I didn’t think it would happen. I resisted with as much might as I could muster. But it was futile. Once I picked up the first book by Stephenie Meyer I was hooked. For those of you living under rocks, Twilight is the latest literary (and now film) teen craze that is plaguing pop culture at the moment.

When I initially heard about this book I wasn’t at all curious. But then the hype and hysteria started to build and I wondered what it was all about. My friend had bought Twilight (for the same reason) and while I was unsupervised at her house one morning I casually picked it up and started reading. I was 50 pages in before I realized that I was getting swept up. Sigh…why can’t I have a devastatingly handsome demon lover? Is that so much to ask?!

But as emotionally and indulgently drawn to the story as I am, I feel rather cheap about the whole thing. I feel like, as an adult woman who knows that these kinds of tawdry love stories are complete B.S., I should shake my head in disapproval and get on with things. It’s every girl’s fantasy: Disarmingly beautiful gentleman/mysterious stranger can have any women he wants. But he wants you: graceless, ordinary, and klutzy you. Yeah. Sure.

In Twilight, this is Bella Swan. Of course her name is full of soft consonants and immediately conjures up an image of grace and majestic beauty, right? Why couldn’t her name have been Helga Pickle or Gerta Filk or something equally unappealing? I’m just sayin’. (My apologies if your name is Helga Pickle or Gerta Filk.)

Bella, the new girl to a small town, is clumsy and awkward yet intelligent and cultured. She listens to Debussy, she takes good care of her father (cooking and cleaning etc), she is a straight A student…you get the idea. Our heroine is a respectable young girl, with her head seemingly planted firmly on her shoulders. Then she meets Edward Cullen (insert sigh here). He is described as being god-like in his appearance with his alabaster skin, bronze hair, and “smoldering eyes”. OH and he’s a vampire. But that seems almost irrelevant.

He is instantly drawn to Bella and tries to resist the urge to kill her/love her. (It’s all the same in the end isn’t it?) But try as he might, he can’t stay away. No sir. He’s inexplicable drawn to her scent. He’s never had such a strong reaction or wanted a human being more. She is like his “brand of heroine”. (Intentional pun or no? You decide).

Like any good romance novel hero, Edward’s eyes are constantly “smoldering”, his smile is always “crooked”, and his voice is frequently “velvety”. He saves her from certain death twice in the first one hundred or so pages and…get this…he sparkles like a diamond in sunlight. Sparkles! Seriously.

So you see why I feel like a chump. Shouldn’t I be over this fantasy by now? Shouldn’t I roll my eyes at all the clichéd descriptions and damsel-in-distress rescues instead of wistfully sighing every time Edward caresses Bella’s cheek? Yes I bloody well should!
ARGH!

I won’t spoil the book or film for you by going too much further into the plot. The point is that Edward is protective, mysterious, stunning, and has super powers to boot. He is also complicated, brooding, and emotionally torn inside. And as much as we all want a man that is all put together and decidedly uncomplicated in real life, we often aren’t attracted to this type—especially not at Bella’s tender age. I mean, every normal/human guy worth his salt asks Bella on a date and she turns them all down in favour of Edward the ethereal vampire!

But while it’s great to have a supernatural romance to distract me from the mundane minutiae of my existence—thank you Stephenie Meyer—I must be very careful not to lose perspective here. Edward = fiction. Their relationship, with all its trauma and drama, is ridiculous and the stuff of young adult novels. I mean, it’s hard enough to find a guy that is employed, kind, attractive, single, appeals to me chemically, and is willing to put up with my mood swings, madness, and random irrational fits of tears. I don’t need to be adding fantastical and vampiric adjectives to that already impossible list of qualities that my future husband must possess, right? Right.

Now where was I…Oh yes…third book of the series, Chapter 4.

Sigh…

So this morning I used my litebook for the very first time since purchasing it last spring.

As a long-time sufferer of S.A.D. I decided after last winter to prepare myself for the next dark season. I have actually been feeling pretty good lately due to a lot of positive changes in my life. But the shadows do still come and this time I am armed and ready for a battle royale! HUZZAH!

Um. yeah. I think I need to work on my battle cry. Perhaps a viewing of Braveheart will help.

Anyhoo, the last couple of days I've been feeling a little blue and low on energy. No inexplicable crying fits (hallelujah!) so that's a plus. This morning I snuck out of my room so I wouln't wake the pups and went to the kitchen to have some coffee. I set my little litebook on the table and watched BT for about 20 minutes while I let the mood-lifting LED light invade my peepers.

And I gotta tell ya...I feel pretty good! I don't know if it's psychosomatic or not but I feel very alert and perky! And really, "perky" is not a word I ever use to describe myself. I'm going to do this every morning with the hope that this winter I will not turn into Zombie girl again this winter. Go me. :)

Ok, so 2 of my dear friends are all keeping up with their blogs and shit. Me? Not so much.
I am the self-professed queen of starting stuff up and then letting it fizzle away. Enough I say!

Last night I went to Massey Hall to see one of my favourite people do a reading. That's right, David Sedaris, I'm talking to you. You know, cuz he's like, totally reading this. :P
He was brilliant as always, tickling the crowd with his dry wit and spot on delivery of stories all about life's minutae and random acts of humour.
One of my favourites had to do with a trip he made to Costco. He likes to give out little gifts at his book signings (safety pins, advil, etc.) So he was looking for something small, light, and individually wrapped. He ended up wandering through Costco with his brother-in-law pushing a cart containing only a club pack of condoms. LOL...
He told his bro in law that they really needed to put something else in this cart so the bro went and grabbed a 5 lb box of strawberries. Which only served to make them look GAYER!
OMG...I thought I would pee my pants. He was all...'yeah cuz you know, we homos like some shortcake afterwards'.
(Note: For those who don't know, Mr. Sedaris is openly gay and was not, and nor am I, being derrogatory. He was just taking the piss out of himself as is his wont.)

Anyhoo, this has nothing to do with anything except that I'm going to try and post on a more regular...er...at least more frequent basis. And then maybe someone will read this. And then they will all think that I'm brilliant and witty and interesting (like Jenn) and I will become a rich and famous blogger and people will wish they were me. HA!

Yours in cheese,

JFB

Auntie Deana, as she is affectionately known to the canines in our home, is sporting a new accessory today—a black eye. Annabelle was doing her morning laps on our front lawn the other morning and having herself a helluva time. Deana crouched down and called Annie over. Surprisingly, Miss Annabelle actually complied and proceeded to run full tilt right into Deana’s face. OUCH!

The lovely and talented Miss Jennifer Harvey is volunteering at The Weekend to End Breast Cancer as a ‘sweep’. This involves cheering on the weary walkers, picking up the injured and bringing them to a rest stop or a first aid station. But Jenn does this duty with a flair and enthusiasm that only she can bring to the table. Her Sweep Team call themselves Rock Your Booby and they decorate their van with all things ROCK! This even includes a home made “metal band” fastened on top of the van. Seriously. If that isn’t the epitome of spirit, I don’t know what is.

Also I discovered today that it really hurts if you pluck a hair from your toe.

Go on, try it. You’ll see.

In case you don't know, I'm a list maker. I make TONS of lists. Lists of goals, grocery lists, packing lists, lists of bills to pay, etc. My life is a list. Often I put things on the list that I have already done just so i can cross them off! Or I'll add things to the list like "Eat Dinner" just so I can feel like I accomplished something. It's a bit crazy I know. But it's me, for better or for worse. Here is today's list.

Sept. 3rd

Buy poop bags
Email blog link to Chantal
Email Allison
Walk the dogs
Do a load of laundry
Call new landlord regarding moving day
Call Rogers to transfer phone and internet services
Bring in boxes out of the car
Wash the bathtub
Email the "Debauchery Committee" about Saturday night
Call Christopher B (dude who hit my car)
Phone date with Jenn at 9:30
Work on "puberty piece" (an essay in the works)

I know that I will maybe get 4 of these tasks done tonight, but that's ok.

There's room on tomorrow's list.

I came out of my house the other morning, pillow marks still clearly etched into my face, thinking the same thoughts I always think before going to work in the morning:

Need Coffee.
Must Win Lottery
I hope the dogs don’t eat my shoes today.
We need toilet paper.
I wonder what so-and-so meant when they said ________ yesterday.
Am I living an ethical existence? If not, should I be? Perhaps I should try hedonism on for size?

As I approached my car, which was parked on the street due to a shortage of driveways in Toronto, I noticed a white piece of paper under my wiper. My first thought was, thank god it’s not a yellow piece of paper because lord knows I don’t need another parking ticket. My second thought was, What have I done wrong? I’m not blocking someone’s driveway or parked in someone’s spot. What could it possibly say? I get to the car and read the note. It says:

I apologize. I hit your car this morning. I’ll be gone all day but here is my information. Let’s decide what to do later. Again, I’m sorry. Christopher B.

My reaction was a smile and a renewed faith in humanity. How many unsuspecting people leave their house or their office or the supermarket and walk to their car, perhaps making a mental to do list or pondering their existence, only to find some new scuff, scratch, or dent and no blessed note?

I’ve received nasty notes a couple of times in Toronto—once for inadvertently parking in front of someone’s driveway. (In my defense, there was a blizzard and the driveway was covered in 4 feet of snow so I didn’t realize that it was there.) And once I got a note for parking in the neighbouring church parking lot. This church is 2 houses north of my house and from time to time, if there is no parking for miles and I have a mountain of groceries to bring in the house or I’m only making a brief pit stop at home, I will park there. I don’t do it on Sundays or on Wednesdays (when they have an evening service) or on Thursdays (when the AA meetings take place) but from time to time it’s necessary. And on more than one occasion I have received the following note.

ILLEGALLY PARKED!!! Next time you WILL be towed!

I’ve often been tempted to leave a note on MY car retorting "I bet Jesus wouldn't tow my car".

After reading the lovely note from the mysterious Christopher B., I walked around the car looking for damage and found a couple of mild scratches above my rear left tire. Nothing major. In fact I’m not even going to bother fixing it. The bumper is plastic so it won’t rust and frankly, it’s almost a relief to have the first scratch out of the way.

So Christopher B, you’re off the hook. AND you’re a kind humanitarian who sets an example for everyone else. Thank you for your thoughtful note. The only question now is…Are you single? :P

5. Fair, if you want to win.

With the Summer Olympics fast approaching, I'm hoping that this won't be the case. But usually, sadly, it's true.

4. Evil with a macaroni duck.

Need I say more?

3. This feeling anymore

Why? Because I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for.

2. City Hall

But, in the words of the great George Carlin you can damn sure blow it up

1. The Moonlight

It’s gonna get to your heart.
Never has Leann Rimes been more correct.

Honourable mention:

You can’t fight The Internet.

David Albo, a Republican politician out of Virginia, came up with this gem. He is largely responsible for the “abusive driver fees” that raised traffic fines in Virginia to an exorbitant amount. Failure to signal got you a $1050 ticket. This wildy unpopular law was enacted to raise funds for the state's transportation department. When it was repealed earlier this year, Mr. Albo claimed "We lost the PR battle. You can't fight the Internet."

Translation? “And I would’ve got away with it too! If it wasn’t for you meddling kids…”

So Bhisham, my brain lover/saviour at the office, has challenged me to write a list of gratitude to stave off the anxiety that lately, is looming in the corner like a starving wolf.

So here it is.

I am grateful for:

Bhisham. The one who reminds me that I am not a loser, just stupid— Stupid for not always recognizing my own power and magic. The one who “gets” me and can make me laugh with one word (e.g. WHOLEsale, ToGETHer, Juice, Carrots, IntoxiCAYted, etc.) ;)

My health. Not that I am the epitome of wellness but everything functions the way it should and all appendages are present and accounted for. I can move and jump and dance. I can walk, speak, eat, and pee without assistance. I am grateful for this.

Music. Music is what moves me above all other things in the art world. A sweeping melody can colour the world in such a way that everything has a poignancy that it didn’t have on its own. And the fact that I have the ability to recognize this is also a blessing. Thank you.

Love. Everywhere I go I am surrounded by love. It’s sometimes overwhelming because I don’t always feel deserving or equipped to return it in the appropriate ways, but it makes me feel warm and secure even when I’m cold and unstable.

Thank you Bhishy, for making me…er…suggesting that I do this. I feel better.

So there is this guy who works in my office who only wears t-shirts to work. Winter, Summer…it doesn't matter. All t-shirts, all the time. What's wrong with that, you ask? A little too casual for the office but who cares, right? Normally I would agree. But he only wears designer t-shirts, with what I can only imagine is a very high Lycra content, that are so tight I can get a fairly accurate visual of the size and shape of his nipples.

Now, if he were a woman, or fat, or old, I think at some point he would have had his wrist slapped for violating the office dress code. But since he is a tall, attractive, and exceptionally fit thirty something male you can bet there will be no repercussions. And this isn't about social justice or feminism or equality or t-shirts. The thing that really gets my panties in a twist about this guy is that is the most pompous and conceited s.o.b. that I've had the displeasure of crossing paths with in quite some time.

Of course, since he has never deigned to speak to me I can’t be sure that he is a complete asshole. Perhaps in his off hours he rescues babies from burning crack houses or nurtures broken-winged birds back to health. What I do know is that I he refuses to return a greeting in the hallway or say thank you if you hold the door for him. I mean, he could just be shy, right? But I believe you would have to think you were the bee's knee's to strut around an office wearing a t-shirt so inappropriately tight passersby can count your chest hair. I bet he washes his shirts on his own abs just because he can. UGH! Tall, good-looking, pompous, tight shirt wearing men really piss me off.

I looked up the company's dress code and it only cites the following as 'unsuitable office attire':

· T-shirts or sweatshirts with inappropriate slogans

· Blue jeans

· Short-shorts or cut-offs

· Halter tops or cropped tops

· Spandex or work-out clothing

Shit. Nothing about the tightness of clothing. But it also says employees are expected to "maintain a standard of professional appearance that represents the appropriate image of the company." I guess if the 'appropriate image' of the company is Narcissistic Jackass then what can I say except carry on my wayward son. Carry on.

Dear Blog,
I'm deeply sorry for neglecting you this past month or so. I've been careless with your feelings and I feel terrible about it. I will do the best I can to remedy this situation. Starting now.

Apologetically,

Jacquie

It’s funny the things that stick with you. This morning I was cutting up strawberries to put in my cereal when I was suddenly struck by a memory of my grandmother. I was probably 21 or 22 and we were in the kitchen at my parents’ house. She was teaching me how to make crepes. I was cutting up the strawberries to make the filling and was hastily slicing off the tops. My grandmother noticed my technique and chastised me for being so wasteful. She took the strawberry from my hand and twisted off the stem, then took the knife and cored the berry, carefully showing me how to not waste even the tiniest piece. I remember being mildly annoyed at her for correcting me and insisting that her way was the right way. But I thought about it after and realized that in her lifetime, being a mother of 6, strawberries probably weren’t on the weekly grocery list. And when they did have strawberries she would have used every last morsel. After all, a pint of berries had to go around the table six times. I’ve never responded well to being reprimanded but this morning I found myself smiling, coring strawberries, and thinking of my Grandma. And wondering if I still have her crepe recipe.

Good evening friends,
It's been far too long since I've posted and that just won't do. Peaches had Entropion surgery on Tuesday and I've been all over the map (emotionally) and haven't had the time or energy to put fingers to keyboard and blog. I am off to dreamland now but I vow to post something funny and/or interesting tomorrow. But here is a picture of Peaches (aka Frankenpeach) post op to tide you over.

I’m hoping that this will be a running feature on my blog, but it all depends on how often Deana says some funny shit. From the looks of things, I think I’m in good shape.

But (again) let me preface this post with some important facts. Deana is my roommate and an angel sent down from heaven to bring joy and laughter into my otherwise joyless and laughter-less life. Okay, so that may be stretching it a bit but let’s get one thing straight. I love Deana. LOVE HER. She is kind and funny and generous and a fantastic roommate. She helps me take care of my high-maintenance dogs. She makes me soft-boiled eggs and toast on the mornings when I can’t bear to face the day. She calls me Sugar-pie and Sugar-bear and other sugary things. She never complains about what a slob I am even while she’s doing the dishes I left in the sink. She happily works out the ever-present knots in my right shoulder even after a full day of massaging clients. I am going to be inconsolable when the day comes that we don’t live together anymore.

On top of all of that, she says some funny shit! Deana has a way of mixing metaphors, conflating clichés, and inadvertently making sexual innuendos like no one else I know. And one of the greatest things about Deana is that she doesn’t take herself too seriously. She’s always the first (well, maybe the second) to laugh at her verbal blunders. I have her full permission to share with you, dear friends, some of the funny shit that Deana says. So let’s begin, shall we?

One day I was cleaning Peaches’ hoo-hoo with a facecloth because, well, it was dirty from repeatedly squatting in the muck to pee. Deana walked in the room and then quickly left saying “she wasn’t there yet.” I understood completely. Not everyone wants to see me give my dogs a sponge bath on their no-no places. So you can imagine my surprise when I came home one day and was told that she had cleaned Annabelle’s “pee-pee” and had also applied Polysporin to the affected area! Annabelle was suffering from a bladder infection at the time and was a tad irritated…down there. I looked at Deana in shock and said “You did?”
She shrugged and said:

“If I love someone then it’s okay to touch their pee-pee.”

I vow that she will receive a custom made t-shirt from me, on her birthday, emblazoned with that very phrase.

Oh Deana…you’re so pretty.

Let me preface this post with two facts.

1. I do believe (in a round-about way) that everything DOES happen for a reason.

2. My mother is kind-hearted, compassionate woman whom I love dearly.

Almost 2 years ago, I was in a long-term relationship that ended abruptly and threw my life into a complete tailspin. When the end came I was completely unprepared. Although in retrospect I should have known that this relationship would meet such a fate. I ended up, at the age of 30, moving into my parents’ home with a fairly substantial debt and almost nothing save for the clothes in my closet.

I had lost almost everything I held dear (my home, my partner, my puppies (temporarily), my self-confidence, my faith, my pride, my ability to get out of bed, my appetite…you get the idea). My parents were very gracious and supportive and offered to do whatever it took to get me back on my feet (literally and figuratively). I spent about 3 months living there during which time I had a 2 hour commute (each way) to work that left my already-exhausted self in a state of complete delirium and depression.

My mother, bless her heart, tried to console me as best she could. But consolation was not what I wanted. I wanted my life back. And barring that, I wanted plenty of alcohol. My mother has been married to my Father for going on 40 years, since the tender age of 17. Not only that, but they are still very much in love and still enjoy each other’s company! Imagine! My point here is that my mother is a woman who has never been dumped. Can you even fathom that? So her pep talks were a little hard to stomach to say the least.

She would try to lift my subterranean spirits by pointing out all of the worse situations I could be in. I could be missing limbs. I could have been born in a third world country. I could be dead. I could be a street urchin. I could have been 40 instead of 30 when this happened. We could have had a house and kids to deal with. I could not have had parents or anywhere to go. That last one I’ll give her. I was very grateful for that.

And she would dole out age-old words of wisdom like “It could be worse” or “It's always darkest just before the dawn” or, my favourite, “Jacquie, everything happens for a reason”. And she wasn’t the only one that kept telling me that everything happens for a reason. That phrase was like a cancer that had spread to everyone within a 2 mile radius of my broken heart.

And, as previously stated, I do in some ways believe this to be true. But that is an epiphany that can only be reached when the bleeding stops and the fog lifts. When you make it to the other side, find yourself in a beautiful place, and think to yourself, I wouldn’t be in this situation if I hadn’t gone through ________. But when you’re smack dab in the middle of the muck you just don’t need to hear that you are there for “a reason.”

I truly appreciated both of my parents for their support. And I loved all the hugs, the home-cooked meals, and the effort that was put into my recovery. But on the 6895th repetition of “Jacquie, Everything happens for a reason” I lost it. I countered back with this.

“Oh yeah? Let’s say that’s true. Let’s say that there is a reason for all of this. But what if the reason that this is happening is because the Universe or God or The Powers that Be randomly decided that I should suffer and be miserable, alone, and childless for the rest of my life!? What if some omnipotent figure drew my name out of a cosmic hat in some sadistic lottery of pain and this is my prize?! Tell her what she’s won Bob! A 3-month stay in her parent’s basement and a heart so packed with grief that it just might explode right out of her chest! What if the "reason" isn’t a good one? What if it’s a totally arbitrary, stupid, shitty reason!?’

Mom got quiet and her mouth dropped open.

“Well…now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“I know! But what if this magical “reason” is ridiculous?”
“That just…there’s no…you can’t…NO.”
“But what if it is?”
“It’s not.”
“But it could be.”
“It’s just not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do”.

Silence.

My mother did stop telling me that everything happens for a reason. But later, when my life turned around and good things started happening again she would say slyly “See? Everything happens for a reason!”

And she’s pretty adorable when she’s right.

But the lesson here kids, is try to avoid using this dreaded phrase until after your broken-hearted, downtrodden friend/sibling/child/parent is at least on solid food.

3. Doug has seen a million faces and he's rocked `em all. Cause I'm a cowboy...on a steel horse I ride...and I'm wanted (waaa-nted) dead or alive

2. Chris: It’s not a crime to love me.

1. Scott is wondering if anyone is trying to pry the rifle out of Charlton Heston’s now cold dead hands.

(March 11, 2008)

So I’m getting ready to leave for work. It’s Monday morning and I’m scraping the snow and ice off my car which has been parked on the street since Friday. As I’m brushing and chipping and scraping a man pulls up next to me and asks if I’m leaving. I offer a smile, shrug and say “Eventually”. So he pulls in front of me to wait for my spot. Fair enough. Then he gets out of his vehicle and lights a cigarette and starts talking to me.

He opens with “You should have done that yesterday.”

I am agog. He must be making an attempt at humour. I say ‘Pardon?’
He dryly repeats his opening line and successfully reaffirms my belief that some people should not be permitted to speak
I laugh sarcastically and retort “Wow…that’s… useful. Thanks, I didn’t think of that. Yesterday. Huh.” Not one of my better comebacks but it was all I had.
Then he suggests some coaching tips on how to properly clean off my car.

“Ya gotta scrape the wiper blades too cuz there’s a motor and a pin and mwaw mah mwah…bladeeblahblah…”

Sweet baby Jesus…is this guy for real? How fast can I scrape? How clear does my windshield really need to be before I run him over…er…drive to work?

But wait. There was more.

Jerk: Where do you live?

Me: Up the street

Jerk: Isn’t there parking spots?

Me: (scrape, scrape) Are you seriously asking me that?

Jerk: There’s not even one spot?

Me: No.

Jerk: Can’t you park on the front lawn? Turn it into a parking pad.

Me: No.

Jerk: blah blah shnur shnur babble babble blech?

Me: No.


At long last, the ice is off my car so I get in and attempt to pull away. But alas, I am spinning my wheels on the ice. ARGH!!!
Jerk starts barking orders again (back up! Turn your wheels! Give ‘er some gas! Back up again! More gas! MORE GAS!!)

Finally after what feels like an eternity I’m liberated from his company. And I must pat myself on the back for not taking him out.

Seriously.

Boo urns.

“What happened to your hair?” is not a suitable morning greeting. It makes me feel insecure and ugly.

CNIB early bird draw is at 5pm.
I am going to win $50,000.
I am going to win $50,000.
I am going to win $50,000.
I am going to win $50,000.
I am going to win $50,000.
Make it so.