Oh My Juice

Moving On

2010-04-11T12:35:00.003-02:30

Blogger, we need to talk. This isn't working for me. I've found someone else.

What? No. No, it's not like that. Okay, it's a little like that. Oh, for heaven's sake. Stop it. Put the razor down. This isn't Livejournal.

My needs are different now, okay? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am more satisfied elsewhere. It's not me, it's you. No, I know that's not how that phrase goes. See, you're overreacting. This is why we never go anywhere.

Moving elsewhere, folks. You can find me here. Hope to see you there!

Sex and the Single Girl

2010-04-02T00:50:00.005-02:30

The second thing I said when Jamie and I broke up was that I was not even going to consider dating again for at least six months.

(If you're wondering what the first thing was, it's best to leave that to your imagination. Suffice it to say, there was a good bit of profanity and high-pitched invective. Try, if you will, to imagine the dulcet tones of a Tarantino movie being run through a fax machine.)

But yes. The dating again. I admit, nearly three months out, I'm torn on the whole idea.

Picture it in terms of a night at the bar. The rational side of me is the friend that tells you that you've had enough to drink for now, you have work in the morning and you remember the last terrible hangover you had, it was awful, wasn't it, now let's get your coat. The emotional side of me is the friend saying that you can just relax and have fun exactly the way the night is going, no pressure, it's okay to take things easy once in a while, have some mozzarella sticks.

This would be all well and good if it weren't for my libido, the shit-show friend at the bar buying everybody in the room a shot of tequila, god damn it, because we're still YOUNG AND ALIVE WOOOOOOOOOO heeyyy, where'd my bra go?

You see the dilemma. In the end, the shots always start to seem like a good idea.

I recognize that it's not the 1950s anymore and that sex doesn't need to take place inside of a committed relationship. It's certainly not a foreign concept in my own life. (I don't want to say I used to be a bit easy, but my little black book has volumes and a bibliography.) The problem is that I just don't get the gratification from no-strings-attached flings like I used to. It just seems like so much effort to shave my legs and pull out the A-game for someone I couldn't see hanging out with afterwards and ragging on terrible reality television over beer. At the very least, I'd like a good-humoured fist bump after on a job well done.

I guess that's the part that gives me away right there. It's not just the sex I miss, it's the feeling of connection, however fleeting it might be. You know the feeling I mean, the one in that moment right where being naked stops being awkward and funny and starts becoming something else altogether; when even if it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe or your life or even your week, it means something right in that instant.

It's probably another tell-tale sign that I'm getting older when even my vagina is starting to go sentimental on me. I guess the Cuervo can be put on hold for another little while.

The First Day

2010-01-12T10:23:00.002-03:30

The first day of the rest of your life doesn't come the way you expected, with rings and champagne and lace. Instead, it comes with packing a bag and leaving in a haze, looking back at the home you've made together and wondering why every brick isn't falling out one by one.

It doesn't even matter why at this point. Reasons don't change reality and the fact that you can never go back. Oh sure, you've broken up before, but always in that childish way where you don't ever really separate because you're together as much in your fighting as you are in your laughter. This time there's a snap of cold finality to it, the separation of assets and finding a home for your beloved dog. To do this, you must really mean it. And you do.

Your resolve shocks even you.

***

Friends come out of the woodwork to comfort you and ask what happened, to offer couches and shoulders and wine, for which you are so grateful you can't even express it. Everyone talks about how much better off you are, and how it would have been so much worse with kids, and how they never really liked him that much anyway. It's all well-meant but doesn't help when you still love someone. You have to agree out loud because telling them that you still get butterflies when you think of him is just Not Done. Maybe your heart, foolish and broken but loud as ever, is just expected to catch up with your brain.

***

Eventually, you begin to figure out and really understand all the things people tell you. A friend's song about a woman who gives up her life for a man who doesn't love her resonates with you in a way that it never has before. You think you might like to see the Pacific someday, as if there was something stopping you before.

Everything reaches an equilibrium of okay until your parents come to take your dog to live with them and he cries and whines when you get out of the truck. All you want to do is bury your face in his fur and tell him that you're sorry, this isn't his fault, you should never have told him he was a bad dog for chewing up your lipstick a few weeks ago. Maybe he is just a dog and doesn't understand, but you remember how he crawled into your lap and licked your face when you cried and you know that he understands what a broken heart feels like. You hope he'll forgive you like he always does, just this one more time.

***

You drink way too much wine at a friend's party. You know it even as it's happening, but you just don't care. It dulls reality a little more and you and reality aren't exactly on the best terms this week.

The hangover the next day makes you feel like you're purging demons out of your body. Maybe you are.

***

Before you know it, you're in the new place, with two strange girls who seem very nice, but they were never part of your plan. It's a single bed, which makes you grateful for the lack of empty space next to you. As you sit in the rubble of boxes that mean your new life is about to begin, you remember learning to ride a bike. The memory, almost twenty years old, is as fresh as a lucid dream.

***

The training wheels were freshly off and your daddy still held the handlebars. You begged him not to let go because you knew you couldn't do it by yourself. It's too hard, too scary. Big girls can do it, but in your heart of hearts you don't think you are one yet.

Your daddy let go and you screamed, falling on the pavement. You knew this would happen, the scrapes and blood and failure. You whimper and sniffle and put the bike away, swearing you'll never get on it again.

Little by little, you start to resent the feeling that you're somehow less than the other girls who seem to do it with no problem. You get angry at yourself for settling for something less than everyone else seems to manage.

You silently pull the bike out of the backyard one July afternoon. You take it to the parking lot of the church, whispering a prayer to God that you don't hit your head and bleed to death from falling.

You fall. Of course you fall. But you get back up. You can do this alone. Balancing without someone holding you starts to come naturally. One foot in front of the other without even thinking of it. Suddenly you don't think about the pavement below, just the sun on your face and the clouds over your head and the wind in your hair. And you laugh, all alone doing circles in the Bethel Pentecostal Church parking lot, because you're not scared anymore.

You've got to get up, little girl. There's a whole sky waiting for you.

Mrs. Jong-Il

2009-09-17T14:39:00.001-02:30

James says:
how about we get an island, no way off, and turn it into Running Man meets Big Brother
Lynn says:
I'm not saying you don't have good ideas
Lynn says:
They're just a little... ethically questionable
James says:
i'm JUST trying to make the world a better place
James says:
but APPARENTLY, trying to re-make the world in your own image means you have a "god complex" and you are legally barred from public office
Lynn says:
You'd be surprised how sensitive people are about that

Officer, I swear, those pellets are nutritional

2009-09-02T11:39:00.002-02:30

Reason #462 Why Jamie and I Will Be Terrible Parents:

(Discussing what to do with the puppy when we stay at a hotel)

Lynn says:
He'll be fine
What are we going to do when we have a baby?
James says:
hehe
I dunno, but Probably not leave it overnight on its own heheh
Lynn says:
Give it one of those hamster water bottles on the crib
Few chew toys
It's kind of the same
James says:
heheheheheheheh
THIS is how we end up on the news
Lynn says:
Or with a baby that can run for hours on a wheel

The One Where Everyone's Up All Night

2009-08-31T18:30:00.001-02:30

A few weeks ago, my supervisor at the youth centre called me into the office. Since he is very laid-back, almost to a fault, I was more curious than worried.

"So... the kids have a Wake-A-Thon coming up," he began.

I nodded, feeling a spark of dread begin in the pit of my stomach as I waited to hear what this had to do with me.

"You know this could get you a lot of hours."

"It would."

"Labour Day weekend is coming up."

"It is."

"If you do this, you can have a four-day weekend."

"Right."

"Your evaluation is next week."

"I will make this the best gosh-darn Wake-A-Thon these kids have ever been to."

7:00 PM: Innocence

I went in expecting the usual crowd of kids. They're a good bunch, all around 16 or 17 years old and mostly good friends, with the odd disagreement usually handled pretty smoothly. They play a lot of Monopoly, an activity I find loathsome as it combines two of the things I hate most (finance and men with mustaches) but is overall pretty wholesome.

I walked into a melee of fifteen or so teenagers, two puppies, and the ear-bleeding sounds of Katy Perry. The ones that weren't having a dance party in the office were sucking down Red Bull like mother's milk, sitting amongst empty cans scattered like shrapnel across the centre.

I had brought a book, anticipating a certain amount of quiet. It never came.

8:32 PM: Lust

"If you absolutely must straddle your boyfriend, please do not do it here. Thank you."

8:49 PM: Feasting

I will never understand the need for teenage girls to make every statement sound like a question. Like, my sister is a moron? And Edward Cullen is so dreamy? And you kind of look like you want to curl up and die right now?

The youngest three of the girls left (including the aforementioned moron sister), since they had not gotten permission slips. Thankfully, one of them took the nipping puppies with her. The other two staff members showed up with food, and the kids descended upon it like locusts. I tried to reach my arm in to get a cookie. I'm sure it will heal any day now.

10:24 PM: Smoke

One of them got the bright idea that the smoke machine and strobe light from last year's Halloween party would make an awesome addition to the dance party, which was now focused heavily on The Black-Eyed Peas. I will accept my own portion of the blame for this one, since I didn't do anything to stop it.

Long story short, the smoke detector went off. As they opened the door to let out the smoke, light still flashing intermittently, all I could imagine was that this was going to be sampled for the next big dance hit, "Where There's Smoke, You're Fired".

12:15 AM: Conflict

"We want to go for a walk."

"What? Now?"

"Yeah. Let's go for a hike."

"Leaving aside the fact that the permission slips don't even begin to cover it, I'm not having a bunch of teenagers out roaming the streets on a Friday night. It's too dangerous."

"I know tae kwan do!"

"Not even close to the point. You guys are minors."

"My fake ID says I'm 19!"

"Oh man! Why didn't you say so? We could go clubbing!"

"Really?!"

"NO."

12:38 AM: Knots

If you have never, in all of your employment history, had to implore an adolescent boy not to hog-tie any more of the kids at the youth centre, I feel very sorry for you indeed.

1:25 AM: Reason

"Now look, you guys. I understand sometimes you get on each other's nerves, but you can't handle it like this. You can't call him an idiot. And you, you can't slap him. It's disrespectful and doesn't solve anything. Next time you guys can find a way to handle it better, or I'll handle it my way, which neither of you will like. Are we clear? Okay, back to your game."

I opened my mouth and my mother's voice came out. I would have been less shocked to hear Zu'ul.

3:01 AM: Boredom

After all options were exhausted (including Monopoly, the Wii, card games, and doing their best to level the centre), the kids were bored, so we set up one of the movies we rented for them. This was also a chance for the staff to curl up on uncomfortable chairs in the office and try to get some rest before some kind of syndrome set in.

"OH MY GOD! That guy is cutting off that other guy's EYELID!"

Maybe The Haunting in Connecticut wasn't the best choice. Hey, I didn't rent it.

4:42 AM: Cracks

This is the latest I have stayed up in about ten years. Sober, anyway. I can feel myself getting crazy-eyes. I briefly consider leaving my notice and getting in the car and driving somewhere far, far away, where people take vows of silence and no one puts their bare ass on centre equipment or anyone else.

6:07 AM: Hope

They started to clean up, each one bitching about how the mess wasn't really theirs so they shouldn't have to clean it up. Elves then, I suppose, left all the cans of Red Bull and Dorito crumbs scattered hither and yon.

The Dorito crumbs were mine, but I didn't say anything. This is a good life lesson.

6:48 AM: Triumph

I drove home in pure daylight, golden and beautiful. I saw the sun reflect off of church windows and the dewy grass, nearly crying tears of joy.

I crawled into bed with Jamie and listened to the quiet. He stirred slightly and mumbled.

"Baby," I cooed, "How do you feel about a vasectomy?"

Losing Stevie: A Love Story, Sort Of

2009-06-19T14:21:00.001-02:30

I still remember the very first time I saw him. I was nineteen, giddy, and he fairly sparkled in the July sun. Not like that pussy Edward Cullen, mind; more like a young David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, shiny and full of promise and vaguely sexual in a weird way I didn't understand. I fell in love immediately.

Dad was there with me, and we were talking about car options. We were looking for something used (excuse me, "pre-owned") but relatively reliable. We were talking about a little Dodge Neon in front of us, which I thought of the same way I think of Tom Hanks. Sure, he's steady and nice enough, but he doesn't excite you and the thought of riding him day after interminable day just makes you feel resigned to a life of headaches. The Neon was okay, but Dad noticed how my eye kept wandering over to the silver Pontiac Sunfire. "You like that one?"

"It's alright," I lied.

Dad knew me better than that. I drove off in a silver streak an hour later, singing along with the stereo at the top of my lungs about teenage wastelands.

***

The first few months together, like in any new relationship, were blissful. Everything ran as smoothly as it was supposed to and we didn't ask much of each other. I can't even count how many times it was just me and him on the highway with no particular place to go but going anyway. I called him Stevie, for reasons once significant but now lost to history.

Winter presented the first challenge. Stevie was not built for snow and sleet and slippery roads, but he trundled on. One snowstorm found us just barely crawling toward home. He faltered a little, groaning in protest.

"Come on, baby," I pleaded, "We're almost home. Don't quit on me now."

The encouragement seemed to work. He gave one mighty roar and brought us back to the driveway and stopped with a flourish. I patted his icy bonnet when I got out and thanked him for a job well done.

***

One morning I was awoken early by my roommate's mother. As pleasantly as I could, I grumbled out the question of why she was stirring me from sleep.

"Someone hit your car outside. They're downstairs," she said.

My eyes widened and I put on pants as quickly as possible, my internal monologue going a mile a minute.

For fuck's sake, HOW do you hit a car parked on a residential street easily wide enough for THREE CARS? In broad DAYLIGHT? What level of bone-dense idiocy are we possibly working with here? Do you have the attention span of a squirrel on crystal meth? What the pissing fuck?

A guy in an SUV was down by Stevie, looking somewhat sheepish but not nearly as contrite as I thought was necessary. The side of my car was all banged up.

The side of my car is all banged up. MY CAR. You son of a bitch, I'll have your balls for this. I'll hang them from my rearview mirror like jaunty little testicular DICE. Just you god damn wait.

"Yeah, I dropped my cigarettes and leaned down to get them, and just... yeah. You know how it is." He gestured lamely at the damage with a chuckle. I gave him a deadpan glare, and his chuckle faded. He meekly offered his insurance information while I tried to kill him with my mind.

The rental car I drove while Stevie was getting repaired was all wrong. It was too big, too fancy. It felt like driving a yacht. I was so happy to get him back and promised that he'd never get dented again. A woman running a stop sign, another bad snowstorm downtown, and a mystery hit-and-run would break that promise.

***

The problems started to come a couple of years ago. First the alternator died (at midnight, like Cinderella's Fairy Godmother was somehow in charge) in the parking lot of my job the next town over. Then the engine sensors went crazy. Then the power steering line burst. Then the engine died. Then the transmission began hitching. Then the radiator fan blew up.

Little by little, I grew to resent Stevie. He was a drain on my tenuous finances, and after a few years of hard living, only barely resembled the shining opportunity I had seen on that first day. Where once there was excitement and affection, there was now only contempt and grim obligation. I grumbled at his noises of complaint, and he grudgingly took me from Points A to B when he felt like it. He gained the mocking nicknames of Chewbacca and Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, and I forgot why he was called Stevie in the first place.

When my mechanic explained how now I'd have to manually pop a fuse in and out to run the radiator fan from now on, giving me a look of sympathy, I knew it was time to let go.

***

As we went to different dealerships and test-drove new cars, Jamie couldn't understand why I wasn't excited.

"You know that thing has to be replaced," he said gently.

The thing is, Stevie isn't just "that thing" to me. For six years, he was a friend, and sometimes the best one I had. I was young and starting out, psyching myself up for interviews in that thing. I was depressed, antisocial and heartbroken, and I took that thing to deserted parking lots to smoke cigarettes and cry along with Fiona Apple. I made out with unsuitable boys (and a couple of suitable ones) in it, dug it out of snowbanks with friends after impromptu sleepovers, and had conversations in it that lasted until dawn on days I had to work, causing the windows to fog up and me to call in sick.

Tonight we're going to hopefully drive home a new Hyundai Elantra, and while it's really nice, it doesn't wow me in the same way that Stevie did. I know how crazy that is, because it's not like he's a nicer car, but I think he was there in the right place at the right time, at that period in your life where you fall so hard and so fast. It's like your first love and how it reminds you of who you were then, and how much you've changed.

Tomorrow Stevie is gone, and in his place will be just another broken-down old Sunfire, barely of use to anyone. Seeing him in the driveway in the sun, he doesn't sparkle anymore. Really, he's gone already, cruising around in some dusty memory, bass thumping wildly and going somewhere I can't follow.

Scenes From a Road Trip

2009-06-10T12:03:00.000-02:30

The day itself dawned bright and cloudless, which was about the only thing that went right. Our rental car had been booked online but Budget Car Rental, in their infinite wisdom, told us when we got there that the credit card and driver's license couldn't be in different names. Never mind that we were both there to vouch for our identities, or that Jamie had already confirmed that this would be okay with whoever was on duty the day before (a woman named Nancy, whom I pictured as a gum-chawing incompetent, filing her nails while giving us erroneous information. "Yeah, sure, that's cool. Wait, what? God, my cuticles are a mess."). No, clearly we were not leaving in that car.

It was also clear that we were not leaving in OUR car.

"What did the mechanic say?"
"You know that look on Pa's face near the end of Old Yeller?"
"...oh."
"Yeah."

Jamie's mother grumped about the rental car place, idly saying that she and her husband have never had a problem. This planted the seed of an idea in our heads, and sent me scrambling to my jewelry box. Thusly, Mr. and Mrs. James Kelly left National Car Rental in a Chevy Malibu.

"This car is pretty pimp."
"It's sort of pimp. It's Mom pimp."
"Clair Huxtable could make this pimp."

We, however, could not. We turned off the 2Pac and settled for Coast 101.1, the last safe harbour for the easy listening adults of the Avalon Peninsula. We listened to Don Henley imploring us to take it easy as we stared out the window, beginning the first leg of the journey.

***

I'd expected a hug from my parents at the very least, their only daughter returning to the nest for a few days after a day's trip. Instead, my mother reached for the puppy, cooing and asking him how his trip was.

"He doesn't speak English."
"Did my puppy have a long day? Did he? Oh, yes he did."
"And you're just going to answer for him, so."

I shudder to imagine how bad this will be with actual grandchildren.

***

It's extremely fortunate that my family loves Jamie. I thought about this on Saturday night, as we all sat around the rec room; parents, aunts and uncles, and the two of us. I watched him laugh easily with my father and crack jokes with my uncles. Before they met him, I had my reservations. What would this technophile city boy do when faced with a bunch of men his exact opposite? These men are protective over the few little girls in the family, not caring about the fact that most of these little girls are in their mid- to late twenties. They have boats and cabins and guns, and I'm fairly sure most of them are convinced that the laws on homicide have a clause saying "but if the guy's an asshole, we'll let it slide".

I needn't have worried. In focusing on the superficial differences, I forgot all about their commonalities. They love beer, good times, and shooting the shit; in the end, just the boys sitting around sharing a case.

I thought about all this as I sipped on my own drink, smiling at my good fortune of falling in love with a boy who blends into my family, my home, so seamlessly.

"So the guy actually went flying off the barstool when you punched him? I'd like to know what happened after that," Jamie said, cracking open another bottle.

***

Home movies got broken out. I cursed once more the presence of a video camera in my sullen teenage years, when all I wore was black and a scowl.

"Look at the face on you. Only a mother could love that."
"Actually..."
"Mom!"

***

Despite the rain and gloom bearing down on an already-bleak road, I loved the drive back. As with nearly all road trips, the most fun is in getting there. We got lost in Grand Falls ("Are we supposed to be seeing boarded up buildings? Is this where we meant to go?"), ate Skittles, and passed the time with 20 Questions.

"Is it living or inanimate?"
"Inanimate."
"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"
"No."
"Is it your iPhone?"
"...yes."

The signs updated our progress in small increments. St. John's - 34. Then 32. Then 25. Then 15. Finally, we took our exit, as Rufus Wainwright sang us up to the first streetlight we'd seen in days.

My legs were rubber as I got out of the car, finally, to see our house all lit up to welcome us back.

"Hello, house! Hello, yard! Hello, convenience store across the street responsible for my weight gain!"
"Hello, mailbox full of bills. Hello, drivers who forget this is a residential street."

For the first time since Friday, I heard sirens and tires screeching. Dorothy Gale couldn't have been happier.

Any Given Saturday

2009-02-15T00:25:00.000-03:30

My day today consisted of a brokedown-ass car, a trip to Canadian Tire, grocery shopping, beer, listening to Joe Rogan, and Wii Tennis. Instead of candlelight and roses, we're ruthlessly mocking reality television and debating the origin of the word "Triscuit".

I have racked my brain and I can't possibly think of anything else I could have wanted (besides maybe a working car). I specifically asked that it not be that different from any other Saturday. Why would I want anything else? Romance? My stomach hurts from laughing and I spent the day with my favourite person in the world. What could possibly be more romantic than that?

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. I hope it was whatever you wanted it to be.

A Public Service Announcement

2009-02-03T14:58:00.000-03:30

I have observed a growing and troubling phenomenon in the last several years. After collecting data through both personal and anecdotal experience, I have no choice but to warn you of an epidemic of douchebaggery.

What is a douchebag, you might ask? It's a word commonly thrown around, usually denoting mild to moderate derision. Often it is used interchangeably with "asshole" or "fucker", but this is not exactly accurate. An asshole is unapologetic, generally up-front, and has a quality that some might describe as "brooding". A fucker is similar, but instead of brooding, has a more impish sense of humour ("I took pictures of you while you were passed out and posted them to Facebook!" "You fucker!" "Hee!"). A douchebag is a different animal.

The douchebag is a shapeshifter, and comes in many forms. He may have artfully spiked hair and a polo shirt, or he may have shaggy hair and Chuck Taylors. He may smarm up to you in a bar or strike up a cute conversation at a bus stop. There's the American Eagle Douchebag, the Hipster Douchebag, the Stuffed Shirt Douchebag, the Geek Douchebag, and countless others.

Confusing? Tell me about it. However, there are lots of common factors that you can use to build your very own Douche-dar. Here's a start.

He's arrogant. Not to be confused with confident under any circumstances -- this guy is just an arrogant prick. He won't waste a second letting you know exactly how great you should think he is. At the end of a twenty-minute conversation with him, you probably know what he benches, how many prestigious degrees he has, and how many girls he has lusting after him (yet they are almost always curiously absent). If you get a word in edgewise during this conversation, your best bet is to make sure it's "goodbye".

He's "sensitive" and a "nice guy". Here's a handy tool: if a guy is either of these things, he's probably not saying so every five minutes. I've known of "nice guys" that do all manner of not-nice things, like lying and cheating, but they figure that since they're not drug addicts or rapists, they're well ahead of the game. Sorry, but that's the bare minimum. Chris Rock agrees (NSFW).

He's scared of women. This encompasses a lot of behaviour. Likes to tear you down so you think he's the best option? Would rather skip town than have any kind of confrontation? Blows a gasket when you even so much as look at another guy? Makes you feel like pleasing you is beneath him? Scared of women. Scared to DEATH of women. Doesn't have much respect for them either. You can usually identify this guy by how he'll talk about wanting a funny, intelligent, sassy girl but will then run back to mommy when one actually appears.

Of course, there are a million indicators, but keep these three. If you are single, write it down, laminate it, and carry it with you in your purse. If you are with a genuinely good guy, thank your lucky stars. If you have sons, brothers, or friends that show signs of douchebaggery, an intervention may be needed.

If you are with a douchebag: run. Run fast and far. Like a real douche, it will cause irritation, imbalance, and is of no help to your vagina.

I Scream, You Scream

2008-12-22T12:33:00.000-03:30

(The scene: Dominion, in the ice cream aisle.)

Lynn: Oh my god, ice cream.
Jamie: Hells yes.
Lynn: You want to get some?
Jamie: Yes, but we have to get the right kind.
Lynn: What, pray tell, is the right kind?
Jamie: I will know it when I see it.
Lynn: Ah, so not unlike pornography.
Jamie: Yes. Mmm, ice cream porn.
Lynn: ...disturbing. So what do you want?
Jamie: Oooooh, neapolitan!
Lynn: Really? Neapolitan?
Jamie: What's wrong with that?
Lynn: Nothing. If you're a communist.
Jamie: What the shit? Communist? Oh, I get it. You're one of those assholes who would only eat one of the flavours. Because you're a racist.
Lynn: I am not a racist for not wanting strawberry ice cream to pollute the rest of the creamy frozen delights. Oh, what about this cookie dough stuff?
Jamie: Eh.
Lynn: Did you just "eh" at cookie dough? I think we have to break up.
Jamie: I don't like chunks in my ice cream. It's impure.
Lynn: NOW who's racist?
Jamie: No chunks. Moving on. Hey, soft serve in a tub!
Lynn: Ooh! It's Aero!
Jamie: It's delicious!
Lynn: It's... eight dollars!
Jamie: Eight dollars?! I can get a cow for that.
Lynn: But why would you--
Jamie: Now, we could get this large nondescript trough of ice cream for way less.
Lynn: ...Jamie.
Jamie: It meets all the requirements. It's only one flavour, it's not chunky, it's cheaper.
Lynn: Jamie.
Jamie: Um.
Lynn: You just remembered the same thing I did, didn't you.
Jamie: That I'm lactose-intolerant?

Someone has to appreciate a good pun around here

2008-10-05T19:28:00.000-02:30

(From MSN:)

Lynn says:
Oh! I've got one for you
Lynn says:
So this chick named Patricia Black works at the bank, and one day this frog comes in asking for a loan.
Lynn says:
"How much?" she asked. "A million dollars," he replied.
Lynn says:
She was pretty dubious and said "Sir, you need some collateral." So he pulls out this little glass unicorn and presents that as collateral.
Lynn says:
Obviously this is weird, so she's all "I have to speak to my manager."
Lynn says:
She goes back and says "Sir, there's this frog here who wants a million dollar loan... I asked him for collateral and he gave me this little glass unicorn."
Lynn says:
So her boss thinks for a second and says "It's a knick-knack, Patty Black, give the frog a loan."
Amanda says:
get out of my life

Thanks to Andrew for telling me this one on Friday night! Thank you, I'm here all week, please don't forget to tip your waiter.

(Epilogue:)

Amanda says:
What kind of motherfucking bank manager is *that*?
Lynn says:
I don't know, where does a frog keep on his person a small glass unicorn?
Amanda says:
I dunno, I imagined him wearing a little velvet jacket
Lynn says:
XD
Amanda says:
I seriously did
Amanda says:
Because he wanted to look dapper at the bank
Lynn says:
And I'm the one with a problem

Sexy Banker Shops for Shoes and Finds Love: An NY Times Bestseller!

2008-09-09T20:06:00.001-02:30

I've decided on a career path. I'm going to write chick lit.

Listen, I know it sounds crazy. It's not my favourite idea in the world either. But my student loans aren't going to get paid by magic elves, 'cause I've spoken with their union and apparently they "don't deal with that type of scoundrel". (Other creatures who refuse point-blank to be associated with the National Student Loan Service Centre: leprechauns, imps, dwarves, fairies, drow, gnomes, and sprites. Goblins will, but they are not on your side, strictly speaking. Bureaucracy-minded swine.)

I've got it all figured out. It can't be that difficult. All I really need is a bunch of the necessary elements, and I can just write a program that will cobble them together in some semblance of a plot. It'll be like Mad Libs!

First off, you need a heroine, and she needs a name. It should be a total anachronism (i.e. something that is popular for kids now, but you never hear on adult women), unisex/masculine, and also perhaps the surname of a famous political figure. I assure you that there weren't a lot of Madisons born back in the late '70s and early '80s, since that has risen to fame ever since little girls who loved Darryl Hannah's "Splash" character (and apparently didn't get the joke) have begun to procreate. But the chick-lit heroine needs a sassy, masculine name to show you just how tough she is. She doesn't need you OR your help! She's named after the fourth President of the United States!

So let's say we have, oh, McKinley J. Ashcroft. She has a job that is in some way glamorous, but attainable. Fashion editor? Professional photographer? Political secretary? Yes, yes, yes. Perhaps all those things at once. Such a multitasker, that McKinley. She needs a circle of quirky friends (but not too quirky! Rockabilly bisexual jugglers don't play in Peoria!), a location in some major city or another, and a closet of fabulous shoes and purses in her giant apartment that belies her salary.

Then, of course, she needs the love interest.

There are lots of directions to go in here. Do you make him a smooth, debonair man about town, whisking her hither and yon in his private jet, showing her a whirlwind love that lasts forever (or 376 pages, give or take)? Or how about a rugged, down-to-earth stud who teaches her how to let go of her day-to-day stresses and get back to the simpler things, like primal (yet highly euphemistic) sex on a bearskin rug? What about both? However will she choose? (It doesn't actually matter which one she winds up with. In the end, McKinley realizes that above all else, she must love herself and her wacky girlfriends, because navel-gazing platitudes and shoe-shopping are what Feminism Is All About.)

I think I have everything I need here, aside from some wacky hijinx and hilarious misunderstandings, and I've seen all those reruns of Three's Company growing up, so that should probably be plenty of inspiration. I'm going to open that Microsoft Word file and just let the genius flow forth.

I'll let you know when I've received my paycheck. We'll go out for martinis.

Employment Figures

2008-07-17T19:45:00.000-02:30

Day Camp Report: Week One

Position: Temporary one-on-one support worker
Children I am supposed to be looking after: 1
Children that appear to have latched onto me for no apparent reason: 6
Children I deal with on a daily basis: At least 30
Unknown substances I have come into contact with: Too many to count
Number of times I have been mistaken for somebody's mom: 4
Number of times I have been mistaken for a camper: 2
Hours I have worked out of 280: 32
Hours it has felt like: 320

Words That Have Actually Come Out Of My Mouth Since Monday:

"Don't put that jawbreaker back in your mouth. It was on the ground. No, seriously don-- EW."
"No, you cannot have my bank card."
"I don't care if he took your flip-flops, stop trying to drown him."
"Get down off the basketball net."
"Get down off the fence."
"Get down off that guy."
"No more singing Avril Lavigne, please."
"Yes, that absolutely goes double for Rihanna."
"Because I said so."

Reasons I Am Not Cool, According To The Kids:

I do not know/care to know who the Jonas Brothers are.
I do not listen to Mariah Carey (Cred for owning the album "Daydream" back in 1996: none).
I do not know how to make friendship bracelets out of approximately 67 pieces of string.
I do not swim.
I do not know the names of the four main Bratz (I had assumed up until now that they were called Skankbag, Whorecakes, Slutchops, and Herpes Mae McGillicuddy respectively; apparently this is not the case).
I get an eye-twitch at the mention of Miley Cyrus.

Things I Have Learned About Myself:

I am, at times, much more patient than I thought.
I am, at times, much less patient than I thought.
I no longer care about the being the bad guy.
I do still really like working with kids.
I can function through my day while being so tired I am legally dead.
I hate this job.
I love this job.

Just call me Gimpy.

2008-06-25T19:06:00.000-02:30

So we're a few days into the official start of summer, and I'm already on crutches. I almost don't even want to tell you how I did it, because it is so absurdly stupid.

A bit of background, first. Some of my joints are super-flexible. I'm not sure I could legitimately be described as double-jointed, but they bend in odd ways sometimes. Last year, on my birthday, I managed to twist my ankle walking on an even surface, in flats. Granted, I had drunk my weight in shots, but still. I was sitting in the Celtic Hearth with my foot up on the other chair, grumping about how it huuuuurt and it was swoooollen and wheeeere were my ONION RINGS.

So a little over a year later, I'm in my apartment. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I'm in a great mood. So good a mood, I decide to listen to the song on my profile. So good a mood, I decide to dance a little bit.

See, the snapping sound coming from that same ankle and my immediate collapse to the floor like an angry ton of bricks soured my mood just the tiniest bit, not to mention the delicious irony of being so lame I injured myself bopping about to a song called "Because I'm Awesome".

To the ER I went, upon the discovery that the ankle did not bear pressure as well as I'd have liked (which is to say "at all"). I waited two hours to see the doctor for thirty seconds, in which he did not even touch my foot. "Yep, snapped ligament. Take these crutches, keep off it, and you'll probably need physio."

And now, here I am. Jamie is taking pretty good care of me, with ice on the ankle and pillows and whatnot. Also, he broke out the good shit and bought Ben & Jerry's.

In summation, I am an idiot with flexible joints, a swollen foot, and a slightly reduced love of The Dollyrots.