When I was little, I had 3 living great-grandparents on my mother's side: Mamere & Papere, and Granny Carter.
Papere is probably not worthy of a lot of remembrance. Living just a couple of houses from my mother's childhood home, he was the source of constant trouble for the family. My mother recounts stories of him trapping her inside garbage cans as well as several incidents involving rodents that still send shivers up her spine. She once told me that at a family wedding, he spilled his wine and blamed her. He spent the rest of the reception harping on about how children should not be invited to functions....40 years later, this is still her most embarrassing moment. My grandmother, ever the polite hostess, remembers her father as a man of atrocious table manners, 'atrocious' being a very kind word for some very rude behaviours. My uncle remembers Papere giving him a BB gun and encouraging him to shoot a neighbour lady in the ass. These are the glossified versions of a dead man's mischief; with time and forgiveness they have boiled down to hazy, vaguely humourous stories that reveal the only the essence of a very mean man. I was very young when he died, but what I do remember of him is this: if we were at my grandparents' and saw him walking up the street for a visit, my mother would lock my younger sister in the bedroom because just seeing him would send her into hysterical fits. We chuckle over the bb gun incident, but a man who inspires that much terror in a 2 year old child is no treat.
When Papere died, he left behind a wife, a woman I mostly knew as Ida. To be honest, Ida only passed away a few years ago, and yet, I have rarely counted her among my relatives because she was never treated as such. I have more memories of Papere, who died when I was 3, than I do of his wife who outlived him by 20 years. Ida was not my great-grandfather's first wife, nor was she the mother of my grandmother. She married him only after my biological great-grandmother passed away at an early age. I only heard about Ida when my Nanny would dutifully pay her visits. I would often hear about Ida's failing health, how Ida had grown less lucid, and finally how Ida failed to recognize Nanny when she sat with her in the hospital. Though I often heard her name, I only connected Ida as being my great-grandmother when she died. My Nanny was a bit blase about the funeral - she didn't think my uncles should bother to make the trip. My mother had to remind her that biological or not, Ida was the only grandmother she'd known. Sadly, she remained the great-grandmother that I didn't know, and now I never will.
Granny Carter, my grandfather's mother, is another story. She was exactly what a great-grandmother should be. She was a tiny little woman with a fierce personality, not mean, but surprisingly forceful for such a small person. She had curly gray hair, and wore granny glasses on a chain and floral print dresses and tiny orthopedic shoes. When we were lucky enough to have her over for family dinners, we would sit around the table afterwards playing 31. She played bingo and lottery religiously, and was lucky at both. She socialized at the food court in the mall. When she was finally placed in a home, I remember my mother signing her out for a visit - we went to the Dairy Queen where she had a baby cone, and to Home Hardware, where my mother bought her an electric fan. I remember that she died just days after my budgie, Polly, did. I remember that I was eating toast and molasses when my mother told me the news. I remember wondering if she would also be buried in the garden, where I knew my father had put Polly. Hers was the first funeral I remember; years later, I surprised my mother by recognizing the church when we drove by. It's funny that so many things stay with you, and it's sad that so many don't.
The one great-grandparent that I didn't know was by all accounts the one most regrettably gone. My Pa's father was a stark contrast to Nanny's: this one was a good man, a great man, even. Even Nanny, his daughter-in-law and everyone's biggest critic, remembers him with a dreamy look on her face. She is quick to say how much she loved him, and with a guilty look, admits she loved him more than she did her own father. He died when my mother was just eleven. He was dying of cancer, and they kept it from her; she learned it surreptitiously by reading a note not meant for her eyes. Still, she remembers the time she spent playing cards in his lap, and is convinced that he visited her on her wedding day. My Nanny once told me that in her 55 years married, she has seen her husband cry only once, and that was on the night his father died. I can picture my grandfather crying about as easily as I can picture Weird Al Yankovic winning America's Next Top Model, but apparently on that night he came home from the hospital, threw himself on the living room floor, and sobbed. My great-grandfather died a decade before I was born, but according to my mother, that didn't stop him from babysitting me now and then. She believes that he "haunted" the first house she lived in when I was just a baby. On the nights when her husband was away from home, she would hear his footsteps on the stairs and be comforted that he was looking out for us. Even his ghost was benevolent.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Raise Your Hand if You Hate UPS
Scroll down for update!
So Jason had this honourable intention of surpring me with a new computer.
He should have known better.
To be fair, it almost got here.
Word of caution: don't go brown. Brown will let you down.
The UPS guy left a tell-tale sticker on our door: we were here, you weren't, boo hoo for you. These "sorry we missed you" stickers mean that for the next few days, you will live your life for UPS. You have to get up at a decent hour, wear decent clothing, and then be chained to the house for an ill-defined period of time. You're afraid to answer the phone, afraid to have the music on too loud, afraid to walk the dog, afraid to drink too much wine and pass out on the couch. You can't leave the house, but you can't do anything too distracting in the house either, like run a bath or start the washing machine, because these could prevent you from hearing the door bell. And god forbid you should ever have to pee. Alternatives to urination must be sought when waiting for UPS because you just know that once you're sitting with your pants around your ankles, the UPS guy will certainly appear. Therefore, from the minute you spot the dreaded sticker, you must refrain from drinking, ignore your thirst, and willingly induce dehydration. Pee is your enemy (although, in dire situations, you can summon the UPS guy by faking it - squat over the toilet like you're going to pee, and once your trousers are dropped, your package will arrive...just make sure your bladder doesn't get any ideas!). Don't worry, post-UPS recovery is simpler than you'd think: 12 hours of sleep, a couple of generous doses of Prozac, and an IV drip of saline solution should do the trick. Most people are back on their feet in 2-3 days, tops. Unless, of course, they suffer from UPS' 3-strike policy. Yes, bizarely, even though they are paid to deliver your package, they will only make 3 attempts to do so. Once the third attempt is made....package? What package?
Jason thought he would spare me the typical UPS-anxiety by requesting that the package would be held at the depot. Stupid depot. Depot for all of West Toronto, shuffling 9 million packages but somehow misplacing all the ones that attempt to be claimed. Oh yes, 8 million stale fruitcakes will be delivered in a timely fashion, but Jamie's new computer? Well, let's just say I kept my fingers crossed.
Now I have cramped fingers, and all for nothing. Not because the depot lost my package though. Because apparently the package never made it to the depot. Despite instructions to the contrarcy and Jason's explicit double-checking, the package remained on the truck. So we were not home to accept the package that we didn't know was coming. In fact, when the second attempt was being made, we were at the depot trying to claim a package that was never there. Sure, we had a tracking number that said it was there, and a customer service rep confirming it was there. Sure we had several brown-clad employees scouring a warehouse the size of Kingston. That doesn't mean that the package would be found. The package could not be found because it wasn't there. Where was it? Where was my new computer?
Well, according to UPS, it was sitting on our front porch.
I mean, yes, officially we were supposed to sign for the package. But what's to stop the driver from writing in your name for you? Nothing, apparently. Certainly not company policy. Hah!
So with un-consent, the package was left on our front porch. The very same package that came in a box clearly labelled with the computer company's name. The very same package insured for more than $1400. Just left on the porch.
When we got home, our front door had a new sticker: "We left your package behind the flowers," it said.
But there was no package behind the flowers.
There was no package anywhere.
So Jason called UPS and suggested that this was perhaps a stupid move on their part. He suggested that perhaps delivery services would be better off actually delivering packages rather than just abandoning them willy-nilly. UPS did not seem at all concerned or surprised to be accused of willy-nillyness. Apparently we have learned that drivers can abandon packages "at their discretion" but also that drivers "lack discretion."
So, someone stole a brand new notebook computer from our front porch. Lucky them, eh? I mean, if the large box with the shiny computer printed on all sides wasn't a total giveaway, then the note on the door saying that our new computer was beside the flowers probably got the job done. It's like a little treasure map for potential thieves. Thanks, UPS, X marks the spot!
Ah well. I hear this new computer had some sort of blue teeth anyway, which sounds awfully bitey to me. Between us, I think I'm better off.
UPDATE!!!
So Jason had this honourable intention of surpring me with a new computer.
He should have known better.
To be fair, it almost got here.
Word of caution: don't go brown. Brown will let you down.
The UPS guy left a tell-tale sticker on our door: we were here, you weren't, boo hoo for you. These "sorry we missed you" stickers mean that for the next few days, you will live your life for UPS. You have to get up at a decent hour, wear decent clothing, and then be chained to the house for an ill-defined period of time. You're afraid to answer the phone, afraid to have the music on too loud, afraid to walk the dog, afraid to drink too much wine and pass out on the couch. You can't leave the house, but you can't do anything too distracting in the house either, like run a bath or start the washing machine, because these could prevent you from hearing the door bell. And god forbid you should ever have to pee. Alternatives to urination must be sought when waiting for UPS because you just know that once you're sitting with your pants around your ankles, the UPS guy will certainly appear. Therefore, from the minute you spot the dreaded sticker, you must refrain from drinking, ignore your thirst, and willingly induce dehydration. Pee is your enemy (although, in dire situations, you can summon the UPS guy by faking it - squat over the toilet like you're going to pee, and once your trousers are dropped, your package will arrive...just make sure your bladder doesn't get any ideas!). Don't worry, post-UPS recovery is simpler than you'd think: 12 hours of sleep, a couple of generous doses of Prozac, and an IV drip of saline solution should do the trick. Most people are back on their feet in 2-3 days, tops. Unless, of course, they suffer from UPS' 3-strike policy. Yes, bizarely, even though they are paid to deliver your package, they will only make 3 attempts to do so. Once the third attempt is made....package? What package?
Jason thought he would spare me the typical UPS-anxiety by requesting that the package would be held at the depot. Stupid depot. Depot for all of West Toronto, shuffling 9 million packages but somehow misplacing all the ones that attempt to be claimed. Oh yes, 8 million stale fruitcakes will be delivered in a timely fashion, but Jamie's new computer? Well, let's just say I kept my fingers crossed.
Now I have cramped fingers, and all for nothing. Not because the depot lost my package though. Because apparently the package never made it to the depot. Despite instructions to the contrarcy and Jason's explicit double-checking, the package remained on the truck. So we were not home to accept the package that we didn't know was coming. In fact, when the second attempt was being made, we were at the depot trying to claim a package that was never there. Sure, we had a tracking number that said it was there, and a customer service rep confirming it was there. Sure we had several brown-clad employees scouring a warehouse the size of Kingston. That doesn't mean that the package would be found. The package could not be found because it wasn't there. Where was it? Where was my new computer?
Well, according to UPS, it was sitting on our front porch.
I mean, yes, officially we were supposed to sign for the package. But what's to stop the driver from writing in your name for you? Nothing, apparently. Certainly not company policy. Hah!
So with un-consent, the package was left on our front porch. The very same package that came in a box clearly labelled with the computer company's name. The very same package insured for more than $1400. Just left on the porch.
When we got home, our front door had a new sticker: "We left your package behind the flowers," it said.
But there was no package behind the flowers.
There was no package anywhere.
So Jason called UPS and suggested that this was perhaps a stupid move on their part. He suggested that perhaps delivery services would be better off actually delivering packages rather than just abandoning them willy-nilly. UPS did not seem at all concerned or surprised to be accused of willy-nillyness. Apparently we have learned that drivers can abandon packages "at their discretion" but also that drivers "lack discretion."
So, someone stole a brand new notebook computer from our front porch. Lucky them, eh? I mean, if the large box with the shiny computer printed on all sides wasn't a total giveaway, then the note on the door saying that our new computer was beside the flowers probably got the job done. It's like a little treasure map for potential thieves. Thanks, UPS, X marks the spot!
Ah well. I hear this new computer had some sort of blue teeth anyway, which sounds awfully bitey to me. Between us, I think I'm better off.
UPDATE!!!
Three weeks later, UPS says to us “Uh, yeah, your package is lost.”
UPS is astuter than astute. Despite the fact that they know very well that their driver abandoned the package (containing my new laptop, no less) with a sign that read “Steal Me, Please”, and a thief (or thieves, if you will) was all too happy to comply, UPS felt obligated to make a show of looking for it. They looked high and low, searched every truck, inside and out, cleaned out their closets, inventoried their warehouse, and I'm pretty sure they sent every UPS employee in the tristate area home to check underneath their beds.
No package was found.
Jason, to his credit, badgered them on a daily, sometimes twice daily basis. Once, he even went to the office to physically kick them in the pants. This is the wild goose chase that we call “bureaucracy.” And so after Jason babysat these jerks for 3 weeks, we finally got what we wanted (well, what we needed): the official “we have no fucking idea where your stuff is” certificate of UPS-suckiness. Believe me, we intend to have it framed.
So Jason calls up the computer company and is all like, Yo, the package is lost. And the computer guy was like, Okay, we'll discuss this further when we receive confirmation in triplicate from UPS in 16-42 business days.
Click.
So Jason, who is now well-versed in the childish and muddled ways of the customer service associate, calls back, and tells them how it's going to be: Either you're sending me the package tonight, or I'm going someplace else.
We got the package.
And we also got the message: UPS is the kind of business that takes 3 weeks to tell you that they lost the package that they knew they lost 3 weeks ago. In other words: they are mind-blowingly incompetent. Use sparingly, and if you're smart, not at all.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Thank You From the Bottom of My Running Shoes
Scroll down for update!!
Truth be told, I'm sort of terrified of running. To be more specific: I'm terrified of not being able to finish, of making a fool out of myself, of having a sweaty photo of myself appear in the newspaper, of my blisters choosing that moment to burst, causing the streets to run red with blood, of being the last to cross the finish line. I was so encouraged by the strong wave of support I received here, and by the worthiness of the cause that I sort of forgot that I don't run. Can't run. Don't know how.
When I was a kid, I raised money every year for Multiple Sclerosis via a read-a-thon, which is a little more to my pace. Unfortunately, I could only get sponsors to promise me a lump sum rather than dollars per book, which would have been great for the charity and flaming on the pocketbook.
In high school I did the Terry Fox Run every year, but here's the catch: I didn't run. I walked. I made a point of walking and thought the runners were fools. They were fools, actually. It was a 6 kilometre route, and if you paced your walking right, you could get out of the whole morning's worth of classes. Runners were back in time for math. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
But now, not only have I committed myself to running, I seem also to have committed myself to slowing Jason down as well. The fact is: Jamie measures 5 feet, 3 inches. Jason stands at 6 feet, 1 inch. The difference: 10 big inches. The result: any time spent together means Jason strides and Jamie jogs, forever trying to catch up. Sometimes we run side by side at the gym, on matching treadmills. Running for Jason means setting the speed at 7 miles per hour, and letting his long legs loose. Running for me means 4 mph, and hoping that my short little legs can keep up. And 7 mph is actually slow for Jason, because he's a sprinter. He ran track & field in high school. Know what I did in high school? Um, debate club (oh yeah, I've been rocking the argumentative bitch thing for a while now). But somehow Jason is still determined that he will run beside me during the race, although I suspect it has less to do with any couple allegiance and more to do with his concern that I might otherwise die alone on dirty Toronto asphalt.
Now, mere hours away from running, I am unable to sleep. I just keep retaping my blisters and checking the weather network, hoping the rain will somehow turn into bright rays of comforting sunshine. But no matter what my personal result is tomorrow, I know I will have raised lots of money for a cause that needs it. You guys have outdone yourselves - and every dollar raised has been doubled in our matching program. We also sold mini cheesecakes (dubbed "cancer tarts") at Jason's work to increase the tally. I don't know if I will ever live in a world without cancer, but I firmly believe that I can live in a world where no one dies from it, so to those of you who donated: thank you.
Sponsors' Honour Roll:
Queen of Spain
Lorna
Blackcrag
3T
Bud Buckley
Sparky
Better Safe than Sorry
Jude
Chai
Teena
Vince
Neil
Deeleea
Melissa
Anne
Jaichan
It's not too late to donate!
Otherwise, stay tuned for the unfolding story: will she fall flat on her face? put her sports bra to shame? use to run as an excuse to carb-load at the international pancake house?.....
UPDATE!!!!
Truth be told, I'm sort of terrified of running. To be more specific: I'm terrified of not being able to finish, of making a fool out of myself, of having a sweaty photo of myself appear in the newspaper, of my blisters choosing that moment to burst, causing the streets to run red with blood, of being the last to cross the finish line. I was so encouraged by the strong wave of support I received here, and by the worthiness of the cause that I sort of forgot that I don't run. Can't run. Don't know how.
When I was a kid, I raised money every year for Multiple Sclerosis via a read-a-thon, which is a little more to my pace. Unfortunately, I could only get sponsors to promise me a lump sum rather than dollars per book, which would have been great for the charity and flaming on the pocketbook.
In high school I did the Terry Fox Run every year, but here's the catch: I didn't run. I walked. I made a point of walking and thought the runners were fools. They were fools, actually. It was a 6 kilometre route, and if you paced your walking right, you could get out of the whole morning's worth of classes. Runners were back in time for math. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
But now, not only have I committed myself to running, I seem also to have committed myself to slowing Jason down as well. The fact is: Jamie measures 5 feet, 3 inches. Jason stands at 6 feet, 1 inch. The difference: 10 big inches. The result: any time spent together means Jason strides and Jamie jogs, forever trying to catch up. Sometimes we run side by side at the gym, on matching treadmills. Running for Jason means setting the speed at 7 miles per hour, and letting his long legs loose. Running for me means 4 mph, and hoping that my short little legs can keep up. And 7 mph is actually slow for Jason, because he's a sprinter. He ran track & field in high school. Know what I did in high school? Um, debate club (oh yeah, I've been rocking the argumentative bitch thing for a while now). But somehow Jason is still determined that he will run beside me during the race, although I suspect it has less to do with any couple allegiance and more to do with his concern that I might otherwise die alone on dirty Toronto asphalt.
Now, mere hours away from running, I am unable to sleep. I just keep retaping my blisters and checking the weather network, hoping the rain will somehow turn into bright rays of comforting sunshine. But no matter what my personal result is tomorrow, I know I will have raised lots of money for a cause that needs it. You guys have outdone yourselves - and every dollar raised has been doubled in our matching program. We also sold mini cheesecakes (dubbed "cancer tarts") at Jason's work to increase the tally. I don't know if I will ever live in a world without cancer, but I firmly believe that I can live in a world where no one dies from it, so to those of you who donated: thank you.
Sponsors' Honour Roll:
Queen of Spain
Lorna
Blackcrag
3T
Bud Buckley
Sparky
Better Safe than Sorry
Jude
Chai
Teena
Vince
Neil
Deeleea
Melissa
Anne
Jaichan
It's not too late to donate!
Otherwise, stay tuned for the unfolding story: will she fall flat on her face? put her sports bra to shame? use to run as an excuse to carb-load at the international pancake house?.....
UPDATE!!!!
We came, we ran, our hamstrings burned like a motherfucker.
But in the end, we did run.
It was awesome! I mean, if you forget the part where I'm a stupid insomniac and I insisted we leave the house at 2:30 am, bundled under enough layers not to feel the chilly wind and then arrived at the run site 8 hours later in the boiling hot sun and then spent the first kilometre of the run trying to strip surreptitiously while remaining in motion.
That part sucked. But the rest was awesome! We conveniently ran past the Mount Sinai hospital, and don't think I didn't consider running right up the steps to my eventual collapse, but somehow, I persisted. And I managed to run right past the U of T cheerleaders even though many of the bepenised runners were stopped in their tracks. The whole course was dotted with very enthusiastic supporters, screaming what I assumed to be encouragement, although it seems that when I am gasping like a fish out of water, some of my senses start shutting down, and the ability to hear is among the first to go. But their posters were brightly coloured, so I did catch a blurry glimpse of them as I shot by at lightning speeds (you know, like 4 miles an hour, approximately). But the best part was the water station – a real, live water station, just like in the Olympics! Volunteers stuck their arms out bravely, proferring little paper cups filled with the liquid of life.
Now, to be honest, I'm a thirsty girl, so Jason was running with a bag that contained no less than 3 litres of water, which I'd already been downing at that point. So strictly speaking, I didn't need the water. And briefly, I felt that the water might only be for the serious runners, and not for the slow-moving frauds such as myself. But then I entered that runner's high that people are always talking about, and I had hallucinations of myself splashing water upon myself like real live professional athletes on TV. In the end, I decided that I probably was not coordinated enough to snatch the paper cup without stopping, so I didn't water myself, but I felt cool just running right past it.
And the very, very best part was all the money we raised for a great cause. Jason and I raised over a thousand dollars, thanks in large part to some very generous sponsors right here. Every dollar we raised was doubled by Jason's work – so yay us, and thank you all for believing in the cause, and for giving me the will to keep going even when I thought I'd rather whip off my top to reveal my sports bra (in which my nipples always appear to be pointing in opposite directions, like a pair of headlights that badly need to be realigned) rather than keep going.
I kept going.
You guys rock.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Accidental Adultery
There's this little bench that I used to sit on while waiting for Jason to finish work. Usually I would read, or just soak in the surroundings. Sometimes I'd have an ice-cap waiting for Jason's post-work ruinous thirst. I loved that bench. It was in the perfect spot - Jason would round the corner, headed for the car, and he'd see me waiting and break into the smile that crinkles his eyes. It was away from the noise, but close to the breeze. And best of all, it was almost always empty. It was like my secret hiding place, a perfect place in the world that only I knew about.
I don't sit on that bench anymore.
My problem is two-pronged, apparently:
1. I am friendly, probably too friendly for my own good.
2. I have the unfortunate habit of always looking the world in the eye.
The guy who owns the sewing store across the way took it upon himself to court me. Unattended females reading quietly to themselves on public benches are fair game. Even when they say no. Repeatedly. Like, dozens of times. And quite firmly. And eventually, disgustedly.
Like I said, I don't sit there anymore.
But I do still go to the gym, where apparently more than half the male members are not looking to get buff, they're looking to get laid. These boys are persistent, and they know they've cornered you in the perfect place: either I let them hit on me, or I give up the one available cardio machine and leave myself vulnerable to overenthusiastic trainers encouraging me to do "mat work" which basically involves painful Cirque du Soleil contortionist shit, by the looks of it.
So I keep sweating away, feeling completely unsexy and unforgiving, while an equally sweaty man attempts to whispers in my ear something about my hot little yoga pants.
Normally, I am a rejection goddess. I can say no in, like, 18 different languages. I have mastered the dismissive smile, the let-em-down-easy wink, the get-the-hell-out-of-here arm pat. But some men just don't listen.
Sweaty Guy at the Gym: So, do you drink coffee?
Me: No, I don't.
SGG: Well, do you eat steak?
Me: Do I eat steak? You're asking me if I eat steak?
SGG: Yeah, you know, like maybe I could buy you dinner.
Me: Well, thanks, but no thanks.
SGG: Oh come on, I promise you'll enjoy it.
Me: I'll enjoy the steak?
SGG: You'll enjoy me.
Me: Yeah, I don't think so.
SGG: Well, why not? I'm a cool guy.
Me: Hmm. Uh, yeah, I'm married.
SGG: I don't see a ring.
!?!?!
Okay, there it is. First, I'm disappointed in myself. I almost never use 'I'm married' as an excuse. I hate that. I know a girl, who, if a man politely holds the door open for her, shouts "I'm engaged!" instead of "Thanks." But sometimes, it spares feelings. I could have (and maybe should have) said:
"You're kind of on the paunchy side for my taste."
or
"I think you should aim a little lower."
or
"I think your funky addidas are older than me."
or
"Go home, trim your ear hair, and better luck next time."
But no, I simply told him that I was unavailable, which met with my favourite line "but you're not wearing a ring."
Seriously. What's up with that? Are you doubting my story? You think secretly I'm single and if you call me on it, I'll be forced to admit my incredible desire to blow you? Or that my failure to wear a ring indicates infidelity potential? Or do you simply believe that a woman unfond of jewelry deserves to be harassed? Because really, "I don't see a ring" is not a great pick up line.
Still, it's a thousand times better than the men who only trick you into dating them.
I mean really, I'm sitting in a coffee shop bent over my "notebook" (Jason assures me this is what they're called now...when did we stop calling them laptops?) and yes, admittedly, there is an empty seat at my table. And when I look up, you are funny and charming, and also interested in seeing the Andy Warhol exhibit at the AGO. But when you pick me up, you bring flowers and kiss me on the cheek because I turned when I saw that you were aiming for my lips.
Um, is this a date?
Because you kinda forget to tell me if it was.
I can't tell you how many men I've dated since marrying Jason. Lots. But rarely intentionally.
Now don't try and tell me I'm the only one committing these unintentional infidelities.
It happens, right?
I mean, it's not unusual for me to meet interesting people on the street. That's how I met Katie. We were both standing in line at Banana Republic, and I commented to the person behind me that the cashier appeared to suffer from some sort of Slow Motion Syndrome, and suddenly I had a friend for life. And it's how I met Patrick, too. We were both at Johnny Bistro with friends, he bought me a drink "Because it looks like you need it", and that was it.
But Anthony was a different matter altogether.
I was sitting in the park one day, stealing secret sips from a concealed bottle of wine, enjoying the fine weather and a great book, when a dog sat down beside me and gave me the goofiest grin ever. Soon his owner joined us, and we were laughing like old friends within 3 minutes.
I accidentally dated Anthony for about a month.
We would meet for drinks, or see a movie, or just walk his dog round and round the neighbourhood. And then one night he called me.
Anthony: Jay, I want you to meet my Mom.
Me: You do?
Anthony: Yeah. I'm really excited about it. We've been together for over a month now, so I think it's time...
Me: Um, what? Together?
Anthony: And you know how much you mean to me. I just don't introduce very many girlfriends to my Mom.
Me: Anthony, what do you mean, together?
Anthony: I mean I really care about you and I think maybe you might be The One.
Me: Yeah, I kind of have a problem with that. I thought we were just friends.
Anthony: Friends?
Me: If you and I were dating, I would have totally put out by now.
And that was the end of Anthony. Too bad, too. He had excellent taste in wine.
But I continue to believe that girls and boys can just be friends, and that not every guy who asks me out is asking me out.
This is a stupid problem to have, but it's a problem. How does everyone else deal with it? How do you know for sure that it's a date? And please, for the love of god, tell me how to turn them down.
I don't sit on that bench anymore.
My problem is two-pronged, apparently:
1. I am friendly, probably too friendly for my own good.
2. I have the unfortunate habit of always looking the world in the eye.
The guy who owns the sewing store across the way took it upon himself to court me. Unattended females reading quietly to themselves on public benches are fair game. Even when they say no. Repeatedly. Like, dozens of times. And quite firmly. And eventually, disgustedly.
Like I said, I don't sit there anymore.
But I do still go to the gym, where apparently more than half the male members are not looking to get buff, they're looking to get laid. These boys are persistent, and they know they've cornered you in the perfect place: either I let them hit on me, or I give up the one available cardio machine and leave myself vulnerable to overenthusiastic trainers encouraging me to do "mat work" which basically involves painful Cirque du Soleil contortionist shit, by the looks of it.
So I keep sweating away, feeling completely unsexy and unforgiving, while an equally sweaty man attempts to whispers in my ear something about my hot little yoga pants.
Normally, I am a rejection goddess. I can say no in, like, 18 different languages. I have mastered the dismissive smile, the let-em-down-easy wink, the get-the-hell-out-of-here arm pat. But some men just don't listen.
Sweaty Guy at the Gym: So, do you drink coffee?
Me: No, I don't.
SGG: Well, do you eat steak?
Me: Do I eat steak? You're asking me if I eat steak?
SGG: Yeah, you know, like maybe I could buy you dinner.
Me: Well, thanks, but no thanks.
SGG: Oh come on, I promise you'll enjoy it.
Me: I'll enjoy the steak?
SGG: You'll enjoy me.
Me: Yeah, I don't think so.
SGG: Well, why not? I'm a cool guy.
Me: Hmm. Uh, yeah, I'm married.
SGG: I don't see a ring.
!?!?!
Okay, there it is. First, I'm disappointed in myself. I almost never use 'I'm married' as an excuse. I hate that. I know a girl, who, if a man politely holds the door open for her, shouts "I'm engaged!" instead of "Thanks." But sometimes, it spares feelings. I could have (and maybe should have) said:
"You're kind of on the paunchy side for my taste."
or
"I think you should aim a little lower."
or
"I think your funky addidas are older than me."
or
"Go home, trim your ear hair, and better luck next time."
But no, I simply told him that I was unavailable, which met with my favourite line "but you're not wearing a ring."
Seriously. What's up with that? Are you doubting my story? You think secretly I'm single and if you call me on it, I'll be forced to admit my incredible desire to blow you? Or that my failure to wear a ring indicates infidelity potential? Or do you simply believe that a woman unfond of jewelry deserves to be harassed? Because really, "I don't see a ring" is not a great pick up line.
Still, it's a thousand times better than the men who only trick you into dating them.
I mean really, I'm sitting in a coffee shop bent over my "notebook" (Jason assures me this is what they're called now...when did we stop calling them laptops?) and yes, admittedly, there is an empty seat at my table. And when I look up, you are funny and charming, and also interested in seeing the Andy Warhol exhibit at the AGO. But when you pick me up, you bring flowers and kiss me on the cheek because I turned when I saw that you were aiming for my lips.
Um, is this a date?
Because you kinda forget to tell me if it was.
I can't tell you how many men I've dated since marrying Jason. Lots. But rarely intentionally.
Now don't try and tell me I'm the only one committing these unintentional infidelities.
It happens, right?
I mean, it's not unusual for me to meet interesting people on the street. That's how I met Katie. We were both standing in line at Banana Republic, and I commented to the person behind me that the cashier appeared to suffer from some sort of Slow Motion Syndrome, and suddenly I had a friend for life. And it's how I met Patrick, too. We were both at Johnny Bistro with friends, he bought me a drink "Because it looks like you need it", and that was it.
But Anthony was a different matter altogether.
I was sitting in the park one day, stealing secret sips from a concealed bottle of wine, enjoying the fine weather and a great book, when a dog sat down beside me and gave me the goofiest grin ever. Soon his owner joined us, and we were laughing like old friends within 3 minutes.
I accidentally dated Anthony for about a month.
We would meet for drinks, or see a movie, or just walk his dog round and round the neighbourhood. And then one night he called me.
Anthony: Jay, I want you to meet my Mom.
Me: You do?
Anthony: Yeah. I'm really excited about it. We've been together for over a month now, so I think it's time...
Me: Um, what? Together?
Anthony: And you know how much you mean to me. I just don't introduce very many girlfriends to my Mom.
Me: Anthony, what do you mean, together?
Anthony: I mean I really care about you and I think maybe you might be The One.
Me: Yeah, I kind of have a problem with that. I thought we were just friends.
Anthony: Friends?
Me: If you and I were dating, I would have totally put out by now.
And that was the end of Anthony. Too bad, too. He had excellent taste in wine.
But I continue to believe that girls and boys can just be friends, and that not every guy who asks me out is asking me out.
This is a stupid problem to have, but it's a problem. How does everyone else deal with it? How do you know for sure that it's a date? And please, for the love of god, tell me how to turn them down.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Beauty is Pain
Cute new shoes.
Cute new blisters.
(Blisters or no blisters, I'm still Running for the Cure, so don't forget to donate.)
Thursday, September 21, 2006
I never saw a vagina do THAT before!
As some of you may have noticed, I was expecting a sweet little package to arrive today. But since it came via birth canal and not Canada Post, it was actually early....or should I say she was early!
Yes, it was a baby we were expecting, just not mine, although I don't think I could have been any more nervous or excited had she been growing in my belly these past nine months.
When Katie first told me she was pregnant, I was shocked. Katie is single, and plans on staying that way. She had sex with a guy in her office (they are "just friends") exactly once, but as they tell you in health class, that's all it takes.
She told the father but he's not "into that" right now, which is fine by her. However, this meant that the position of father was open and to my astonishment, she had already cast me in the role.
Fast-forward three months and I'm listening to the rapid heart beat of a tiny human being while holding Katie's sweaty hand. I have spent months rubbing balm on her stretch marks, washing her hair, making 18 loaves worth of peanut butter sandwiches, but it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago when I was happily grooming her twat that I realized our friendship had entered a whole different level.
I have had 8 months to prepare for this day, and I can tell you now that I was soooo not prepared. I mean, we went to those child-birthing classes at the hospital where they teach you lamaze...and all it did was make my cheeks hurt. Not so much from the breathing, but from laughing out our blue-haired instructor who I'm pretty sure was one of those perpetual virgins who frowned on my being there but insisted on calling me the Father anyway. And we read books. Boy did we read books, and they all had phrases like "Birth is beautiful", which is not at all helpful, and painted tablets of rosy-cheeked young women lounging on their hospital beds, which turned out to be so far from truth I could just barf in outrage. Luckily, Kim pointed us in the direction of perhaps the one book we hadn't read. Just yesterday morning I was reading passages to Katie aloud and she'd be all like "Ew...mucous plug" and in a matter of hours, there it was. Mucous plug.
Anyway, rewind past mucous plug.
We were lounging about on her living room floor, reading through this book when she abruptly sent me home. "I'm going to take a nap," she said "so you go home and have sex with your husband, and then meet me back here at noon."
It was a good plan, in theory. But when I got home, Jason was sitting in the car in the driveway, headlights pointed toward the road. It was Time.
He wanted to drive us to the hospital, of course, but we had planned to labour at her house for the first little while. I clipped her toenails, gave her a massage, ran her a bath which she then refused to get into, then cried about refusing it, then as soon as I'd drained it, wanted in again, so we refilled, and I washed her back.
We still got to the hospital in plenty of time, so we paced the halls of the hospital in the matching hideous pink slippers I'd bought as a joke, but she insisted on wearing. It was apparently 11 hours from arriving at the hospital to the baby's arrival, but they flew by. I have no idea where they went. I mean, there was a lot of screaming, a lot of breathing, and a lot of tears (most of them mine).
It was amazing. I remember when the nurse was first hooking her up to one of the monitoring machines, I was like "Holy crap, your belly moves with each contraction!" and Katie looked down and was like "Holy crap!" and the nurse smirked at us like we were idiots because we hadn't spent our lives witnessing births 5 days a week. I don't know if it was the same nurse I kept having a problem with, but boy did I have a problem. When the nurse caught me giving sips to Katie out of a can of vanilla cherry diet Dr. Pepper, she scowled and said "Only ice chips!" and in my infinite wisdom, I yelled "Fuck you, she's thirsty."
Around stirrup time, things got messy. They got wet, wetter than I could have imagined, and chunkier than I had anticipated (thank god I was only wearing the ugly slippers). The doctor was up to her elbows in my friend's kooch, but I doubt if Katie even noticed because she insisted on being entertained over and over with my excellent rendition of the Carlton dance which I normally never do until I've had 3 bottles of tequila, but boy did this woman know how to take advantage of giving birth. She had me wiping the sweat from under her breasts, checking periodically if she'd accidentally pooped (this was a grave concern of hers...until she completely forgot about it halfway through because she had more important things to obsess about).
Then the doctor told her it was time to push. I yelled "Already!?!?" at the very same time that Katie yelled "Finally!!". I placed her knee ever so gently up around her ear, and covered her face with kisses. I breathed, she breathed, the nurse told her to "pretend you're taking a really big dump" and Katie's private parts turned inside out. Well, maybe not literally. But they sure looked that way, and judging by the grunting, it felt that way too. It was more pink and less bloody than I'd thought. And then, there was hair. Lots and lots of hair. I could have sworn she was giving birth to Ernie. But then the hair suddenly had a face; the most angelic face I've ever seen and I was hypnotized by it. It was all pinched and smeared, but it was beautiful...and big. And that's when I remembered that this baby was being squeezed through my best friend's vagina (poor Katie, she used to think tampons were uncomfortable) and that I would have a lifetime for getting to know baby Ernie, but this moment was still about Katie.
I was holding a mirror between her legs and was rocking out to Switchfoot when the baby finally popped out - I mean, hours of work, and then baby just flung itself out with this weird plopping noise, and then there were cries in the air, and relief, and a weird smell, and a lot of sweat. Katie was lying there, exhausted, naked except for the SpongeBob socks on her feet and the newborn baby squirming on her empty tummy, and she somehow managed to look happy, just infinitely happy.
Baby weighs in at 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches, with a shock of almost-black hair and these perfect tiny finger nails that make me cry. Her name is Janie Lee, after me (Katie calls me Janie because Jason's cursive is so bad, he always spells my name Janie...actually, he spells it Fanie because he can't make a cursive J either, but Janie is a much better name, I'm sure you agree). Already Janie is the luckiest little girl alive because her Mommy cares so much for her - Katie is so enthralled she asked me to put off calling her parents so she can enjoy some more alone time.
So that's where I've left them, three floors above me as I write this shakily in the hospital cafeteria (why do hospitals always serve cream soups? does anyone eat them?). I still can't wrap my mind around what I just saw, and I'm sure I haven't described it very adequately, but for once, words just completely fail me.
Janie, you made an awesome entrance.
Yes, it was a baby we were expecting, just not mine, although I don't think I could have been any more nervous or excited had she been growing in my belly these past nine months.
When Katie first told me she was pregnant, I was shocked. Katie is single, and plans on staying that way. She had sex with a guy in her office (they are "just friends") exactly once, but as they tell you in health class, that's all it takes.
She told the father but he's not "into that" right now, which is fine by her. However, this meant that the position of father was open and to my astonishment, she had already cast me in the role.
Fast-forward three months and I'm listening to the rapid heart beat of a tiny human being while holding Katie's sweaty hand. I have spent months rubbing balm on her stretch marks, washing her hair, making 18 loaves worth of peanut butter sandwiches, but it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago when I was happily grooming her twat that I realized our friendship had entered a whole different level.
I have had 8 months to prepare for this day, and I can tell you now that I was soooo not prepared. I mean, we went to those child-birthing classes at the hospital where they teach you lamaze...and all it did was make my cheeks hurt. Not so much from the breathing, but from laughing out our blue-haired instructor who I'm pretty sure was one of those perpetual virgins who frowned on my being there but insisted on calling me the Father anyway. And we read books. Boy did we read books, and they all had phrases like "Birth is beautiful", which is not at all helpful, and painted tablets of rosy-cheeked young women lounging on their hospital beds, which turned out to be so far from truth I could just barf in outrage. Luckily, Kim pointed us in the direction of perhaps the one book we hadn't read. Just yesterday morning I was reading passages to Katie aloud and she'd be all like "Ew...mucous plug" and in a matter of hours, there it was. Mucous plug.
Anyway, rewind past mucous plug.
We were lounging about on her living room floor, reading through this book when she abruptly sent me home. "I'm going to take a nap," she said "so you go home and have sex with your husband, and then meet me back here at noon."
It was a good plan, in theory. But when I got home, Jason was sitting in the car in the driveway, headlights pointed toward the road. It was Time.
He wanted to drive us to the hospital, of course, but we had planned to labour at her house for the first little while. I clipped her toenails, gave her a massage, ran her a bath which she then refused to get into, then cried about refusing it, then as soon as I'd drained it, wanted in again, so we refilled, and I washed her back.
We still got to the hospital in plenty of time, so we paced the halls of the hospital in the matching hideous pink slippers I'd bought as a joke, but she insisted on wearing. It was apparently 11 hours from arriving at the hospital to the baby's arrival, but they flew by. I have no idea where they went. I mean, there was a lot of screaming, a lot of breathing, and a lot of tears (most of them mine).
It was amazing. I remember when the nurse was first hooking her up to one of the monitoring machines, I was like "Holy crap, your belly moves with each contraction!" and Katie looked down and was like "Holy crap!" and the nurse smirked at us like we were idiots because we hadn't spent our lives witnessing births 5 days a week. I don't know if it was the same nurse I kept having a problem with, but boy did I have a problem. When the nurse caught me giving sips to Katie out of a can of vanilla cherry diet Dr. Pepper, she scowled and said "Only ice chips!" and in my infinite wisdom, I yelled "Fuck you, she's thirsty."
Around stirrup time, things got messy. They got wet, wetter than I could have imagined, and chunkier than I had anticipated (thank god I was only wearing the ugly slippers). The doctor was up to her elbows in my friend's kooch, but I doubt if Katie even noticed because she insisted on being entertained over and over with my excellent rendition of the Carlton dance which I normally never do until I've had 3 bottles of tequila, but boy did this woman know how to take advantage of giving birth. She had me wiping the sweat from under her breasts, checking periodically if she'd accidentally pooped (this was a grave concern of hers...until she completely forgot about it halfway through because she had more important things to obsess about).
Then the doctor told her it was time to push. I yelled "Already!?!?" at the very same time that Katie yelled "Finally!!". I placed her knee ever so gently up around her ear, and covered her face with kisses. I breathed, she breathed, the nurse told her to "pretend you're taking a really big dump" and Katie's private parts turned inside out. Well, maybe not literally. But they sure looked that way, and judging by the grunting, it felt that way too. It was more pink and less bloody than I'd thought. And then, there was hair. Lots and lots of hair. I could have sworn she was giving birth to Ernie. But then the hair suddenly had a face; the most angelic face I've ever seen and I was hypnotized by it. It was all pinched and smeared, but it was beautiful...and big. And that's when I remembered that this baby was being squeezed through my best friend's vagina (poor Katie, she used to think tampons were uncomfortable) and that I would have a lifetime for getting to know baby Ernie, but this moment was still about Katie.
I was holding a mirror between her legs and was rocking out to Switchfoot when the baby finally popped out - I mean, hours of work, and then baby just flung itself out with this weird plopping noise, and then there were cries in the air, and relief, and a weird smell, and a lot of sweat. Katie was lying there, exhausted, naked except for the SpongeBob socks on her feet and the newborn baby squirming on her empty tummy, and she somehow managed to look happy, just infinitely happy.
Baby weighs in at 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches, with a shock of almost-black hair and these perfect tiny finger nails that make me cry. Her name is Janie Lee, after me (Katie calls me Janie because Jason's cursive is so bad, he always spells my name Janie...actually, he spells it Fanie because he can't make a cursive J either, but Janie is a much better name, I'm sure you agree). Already Janie is the luckiest little girl alive because her Mommy cares so much for her - Katie is so enthralled she asked me to put off calling her parents so she can enjoy some more alone time.
So that's where I've left them, three floors above me as I write this shakily in the hospital cafeteria (why do hospitals always serve cream soups? does anyone eat them?). I still can't wrap my mind around what I just saw, and I'm sure I haven't described it very adequately, but for once, words just completely fail me.
Janie, you made an awesome entrance.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Tittie Love
Picture this:
Cute blonde, her face redder than any face should be.
Heel, toe, heel, toe, her feet pound the pavement in an almost-rhythm.
There are 2 things keeping her from dying: water and WHAM.
This is what she calls "running" though few would recognize it as such.
There are two reasons in this world why such a girl would be running, and since there is no big hairy monster chasing her with, she must be Running For The Cure.
That's right. Impossible as it may seem, I will be running in support of the Breast Cancer Foundation, and I would really appreciate your support. We all love boobs, and the ladies attached to them. I love them so much that I'm willing to completely humiliate myself in public by "running like a girl" with a paper number pinned to my chest, so I'm thinking the least you could do is donate a few dollars.
You with me?
Because honestly, it really would mean a lot to me. And it would mean more than a lot to 22 000 Canadian women about to be diagnosed with breast cancer this year.
To go the extra mile, I offer you this:
No matter which way you've chosen, please send me an accompanying email to identify yourself because I do plan on expressing inappropriate amounts of thankfulness for every dollar raised.
Now, the donating part is easy (I'm sponsoring Jason). The running part scares me. I mean, you remember how sucky I am at running, right? So it would be a big help if you'd leave some sort of encouraging message like "it probably only feels like you're dying" and "blisters look cute on you".
And I promise you that if nothing else, there will be a very entertaining post about my attempt at running on October 1st, if I live to write about it.
Thank you in advance.
Cute blonde, her face redder than any face should be.
Heel, toe, heel, toe, her feet pound the pavement in an almost-rhythm.
There are 2 things keeping her from dying: water and WHAM.
This is what she calls "running" though few would recognize it as such.
There are two reasons in this world why such a girl would be running, and since there is no big hairy monster chasing her with, she must be Running For The Cure.
That's right. Impossible as it may seem, I will be running in support of the Breast Cancer Foundation, and I would really appreciate your support. We all love boobs, and the ladies attached to them. I love them so much that I'm willing to completely humiliate myself in public by "running like a girl" with a paper number pinned to my chest, so I'm thinking the least you could do is donate a few dollars.
You with me?
Because honestly, it really would mean a lot to me. And it would mean more than a lot to 22 000 Canadian women about to be diagnosed with breast cancer this year.
To go the extra mile, I offer you this:
No matter which way you've chosen, please send me an accompanying email to identify yourself because I do plan on expressing inappropriate amounts of thankfulness for every dollar raised.
Now, the donating part is easy (I'm sponsoring Jason). The running part scares me. I mean, you remember how sucky I am at running, right? So it would be a big help if you'd leave some sort of encouraging message like "it probably only feels like you're dying" and "blisters look cute on you".
And I promise you that if nothing else, there will be a very entertaining post about my attempt at running on October 1st, if I live to write about it.
Thank you in advance.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
I Like This Title
I like these pj bottoms. They have a neat ribbon on them. It is light blue. I keep wrapping it around my finger, making a tiny little maypole just for me.
I like Six Feet Under. How come nobody told me about this show when it was actually on TV? I like the feel of earth in my hands, of sand in my toes, but when I die, I will be burned.
I like getting packages from Amazon. I like slicing into the packing tape with household objects that are usually too blunt or dull to do the job well. I like breaking the cardboard and having interesting things in my recycle bin.
I like my crooked teeth. I like the pattern they leave when I bite into soft cheese.
I like pink highlighters more than yellow. I like the barcodes on the shafts of highlighters. They are sexy.
I like perforated things. I like the word perforated. When I was in grade 2, our math books were perforated. When we finished a page, we tore it out to give to teacher. There was such satisfaction in tearing along that dotted line, such accomplishment. I liked the bits of paper left behind from the torn pages, a mark of progress. I liked the zzzzzzp sound of tearing them out.
I like Six Feet Under. How come nobody told me about this show when it was actually on TV? I like the feel of earth in my hands, of sand in my toes, but when I die, I will be burned.
I like getting packages from Amazon. I like slicing into the packing tape with household objects that are usually too blunt or dull to do the job well. I like breaking the cardboard and having interesting things in my recycle bin.
I like my crooked teeth. I like the pattern they leave when I bite into soft cheese.
I like pink highlighters more than yellow. I like the barcodes on the shafts of highlighters. They are sexy.
I like perforated things. I like the word perforated. When I was in grade 2, our math books were perforated. When we finished a page, we tore it out to give to teacher. There was such satisfaction in tearing along that dotted line, such accomplishment. I liked the bits of paper left behind from the torn pages, a mark of progress. I liked the zzzzzzp sound of tearing them out.
Monday, September 11, 2006
September 11th - Where Were You?
On September 11th, 2001, I was under the impression that it was just a regular day.
I woke up early, made the bed, took a shower.
It must have been just shortly before 9 when the phone rang. As I picked up, I hoped that it was my work calling, to tell me to stay home. Instead, it was a friend, who said simply "Turn on CNN."
I remember standing barefoot on the scarred hardwood flooring, too transfixed by what I was watching even to sit down. We were watching live when the second plane hit. The world was sickened by what it saw, but none of us could look away.
I hated walking Jason to work, I hated to be separated. But on that day, everyone was thinking similarly. The city of Ottawa was slowly closing down.
Jason arrived at work just to send his employees home; the Mackenzie King Bridge where the Rideau Centre is located is also home to the National Defense Head Quarters, and they were taking no chances.
I was so relieved to have Jason back that we both refused to think about my own work on Parliament Hill. It had always been high-security, obviously, with the usual bomb threats and protests taking place. But after 9/11 it was a very different place. First of all, it was quiet. Restriction was limited; every car undercarriage was scrupulously searched with mirrors, every person passed through metal detectors, RCMP presence doubled. And the tourists stayed away. For a while, they stayed away from Ottawa, our lovely capital city, in general. The malls were empty, the hotels were vacant. The halls of Parliament were subdued, but not just because of a lack of tourists.
What we lacked in tourists, we made up for in panic. I remember on our first day back, low flying planes kept all of us in nervous anticipation. We all had an eye on an emergency exit, we were prepared to dive under a desk at any moment. Only later did we find out these planes were involved in a search & rescue mission in the river behind our building, although I'm not certain that this explanation would have done much to calm our fears at the time. None of us were at our most rational.
Every day we had to walk through throngs of hundreds, thousands of people, living, breathing memorials to our fallen brothers and sisters. We had to pick our way through a path strewn with flowers and remembrances just to get to work. None of us could forget, and none of us were permitted to. We worked where people came to remember.
When John Ashcroft came to sign the pact, I sold him the pens, the pens that he told me were "about to being pieces of history." He thought I should be impressed. Mostly, I was sad.
And then the anthrax scares started, and didn't stop. Every package we received was suspicious, every envelope I opened brought me close to tears. Almost daily, it seemed, someone was removed from the building, crying, screaming, to be stripped and bathed in the special showers installed out back. Parliament received so many of these scares that we lost our lunch room to it - a brand new anthrax office was born. White powder was our new enemy. We were sent home with fridge magnets with emergency instructions printed on them. We were fighting our enemy with fridge magnets.
I wanted very badly to quit.
And that's what I remember. We all remember.
Where were you?
I woke up early, made the bed, took a shower.
It must have been just shortly before 9 when the phone rang. As I picked up, I hoped that it was my work calling, to tell me to stay home. Instead, it was a friend, who said simply "Turn on CNN."
I remember standing barefoot on the scarred hardwood flooring, too transfixed by what I was watching even to sit down. We were watching live when the second plane hit. The world was sickened by what it saw, but none of us could look away.
I hated walking Jason to work, I hated to be separated. But on that day, everyone was thinking similarly. The city of Ottawa was slowly closing down.
Jason arrived at work just to send his employees home; the Mackenzie King Bridge where the Rideau Centre is located is also home to the National Defense Head Quarters, and they were taking no chances.
I was so relieved to have Jason back that we both refused to think about my own work on Parliament Hill. It had always been high-security, obviously, with the usual bomb threats and protests taking place. But after 9/11 it was a very different place. First of all, it was quiet. Restriction was limited; every car undercarriage was scrupulously searched with mirrors, every person passed through metal detectors, RCMP presence doubled. And the tourists stayed away. For a while, they stayed away from Ottawa, our lovely capital city, in general. The malls were empty, the hotels were vacant. The halls of Parliament were subdued, but not just because of a lack of tourists.
What we lacked in tourists, we made up for in panic. I remember on our first day back, low flying planes kept all of us in nervous anticipation. We all had an eye on an emergency exit, we were prepared to dive under a desk at any moment. Only later did we find out these planes were involved in a search & rescue mission in the river behind our building, although I'm not certain that this explanation would have done much to calm our fears at the time. None of us were at our most rational.
Every day we had to walk through throngs of hundreds, thousands of people, living, breathing memorials to our fallen brothers and sisters. We had to pick our way through a path strewn with flowers and remembrances just to get to work. None of us could forget, and none of us were permitted to. We worked where people came to remember.
When John Ashcroft came to sign the pact, I sold him the pens, the pens that he told me were "about to being pieces of history." He thought I should be impressed. Mostly, I was sad.
And then the anthrax scares started, and didn't stop. Every package we received was suspicious, every envelope I opened brought me close to tears. Almost daily, it seemed, someone was removed from the building, crying, screaming, to be stripped and bathed in the special showers installed out back. Parliament received so many of these scares that we lost our lunch room to it - a brand new anthrax office was born. White powder was our new enemy. We were sent home with fridge magnets with emergency instructions printed on them. We were fighting our enemy with fridge magnets.
I wanted very badly to quit.
And that's what I remember. We all remember.
Where were you?
Friday, September 08, 2006
Driving Miss Jamie
On the morning of my 16th birthday, I was up with the birds (you know, at the crack of dawn...or before noon...at any rate, early).
I tousled my short reddish hair, arranged my bangs ever so attractively across my forehead, put on a pair of cutoff shorts and a red and black striped t-shirt that I'd pilfered from a friend who was going to throw it away. I can only assume that at some point I looked into a mirror, at my un-shaped man eyebrows, my crooked tortoise-shell glasses, my pale complexion unaided by even so much as lip gloss, and thought, whew, I look good.
It's been nearly a decade since that image was captured forever on my fabulous Ontario driver's licence; years of cringing each and every time I've had to hand it over for I.D. Even just a year or two after it was taken, I often contemplated leaving the liquor unbought if someone were to card me. I've made a lot of money off my licence: time and time again, I have won the coveted 'Worst Photo Ever' award, and collected on many bets. Usually a flash of this photo garners me pity, sometimes laughter. At best, someone will refuse to believe that the picture can possibly be of me. Oh, how I wish that were true, but alas, it's authentic.
Just think how you would feel if the only form of photo I.D. you carry is a relic from your "what was I thinking?" days of high school.
It's been painful, excrutiating at times, but it persists.
Why?
Because I don't drive.
And they won't update the photo just for the sake of vanity.
It's a sad state of affairs, really, especially considering how hard my licence was to come by in the first place.
Oh, my mother was all too happy to bring me to the office the day I turned 16, she watched me take the written test, watched me have the Worst Photo Ever taken, even gave me a small box as a gift that contained a red corvette-shaped keychain with a gleaming car key attached...the key to her rusty old Ford minivan.
And that's where it stopped.
She would never take me out for lessons. She never let me drive, not even around the neighbourhood, not even in a parking lot, not even to the end of our driveway. Never.
So I sat through the embarrassments of driver's education. My grandmother would pick me up after school, with some cookies in an old prescription paper sack, and some lemonade in a mason jar for refreshment. I sat through the theory and then nervously got behind the wheel of the instructor's car, week after week being berated for not practicing enough (I never corrected the instructor, but actually, I wasn't practicing at all). I drained my bank account, 16 years worth of babysitting, lawn mowing and birthday money, to pay for driver's ed. But I never did get to practice.
But then one day, something astonishing happened. It was my father who offered me the wheel.
Maybe if I had stopped to think about it, I would have remembered that I hated my father, that his temper was non-existent, and that he was the last person on the face of the earth for the job. But I was excited, my first real drive! I ran inside to get my purse (the one I had begun carrying 6 months before just for such an occasion - as of yet, it contained only my license and a pack of gum, the gum being just for show, really) and then I performed my pre-drive safety check, kicked the tired, adjusted the mirrors, slid the seat up so that I could almost see over the dashboard, and like a brilliant flash of light (the kind of light that travels at no more than 25 km/hr), we were off!
Looking back, it seems inevitable that the soundtrack to this 6 minute drive would not be the poppy 90s music on the radio, but my father's screams. I remember being proud of how smoothly I handled the road, just as my instructor had shown me, and how my father found fault in it just the same. How could I have possibly expected any less?
Six minutes in, the screaming, the punches to the arm, the grabbing the wheel from my hands, it got to me. I still remember the exact spot where I pulled over, and my father yelled at me for that, too. He screamed for me to continue, but I got out. In the growing dusk, I cried as other cars zoomed by, flashes of pitying faces as my father yelled at me from the curb. I remember thinking I hate driving.
My father eventually got back in the car and finished the drive to grandma's house.
I walked.
And I gave up driving altogether.
I was the only 16 year old in my rural community without the hallowed permit. I pretended not to care.
In the next months, my mother finally admitted that my father was an asshole, and she left him. Thank god.
And she began to realize that perhaps if there was a second driver in the family - say, me - then she wouldn't have to get up before the sun to drive one sister to work, and another to hockey, and another to a sleepover, then pick the first one up from work, bring her to the mall, get the second from hockey, and bring her to the library...and so on. So she encouraged me to make an appointment to take the driving test.
And I did.
The date of my test got closer and closer, and I hadn't driven in over a year. I pointed this out to my mother, and she would only shrug. She never did take me out driving, not once.
The morning of my driving test, I was shaking, probably less with anxiety and more with fear - real fear of revisiting the screaming scene I had tried my best to forget. It was a friend who came to my rescue that morning, a dear friend, who cut school to give me an illegal driving lesson in the 20 minutes I had before my test.
It was thanks to her, and only her, that I passed.
I was 18.
I remember walking in late to my third period class that day - Mrs McM's history, I think - and the class applauding my late-blooming success.
But I always hated driving, and did so only when absolutely necessary.
A year and a half later, I moved to downtown Ottawa where I very happily gave up driving, and let my licence expire.
I am a non-driver, and embarrassing I.D. aside, it hasn't bothered me much.
But in the near future, Jason and I will no longer be living together. With him goes the car, and his licence. With him goes my mobility.
Like it or not, I may soon have to get back behind the wheel of a car. And it's not going to be easy.
In Ontario, we have what is called 'graduated licencing', conveniently implemented like, 30 seconds before I turned 16. It means there are actually 3 steps (and 3 long waiting periods) before becoming a "full" driver - not to mention 2 written and 2 driving tests to be passed, and paid for.
During the first phase, I can only drive when an "adult" is in the car with me, and I can't drive at night, or on any highways (hello, I live in Toronto! I can't really back out of my driveway without hitting a highway). If I was a shaky, hesitant driver before, I doubt that 10 years of being a passenger and pedestrian has made me any better.
But I just keep telling myself that if it means a new picture, then it will all be worth it. Right? Right?
Oh, and also: I need to learn to parallel park. Any takers?
I tousled my short reddish hair, arranged my bangs ever so attractively across my forehead, put on a pair of cutoff shorts and a red and black striped t-shirt that I'd pilfered from a friend who was going to throw it away. I can only assume that at some point I looked into a mirror, at my un-shaped man eyebrows, my crooked tortoise-shell glasses, my pale complexion unaided by even so much as lip gloss, and thought, whew, I look good.
It's been nearly a decade since that image was captured forever on my fabulous Ontario driver's licence; years of cringing each and every time I've had to hand it over for I.D. Even just a year or two after it was taken, I often contemplated leaving the liquor unbought if someone were to card me. I've made a lot of money off my licence: time and time again, I have won the coveted 'Worst Photo Ever' award, and collected on many bets. Usually a flash of this photo garners me pity, sometimes laughter. At best, someone will refuse to believe that the picture can possibly be of me. Oh, how I wish that were true, but alas, it's authentic.
Just think how you would feel if the only form of photo I.D. you carry is a relic from your "what was I thinking?" days of high school.
It's been painful, excrutiating at times, but it persists.
Why?
Because I don't drive.
And they won't update the photo just for the sake of vanity.
It's a sad state of affairs, really, especially considering how hard my licence was to come by in the first place.
Oh, my mother was all too happy to bring me to the office the day I turned 16, she watched me take the written test, watched me have the Worst Photo Ever taken, even gave me a small box as a gift that contained a red corvette-shaped keychain with a gleaming car key attached...the key to her rusty old Ford minivan.
And that's where it stopped.
She would never take me out for lessons. She never let me drive, not even around the neighbourhood, not even in a parking lot, not even to the end of our driveway. Never.
So I sat through the embarrassments of driver's education. My grandmother would pick me up after school, with some cookies in an old prescription paper sack, and some lemonade in a mason jar for refreshment. I sat through the theory and then nervously got behind the wheel of the instructor's car, week after week being berated for not practicing enough (I never corrected the instructor, but actually, I wasn't practicing at all). I drained my bank account, 16 years worth of babysitting, lawn mowing and birthday money, to pay for driver's ed. But I never did get to practice.
But then one day, something astonishing happened. It was my father who offered me the wheel.
Maybe if I had stopped to think about it, I would have remembered that I hated my father, that his temper was non-existent, and that he was the last person on the face of the earth for the job. But I was excited, my first real drive! I ran inside to get my purse (the one I had begun carrying 6 months before just for such an occasion - as of yet, it contained only my license and a pack of gum, the gum being just for show, really) and then I performed my pre-drive safety check, kicked the tired, adjusted the mirrors, slid the seat up so that I could almost see over the dashboard, and like a brilliant flash of light (the kind of light that travels at no more than 25 km/hr), we were off!
Looking back, it seems inevitable that the soundtrack to this 6 minute drive would not be the poppy 90s music on the radio, but my father's screams. I remember being proud of how smoothly I handled the road, just as my instructor had shown me, and how my father found fault in it just the same. How could I have possibly expected any less?
Six minutes in, the screaming, the punches to the arm, the grabbing the wheel from my hands, it got to me. I still remember the exact spot where I pulled over, and my father yelled at me for that, too. He screamed for me to continue, but I got out. In the growing dusk, I cried as other cars zoomed by, flashes of pitying faces as my father yelled at me from the curb. I remember thinking I hate driving.
My father eventually got back in the car and finished the drive to grandma's house.
I walked.
And I gave up driving altogether.
I was the only 16 year old in my rural community without the hallowed permit. I pretended not to care.
In the next months, my mother finally admitted that my father was an asshole, and she left him. Thank god.
And she began to realize that perhaps if there was a second driver in the family - say, me - then she wouldn't have to get up before the sun to drive one sister to work, and another to hockey, and another to a sleepover, then pick the first one up from work, bring her to the mall, get the second from hockey, and bring her to the library...and so on. So she encouraged me to make an appointment to take the driving test.
And I did.
The date of my test got closer and closer, and I hadn't driven in over a year. I pointed this out to my mother, and she would only shrug. She never did take me out driving, not once.
The morning of my driving test, I was shaking, probably less with anxiety and more with fear - real fear of revisiting the screaming scene I had tried my best to forget. It was a friend who came to my rescue that morning, a dear friend, who cut school to give me an illegal driving lesson in the 20 minutes I had before my test.
It was thanks to her, and only her, that I passed.
I was 18.
I remember walking in late to my third period class that day - Mrs McM's history, I think - and the class applauding my late-blooming success.
But I always hated driving, and did so only when absolutely necessary.
A year and a half later, I moved to downtown Ottawa where I very happily gave up driving, and let my licence expire.
I am a non-driver, and embarrassing I.D. aside, it hasn't bothered me much.
But in the near future, Jason and I will no longer be living together. With him goes the car, and his licence. With him goes my mobility.
Like it or not, I may soon have to get back behind the wheel of a car. And it's not going to be easy.
In Ontario, we have what is called 'graduated licencing', conveniently implemented like, 30 seconds before I turned 16. It means there are actually 3 steps (and 3 long waiting periods) before becoming a "full" driver - not to mention 2 written and 2 driving tests to be passed, and paid for.
During the first phase, I can only drive when an "adult" is in the car with me, and I can't drive at night, or on any highways (hello, I live in Toronto! I can't really back out of my driveway without hitting a highway). If I was a shaky, hesitant driver before, I doubt that 10 years of being a passenger and pedestrian has made me any better.
But I just keep telling myself that if it means a new picture, then it will all be worth it. Right? Right?
Oh, and also: I need to learn to parallel park. Any takers?
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Expecting.
One of the most beautiful things that I have seen and probably will ever see in my life is the adoptive process. I've had the privilege of seeing 3 babies adopted into families thus far, and every time my heart has been on the verge of imploding from sheer gladness.
My first time, I was volunteering at Children's Aid. I monitored parental visits, which is as sad and heartbreaking as it sounds. Kids are pretty amazing creatures; no matter how often their parents shit on them, they remain optimistic that next time will be different. That for 30 minutes every 2 weeks, mom or dad will love them. So of course it killed me to have to send mom or dad home when they showed up to visitation high, or drunk, or both. It killed me because the kid would assure me that next time mom or dad would show up with a toy, or some cookies, or at the very least...just show up. Unfortunately, a little more than half the time, they didn't show up at all.
It's hard when you study psychology, because you go in thinking you'll listen to some neurotic housewife and then charge her $120 an hour, but about half a semester in, you realize there are a lot more people in the world that need help, and most of them won't make it in to your plush office downtown. When you've spent some quality time in the gritty visitation room at Children's Aid, you begin to realize how much you are needed elsewhere, and that your heart will bear the burden of other people's pain for the rest of your life.
This is the kind of job that can get to you. I probably don't need to tell you how many times I was punched and slapped (and not by the kids, mind you)...but you may be surprised to know how many times I received a blow to the head from a snow boot, for example. And I'd still rather take blows to the head than give a deposition in court, or tell a kid that he can only take one toy to his new foster parent's home, or that his mother has disappeared, and he probably won't see her ever again.
If you were getting paid, you'd probably quit. But you're volunteering because they need you, because it's a shitty difference you're making, but at least it's a difference. So you go, and you see horrible things, and they keep you up at night.
And eventually you earn a "reward". Now, I've had some rewards before. I was always fond of the big cash ones myself. But no reward comes close to the way they reward you at Children's Aid: the chance to participate in an adoption story.
I think adoption is the single most emotional thing a person can go through. Some adoptive parents wait for long and painful years to find their baby, others receive a phone call and it seems to happen in a heartbeat. Either way, they're never prepared the way someone who has had a steady 9 months is prepared. Biological parents spend 9 months anticipating, bonding, fretting, boasting. Adoptive parents have the entire 9-month rollercoaster ride of an experience handed to them in one moment.
I think that sometimes god can't send you your baby by the most direct route, but that doesn't make it any less your baby. Three times now I have been astounded by the distinct feeling that these parents loved this baby, this virtual stranger, without ever setting eyes on her. Like the baby had been part of them all along. Like I was witnessing a family reunion rather than a first meeting.
As soon as the baby is placed in her mother's arms, the room is thick with joy, relief, love. Thick, like it compresses your chest a bit just to be around it.
The first adoptive mother I worked with, Joanne, was near fainting, overcome by the fact that 30 seconds ago she wasn't a mother, and then suddenly she was, and all she wanted was to get home and enjoy her instant family. Her husband Bill kept bursting into tears, already proud of his baby, already itching to introduce his daughter to the world.
The second family was already a large family: mom, dad, 5 kids. The 5 kids were all biological, but this family clearly didn't make that distinction. The youngest, a 3 year old boy, exclaimed upon meeting his new sister that she looked just like him, that he loved her already, that he would gladly share his favourite spaghetti with her any time.
The most recent adoption I witnessed was one I will never forget. When the new parents arrived home with the baby (this one not a newborn, he was 13 months or so), their entire family had gathered and a baby shower was in progress. This was their first child, and the first grand child on either side. The house was packed with relatives, many of them crying, most of them snapping pictures, all of them anxious to meet the latest addition to their family. There was a beautiful cake and gifts piled pretty much floor to ceiling, but the new mom had none of it. She sat in the same chair rocking her son the entire time. Grandmas came in for kisses, dad kept tickling his toes, but mom never gave him up, not once. She spent the next year on maternity leave just basking in him. It took her a long time to believe in her own happiness.
So I've been blessed. I've been part of the greatest moment in someone's life no less than three times. The only prior experience I'd had with adoption was when my mother tried to convince me that I myself had been adopted, or traded, rather, for a bucket of chicken from a Native tribe who sold us gas for cheap back in 80s. And now I'm addicted. Is there any greater high than seeing the ultimate in happiness? I haven't found one yet.
But.
But there's something very exciting brewing in the percolator that is my life.
A small package, you might say.
The arrival date is September 21.
My first time, I was volunteering at Children's Aid. I monitored parental visits, which is as sad and heartbreaking as it sounds. Kids are pretty amazing creatures; no matter how often their parents shit on them, they remain optimistic that next time will be different. That for 30 minutes every 2 weeks, mom or dad will love them. So of course it killed me to have to send mom or dad home when they showed up to visitation high, or drunk, or both. It killed me because the kid would assure me that next time mom or dad would show up with a toy, or some cookies, or at the very least...just show up. Unfortunately, a little more than half the time, they didn't show up at all.
It's hard when you study psychology, because you go in thinking you'll listen to some neurotic housewife and then charge her $120 an hour, but about half a semester in, you realize there are a lot more people in the world that need help, and most of them won't make it in to your plush office downtown. When you've spent some quality time in the gritty visitation room at Children's Aid, you begin to realize how much you are needed elsewhere, and that your heart will bear the burden of other people's pain for the rest of your life.
This is the kind of job that can get to you. I probably don't need to tell you how many times I was punched and slapped (and not by the kids, mind you)...but you may be surprised to know how many times I received a blow to the head from a snow boot, for example. And I'd still rather take blows to the head than give a deposition in court, or tell a kid that he can only take one toy to his new foster parent's home, or that his mother has disappeared, and he probably won't see her ever again.
If you were getting paid, you'd probably quit. But you're volunteering because they need you, because it's a shitty difference you're making, but at least it's a difference. So you go, and you see horrible things, and they keep you up at night.
And eventually you earn a "reward". Now, I've had some rewards before. I was always fond of the big cash ones myself. But no reward comes close to the way they reward you at Children's Aid: the chance to participate in an adoption story.
I think adoption is the single most emotional thing a person can go through. Some adoptive parents wait for long and painful years to find their baby, others receive a phone call and it seems to happen in a heartbeat. Either way, they're never prepared the way someone who has had a steady 9 months is prepared. Biological parents spend 9 months anticipating, bonding, fretting, boasting. Adoptive parents have the entire 9-month rollercoaster ride of an experience handed to them in one moment.
I think that sometimes god can't send you your baby by the most direct route, but that doesn't make it any less your baby. Three times now I have been astounded by the distinct feeling that these parents loved this baby, this virtual stranger, without ever setting eyes on her. Like the baby had been part of them all along. Like I was witnessing a family reunion rather than a first meeting.
As soon as the baby is placed in her mother's arms, the room is thick with joy, relief, love. Thick, like it compresses your chest a bit just to be around it.
The first adoptive mother I worked with, Joanne, was near fainting, overcome by the fact that 30 seconds ago she wasn't a mother, and then suddenly she was, and all she wanted was to get home and enjoy her instant family. Her husband Bill kept bursting into tears, already proud of his baby, already itching to introduce his daughter to the world.
The second family was already a large family: mom, dad, 5 kids. The 5 kids were all biological, but this family clearly didn't make that distinction. The youngest, a 3 year old boy, exclaimed upon meeting his new sister that she looked just like him, that he loved her already, that he would gladly share his favourite spaghetti with her any time.
The most recent adoption I witnessed was one I will never forget. When the new parents arrived home with the baby (this one not a newborn, he was 13 months or so), their entire family had gathered and a baby shower was in progress. This was their first child, and the first grand child on either side. The house was packed with relatives, many of them crying, most of them snapping pictures, all of them anxious to meet the latest addition to their family. There was a beautiful cake and gifts piled pretty much floor to ceiling, but the new mom had none of it. She sat in the same chair rocking her son the entire time. Grandmas came in for kisses, dad kept tickling his toes, but mom never gave him up, not once. She spent the next year on maternity leave just basking in him. It took her a long time to believe in her own happiness.
So I've been blessed. I've been part of the greatest moment in someone's life no less than three times. The only prior experience I'd had with adoption was when my mother tried to convince me that I myself had been adopted, or traded, rather, for a bucket of chicken from a Native tribe who sold us gas for cheap back in 80s. And now I'm addicted. Is there any greater high than seeing the ultimate in happiness? I haven't found one yet.
But.
But there's something very exciting brewing in the percolator that is my life.
A small package, you might say.
The arrival date is September 21.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Gym Etiquette?
Yeah, yeah, we can all agree: the only thing weirder than Jamie and the word 'etiquette' is Jamie and the word 'gym'.
But if you will, grant me the benefit of your doubt for just one moment.
The shocking truth is that I have in fact been pumping some steel lately.
(even though he's currently in a different city, I can hear Jason groaning Iron, Jamie, we're pumping iron)
(parenthetically, he's still wrong...I have not been pumping any metal, nor even an alloy, metalloid or compound...not even an nonferrous metal...the most I've pumped is my hand lotion dispenser, and I'm pretty sure that's a polymer)
But I have been going to the gym.
Oof, I know, I know, it's so not me.
But I've recently been expelled from physical therapy. Which is good because I was starting to feel like one of those 6th graders with mustaches...you know...held back. But now that I've been released, I realize that maybe the 6th grade wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun being the big fish, all the other kids were envious of my peach fuzz.
And it's kind of scary being out on my own, nobody telling me to touch my own toes just one more time, come on you big pussy, just one more time, dammit, you can do it.
Plus, the post-operative Jamie is not the same as pre-op Jamie. I haven't had occasion (or ability) to use certain muscles in a very long time. So now that I've got the big OK, I realize that what used to be muscle now resembles something more likely to be found in a can of chicken noodle soup. Not good.
So I joined Jason's gym. In my defense, I was mostly pressured into joining. Jason's trainer is this big mountain of a man who used to play for the Raptors, apparently (is that basketball? I don't even know)...the point being, the man is huge, and his bigness is very persuasive (by which I mean intimidating...which is an excellent sales tactic, incidentally). So I was coerced (not at gunpoint, mind you, but with the explicit though unspoken understanding that he could crush me like a grape that's been run over by a heard of elephants on amphetamine) into signing my name on the dotted line, promising them that they will be able to take heaping amounts out of my chequing account from now until the day I go cold in my grave.
It's a big commitment, so naturally I showed my serious intent by stopping by a mega sports store to drop some serious cash on some cute new shoes and some gym-worthy clothes. Now, at first I worried that sports stores were like church in that if I was within 100 feet of one, I might spontaneously combust. Not so. In fact, if you have a major credit card, they are happy to see you.
So now when I go to the gym, if I don't quite look like I belong, at least I look like a walking billboard for Nike. I still feel like a damn fraud on the inside though.
It probably doesn't help that on my first day there, I had to read the instructions 3 times before I could figure out how to properly mount the bike. I mean, why do they make these things so complicated anyway? If they made these machines half as easy to use as couches are, I bet a lot more people would join a gym. Instead, I'm fairly sure I look like a complete arse all red-faced, knees knocking, feet pedaling like mad, beads of sweat leaping off me at all angles, me grappling for water, gasping for breath, asking for the love of god...meanwhile thinking, gee, I sure am glad I've paid $50 for this privilege when I could be, say, enjoying a nice, leisurely, stroll around the neighbourhood instead....for free.
But don't worry. It got better from there because, you guessed it, I got a very long, very graphic look at old man penis. Because obviously if you do your stretching right in front of me when I am trapped on this bicycle-of-death, wearing itty bitty shorts that I'm pretty sure aren't even legally sold anywhere so you probably sewed them yourself with like, 2 stitches because that's literally how little material there was...fuck. Of course your old withered junk is going to fall out. It's not like you were wearing underwear. I mean, good for you, old man. I see that though you've gone gray, ahem, down there, it's still thick and luxurious. One might even say...alarmingly abundant. It almost dwarfs your, um, old man appendage, which looks like it's been cured, or pickled, or left out in the sun too long.
Of course I looked away in a hurry.
Of course it's permanently burned onto my retina anyway.
Of course I've had a series of nightmares ever since.
So as if I didn't already look retarded trying not to fall off a bike that's not moving, I now have to do it with my eyes closed. And I just know that all these hard bodies are looking at my soft body and judging me, eating their powersauce bars, flexing their twitchy muscles in the mirror and thinking she doesn't belong.
Of course I don't belong! I'm an artist! I'm a thinker! I'd rather be drinking wine and making jewelry! God, I'd rather be giving pedicures to state prisoners than putting my anti-persperent to the test at the gym!
You think I don't know that I don't belong?
Oh for fuck's sake.
And there's Jason, looking perfect and golden, not even breaking a sweat heading into his 5th mile on the treadmill, and there's Jamie just trying not to meet her maker while jogging for 26 consecutive seconds. Way to show me up, dude.
And I haven't even gotten to the part about the UNSPEAKABLE thing that I saw in the sauna...but that will have to wait until next time. Until then, pray for me. Pray damn hard.
But if you will, grant me the benefit of your doubt for just one moment.
The shocking truth is that I have in fact been pumping some steel lately.
(even though he's currently in a different city, I can hear Jason groaning Iron, Jamie, we're pumping iron)
(parenthetically, he's still wrong...I have not been pumping any metal, nor even an alloy, metalloid or compound...not even an nonferrous metal...the most I've pumped is my hand lotion dispenser, and I'm pretty sure that's a polymer)
But I have been going to the gym.
Oof, I know, I know, it's so not me.
But I've recently been expelled from physical therapy. Which is good because I was starting to feel like one of those 6th graders with mustaches...you know...held back. But now that I've been released, I realize that maybe the 6th grade wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun being the big fish, all the other kids were envious of my peach fuzz.
And it's kind of scary being out on my own, nobody telling me to touch my own toes just one more time, come on you big pussy, just one more time, dammit, you can do it.
Plus, the post-operative Jamie is not the same as pre-op Jamie. I haven't had occasion (or ability) to use certain muscles in a very long time. So now that I've got the big OK, I realize that what used to be muscle now resembles something more likely to be found in a can of chicken noodle soup. Not good.
So I joined Jason's gym. In my defense, I was mostly pressured into joining. Jason's trainer is this big mountain of a man who used to play for the Raptors, apparently (is that basketball? I don't even know)...the point being, the man is huge, and his bigness is very persuasive (by which I mean intimidating...which is an excellent sales tactic, incidentally). So I was coerced (not at gunpoint, mind you, but with the explicit though unspoken understanding that he could crush me like a grape that's been run over by a heard of elephants on amphetamine) into signing my name on the dotted line, promising them that they will be able to take heaping amounts out of my chequing account from now until the day I go cold in my grave.
It's a big commitment, so naturally I showed my serious intent by stopping by a mega sports store to drop some serious cash on some cute new shoes and some gym-worthy clothes. Now, at first I worried that sports stores were like church in that if I was within 100 feet of one, I might spontaneously combust. Not so. In fact, if you have a major credit card, they are happy to see you.
So now when I go to the gym, if I don't quite look like I belong, at least I look like a walking billboard for Nike. I still feel like a damn fraud on the inside though.
It probably doesn't help that on my first day there, I had to read the instructions 3 times before I could figure out how to properly mount the bike. I mean, why do they make these things so complicated anyway? If they made these machines half as easy to use as couches are, I bet a lot more people would join a gym. Instead, I'm fairly sure I look like a complete arse all red-faced, knees knocking, feet pedaling like mad, beads of sweat leaping off me at all angles, me grappling for water, gasping for breath, asking for the love of god...meanwhile thinking, gee, I sure am glad I've paid $50 for this privilege when I could be, say, enjoying a nice, leisurely, stroll around the neighbourhood instead....for free.
But don't worry. It got better from there because, you guessed it, I got a very long, very graphic look at old man penis. Because obviously if you do your stretching right in front of me when I am trapped on this bicycle-of-death, wearing itty bitty shorts that I'm pretty sure aren't even legally sold anywhere so you probably sewed them yourself with like, 2 stitches because that's literally how little material there was...fuck. Of course your old withered junk is going to fall out. It's not like you were wearing underwear. I mean, good for you, old man. I see that though you've gone gray, ahem, down there, it's still thick and luxurious. One might even say...alarmingly abundant. It almost dwarfs your, um, old man appendage, which looks like it's been cured, or pickled, or left out in the sun too long.
Of course I looked away in a hurry.
Of course it's permanently burned onto my retina anyway.
Of course I've had a series of nightmares ever since.
So as if I didn't already look retarded trying not to fall off a bike that's not moving, I now have to do it with my eyes closed. And I just know that all these hard bodies are looking at my soft body and judging me, eating their powersauce bars, flexing their twitchy muscles in the mirror and thinking she doesn't belong.
Of course I don't belong! I'm an artist! I'm a thinker! I'd rather be drinking wine and making jewelry! God, I'd rather be giving pedicures to state prisoners than putting my anti-persperent to the test at the gym!
You think I don't know that I don't belong?
Oh for fuck's sake.
And there's Jason, looking perfect and golden, not even breaking a sweat heading into his 5th mile on the treadmill, and there's Jamie just trying not to meet her maker while jogging for 26 consecutive seconds. Way to show me up, dude.
And I haven't even gotten to the part about the UNSPEAKABLE thing that I saw in the sauna...but that will have to wait until next time. Until then, pray for me. Pray damn hard.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Pillow Talk
Jamie: Wow, you were really good. Like, wow.
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Vacation By Numbers
7: the number of smores consumed by Jamie.
18: number of marshmallows caught on fire by Jamie trying to make above smores.
5: number of perfectly toasted marshmallows dropped in the grass trying to get them from the fire to the graham cracker in order to make the above smores.
2: number of consecutive hours spent reading on the beach, catching some sun.
24: number of times Jason begged Jamie to apply solarcaine to his pink back.
24: number of times Jamie laughed cruelly at Jason.
47: number of times "Ack! I've got sand in my crotch!" was yelled throughout the campsite.
1: number of blue hammer-head shark-shaped shovels we brought with us to the beach. The other was alligator-shaped.
0: number of pails we brought with us to the beach. We did bring 2 planters, thinking they were pails. They mostly got the job done, except for the holes in the bottom.
14: number of children who looked at us enviously as we built our castles in the sand.
54: number of children who smirked at us as we built our castles in the sand.
21: number of times I said "Not now, everyone will hear."
21: number of times we did it anyway.
62: numbers of alcoholic beverages consumed by Jason.
8: number of times alcohol and lighter fluid were somehow combined.
1: number of hammers I broke with my brute strength chopping firewood.
6: times I woke up Jason because I heard strange noises on our site, and worried that we had uninvited guests.
6: times Jason reassured me it was "just the wind" and went back to sleep.
70: dollar amount of groceries stolen from us by raccoons (steak, bacon, cheese, cinnamon toast crunch cereal). Just the wind, eh?
2: number of "funny-tasting" poptarts I ate before identifying the funny taste as citronella.
4: number of poptarts thrown out uneaten after said discovery.
8 billion: number of mosquito bites I scratched until they were scabs, and then I scratched the scabs.
705: times I laughed at Jason's french pronunciation of the word 'fudge' while we were high.
81: number of waves that knocked me over.
79: number of times Jason took advantage of me being knocked over to pull down various parts of my bathing suit.
2: hours at home before we wished we could do it all over again.
More vacation photos here.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Family Reunion
It's been about 7 months now since an innocent visit from my mother-in-law shook us up for good.
Jason grew up an only child. His mother became accidentally pregnant with him when she was 19. She quietly married his father a few months before he was born. She turned 20 3 days before giving birth, and while on the table having her son, she informed the doctor that she would like to have her tubes tied.
She hasn't even met her son yet, she has her whole life in front of her, and yet she knows with certainty that she'll never want another child.
I think it's safe to say that Jason was not terribly wanted.
However, I will attest to the fact that it is impossible not to fall in love with Jason. Even if you resist, he draws you in eventually. His mother was drawn in. She brought him up and loved him, no doubt about it. He may have been a mistake, but she never held it against him.
And then 7 months ago, we had her up for a visit. We brought her to see the sights, we fed her good food, marinated her in good wine, let her have the good bed.....
and then the bomb was dropped.
Jason, it seems, is not an only child at all.
He has a brother.
A brother he never knew about until just 7 months ago.
Jason, always an affable guy, was a good sport about it.
I remember just being stunned over the resemblance.
I mean, you hear about "long lost twins" and "separated at birth" on soap operas, but you never imagine it will happen to you, to your life. Real life.
It's shocking really, but when you see Jason and his brother side by side, there's no denying it. The family resemblance is incredible.
It's been a strange few months. In many ways, life goes on. Not much has changed, on the surface. But we've all been gravatating toward the date in late July that was set for them to meet once again.
Jason grew up an only child. His mother became accidentally pregnant with him when she was 19. She quietly married his father a few months before he was born. She turned 20 3 days before giving birth, and while on the table having her son, she informed the doctor that she would like to have her tubes tied.
She hasn't even met her son yet, she has her whole life in front of her, and yet she knows with certainty that she'll never want another child.
I think it's safe to say that Jason was not terribly wanted.
However, I will attest to the fact that it is impossible not to fall in love with Jason. Even if you resist, he draws you in eventually. His mother was drawn in. She brought him up and loved him, no doubt about it. He may have been a mistake, but she never held it against him.
And then 7 months ago, we had her up for a visit. We brought her to see the sights, we fed her good food, marinated her in good wine, let her have the good bed.....
and then the bomb was dropped.
Jason, it seems, is not an only child at all.
He has a brother.
A brother he never knew about until just 7 months ago.
Jason, always an affable guy, was a good sport about it.
I remember just being stunned over the resemblance.
I mean, you hear about "long lost twins" and "separated at birth" on soap operas, but you never imagine it will happen to you, to your life. Real life.
It's shocking really, but when you see Jason and his brother side by side, there's no denying it. The family resemblance is incredible.
It's been a strange few months. In many ways, life goes on. Not much has changed, on the surface. But we've all been gravatating toward the date in late July that was set for them to meet once again.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Camping without Booze is Just Sleeping Outside.
Camping is not for the feint of heart; it's basically the most work you can do and still call it a vacation. And for some reason, we love it. Truthfully, it's probably the tantalizing mix of cheap booze and lawn chairs that draws me in. For Jason, it's the excuse to play with fire.
I hate to say it, but while you are reading this, I am maxing and relaxing at a campsite somewhere north east of here. Oh yeah. I've probably got a sweaty drink in one hand...it's probably just about to slip out of my grasp because although I've got a book in the other hand, I'm not-so-secretly napping in the sun, burning the one shoulder I forgot to put sunscreen on (don't worry; I got the other one twice). I've got my drink on. I've got my lazy on. I'm probably only moments away from getting my swerve on. Not to make you jealous or anything.
All right, well, if you insist, be a small amount of jealous. Don't drown yourself in it or anything. Just a pinch. I mean, sure, I probably haven't worn actual pants in days. Sure, the only traffic jam I've seen was when my canoe was within 100 meters of some other dude's canoe. Sure I've slept under the stars and breathed fresh air and toasted marshmallows on an open flame.
Like I said: a small amount of jealous.
If it makes you feel any better, they are calling for "extreme" weather this week. Possibly I'm being pelted with hail and blown to and fro (preferably fro) right this very moment. Possibly it's raining, so I'm cuddled up to my husband, reading a good book, sipping some wine, listening to the drops hit the forest floor. Possibly we've taken cover at a cute little ice cream stand or an old fashioned drive-in movie theatre.
But maybe the sun in shining, and I'm floating down a cool river, dreaming that heaven is just like this.
Damn I love vacation.
I hate to say it, but while you are reading this, I am maxing and relaxing at a campsite somewhere north east of here. Oh yeah. I've probably got a sweaty drink in one hand...it's probably just about to slip out of my grasp because although I've got a book in the other hand, I'm not-so-secretly napping in the sun, burning the one shoulder I forgot to put sunscreen on (don't worry; I got the other one twice). I've got my drink on. I've got my lazy on. I'm probably only moments away from getting my swerve on. Not to make you jealous or anything.
All right, well, if you insist, be a small amount of jealous. Don't drown yourself in it or anything. Just a pinch. I mean, sure, I probably haven't worn actual pants in days. Sure, the only traffic jam I've seen was when my canoe was within 100 meters of some other dude's canoe. Sure I've slept under the stars and breathed fresh air and toasted marshmallows on an open flame.
Like I said: a small amount of jealous.
If it makes you feel any better, they are calling for "extreme" weather this week. Possibly I'm being pelted with hail and blown to and fro (preferably fro) right this very moment. Possibly it's raining, so I'm cuddled up to my husband, reading a good book, sipping some wine, listening to the drops hit the forest floor. Possibly we've taken cover at a cute little ice cream stand or an old fashioned drive-in movie theatre.
But maybe the sun in shining, and I'm floating down a cool river, dreaming that heaven is just like this.
Damn I love vacation.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Escort Service
Of the eleventy billion weddings I have to attend this summer, Jason has opted out of one of them.
So I'm looking for a date.
Interested?
That's right - I'm pathetically pimping myself out because I have no friends and my husband doesn't love me.
Or something like that.
My strict requirements:
Bullet Point - Must be a snappy dresser (please, no actual snaps...I'm sort of phobic). I'll be looking fab, no, make that ultrafab, and I wouldn't want you to feel dowdy beside me. Good: fake eyelashes, stilettos, polka-dot pocket squares, italian leather, a classic three-button. Bad: polo shirts, flip flops, loafers.
Bullet Point - Must be able to hold liquor well (in your tummy/bloodstream....the sink does not count). Copious amounts of wine is just about the only way I don't slit my wrists while the third uncle in a row feels the need to tell the room about the cutesy-wutesy thing that the bride used to say back when she was 4 and someone cared, while I eat my obligatory 4 roasted potatoes and 3 baby carrots...and god...don't get me started on the cheesy photo slideshows that are all the rage these days. The point is: we will be drinking. The drinks are on me. I'm very generous. I will drink you under the table. Don't try to compete, just try to keep up.
Bullet Point - Must know first aid. I am deathly allergic to the following: pew bows, flower girls, sugared almonds, and little plastic people often found on the tops of cakes. Also, I am known to choke on my own tongue in the vows involve the word "obey."
Bullet Point - Must be a dancer. Oh, you don't have to be good. You just have to get up. But not for any song by anyone who has ever been a Mouseketeer. During those, we either go to the bathroom to pee out $38 worth of rye, or we sit and scowl at the hairy aunts who are trying to steal flower arrangements out the back door.
My preferences:
Gender: Not fussy; I go both ways. Kill the Goat is an equal-opportunity pimp.
You should nod your head at: The Dandy Warhols; Johnny Cash; Buckcherry; Switchfoot; Hawksley Workman.
You should roll your eyes at: any man who has ever referred to, or spoken to, his biceps; camouflage as a fashion trend; how long I'll fuss with my hair, which won't do anything anyway.
You should be irritated with the following wedding cliches: the monogrammed paper napkins; the weepy spotlight dance; the 16 hours of super-necessary photos of the groom looking stunned and the bride looking tired.
Of course, travel will be necessary.
I will be departing from central Ontario (Union Station, Toronto, to be exact), and traveling eastward. You can either travel with me or meet at the destination, but just know that the hours before noon are not my best. Chocolate milk helps, but, you know, not enough.
So....any takers?
Disclaimer: If you are my friend and are getting married this summer, I obviously am not referring to your wedding.
So I'm looking for a date.
Interested?
That's right - I'm pathetically pimping myself out because I have no friends and my husband doesn't love me.
Or something like that.
My strict requirements:
Bullet Point - Must be a snappy dresser (please, no actual snaps...I'm sort of phobic). I'll be looking fab, no, make that ultrafab, and I wouldn't want you to feel dowdy beside me. Good: fake eyelashes, stilettos, polka-dot pocket squares, italian leather, a classic three-button. Bad: polo shirts, flip flops, loafers.
Bullet Point - Must be able to hold liquor well (in your tummy/bloodstream....the sink does not count). Copious amounts of wine is just about the only way I don't slit my wrists while the third uncle in a row feels the need to tell the room about the cutesy-wutesy thing that the bride used to say back when she was 4 and someone cared, while I eat my obligatory 4 roasted potatoes and 3 baby carrots...and god...don't get me started on the cheesy photo slideshows that are all the rage these days. The point is: we will be drinking. The drinks are on me. I'm very generous. I will drink you under the table. Don't try to compete, just try to keep up.
Bullet Point - Must know first aid. I am deathly allergic to the following: pew bows, flower girls, sugared almonds, and little plastic people often found on the tops of cakes. Also, I am known to choke on my own tongue in the vows involve the word "obey."
Bullet Point - Must be a dancer. Oh, you don't have to be good. You just have to get up. But not for any song by anyone who has ever been a Mouseketeer. During those, we either go to the bathroom to pee out $38 worth of rye, or we sit and scowl at the hairy aunts who are trying to steal flower arrangements out the back door.
My preferences:
Gender: Not fussy; I go both ways. Kill the Goat is an equal-opportunity pimp.
You should nod your head at: The Dandy Warhols; Johnny Cash; Buckcherry; Switchfoot; Hawksley Workman.
You should roll your eyes at: any man who has ever referred to, or spoken to, his biceps; camouflage as a fashion trend; how long I'll fuss with my hair, which won't do anything anyway.
You should be irritated with the following wedding cliches: the monogrammed paper napkins; the weepy spotlight dance; the 16 hours of super-necessary photos of the groom looking stunned and the bride looking tired.
Of course, travel will be necessary.
I will be departing from central Ontario (Union Station, Toronto, to be exact), and traveling eastward. You can either travel with me or meet at the destination, but just know that the hours before noon are not my best. Chocolate milk helps, but, you know, not enough.
So....any takers?
Disclaimer: If you are my friend and are getting married this summer, I obviously am not referring to your wedding.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Deliciously Ambiguous
Do you know what's deliciously ambiguous?
Float days, that's what.
I mean, they're not sick days, or personal days, or vacation days.
So who's to say they're not for...impromptu but totally necessary middle-of-the week getaways to Buffalo?
Or for the opening day of Ribfest. I mean, how often do the best rib-makers in the world visit your city? Well, at least annually, I'll grant you that. And so what if I don't eat ribs? There's other stuff to eat too...if you like large vats of bbq sauce.
And then, for those mornings where you wake up, angry that the alarm has interrupted a very good dream, and decide that 5 more hours isn't overindulgence, it's...well, it's just the right amount of dulgence, that's what it is.
But you have to pay for float days. They're not free:
Indulgent:
Buying 2 complete new wardrobes, mounds of clothes, thousands of dollars.
Price:
Every drawer in the house bulges, threatens to burst its hinges and cause elbow- and knee- related injuries when it does. The closets are stuffed, and every hanger is occupied (some of them doubly). Still, we have a pile of clothes the size of...okay, not Everest. I was going to say Everest, but clearly that would be exaggerating. Truthfully, it's probably only as big as Kilimanjaro.
Indulgent:
Having a milkshake for breakfast.
Price:
Listening to Jason say "Ow, my belly hurts. Why did you let me have a milkshake for breakfast?" all morning long, until he had 2 milkshakes for lunch, and it suddenly cleared up.
Indulgent:
Going for a night time drive, staying out for a couple of hours even though gas is costing us $1.09 per litre and someone supposedly had to work in the morning.
Price:
Listening to Jason sing "Rock Lobster" at least thrice.
Indulgent:
Hosting a little get together at our house, and mixing no less than 97 cocktails.
Price:
Upon mixing the 94th, I decided not to stop until I hit 100. Of course, by 94 no one even possessed the ability to swallow any longer. So I took it upon myself to make up the difference...I got to 97 before I found that my head was somehow mashed into the carpet, and I kinda liked it that way.
Indulgent:
Calling in a float day for Jason once again, with the hazy concept of "day-tripping" on the brain.
Price:
?
I don't know; you tell me. What could possibly go wrong?
Float days, that's what.
I mean, they're not sick days, or personal days, or vacation days.
So who's to say they're not for...impromptu but totally necessary middle-of-the week getaways to Buffalo?
Or for the opening day of Ribfest. I mean, how often do the best rib-makers in the world visit your city? Well, at least annually, I'll grant you that. And so what if I don't eat ribs? There's other stuff to eat too...if you like large vats of bbq sauce.
And then, for those mornings where you wake up, angry that the alarm has interrupted a very good dream, and decide that 5 more hours isn't overindulgence, it's...well, it's just the right amount of dulgence, that's what it is.
But you have to pay for float days. They're not free:
Indulgent:
Buying 2 complete new wardrobes, mounds of clothes, thousands of dollars.
Price:
Every drawer in the house bulges, threatens to burst its hinges and cause elbow- and knee- related injuries when it does. The closets are stuffed, and every hanger is occupied (some of them doubly). Still, we have a pile of clothes the size of...okay, not Everest. I was going to say Everest, but clearly that would be exaggerating. Truthfully, it's probably only as big as Kilimanjaro.
Indulgent:
Having a milkshake for breakfast.
Price:
Listening to Jason say "Ow, my belly hurts. Why did you let me have a milkshake for breakfast?" all morning long, until he had 2 milkshakes for lunch, and it suddenly cleared up.
Indulgent:
Going for a night time drive, staying out for a couple of hours even though gas is costing us $1.09 per litre and someone supposedly had to work in the morning.
Price:
Listening to Jason sing "Rock Lobster" at least thrice.
Indulgent:
Hosting a little get together at our house, and mixing no less than 97 cocktails.
Price:
Upon mixing the 94th, I decided not to stop until I hit 100. Of course, by 94 no one even possessed the ability to swallow any longer. So I took it upon myself to make up the difference...I got to 97 before I found that my head was somehow mashed into the carpet, and I kinda liked it that way.
Indulgent:
Calling in a float day for Jason once again, with the hazy concept of "day-tripping" on the brain.
Price:
?
I don't know; you tell me. What could possibly go wrong?
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Famouser and Famouser
Ever felt like you were being watched?
Like, maybe there was someone lurking in your bushes, rooting through your garbage, taking naked pictures of you with one of those souped-up camera lenses?
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean no one's after you.
In fact, this week, notebook in hand, a member of the blogerati has been surreptitiously following me around, recording just a small smattering of the wildly witty things I said.
Please visit Blog TO, faun over my stunningly accurate profile, and leave me a comment at the bottom...or else the terrorists win.
Like, maybe there was someone lurking in your bushes, rooting through your garbage, taking naked pictures of you with one of those souped-up camera lenses?
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean no one's after you.
In fact, this week, notebook in hand, a member of the blogerati has been surreptitiously following me around, recording just a small smattering of the wildly witty things I said.
Please visit Blog TO, faun over my stunningly accurate profile, and leave me a comment at the bottom...or else the terrorists win.
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