Monthly Archives: December 2009

Aaaaaaand scene!

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Christmas reminds me of childbirth, in that there is all this exciting build up, decorating, shopping, alerting and gathering of the family etc… but then, when it is just about to happen, you suddenly change your mind and want to either stop the whole show or just skip straight to the day after.
The day after Christmas feels like the day after childbirth in that you are in this delirious semi-coma, basically non-functional, happy that it’s finally over and in complete disbelief that there was room for all of that (person, pie whatever…) inside your body and the children are laying around like zombies, convulsing and coming down off of crack candy canes, playing with the over priced gifts you bought them to make them love you believe in Santa and/or compensate for you knocking them down the food chain pecking order by forcing yet another spawn of Satan sibling on them.

I love Christmas, I love it to death but this year I had a little trouble hanging on to the spirit

My boyfriend hates Christmas, or so he lies says, but I swear, he is the one who brought the cheer this year, and by brought the cheer I mean stopped me from:

a) killing half the shoppers at Urban outfitters and two Clerks at the Mac store on Christmas eve

b) Selling one of the kids so I could afford to buy what the other two asked Santa for.

c) Drinking all the booze (alone) before noon Christmas day.

*It’s official, he’s a keeper.

I stressed for days that the gifts/food/decorations weren’t good enough, because that’s what I do,  and to insure an element of self sabotage left starting the construction of my boyfriend’s present, for 11pm on Christmas eve which needless to say was moronic of me and by the time he rolled in after work, at 3:30am, it was still incomplete. Fortunately, I was too drunk with Gin exhaustion the next morning to feel inadequate and besides,  my daughter gave him a Lily Allen photo vinyl, which he rubbed all over his body and made out with for about an hour before breakfast so it was all good.

Christmas came and went, and we all survived, even the kitten that my father in law brought along for fun, who was miraculously not eaten by Darla our mentally challenged boxer or Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Whose cat is that? (the neighbour’s cat who refuses to leave…going on 5 months now).

Darla did however take it upon herself to urinate repeatedly throughout the house during the day,  in protest of the kitten and subsequent rejection, what with the kitten being adorable and Darla being, quite frankly, repulsive…in comparison.


This makes perfect sense of course. I mean, were I faced with say…a skinny blond, half my age and twice the leg, I’m sure that rather than embarrassing myself by trying to out-cute her, I would strategically place myself within plain sight of my boyfriend and simply pee on the floor. It’s a no brainer.

Who brings a kitten to a Christmas dinner you ask… yeah…anyway…

I spent the whole day drinking cooking (and mopping), while the men did man things and the kids did kid things. We ate way too much, we drank too little, we watched old reel to reel films of people none of us have ever met and a few of my boyfriend playing with his wiener the bath when he was a baby, played two rousing games of Seinfeld Clue, one of which I won because I’m just that amazing and one of which somebody else won but who cares because I won the first one and that’s all that matters and then we finally collapsed at about 2am.

I can’t move, see or breathe and if ever my goal was to morph into Jabba the Hut the last two days have launched me half way to realizing that dream, but technically I am alive. We survived another Christmas.


*One of the gifts he gave me was a copy of David Cross’ I drink for a Reason. How fitting.

Jennifer June

Dear Santa, we need to talk.

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Naughty…Nice… really? I’m sure I had my off days but what kid hasn’t?


I don’t want to be a jerk or anything and I get how maybe you didn’t think a pony was a good gift for an irresponsible 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 or 11 year old child living in a 2nd floor flat in Montreal city, good call. But I’m at a bit of a loss as to why you failed me all those years in a row re: Barbie’s dreamhouse.


Honestly Santa, was a Mr. T action figure or a Mork and Mindy T-Shirt really so much to ask? Silly Putty? Come on! It’s only a dollar at Dollarama today. How much could it possibly have cost in 1976?


The thing is Nick,
My therapist may insist that my fear of abandonment/paralyzing inability to trust /OCD/Oppositional Defiance Disorder etc… are stemmed from daddy issues or that I’m competing with my mother or burying a past trauma in the recesses of my subconscious but I think I’m pretty in touch with my feelings and the only one person that I can think of in my entire life who has been consistently absent from my life, filled my head with gross fantasies and empty promises and, for all intents and purposes, failed me, is…

Look, I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, probably just a (repeated) oversight on your part, but this has been one hell of a year and I’m thinking that if ever you were to get the urge to redeem yourself, now would be a really great time to do it.


I have taken the liberty of making you a list so you really don’t have to put any thought into it at all.


1) A Sweater hand knit by somebody’s grandma, preferably with reindeer and holly on it but I will easily settle for snowflakes if that’s all you’ve got.

2) A state of the art 21.1-megapixel full-frame camera to capture the growth, brilliant smiles, cherished moments, exhilarating love and emotions of my beautiful daughters. And also so I can take naked poorly lit amateur photos of myself and text them to my boyfriend when he’s on tour.

3) A Tofurky. I can’t find one anywhere and I’ve been ridiculed over the phone by every grocery store in the city this week.

“Tof-what? What is it? We have Turkey”

“No, I’m sure I’ve bought it
there before. It’s called Tofurky, it’s made of Soy product and… ”

“We have Turkey sausages.”

“No, it’s a stuffed..”

“Oh! Stuffing! We have it in boxes and in tubs”

“No a stuffed…”

“We don’t have stuffed Turkeys m’am you have to stuff it yourself.”

Please, Mr. Kringle, don’t make us settle for faux tourtière again this year, I suck at making it and it tastes like ground cardboard, even with Ketchup on it.


4) Employment insurance (even on sick leave) doesn’t pay the rent let alone Christmas so I was thinking…
I’ve got their stocking stuffers covered, I keep a junk drawer full of them ( batteries, razors, condoms, pennies,twist ties etc…),
but I could really use enough money deposited into my bank account to buy some cool presents for the kids. It’s one thing to give a gift certificate for a massage or taking out the garbage to your husband (and even then…) but they never go over quite as well with the kids. I thought of making them clay ashtrays shaped as iPods but wondered if it might give the wrong message. Speaking of money and youth protection…


5) Rent paid for the next 6 months (or last two), so I can take my drinking and child neglect to the next level (finish writing my book, album and one woman show).
The world will be a much better place, I assure you.


6) My youth back. Preferably my 6 year old energy, 18-21 year old body with my 32 year old brain, if it can be arranged. If not, I’ll settle for that Mork and Mindy T-Shirt.


7) I have three kids, a dog and the neighbour’s cat (who refuses to go home). Without exaggeration, 3 1/2 hours is how long my dryer takes to dry one sock, a dishtowel and two cotton pillow cases. I’m not sure if we have a washing machine anymore because I cant reach the area it was once situated in, due to the mountain of wet mouldy laundry that has been waiting 6 months for it’s turn in the dryer. So please…Santy, be a pal




8 ) And last but not least, Sephora. Yes, the whole place. A whole Sephora, of my very own. That’s what I want.


9) UPDATE! Telus just disconnected my cell phone (again) because the bill is past due by ONLY 8 DAYS!! Please Father Christmas, please, please, please kill them (economically) PLEASE.


Alright Jultomten, I think that pretty much covers it. I thank you sincerely for your time and look forward to hearing back from you at your earliest convenience.


Love Jen (Jennie)


P.S. Thanks for the Slinky

Jennifer June

The landing strip

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So…
I don’t want to offend anybody here but I’m just going to come right out and say that I don’t get what people call “the landing strip”, or “pubic hair mustache”. I don’t know if it’s because it reminds me of porn from 1989 or something else, but it just looks weird to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I get the appeal of maintenance. In fact, I am a big fan of landscaping, but there are extremes to everything you know?

Like, on the one hand, a giant jungle muff sprawled across your crotch and down to your knees can be a little intimidating, but so can the bare naked “look at me, I’m a pre-pubescent child” thing.

Two days ago I was showering with great anticipation for the appointment I had made with an esthetician down the street. I’d never been there before but it looked swanky and it was much closer to our house than the place I usually go.
Less than an hour later I was half naked, spread out on a table with a stranger and reeling (not really but it sounds dramatic) in shock.
Why? Well let me tell you why…

Chick: “what kind of wax?”
Me: “I don’t know what it’s called.. the kind that takes away a lot but still leaves a little”
Chick: “OK”

I used my hands though, I motioned the motion one might if they were saying “leave a small-medium triangular patch here but take away the extra…” If you get what I mean. She insisted she did so I had no reason to believe that I wasn’t in safe hands.

The thing is that she was a little rougher than I’m used to and almost disturbingly thorough. Seriously, if she had been any closer to my birth canal, she would have been waxing my cervix.
On top of that, after each strip, she would lean in really close and blow on me. Yes…that is correct. I’m not repeating it so if you just said “WHAT?” go back a line or two and re-read that one.

Distracted by the pain and this somewhat unfamiliar hair removal ritual, I failed to pay close attention to the actual procedure itself and even worse, when instructed to flip on to my tummy, did so without hesitation. Maybe some people have stray pubes that wander and are more easily accessed from the back?

Judge me if you must, I really don’t care. Maybe you do this all the time, maybe you wouldn’t have it any other way, maybe you do it for fun, at the house, with all your friends and loved ones. I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I don’t have access to the adjectives that would best describe the feelings I experienced when quite suddenly surprised by searing hot wax in my butt crack. I honestly didn’t even have the time to protest before the deed was done.

So.. I came home feeling a little bewildered and somewhat violated but, in all honesty, it wasn’t that bad.
What was bad, though, was later catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, on my way to bed, and subsequently coming to the awesome realization that the only thing between me and that bare naked “look at me, I’m a pre-pubescent child” look was what some might call “the landing strip”, or “pubic hair mustache”…if you will.

My question to you is… now what?

Do shave it all off?

Do I leave it like that and avoid my reflection for the next 4-6 weeks?

Do I take a moment every day to stand in front of the mirror, pointing, laughing and judging as I have been so quick to do to others?

Do I buy it a pair of nose glasses?

Suggestions please!

Jennifer June

Bring on the clowns

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“Why don’t you go to Addition Elle or Penningtons?”

My husband would suggest to me.

“WHAT?? WHY?”

“Because you are always complaining that the boutiques in the mall only have clothes for 12 year old barbie dolls,

maybe you should go somewhere for big  girls.”

Did he just call me a big girl? I’m not big. I’m short…and round.

He clearly never did redeem the coupons to husband school that I gave him for his birthday.

I shot daggers into his head with my eyes and stormed out of the room.

Years later ( a week ago)  I found myself shopping for pieces for a burlesque costume, for my last show.

I tried all the cheesy lingerie stores in the neighbourhood and found nothing bigger than a D cup that didn’t resemble a beige control top chastity belt held up with seat belt straps. On my way home I passed a plus size clothing store and stopped to peer in the window.

It’s just a bra Jen, you’re not buying fat people clothes, you’re buying a bra.

I took a deep breath and walked in. The story was the same there in the undergarment department but what was really horrifying was the clothing draped all over the racks and even on some of the sales people.

Somebody PLEASE tell me who decided that fat ladies should wear giant floral prints and bold polyester primary coloured stripes or at least enlighten me on why half the tops and dresses come adorned with massive sashes and bows and buttons the size of my face. What kind of cruel joke is this and who is buying it? Do overweight women not feel insecure enough as it is? I don’t know about the rest of the plus size ladies out there, but I tend to try and hide my rolls a little, not deck them out in their own costumes to insure that everybody sees them in their full glory. I’m not saying it’s shameful to be curvy or whatever, I’m just saying that I’m a fan of the colour black and prefer my stripes to be thin and vertical.

I’m also saying that since the store specializes in clothing for larger ladies, you would think that they would offer a few items that flatter the figure, rather than turn it into a neon sausage with Christmas decorations dangling from it.

Is the owner a  sadistic skinny little fat farm survivor who has taken it upon herself to punish everyone over size 12 by dressing them up like circus clown? Was she lurking behind a curtain, watching me break into a sweat, doubting my sanity and searching for the exit?

I tried to leave but in my panic took a wrong turn and  found myself in the bargain basement instead. I started hyperventilating and swooning with dizziness but nobody offered to help. The bearded ladies just looked on, cackling and throwing their heads back in time with the sound of the organ grinder’s tune. I think there was a screeching monkey jumping from rack to rack, waving his finger at me wildly.  It’s a wonder I even made it out of there alive.

Needless to say, diet is going back on my list of New Years resolutions this year.

Jennifer June

Wanna suck my cork?

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Sooo… this dude requests my friendship on Facebook right? Well, not my facebook so much as the facebook of my alter-ego/burlesque character Damiana Dolce and, assuming he is one of my billions of fans, I accept him.

He then quite promptly sends me an email saying “you looks horny, wanna suck my cork?”

The thing is, I had just prepared and eaten spinach stuffed pasta shells, tossed arugula and spicy pumpkin coconut soup and washed it all down with the bigger half of a bottle of wine and was honestly already quite stuffed by the time I had received his generous offer.
So! My gift to all of you is his facebook address. If any of you hot ladies are up for a little cork sucking, give him a shout. I’m sure he would be happy to hear from any of you. And ladies…You’re welcome.

http://www.facebook.com/inbox/?ref=mb#/profile.php?id=100000485315643

Jennifer June