. Just a room full of people, and not one book in sight. How did that happen?

Well, obviously we must have walked into a bus driver's symposium because the people were as friendly and helpful as all get-out (please note: extreme sarcasm was used during the making of the preceding sentence. I have found the bus drivers in this city to be extremely rude. In fact, rude does not quite cover the feelings I have toward them.)

Anyway, we finally tracked down a library that really was a library. And I finally got a copy of the Dostoevsky. And I finally remembered where I was at in the story when I left off (book 9, chapter 6). So all is well, except for one small thing: how will I ever remember where to return it?

Today I Love This Country

Well, I love this country on a pretty regular basis, BUT.

Only in Canada will you find the Prime Minister doing a cameo role on a silly little sitcom like Corner Gas.

Good for Paul Martin.

I'm already a bleeding heart for life, but I'd say his 30 second spot probably did more to up his likeability factor than all the million dollar ad campaigns he's launched combined. Maybe you're not such a snob after all, Paulie.

Today I Hate This City

Fuck Toronto.

Well, mostly the people.

Well, mostly the bus drivers.

Well, mostly this one guy who touched me inappropriately and called me sweet heart.
Not cool.
TTC, be prepared to feel my wrath.

What do you get when you cross the Friday Fuckfest with Ask Jamie?

Jamie's Lusty Guide to Better Sex: answering all the burning sex questions you asked, and some you didn't.

Note: there IS a difference between burning sex questions, and sex questions about burning. In the case of the latter, see a doctor.

Junebugg has the distinguished honour of getting us started today. She's the "heavy petting" portion of today's post, if you will. She asked: At what age are you too old for sex?

I'll be the first to admit that everything I know about senior citizens and sex, I learned from the Golden Girls.

Meow!!

Now, I know that traditionally, Blanche was the sexy one, but personally, it's Rose that always did it for me. I mean, there's just something about a dumb blonde. Am I right? And there are some definite advantages to doing it with an older chick:

a) You can't knock her up.
b) No more worrying about "that time of the month."
c) Every night can be a one-night stand when senility is a factor.
d) They're pretty easy - at their age, the pool of available men has shrunk, so even ugly dudes have a pretty good chance of scoring.

Of course, nowadays the Golden Girls would hardly be considered old. 60 is not old. 60 is still kicking. The Gilmore Girls are the new Golden Girls.



So at what age are you actually TOO OLD for sex?

Well, that depends.

For women, never.

For men, about 4 minutes after death. Not counting rigor mortis.





However, there are some things that should come with mandatory age limits:

1. body glitter
2. hooker boots
3. speedos (although frankly, these should be shunned by even young hard-bodies)


So there you have it: have sex until you die. Be proud of your graying pubes. Embrace your wrinkled but experienced body. Sex will keep you young at heart.

*******************************************

Next up: Becky Bumblefuck asks: With the advent of low-rise pants, ass-crack for girls is the newest phenomenon. Is this good? (Compare and contrast to the widely accepted bad-view on boy ass-crack). For bonus credit, include photos.

Ass crack is bad. All ass crack is bad.

Note to Avril Lavigne: your ass crack is particularly offensive to me. Nothing will get you slapped with my much-feared Fucktwat stamp like a generous dose of your chubby little ass crack.

As I was saying: butt crack is bad, in all shapes and forms. Even if your ass crack is the most (or only) impressive cleavage that you have, keep it covered. You may think you have a cute ass. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But all ass crack reminds us of the original crack. Every crack may as well be this one:

Way not cool. Fortunately, there's a new and innovative product on the market to help combat this unappetizing phenomenon. It helps keep pants where they belong. It's called a belt. Maybe you've heard of it? Get one. Wear it. Keep your pooper to yourself. Case closed.

*******************************************

Shane asks the bravest question of all: For you, what is 'in love'?

The fact is, I'm really not into the lovey dovey stuff. Jason and I started out as just 2 kids who liked to screw. Now, years into the marriage, we're still just 2 kids who like to screw. The only difference is, now I will very occasionally consent to cuddle for a couple of minutes afterward. And that, for me, is in love.



*******************************************

Finally, demented Jorge poses this awkward question, that is probably none of his business, but far be it from me to turn anyone away: If I was to depart on an airplane leaving Toronto for London, and a friend was leaving Mexico City to Tokyo on a slightly faster airplane, what would be the acceptable age to remain a virgin until provided that I was a single Chinese amish woman?

Now, I don't have a lot of experience with any of those components, so I gathered round a smattering of my Chamish (chinese-amish) girlfriends, and took a random sampling of their opinion. Popular (unanimous, in fact) consensus was that virginity should be preserved until marriage.

However, I could not help but sense a palpable surge of sexual energy in the room. Prim and proper on the outside, I believe that these girls are real tigers underneath the bonnet and long skirts. Now, I'm not saying that all amish women are closet sex fiends. All I'm saying is this: where I come from, if a power outage lasts more than 2 hours, there will be a marked baby boom 9 months later. Amish people live with no electricity at all. They don't watch TV. They don't gamble. They don't bake special brownies. They're not even allowed to paint each other's toenails. So....it wouldn't surprise me if they found some other way to entertain themselves. So Jorge, in the unlikely event that you woke up this morning a Chamish woman, keep this in mind: it's always the quiet ones.

Sex is Damn Funny

The incident: So, Sunday morning we were having a little sumfin sumfin that turned out to be a memorably funny episode. I managed to contain myself for only a few seconds, and then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Jason collapsed soon after, pinning me face-down between him and the mattress. With every giggle I risked aspirating more mattress, but it was impossible to stop.

And then we had "one of those days":

Scene 1: the grocery store
Context: sale on Pepsi; limit 12 per customer

Jason is quickly burrowing into the cart, trying to make room for the 12 2L bottles of Pepsi that are impossible to pass up. He hears an indistinct thud, but keeps on task clearing space. When he turns around, he finds his wife with a pained look on her face. Her right leg is buried knee-high under Pepsi.

Jamie: Didn't you hear the bang?
Jason: I heard a bang, but I didn't imagine that it was you!
Jamie: I'm ALWAYS involved when there's banging!

Of course we dissolved into laughter all over again at that. A fellow shopper not only shot me a very dirty look, but she actually placed her hands over her daughter's ears. Sheesh. Now my foot is bruised and throbbing, and I can't help but remember how look it took to heal from an eerily similar Perrier episode earlier this summer.


Scene 2: our bathroom
Context: mounting a rack on the back of the door for towels and such

Jamie: I hate screwing! I'm so sore from screwing I'll never screw again.
Jason: (on the phone, unbeknownst to Jamie), Um, yes Mom, that's Jay...she says hi.

For some reason, Jason has a real knack for calling people right before I say something very incriminating.


Scene 3: a little store that sells old records, movies, etc
Context: Jason has just flipped to a DVD he thinks I'll get a kick out of, The Pickle

The Pickle just makes me frown. It reminds me of a month ago, when we were in this new city looking to rent a new apartment, and we drove by a mall that mysteriously advertised The Pickle Barrel. For the next week, I dreamed of the barrels filled with pickles, dreamed even of sample pickles on sticks, adored this little pickle store...until we actually moved, and to my chagrin, discovered that The Pickle Barrel was just a restaurant and nothing special at all.

Jamie: I'm not impressed, considering the recent episode I had with a disappointing pickle.

Ohmigod, how did that one even come out of my mouth? We laughed so hard I'm surprised we weren't kicked out.

Scene D: Yorkdale
Context: aggressive salesman darts out of nowhere with sample moisturizer

Jamie: (emphatically) No thanks.
Jason: Oof. Shut down.
Jamie: Well you know I don't like it when random men squirt their stuff on me.

...

Waxing Philosophical

I hate cleaning. I really hate cleaning. I consider this to be one of life's great ironies because I really hate when things are dirty. This presents a problem for me, because I often find that I spend 5, sometimes 6 hours in quiet contemplation of whether I will hate it more to get off my duff to clean, or to sit in filth a moment longer. Luckily, somewhere in that 5th hour, my old friend laziness will visit and make the decision for me.

Friday Fuckfest - Its Triumphant Return

"Objectifying Men Since Earlier This Year"


Fucktard of the Week:

Martin Campbell

Not familiar with the name? Yeah, me neither; I had to look it up. This just goes to show you how cheesed off I am at him - I am allergic to looking things up. But since this man is chiefly responsible for the downfall of the James Bond franchise, I do deem him this dubious honour.

That's right, Martin Campbell is the fucker who cast Daniel Craig as the new James Bond. Let me go on record to say that it was a HUGE mistake to replace Pierce Brosnan in the first place. That man is smooth, debonair, and capable of removing panties with just a cock of his sexy eyebrow - everything a 007 should be. Now, I have nothing against this Daniel Craig guy in general, he's not even on my radar. But a Bond he is not. Who is this guy? A brief overview of his history reveals much blandness: it includes forgettable small movie roles, and embarrassingly, quite a few made-for-TV ones. The guy leaves me cold and bored. James Bond should make you tingle. James Bond should make you either want to be him, or be with him. This guy just makes me yawn.



James Bond? The James Bond? He looks to me more suited to play 'guy in street #3'. Bleh. I am so underwhelmed by this choice that I fell asleep 3 sentences ago. There's no mysterious air. There's no mischievousness, no sense of danger, no boyish charm.

Original: Bond. James Bond.
Daniel Craig: James Bond. But you can call me Jim.

Original: Shaken, not stirred.
Daniel Craig: Do you have iced tea?

Original: No more foreplay.
Daniel Craig: Just hold me.

Well, I think you catch my drift. Maybe Daniel Craig is an okay guy. Maybe he loves puppies and helps little old ladies cross busy intersections and conserves water. But I still think he is the worst thing to ever happen to the James Bond franchise.

The thing that really breaks my heart is knowing how close it came to anyone else. Any-fucking-one else.

They passed on Ewan McGregor reportedly because he's too short. What a load of crap. Ewan would have made a much better Bond - he's devilish and cocksure. Too short? There is one lousy inch difference between Ewan and Daniel, and if they succeed in casting Angelina Jolie as the new Bond Girl, they'd both be screwed anyway.



Hugh Jackman was rejected for being too sensitive and penetrating. James Bond, apparently, is not a thinker. This is true enough, but at least Hugh has a certain level of suaveness that is sadly lacking in Daniel.



Colin Farrell was deemed to be too sleazy, and who can argue with that? James Bond is NOT a womanizer, he's a ladies' man, and yes, there is a BIG difference. He's a lovah baby, and when he leaves the next morning, at least he doesn't leave behind disease. But at least Colin looks like he could successfully bed a woman; Daniel looks like the kind of guy who has clammy hands just thinking about the goodnight kiss.




Eric Bana (the dude from Hulk) was dismissed as "not handsome enough". Ouch. Apparently the producers conducted Daniel's auditions over the phone because no such parallels were drawn.



This week, 2 very special mini fuck-yous go out to both Ian and Jorge, who earn the distinction for having led me to believe that a relatively safe choice was being made: Mr. Clive Owen. Now this guy was a great choice. This guy gives me that achy feeling that my loins deserve for sitting through another James Bond movie. He's dark and brooding and enigmatic. This guy makes me believe that there may be life after Pierce. This is a Bond I could get behind...and better yet, I'd like to get under him. Ian, Jorge, you let me down! Whatever happened to Clive?



Of course, I still say that Quentin Tarantino had it right (and frankly, how many times in my life will I ever say that?): he wanted to direct the new movie, Casino Royale, and he backed Pierce to continue in Bond's shoes. I have to admit, that is a movie I would have paid my $12 to see. I think Tarantino would have breathed some new life into a franchise that has suffered from poor writing and lack of imagination of late, while keeping Brosnan, who really epitomizes the Bond role. Best of both worlds, if you ask me.

Unfortunatly, no one did. Craig it is.
Sorry folks.


Most Fuckable of the Week:

I didn't have to look far for this week's inspiration, because this is the guy who made James Bond into the bankable stud he is today: the venerable and incomparable Sean Connery.



Oh that accent, the way he rolls his r's so sexily on his tongue...the confident grin, the piercing looks. They broke the mold with this guy.

Happy In A Better Life

Two years ago, I had everything going for me: I graduated from university the same week I celebrated my first wedding anniversary. I got a job in a field I loved and looked forward to starting the next chapter of my life. But right before this new chapter would begin, I got sick. At first I thought I had a sore tail bone, but when I woke up one morning with an oozing, open sore on my back, we quickly realized that something wasn't right.

The next 2 months are hazy for me because I was pumped full of pain meds - "the worst pain you can live through" is what my doctor called it. Two surgeries later, Jason was struggling to work enough to support us both and be home enough to take care of me and deal with the guilt that was eating at him. And they fired him for it (we missed the new compassionate leave laws by a year). We thought that this would be a good time as any to start over, and so we headed to our hometown, Cornwall, where Jason believed I would get better care and we could think about settling down.

We'd wanted to try Cornwall before I fell ill; we thought that it would be a good move real-estate wise but wanted to test the waters first. So maybe we would have ended up there whether I got sick or not. All I can say for sure is that I was heavily drugged when we made the decision, and within 3 little days, our lives were flipped upside down.

After the infection was drained from my back, the danger subsided and I wasn't "sick" anymore, just in an awful lot of pain. What should have been a fairly simple procedure didn't quite turn out that way. My doctor told me to expect 8-12 months of rehab. When you're 22, that seems like eternity. At first I had a nurse at home with me to clean the crater in my back, but soon it was just me and The Hole.

We called it The Hole because that's what it was: the doctors took about 2 golfballs worth of flesh out of my back. The hole had to remain "open" for several months so the scar tissue would fill in from the bottom up. What an agonizing process. As you can imagine, a hole in your back really limits your mobility. Some days I was trapped in bed, unable to move. Eventually the hole filled in, but the pain remained. I was shuffled between doctors a long time.

A year passed. Just a few weeks ago, I had a piece of scar tissue removed that was trying to poke its way through my back (which, believe me, makes sitting a nightmare). Anyhow, I feel fine these days. I expect to live with some pain all my life because the skin is weak, but unless I aggravate it, I have been able to forget about it for the first time in a year and a half. Ahhhh.

But still, The Hole stole a year and a half from my life. That's a long time. It felt even longer in Cornwall. It felt longer in Cornwall because it's a small town where nothing ever happens for the under-60 crowd. It felt longer because we'd left all of our friends behind. It felt longer because the job market is limited and Jason made half of his Ottawa salary. It felt longer because for the majority of the time, I was unable to work at all, and then when I felt up to it, it was pointless for a person of my experience and education to expect to find a job. There were none. There was nothing. But Cornwall felt particularly long because of the family situation.

Cornwall marked the first time in my married life that I was living in the same city as our family. You might think we'd see them more often living within a couple of kilometres of each other, but you'd be wrong. We saw each other maybe once every month or two. This was fine; we were all busy people (except for me; I layed in bed and bid goodbye to my waist).

I made a mistake. I revealed a weakness. I expressed disappointment that my life had derailed. I cried in front of my mother once. And once was all it took. Based on that one little visit, my mother and my 3 sisters decided to take my life in their hands. They diagnosed me: depressed. Severely depressed. They had me on suicide watch.

Of course, I assured them that I was not depressed. I was disappointed. I felt justified in being sad at my helpless situation. But depressed? Not likely. Jason and I still found something to laugh about each and every day. I had a hole in my back, but gosh, that's not everything. We had a lot of good days. Jason smirked at the mere suggestion that I could be depressed, as would most of my friends. I have the perpetual smile. I have more exuberance than most rooms can contain. I have passion where no passion even belongs. My family chose not to see any of this. The chose not to believe me, or Jason. They judged me based on one bad day, and never even visited on any of the good ones.

That summer, in addition to poverty, restlessness, frustration, and The Hole, I had to deal with my family. My mother covertly planned to get me "help". She anticipated my refusal, so she began planning on ways to kidnap me to a doctor's. She tried to involve Jason - asked him whether I talked about wanting to die, even. When Jason told me about this, I almost had a meltdown. My mother may as well have had her hands tightly around my throat, because I couldn't breathe.

My family didn't visit. I didn't receive pleasant phone calls or happy emails. I was simply put under the microscope. They spied on us. If they thought Jason and I had had a fight, this was further proof of my depression. If I slept in, or left the house without makeup, or took more than 3 rings to answer the phone, it was noted and counted against me. This put Jason and I under enormous pressure, and eventually I was so upset about subjecting Jason to my crazy family that I seriously wanted to set him free. He sat me down and said to me: "For better or worse; in sickness and in health." And that's that.

But over the next year, the relationship between myself and my family has been strained at best. I don't know how to forgive their actions. How can I sit and eat dinner with people who would have had me committed given the chance? Had they been motivated by concern, I could deal with that. But they weren't interested in my health or well-being, they just seemed to take pleasure in finding or imagining imperfections in my life.

A few months of this had me going out of my mind. Imagine if your whole family just decided out of the blue that you were crazy. It's enough to make you crazy if you weren't already. Jason tried to reason with them, to no avail. He said explicitly: Jamie is fine. The only thing that is not fine, is you guys. But they believed I was forcing him to say these things, you know, gun to his head and whatnot, and were unconvinced.

Eventually I had to cut the ties to save my sanity. I was at my wit's end. I don't to this day know what I ever did to deserve that kind of persecution. I haven't spoken to my family in almost a year now. I can't handle being judged constantly. I don't know how to be part of a family who will only ever think the worst of me. The only contact I have had with them is from sporadic emails from my sisters, the extent of which usually boils down to "you are a horrible person." Finally, Jason blocked their ip address, preventing them from writing to me anymore. But we knew that whether or not they could write me harassing, malicious emails, they were still keeping tabs on us. We knew that our only option was to move.

And so here we are, away from probing eyes at last. I mourn the loss of my family, but I don't see how the relationship will ever be mended. If they suddenly woke up contrite, I might forgive, but I don't know how to forget. I don't know how this story ends. I do know that my mother wants to love me conditionally. And I know that if it has conditions, it just doesn't feel like love to me. I think I deserve more, but I also know that more is not a choice: take it as it is, a bitter pill to swallow, or take nothing at all. Who can teach me to forget? Who here knows the secret?

I couldn't figure it out. I couldn't live under the disapproving gaze. We picked up, started over once again, away from the countryside, straight to the city, where here, for the first time in a long time, I could take a full, deep breath once again. We were downtown near Queen St. before I finally found my fresh air.

I think I can be happy here.

Not Any More

She bags your groceries, and always remembers to put your eggs on top.

She sits beside you at Thanksgiving dinner, laughing thinly at your bad turkey jokes.

She drives the neighbourhood kids to soccer practice in her Volvo.

She sits in class quietly and turns in her reports on time.

She shops with you, and gives good advice, and loves apple martinis.

She writes a blog that you read. You think she's funny and insightful.



But you don't know her; not really. You have no idea.

There are stories she doesn't tell, not even to herself. She has lied to you, to her friends, to her family, so many times that she can't keep them straight.

She has more concussions on file than a football player. She was lucky to regain consciousness at all last time.

She goes home to plaster a hole in the wall that was made when he threw her there.

She wears long sleeves because of the burn marks, not because she's cold.

She's tired because she got locked out of the house, barefoot in the snow again last night, not because she stayed up too late watching Law & Order.

She smiles at strangers because she's terrified of being transparent.

She lied about the scar on her leg. It wasn't from figure skating.

She doesn't cry at movies because even death doesn't seem all that tragic to her.

She believes that maybe it is her fault, that she is that stupid, that she does deserve it. She is ashamed.

She has learned to keep secrets well. She has learned to flinch at shadows. She has learned which foundation covers bruises the best. She has learned to fall asleep on a pillow drenched with tears.

The one thing she won't ever learn is to forget.


Don't be a victim of silence.

Purple Ribbon

October is domestic violence awareness month in the U.S. and child abuse prevention month in Canada - both are worthy causes.

If you are an abused woman, seek help. Keep asking until you get it. It is never too late to get help.

If you suspect that a child is being abused or neglected, contact your local children's aid society immediately. Many cases go unreported. People hesitate to report possible abuse because they aren't certain or want to wait to see what happens.

Do not wait. Children die while you wait for concrete evidence.

It is not your job to be certain. It IS your job to help protect the innocent in your community. Make the call. A trained social worker will then visit the family in question and make the judgment call. You have done your part.

If you think someone may already have called, call anyway. A file is opened for every phone call received. If more than one phone call is received for a certain child, the urgency of the visit will increase.

Don't be afraid of retribution; your name will not be revealed to the family and your anonymity will be protected.

It's every day people who make the difference.

Happy Bloggaversary to Kill the Goat!!

Today I wish The Goat a very happy 1st anniversary. Yes, this day in history just one short year ago, The Goat was just a baby lamb. Oh wait. That's another thing. The Goat was a kid. A kid goat. It was in its infancy, anyway.







Not that it's quite an adult yet. No grown-ups here. It's maybe a teenager, or a tween-goat. A twoat, if you will. Complete with attitude, pimples, and excessive masturbation.


Anyhoo.




Just so you know, the traditional gift for a one year anniversary is paper. Here is a list of the paper gifts I would love to receive:

-50 dollar bills
-100 dollar bills




The Goat has had an exciting year:

239 posts written
198 657 words written
76 000 visitors (since mid-Feb)
12 days accident-free!*
1 1/2 of my famous Big Fat Chewies cookies consumed during the writing of this post

*accident refers to bloodshed upwards of 1 quart; less than 1 quart is classified as an 'oopsie', which are not counted unless they leave scars.

During the past year, I have gone through 3 computers, 2 apartments, 2 keyboards, and roughly 1.3 billion brain cells. My most popular search results are consistently for

a) goat sex
b) fuckfest
c) girls wearing thongs

None of which have been my finest moments (although I still maintain that I do not regret the goat...she was hot). I hope The Goat has many more fine moments to come.

La Vache Qui Rit

I am lying in bed. Jason is sitting on top of me, poking me in the belly.

Jamie: Ach. I am such une vache.

Jason: No you're not, you're un princesse.

Jamie: Une princesse. And yes, I'm that too, but still. I just wish you were into chubby girls, that would make life so much easier.

Jason: I am into chubby girls!

(crickets)

Jason: Hmm. I see now that that was the wrong answer. What I meant was, I love all the girls.

Jamie: You love all the girls? That's comforting.

Jason: No, no, no. I meant, I love all you girls.

Jamie: All us girls? What girls are those?

Jason: You! Just you! I love you!

Dear U-haul,

You suck.

I believe it takes a pretty soulless person to rent a barely safe truck to a person who has never done you any harm, but to charge an arm and a leg for it, well, there's just no word for that.

Last weekend, I paid $520 for the "privilege" of borrowing a truck for 3 days. Except I did not receive it for 3 days. I was told, when I left a generous deposit, that I could pick the truck up at 9am on moving day. The night before, a nameless individual informed me that I could possibly be driving for up to 1 hour to pick up this truck. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with your business. It's renting truck to people who are moving. People who are moving have other things to do than to chase after the thing you have already promised to provide for them. But on the moving day itself we were given the "good news" that a truck would be available for us right here in town - but. Ah, BUT. But, we'd have to wait several hours before we would have access to it.

Now, when I rented the truck, someone immediately said to me "Are you sure you want to go with Uhaul? 80% of their fleet just got pulled from the road for being unsafe." Funny that you didn't mention this when you were counting my money. But when you did mention that our truck was in the shop that very morning, I found it worrisome instead of comforting. After all, we would be driving this thing, packed to the gills with our beloved belongings, and towing our car behind it, nearly 600km. I shouldn't have to worry about the road-worthiness of a truck that we just broke the bank to rent.

Now, perhaps if I had received the truck as soon as it was done in the shop, our story would have ended there. That didn't happen. It didn't happen because u-haul is a greedy beast, and they thought, 'hey, we're already getting $520 out of this old clunker, why not try for more?' And so you rented out the same truck twice in one day. And you let the other lady have it first. And when she returned it 7 hours after it was promised to us, and on empty, it was our problem because "pick up times cannot be guaranteed". Right. Tell me, wherever did you find print tiny enough for that clause? Does it really seem reasonable to you that some other person's move ate into ours?

Luckily, thanks to some back-breaking labour, we were able to load the truck up in the dark that night and our move was not much delayed. However, it was when we hit the road that nightmare really began.

Before we pulled out of the u-haul parking lot, the lady told us, nay, swore to us, that the transmission had recently been fixed, and that for some odd reason the clunking noise persisted, but that the mechanic had guaranteed that "it would not fall out on us." Obviously, this made me feel much, much better. Until we got onto the highway. And then, for the next 7 hours, we were treated to the lovely sound of metal grating against asphalt at high speeds. Mmm. Just what my u-haul induced migraine needed. But I thought to myself, no problem, I'll just sleep on the way up since I had to pack long into the night and thus did not get nearly enough sleep to feel up to unpacking when we arrived. But did I sleep? No, I did not. Not a wink. You see, it is almost impossible to get comfortable when you are fighting to breathe. The thing is, when a seatbelt is crushing your windpipe it does not allow for optimal sleep conditions. Interesting, isn't it? I thought so. Especially since the truck, which was rusty, dirty, older than me, and probably wouldn't pass a safety test despite the sparky transmission job, did not look very trustworthy in the first place, rendering my seatbelt pretty much my last line of defense. All kinds of worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind.

Thanks to my husband's patience and good driving, we reached our destination more or less safely. Jason had a crick in his neck from ducking to see under the chips in the windshield, but what the hell, it's not like you need to see very well to drive 30 feet of machinery through downtown Toronto.

We unloaded the truck as quickly as our arms and legs would allow us, mindful of the growing dusk. Normally we would be more kind to our muscles and take things slowly, but the lady at the u-haul place had frowned on our driving the thing after dark since there were no lights on the back of the trailer and shockingly, she had no replacement bulbs on hand. Shucks. I credit my husband for pulling us through. He was strong and quick and encouraging even when I thought I would throw up from being exhausted. By 8 o'clock we were done. The truck was empty, and ready to be returned.

All we needed to do was to hitch the trailer onto the truck, and drive it to the depot. Or so we thought. Turns out, the hitch was broken. Fancy that. It only tooks 2 hours in the pitch black in a new city where we knew not one soul to figure out how to make do with defective equipment. We were quite pleased with this new development, as I'm sure you could imagine.

So, blackened with grease and tired to the bone, we climbed into the cab of the truck, back to the seatbelt that actually chafed a layer of skin off my neck to the point of bleeding, and headed for the return point. As mentioned before, we had just moved. I think this is worth repeating because u-haul apparently has no idea to whom it is renting its trucks. We moved. To a new city. Therefore, it would have been nice, helpful even, if the u-haul lady would have been willing to tell us where exactly to drop the thing off. However, it was Friday, and as I said, we had been put off until quite late, so I guess she was itching to get home. She was unwilling to look it up, so she told us to just bring it anywhere. So, despite the fact that the good people of u-haul had already delayed us by more than 8 hours, we had to cut into our loading time to research a u-haul place in a foreign city, and plot it out on an unfamiliar map.

Since the broken hitch had set us back 2 hours, we were infact driving down unknown streets without tail lights. Is there a patron saint for unlukcy u-haul renters? It would have been nice to know. But finally, we saw the u-haul signs, and we pulled the truck into the lot. Jason ran inside to drop off the key, but he came back out shaking his head.

The man inside informed him that this location did not accept equipment. In fact, it wasn't a u-haul place at all, never had been, despite the signs and ad in the yellow pages. It was listed as one, but wasn't one.

Sorry, my bad. I obviously should have just assumed that u-haul just lists some red herrings just to butt-fuck their customers a little more.

Of course this guy is unable to provide us even with directions to a new place, so we had to drive around Toronto, in the dark, with a 30 foot truck and trailer, looking for a phone book. It was after 1am before we found an appropriate location and believe me, if words and wishes came true, anyone who has ever been affiliated with u-haul would be pushing up daisies today.

rental for a truck that almost killed me: $520
gas for the truck that almost killed me: $180
knowing that that which does not kill you only makes you stronger: priceless? I think not. We paid $700 for a harrowing, stressful experience, and I am NOT happy about it.

Here's hoping that the following search terms will help spread the u-haul hate: I hate u-haul, u-haul almost killed me, Toronto uhaul, u-haul hell, don't rent from u-haul, boycott u-haul, u-haul is unsafe, uhaul sucks, u-haul is the worst thing that ever happened to me, u-haul is evil, George W. Bush owns u-haul, Ontario uhaul, u-haul can kiss my ass, u-haul is dangerous, u-haul rents damaged trucks, Canada uhaul, uhaul is bad, renting from u-haul is like renting from Hitler.

p.s. As dearest Ian points out, the most impressive feature that u-haul boasts of is its luxurious cloth seats, which I bet are not that luxurious on the best of days, but in our case, the truck was so old that the stencilling was actually reduced to "clot eats". Yummy, eh?


Other angry u-haul customers (because you know I'm not alone):

http://www.dontuseuhaul.com/



Update!!!!

After a month of communication, this is what I receive on November 21st:

Dear Mrs. Jay,

Thank you for your communication received.

We apologize that your move did not go as you planned.

This is to inform you that we will not be reimbursing you for any part of this rental.

Based on the feedback provided, we consider this matter resolved.

Sincerely,
Donna Sweeney
U-Haul Company Scarborough, ON


I'm sure you all can imagine my pleased response to this email.

And that's all you'll hear from me - lawsuit pending.