Monthly Archives: May 2010

Tequila Barbecue-Motorcyle-Hot Tub Party… Yes.

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Sometimes I worry that my life is getting too “grown-up”, that I am aging too quickly, that I’m too tired, busy or mature(ha! never) to really bust out and have fun.

And then days like yesterday happen, the days that I’m at a barbecue and all the boys jump on their motorcycles and head to the parking lot down the street for an old school race.

I was wondering about the other cars in the lot, the line up of passers by, the short distance of the course, the employees of the building whose parking lot we had taken over.

Marie-Hélène hopped from one foot to the other and dropped the handkerchief.
“GO!”

What’s more glorious than 4 cute boys and a hot chick on sexy vintage motorcycles, you ask?

Well, 5 hysterical greasers “racing” as slowly as they possibly can, without their feet touching the ground or their bikes falling over, who basically just look, in all concentration, like a team of trembling, constipated seniors trying really hard to poop on the seat of their bikes. Very rock star, very cool.






Add Jules the Mascot:



Next activity on the agenda went like this:

All us girls stand in a line, bent over, with a roll of toilet paper wedged between our legs. The boys line up behind us with toilet plungers between their legs, hop over to us and impale the rolls with their plungers, without using their hands and then hop victoriously to the finish line.

All off this, while neighbours looked on from their balconies, craning their necks and shouting encouraging insults.

Round one, I was impaled in the butt several times by my partner who I’m quite convinced never had any intention of going for the roll in the first place.




Round two, we traded places and to be honest, most of us girls were laughing (crying) so hard we couldn’t have gotten our plungers into a rig tire if we tried.


There was mention of the hot tub which naturally led to a lengthy conversation about pubic hair and another batch of daiquiris.




The theme of the barbecue was Tequila and I’m pretty sure that everything from he margaritas and marinades to the beans and the carrot salad was infused with Tequila and I, for one, am going to start cooking with it on a regular basis because I have to say…

Although my butt hurt a little when I woke up this morning, last night, there was no fear of getting too “grown-up”, aging too quickly, or feeling too tired, busy, or mature to bust out and have fun.

All photos by Cléo Binette of Mll Cléo au jour le jour…


PS: I ❤ Jules

Jennifer June

Ass Whoopin’

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I’m tired of being sick and uncomfortable. I’m tired of joint pain and bizarre rashes and turning into a science experiment for the eyes, whenever I walk out into the sun.
I remember it only vaguely, but I want to feel good again.

My doctor says I’m “Lupusy”
“That’s neither a disease nor an adjective” I remind her.
“Well I don’t want to label you… yet”
“I’ve been called some pretty lame and even down right nasty things in my life, but I think I prefer all of that
over Lupusy.”
“Just go home and live your life” She tells me, “and call me every time you get a new symptom”

Um… no.

I’m not going to just go home to live this life. This constant pain and discomfort life, this looking like a dermatological freak-show life. This “where did half my hair go?” life.

I’m taking control of my life.

I already eat about 90% Vegan, whole grain almost everything, Maybe one soy latté a week, two max. I cut wayyyyyyyy back on alcohol, I’m in bed by 11pm every night and I still feel like crap.

SO, naturally, I decided this Lupusy feeling needs a royal ass whoopin’ and that it’s about time I show it who’s boss.

I decided to exercise away all this miserable feeling. I downloaded legally purchased 3 Jillian Michaels (of The Biggest Loser) DVD’s and got to work. I have chosen to alternate on a 3 day rotation for optimum effect.

Day One: I did the easiest version and was drowning in a pool of my own sweat. Brilliant as I am, choosing the day that it is 35 degrees outside to begin my new homemade fitness boot-camp. I got a terrible head ache but I felt better… in an exhausted, semi-delirious, totally nauseous kind of a way.
Considering posting photos of my awesome journey but scared that if I do I’ll have to actually commit to this for more than a week and also tell everyone how much I weigh. Boring.

Day Two: I was stiff and sore but still doing great for the first two circuits until… I don’t know what happened.
She was making us do planks, which really hurt my wrists which, in turn, made me hate my body, which in turn, hurt my own feelings and, well, it just got ugly from there. I literally started crying through the workout, muttering abusive comments at myself.

Meanwhile Jillian is coaching…

Jillian: “Don’t phone this one in”
Me: “I won’t, sniffle, sob”
Jillian “remember why you’re doing this”
me: “OK, whimper, drool” I heave myself onto my back, writhing like a whale on dry land, for a round of double crunches.

My dog looks on with concern, clearly wondering if I’ve finally lost it.

Jillian: “If you need an easier version, just…”
Me: “I’m fine” I snap at the television,
” I can do this….” I reassure myself, wiping snot on my trembling shoulder.

Day Three: Pretty much all I have to say is
*Ouch* Jillian, you sadistic monster *F#@*k* what the hell are you trying to do to me? *#$%#^^@*
and also…

Yeay! Look at me taking control of my *ouch damn it* destiny! Whoot!

Jennifer June

Pictures of an exhibition

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I went to an erotic art exhibition last night and when I walked in
there was a girl singing Fever, which I sang the night before at our show, except that
she sang it kind folksy and her dad was playing guitar. It was cute.

The venue was too small for all the GIANT paintings of GIANT neon penises and almost life size photographs of naked women that one might find in any generic soft porn magazine.

Part of a really boring gay teen romance novel was read by a lonely boy who clearly spends too much time on facebook and needs to work out his issues about his ex-boyfriend. He used words like “pics” instead of photos or pictures, and never looked up from his pages once, so as to engage his audience. Nobody was listening, except for his two friends and myself because I felt sorry for him. the audience was talking louder amongst themselves than he was, even with the help of a microphone.

There was some really offensive spoken word by some french dude who was almost succeeding at coming off as artistic but he was yelling so loud into the mic that it hurt to listen. He was ugly and dirty looking but almost sexy with his bold and aggressive use of profanity. Unfortunately his oral herpes made it hard to imagine him in any sexual context other than the day after visit to the STD clinic.

But that didn’t stop me. I worked at it for a while and after trying really hard, what I came up with is one of those guys who basically just Fucks the hell out of you, sweating like an angry pig and grunting like a wild boar. The kind that are so emotionally wounded that after sex they have to quickly light a cigarette and pretend to be busy with something else that might erase the fact that you just saw their soft, vulnerable underbelly. That’s pretty much a turn off in itself…

That and the fact that his poetry mostly made him sound like a sexually repressed closet rapist.

My friend Tina read her erotic literature which was crass, slutty and funny. Loved it. It made me feel
crass slutty and funny for appreciating it as genuinely as I did and I like that.

A beautiful Indian girl read her fantastic poems. Her skin was dark and delicious, especially against her red red top. Her hair long and silky and shiny under the stage lights, her eyes soft and sweet; so when she read about a girl she wanted, you couldn’t help but want that girl to be you.

She read one about her fiancé and there was a line that went something like “When you leave I feel like a town without it’s towns people”. It’s not exactly how I feel about my boyfriend being on tour. I’m not empty or alone (no matter how much I beg the children to go away) and I’m not incomplete by any means, but when the words left her lips, I missed François very much and just wanted to reach my arms all the way to Switzerland and hug him.

I lifted my eyes slowly to meet hers, in recognition, but she was looking elsewhere. Right next to her head, on the wall behind was a cobalt blue painting of a giant hairy vagina.

She read “I want a man who knows that diamonds are just very old coal and will dig deeper and deeper inside himself to find the gem that is truly worthy of me”

“Amen” whispered the woman sitting next to me.

For that moment, every single person in the room wanted that man too, every person except for the man who screamed

“Whooot!” for finally having a line to use on his girlfriend the next time she complained that there still isn’t a ring on her finger.

Jennifer June

A body only a mother could love…

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Thank GOD Victoria Secret has launched a Love Your Body campaign!
Dove had the right idea but then they went and put real bodies of real women and shit and well, frankly, I was worried about all those poor overlooked lingerie models.

I mean, without their own campaign how can they even stand to stare look at themselves in the mirror?

And honestly, if they don’t love their bodies who will? You go girls!



Jennifer June