I have never won anything in my whole and entire life until  Corinna at This Lush Life announced that I am the winner of THIS Playtex Bra Giveaway.

How freakin’ cool is that? I’m so excited I could barf!

Obviously I am totally going to post like a thousand photos of my boobs in various positions (yes they can do that, they are almost 40 years old after all) from various angles, in various moods, in my brand new Playtex bra, as soon as I receive it.

Thank you Corinna!

Thank you This Lush Life!

Thank you A Celebration of Curves!

Thank you from me and my happy boobs!

I have all these little projects in the works right now, that I am super excited about, including a very special and  super secret surprise one that I CAN’T WAIT to show you guys. For real, It’s making me a little nuts, keeping my mouth shut.

It’s a bit of a stressy week starting tomorrow, practice, practice, write, practice, the impending court date with the landlord on Thursday morning, followed by a mad dash for Toronto, the minute the judge announces that my brood and I are tossed to the curb. I’m only going so I can find out how many days I have left to pack up the truckloads of useless crap that I have accumulated over the years but refuse to let go of, on account of my abandonment issues combined with a deep seeded, ego driven need to collect proof souvenirs of all past worship memories.

Then off to the Toronto Burlesque Festival with 3 fellow burlesque babes. Because if a car full of tasell twirling yahoos, pumped up on freedom,  glitter and highway coffee,  on their way to rip it up for four days in a pile of booze, boobs and rhinestones isn’t one hell of a road trip what is? WHAT IS?

When I get back I start packing up my palace and searching for a new one. MOVE I  love moving. I really do. So do my kids. We’re like a little pack of gypsies.

I don’t love looking for a new apartment. I don’t love competing with other potential tenants who have impeccable credit and a full month deposit hiding their pocket, for the home I want.

I really don’t love looking at shit hole apartments with half the bedrooms than what was advertised in the listing, 6 or 16 blocks east of where it was supposedly located, for $200.00 more than it was listed for. I’m not a huge fan of peeling linoleum or parkay floors and rotting cupboards littered with mouse droppings and cockroach cadavers. I REALLY ESPECIALLY don’t love taking the bus half way across town in a heat wave to a potential place, only to find out that the owners either forgot to show up or, even better, gave the apartment to a nice couple just yesterday (oops sorry!)

But I do love christening exploring, decorating and celebrating in a new home. I also love waking up and having my first coffee in our new place, looking around thinking… I wonder how long this one will last I live here now.

It’s like traveling, only… not.

So, yes…. Court, Burlesque Festival, house hunting, working my ass off on my new, fantastic, super secret surprise project that I CAN’T WAIT to tell you about AND the super awesome act that I am writing for the September 22 Blue Light Burlesque show at Café Campus this fall. It’s going to be my bravest performance ever and you’ll only know why if you come.

Oh! And my book! I have over 37,000 words written. Can you believe it? OK, I know, after edits that works out to about 97 pages but still! Woohooo!

In the middle of all this (16 short days from today) is my birthday and I am going to be 40 big, fat years old.  I know right? How do I stay acting looking so young?

My secret: Pure, unbridled immaturity I bathe in rain water, painstakingly collected by hand from the clogged sewer grates in the alley, exfoliate with dog dander  and wash my hair in the vomit of  dung beetles. There you go. You have the key to eternal youth in your hands and you didn’t even have to pay 4 weekly payments of $19.99 for it.

SO! For this big giant amazing 40th year of me gracing the earth with my stunning good looks, infectious laughter and addictive charm, I am going to have a big giant amazing surprise birthday party for myself and you are all invited. The biggest surprise of course,  will be where this smashing shindig will be located what with us being semi-homeless and all. I’ll have to keep you posted on that one.

I’ll try to keep the blog updated while all of this is going on and I’ll try not to make every single post for the next two weeks about turning 40 but I can’t promise anything.

Love Jen.

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Soon enough, half the day has gone and nothing on the list has been done.
Shortly after, the day has passed entirely and I begin to mourn the loss of opportunity, accomplishment and reward.

Worst of all, there be a whole new list added to the existing one by morning!

My mother sometimes writes a Have-Done list to record her victories in a day, rather than bog herself down with a half checked list of things she was supposed “to-do” but failed to accomplish.

A friend recommended, “I only put things on my list that I know for certain I will definitely do, this way I’m sure
to feel accomplished at the end of the day.”
Oh Ok, Cool

Jen’s (revised) To-Do List

1 ) Be annoyed that I had to get out of bed
2 ) Promise not to drink coffee today but drink it anyway
3 ) Check E-mail
4 ) Talk to my mom on the phone
5 ) Refresh facebook page 6-600 times
6) resent the dog for breathing too loud
7 ) Look at one of my kids like I don’t know who they are at least once during the day
8 ) Read some other blogs for inspiration but don’t actually write anything
9 ) Contemplate showering
10 ) Wonder if it’s too early to switch to wine

Another friend goes as far as to confess that she only writes things she actually wants to do on her list.

Right…

1 ) Wake up to the giddy chatter of housekeepers and the sweet sound of a garden boy watering my hibiscus trees
2 ) Eat a light breakfast with tisane served by Curtis Stone at a bistro table next to my imaginary swimming pool.
3 ) Stare blankly at my imaginary personal assistant as she updates me on all upcoming engagements and red carpet events.
4 ) Go to the hairdresser to have my hair washed
5 ) Nap in a hammock in Mexico
6 ) Respond to hilarious tweets from my best friends, Russell Brand and Sarah Silverman
7 ) Oooh and Aahhh over my children’s straight A report cards and premature acceptance letters to Harvard and Yale
8 ) Lunch with friends in Brussels
9 ) Foot massage
10 ) Switch to wine

Seriously people, I’m desperate and I need your suggestions… When is an appropriate time of day to switch to wine?

Sex in the City 2

was at times almost painful to watch.

I’ve officially gone from undecided over which character I would most like to be to which character I felt most sorry for.

Samantha has gone from being a confident independent connoisseur of promiscuity, illustrating that even older women are foxy babes, to a hormonally deranged walking hot flash, grabbing desperately for a stranger’s penis on a dinner date in hopes of getting some action. Apparently she was strong enough to fight cancer, chemo and balding but aging sends her into a state of complete idiocy, scrambling to the ground, frantically and shamelessly scavenging for the condoms that fell out of her purse.

Charlotte’s character brags of realism because it shows an honest look at parenthood yet they had to make her baby a miserable screaming monster who does nothing but cry, day and night and her other child got finger paint *GASP* on her four trillion dollar vintage dress! Can you imagine? How did her full time live-in nanny let this happen???

Miranda’s part was boring and they have turned her into a ditz which I was most disappointed by because she was always my favorite on the show.

Carrie…
Basically, her internal struggle throughout the film is that her husband has become too much like a husband and would rather stay home and eat together and snuggle in bed watching old black and white movies, then go out on the town with her and her friends? Um…

Naturally she cheats on him with her ex-boyfriend who (SURPRISE!) just happens to be in Abu Dhabi at the same time as Carrie and this in turn, provokes Big to punish her by buying her a massive black diamond ring, and they live happily ever after.

OK, I’m being harsh, I mean let’s not focus on the writing, content or continuity so much. That’s not the real reason why we go see Sex and the City right? We go for New York… oops I mean Abu Dhabi and…

The FASHION!
All they pre-movie hype about the fashion was totally misleading as well.
I’m sorry, I’m entirely aware that true fashion is neither realistic nor wearable in public and I still enjoy looking at it and imagining that maybe one day I might actually have the occasion to wear gold riding pants and a gainsborough with a brim wide enough to shade an elephant, a circle skirt made of live gardenias or a barbed wire bikini. I don’t think there was one single outfit in the entire 2 hours of the film that I would wear on fantasy island much less in the cobblestone streets of an Arab market.

So, all in all, with the exception of watching Liza Minelli “Put A Ring On It” and the brief appearance of an Australian rugby team frolicking in the pool, the film was a total fail.

Next!

Get Him to the Greek

Dear Russell Brand,
My schedule is clear and free for marriage and baby-making so… whenever you’re ready.
Love Jen xx

After about 2 billion blood tests, which were especially fun because I have no veins, it was determined that my liver is in great shape.

“So I can still drink?!?”

As are my kidneys.

The only thing is, that my over enthusiastic immune system has decided for no apparent reason, that my red blood cells are actually an evil virus and has formed anti-bodies that are rapidly killing them off. Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia.

The next morning, I had my first of 12 blood transfusions. I was terrified. First they warn you of all the potential reactions you might have to the blood, then they reassure you that only 25% of recipients have a reaction.

“ONLY 25%? I may have chartreuse eyeballs, I may be in a fever induced semi-coma but I can do basic math. There are four people in this room things aren’t looking so good for somebody.”

Then they come look at you every 15 minutes to remind you that you might react.
“Are you feeling anything strange? Heart palpitations? Difficulty breathing? Itching?”

“No, no I’m fine” scratch scratch, wheeze, choke.

My room was #666 ( I kid you not).

My roommate was a loud groany man, who wasn’t as offensive as he was exhausting. I kept catching him heaving his body off the end of his bed, gown around his thick neck, his stark white ass in the air, letting out these long winding farts, tugging on his colostomy bag, muttering and swearing in Italian.

“Mr. Primiani, you’re not supposed to get out of bed by yourself.”
“I go see my wife!” He announces authoritatively.
I push the alert button.
The Preposé comes running and cram him back into place, threatening to restrain him and what have you.
Repeat every 30-40 minutes.
It was our thing.

After having some of my blood accidentally transfused into a bag of saline, the visiting hematologist requested that I be transferred to a hospital more equipped for my condition, like one with actual doctors for example.

The next hospital gave me a private room and reverse isolation. A calmer, quieter place to obsessively question my mortality and berate myself for having put off doing laundry all week, never having written a will or planned for the potential orphanage of my children.

It took several days before I could walk the four feet to the bathroom without help from Francois, who devotedly dragged my IV stand behind him back and forth, and refrained from showing any resentment towards me for having to use the toilet about every 15 minutes. He slept in the chair beside me, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be OK. I reassured him that I knew everything would be OK and silently prayed to god to let me live.

They have successfully suppressed my immune system enough to slow down the execution of my blood cells and now we watch and wait, as I get slowly weaned off the steroids, to see that the anti-bodies don’t kick in again. We’re not entirely in the clear, I’m still heavily medicated and having my blood tested every couple of days but I was discharged from the hospital yesterday, to come home to heal. The condition being that my mom is not allowed to go home for at least a week (sorry mom) and my kids promise to be angels. Hear that kids?

For real though, I’m happy to be home to listen to them bicker, to listen to the landlord renovate the apartment upstairs, so happy to not eat “vegetarian fish loaf” for supper, so happy to be home to sleep in my own bed, even if Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Eli/Whose cat is that? only lets me sleep on a third of it. Thank you for the flowers, wishes, visits, prayers and piggy truffles. Thank you to my sweet boyfriend who insisted that I was beautiful even if I looked like Marge Simpson. Thank you most of all to everyone who came together and managed to miraculously stabilize my children’s lives through all of this. I can’t thank you enough, but thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’ve noticed some strange quirky behaviors I brought home from the hospital with me, easy over-stimulation, unusual sensitivities and paranoia but mostly routine related preoccupations.

It is amazing to me how quickly we become institutionalized in controlled environments. Somehow, all the craziness that my regular day to day day life embraces, was reduced to a schedule of medications and meal times. I’m not kidding, the food at the hospital was so vile, I literally gagged some of it down on the verge of tears, but I still looked forward to it, because it meant that segment of the day was over. The highlight of my day was the morning hemoglobin count, but after that, all that was left was glucose tests, lunch time and 52 repeat episodes of Flip That House and Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Supper, supper meant the transfusions and immune (gamma?) globulin starts again in 2 hours. I imagine this is what life for many seniors in shitty retirement homes must be like. You’re just counting these mundane events because they are your only activities. They prove that time is in fact relevant and more importantly, they help keep your mind off whether or not you are going to live.

Of course, as far as distractions go, I had a great deal of help from Mrs. Wiseman.

“HELP!” she wailed from the room next door. My nurse didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“HELP!!!! I’M DYING!!”

“That’s Mrs. Wiseman” he informs me, “She does that”.

And she did. Half the day and most of the night. Whether it was to ask how many days she had left to live, to ask for insulin, to go to the bathroom or even to ask a nurse to unwrap a candy for her, it was proceeded by blood curdling shrieking from her room. She refused to use her bell and refused to accept that the nurses couldn’t hear her crying out to them from the far far far end of the hall. She would scream and yell and holler and eventually, if nobody answered, she would call out from the phone in her room, dialing the direct phone number to the Hospital itself and asked to be transferred to the front desk of our floor. The receptionist would answer what she assumed was an outside call, only to hear:

“I’m constipated! Help me! I need Demerol!”

Later:

Mrs Wiseman: “HELLOOOOOOO! I’m dying in here!!!”

Nurse: “Hmmmm.. I was planning to come back in half an hour to take your blood pressure, are you still going to be here or should I skip your room?”

Mrs. Wiseman: “Do you think think you’re funny?”

Nurse: “Just asking…”

Considering she’s been there since August, I think she’s remarkably sane. I would have probably thrown myself out the window already.

“Paul?”

“No, Mrs. Wiseman”

“HELP ME!”

He enters my room.

“You think I’m a monster, I know it, but she just wants me to pass her the T.V. remote, it can wait.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster. When my kids badger me like that I ask them, Are you on Fire? Are you bleeding? No? Then it can wait. Of course, you’re her nurse, not her mother. It probably wouldn’t go over very well here.”

Paul smiles, checks my vitals and promises to be back in half an hour and I listen as his footsteps fade down the hallway.

“Paul!!”

“Mrs. Wiseman?”

“Help me!”

“Are you on fire?”

“What?”

“Are you on fire Mrs. Wiseman?”

“Of course I’m not on fire!!”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No!”

“Then it can wait.”