We have mould and that means that my favourite room in the house:

We have mould in the basement and it stinks and it’s giving me a sore throat and congestion.

I was terrified (of course) that since I didn’t realize what it was until I’d been in the room organizing for an hour that I had given myself some sort of life threatening fungal disease of the lungs.

I’ve since thoroughly educated myself on all the ins and outs of house fungi and alternate between the three voices in my head.

#1: Oh my god it’s happening, I feel faint.

#2: You haven’t eaten anything all day.

#3: Well, it’s possible you have a lung infection but it’s so rare that…

#1: OH MY GOD SERIOUSLY? I have a lung infection??

#2: Eat something you moron.

#3: I’m just saying…

#2: Well don’t.

#1: What? What were you saying? Tell me! Oh my god am I dying? I can’t breathe.. I can’t breathe..*commence Hyperventilation*

#2: Jesus Christ…

Mould is not healthy. It makes you feel sick and I happen to be allergic to it so when emptying the contents of the mould affected room I took every precaution.

I tried my very best to maintain composure and a sense of mindfulness while packing 11 industrial size bags of my boas, fans, feathers, sequins, fringe, tassels, costumes, art supplies, sewing stuff, fabric flowers, pasties and hair accessories to be thrown in the *breathe* garbage.

And I made a little pile of things I desperately want to keep on my back balcony.

Although my sister (who just happens to have professional experience in this very sort of thing) has since informed me that the peacock feather wreath must, on no uncertain terms, be tossed in the trash. I may cry. Just saying…

Tune in tomorrow for the continuing saga of Mould Busters and learn how much of the keep pile got tossed, how the mould is apparently all my fault and why I fantasize about throwing the landlady off a very tall cliff!

That way where I had planned the trip to New York months in advance on account of my genius brother’s law school graduation ceremony coming up but at the last minute having the intention of the visit shifted on account of my grandmother passing away the day before I was scheduled to travel.

That way.

The way that the day I had reserved for shopping in Manhattan had been re-purposed for a funeral service in Westchester County.

That way.

I spent half the day before fretting and emotionally preparing to back out.

Can you even do that? Back out of funeral?.

I stepped into Saint Mary’s.

I lit 3 candles.

One for Grandma Rose, one for Grandpa Fred and one for Leif.

I asked God if that would suffice and waited for a sign.

A man paced back and forth behind me, jingling the change in his pocket.

The message was clear.

My grandmother would never put up with that kind of cop-out anyway. She probably wouldn’t even approve of the candle gesture.

If memory serves correctly she swore off God when she was 43, the day that her doctor told her that (oops) she wasn’t pre-menopausal as he had suspected, but pregnant with twins.

It wasn’t just the funeral part I found daunting –after all, who doesn’t love a funeral – but the family gathering together part. This part of my family.

I don’t have the words to articulately express the feeling I have when I’m with them but the visual comes to mind of an organism (that is my family) with a linty bit of baby-dust-bunny (that is me) stuck to but half dangling from it.

They pull up in Lincolns, Mercedes and Land Rovers.

I pull up on a commuter train.

They’re classy, coiffed and manicured.

I’m disheveled and awkward.

They own multiple houses, marble floors, 6 car garages, boats, chalets and “outdoor living spaces” bigger than my apartment.

I have to set aside 3 hours of each day to boil water for our baths, on account of an outstanding gas bill leaving us without running hot water.

They call me creative. Artistic.

We arrive at the funeral home and I shuffle about, comment on photos and feign interest the upholstery and the drapes. I introduce myself to some people who I have apparently already met in childhood and others who look at me quizzically.

“Who do you belong to?”

My father introduces me to a retired doctor, who he later informs me once posed for Playgirl magazine. I tried to delete the imagery instantly but called upon it as quickly to help stifle tears later in the service.

I sit in the second row. Entirely empty with the exception of my father’s wife who insists on sitting next to me even when encouraged to move up front with the rest of the immediate family. I’m silently grateful.

My father speaks fondly of his mother in between prayers and psalms

I get uncomfortable every time the minister says “she beat us to the grave” like sports commentary gone morbid.

We file out to our cars and wait for the hearse to load.

The cars weave down the winding roads in single file like a rollercoaster in slow motion.

We pass the house where my grandfather sits watching television and I feel like somebody just punched me in the stomach. Grandma is the only one he consistently remembers but when he asks where she is he is told she has gone shopping and he’s okay with that. Every time he asks.

We arrive at the burial site and I’m plagued with guilt every step I take for walking on people.

I try not to read the tombstones.

Once everyone is somewhat assembled Gary abruptly bursts into the first verse of Amazing Grace at the top of his lungs, over the casket.

You need a visual for this.

Rodney Dangerfield and My Cousin Vinny engage in a an evening of heated passion leading to conception of a baby who is a retired lounge singer at birth.

That baby. Is Gary.

The minister speaks.

My aunt’s husband reads the sentiments of somebody too distraught to speak for herself.

It was clearly just an oversight by the author who simply had no idea that I existed; but the letter reads that Grandma was especially proud of her husband, her children and her 2 grandchildren, Cousin One and Cousin Two.

I am neither cousin one nor cousin two.

Linty bit of baby-dust-bunny.

As I said. Clearly an oversight. But I still felt like I was in a Woody Allen movie.

The service was concluded and the family migrated to an Italian restaurant.

Calamari, eggplant parmesan, salmon, martini chicken and vodka penne.

Platters of cheesecake, mousse, pies, pastries and flan.

Most of which untouched packaged up and sent home.

I bump into Cousin One coming out of the washroom.

“Hey. Do you know who I am?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“I’m your cousin.”

He looks exasperated.

“How many cousins do I have?”

It’s tough being 10 years old. Every time you turn around there’s more stuff you have to learn and remember. It’s exhausting.

“There’s only two of us here kid”

“This cousin is from Canada” interrupts my uncle.

Cousin One’s eyes light up.

“Do you know Justin Beiber?”

I almost lied.

When I return to the table Gary is interrogating Cousin One about his experience as an infant in a Russian orphanage and berating him for not remembering the language. He follows that up with a verse (Frank Sinatra style) of All Of Me and redeems himself by teaching the kid a few token swear words.

People shake hands and hug and kiss good bye.

“We should…”

“Do come visit…”

“Have you been to our country house yet?”

Cousin One begs his mother to let him go for a play date at “Uncle Gary’s” house.

Gary tries to talk my father’s sexy cousin Kathy into a play date of their own and we all call it a day.

The train ride back to Manhattan was peaceful and thought provoking and upon reflection I was thankful to the guy with the jingly change.

I was thankful to have been there.

I had a touching conversation with my uncle and met a few fantastic people. some of whom I am related to and others that I wish I was.

I was content to have gone and found my own little moment of closure.

And after all, who doesn’t love a funeral?

Francois:
holy fucking shit
i hear people screaming on the street from a block from here

http://www.novinite.com

Jennifer-June:
You just sent me a link to about 12 news stories. What are people screaming about?

Francois:
i dont understand but its been hot here since a couple of days
the nationalist leader punch another guy yesterday, they had a riot aswell 2 days ago.
i just remember its holiday over here maybe its just that.

Francois:
but i dont feel safe to go out by myself right now

Jennifer-June:
You’re making me worry.

Francois:
im safe here dont worry

Jennifer-June:
Of course I’m worried.

Francois:
Jour de la culture bulgare et de l’alphabet cyrillique maybe thats all it is.

Francois:
update
graduation party

Jennifer-June:
Great so basically you made me think you were about to get raped and ravaged by a mob of savage bulgarians when in fact it was just my kids down the street drinking coolers and singing School’s Out by Alice Cooper

In my defense, I was a distraught and newly-single mother of 3 toddlers. I was young and naive, heartbroken and devastated, lonely and confused, it was springtime and I was ovulating… ?

Two blond haired, blue eyed boys with skin as milky and smooth as a baby’s bottom came knocking on my door one afternoon and asked if they could have a moment of my time.

“no”

I responded.

“I’m busy. I have to wash the dishes.”

“We can wash them for you.”

I didn’t have any dirty dishes.

“I also have to clean out the garage”

“We can help”

I didn’t have a garage.

“I have to landscape my entire front yard”

“We’ll do it for you, if you just give us an hour of your time.”

“The whole yard?”

“Yes. And you don’t have to do anything. Just give us an hour of your time when we are finished.”

“But the yard will take you days to finish”

“That’s OK. We’ll do it”

Every day for the next week, I would send the kids to daycare, do my hair and make-up, put on a mini-skirt, short shorts or a bikini, and plant myself on the balcony to direct the slaves of the lord while they dug up roots and weeds, shopped down trees, pruned shrubs and thorny rose bushes and labored through my barrage of antagonizing questions.

“Can I get you a beer? Really? Not even one? Why? That’s stupid”

I poured myself another margarita.

“So, are blow-jobs considered pre-marital sex? Well, can you masturbate next to each other then? Ever? What? Why? That’s so stupid!”

I hung myself over the porch to interrogate them more directly, with my cleavage bursting in their saint-like faces.

“But, if you meet a girl one day and she has the most beautiful soft hair you ever saw and she smells so good it gives you butterflies in your tummy and her lips are so full and juicy that you want to bite them and when you’re alone and naked in the shower or in your bed getting these little aches because you can’t stop thinking about her and you want so badly just to touch her… you’re not allowed to touch yourself just a little tiny bit?”

I’m pretty sure I saw a tear run down one of their faces.

“No”

“Wow, that’s sad.”

after 5 days of grueling work under the hot sun, I made good on my promise to invite the boys inside for lemonade and attempted brainwashing but by then they were feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted.
They left pamphlets on the sofa and wished me well.
I apologized for being such an uncooperative candidate and thanked them profusely for their hard-work.

“The yard looks amazing!”
“uh huh…”

As they packed up their briefcases and straightened their name tags I asked why they had come back day after day, working their Jesus loving fingers to the bone, even after it had become so painfully evident to them that I was a hopeless case.

“We’re obligated to help anyone who is in need.”

Years later (yesterday), on my way home from a comfy visit and 17 hour chat with one of my best girls about parenting, marriage and why her dog humps stuffed animals, I found myself sitting at the metro station writing a list of all of my immediate life problems and obstacles.

1. I need $200.00 in order to make this month’s rent

2. My teenage daughters are going to bully me to death and feed off my carcass if I don’t find a calm assertive way to dominate the hell out of them soon.

3. I’m tired of being a medical mystery and even more tired of doctors telling me that the most important thing is for me to avoid stress. Having a mystery disease, no money and children who are secretly plotting to kill you in your sleep is a little stressful.

4. My full time job for the last 10 months has been looking for a job and it doesn’t pay very well.

5. I need to $24,000.00 so I can stop looking for a job and stay home for a year to finish writing my book, finish writing my album, finish writing my one-woman play and master the art of calm assertive domination (a box set of Cesar Millan on DVD may suffice).

6. I need a massage

7. My house is a disaster and I can’t seem to find the time to get it organized

8. I’m too scared to open my Hydro bill because last time I looked at it, it was about $5,000.00

9. The litter box needs changing

10. I need a personal assistant or 4 clones of myself so I can get my life organized and tackle some of these obstacles.

“Excuse me…”

I look up from my list.

“My name is Julie Somethingorother and I’m a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Do you believe in Jesus?”

“Um… Julie, to be honest, I’m kind of on the fence about that one.”

“I see. Well, is there anything you need?”

“No thank you Julie, I’m good.”

My metro pulled up at this moment. I stood up, smiled at Julie and got on the train. Just as the doors closed I remembered a blond haired blue eyed boy with skin as soft and milky as a baby’s bottom saying to me…

“We’re obligated to help anyone who is in need.”

I looked down at my list. I looked up to see Julie’s face disappearing in the distance as the train pulled away from the station and felt a single tear trickle down my cheek as I wimpered,

“Juuuuuuuuuuuliiiiieeeeeeeee…………..”

Seriously though, if I had said

“Right. Julie, you can start with the dishes and floors before you begin today’s job search. You need to have a word with the kids about how they like their socks folded and then we’ll get you some fresh litter because that cat box probably isn’t going to change itself…”

would she really have been obligated?

There’s this whole courtship involved. It’s exciting but I feel like I have to approach with tenderness and sensitivity that I am not accustomed to. This isn’t a bad thing. It heightens mindfulness and appreciation.

When I touch you I am aware of every curve and crevasse. I explore every inch of you with wonder and adoration.

That having been said, I kind of can’t wait till I’m used to this and can treat you like a real girlfriend. You know, manhandle you without hesitation, call you my bitch and make you sleep in the wet spot.

You’re so perfectly beautiful.

Handcrafted and photographed by Richard Chapman

There are the days that you wish you children didn’t look so much like their father so you could pretend that they were accidentally switched at birth and due for a return.

There are days when your kids make you so mad that you might find yourself saying things that you never in a million years imagined saying to your children.

“Because I’m the mom”
“Because I said so”
“Because if you don’t get out of my site right this minute I am afraid I might hurt you”
“You were switched at birth/adopted/an accident ”
“Mommy drinks because you make her cry”

etc…

There are days when you look into your child’s glazed over, blood shot eyes and remember when you gazed into them as the adoring mother of a precious new born baby.

There are days when you look into your teenager’s glazed over, blood shot eyes and remember that smacking sense into them is pointless when their as high as the fireworks on the fourth of July. And also, it’s a tiny bit illegal

There may be days when you literally run away from home in tears because you just can’t take one more second of it.

“You’re the meanest mom in the whole world!”
“I hate you!”
“You’re crazy!”

etc…

There are days when you feel like you’re talking to Satan himself and wondering… Am I the worst mom in the whole world? Did I create this myself? Really? Did I do this?

There are days when you see that same child, in their grandfather’s workshop, working her fingers to the bone, building a gorgeous creative masterpiece and you think…

Did I do that?

All photos ©Richard Chapman and Cloee Cuzner

]]> http://theladyslounge.com/did-i-do-that/feed 0 http://theladyslounge.com/its-tricky http://theladyslounge.com/its-tricky#comments Mon, 13 Dec 2010 15:56:27 +0000 Jennifer June (admin) http://theladyslounge.com/?p=1573 Continue reading →]]> Apparently The Face Magazine published an article in 2008 claiming that vocalist Martina Topley-Bird had to single-handedly bring up the child that Tricky had fathered. I’m assuming the author of the article was referring to Tricky and Martina’s 15 year old daughter but I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they were actually speaking of the the entire stage show.

Saturday night’s show at Club Soda was highly entertaining but Adrian “Tricky” was hardly present.
Despite the fact that on the Tricky website, all the videos and photos are of Adrian as well as the band bio, he pretty much left 90% of the singing and over-all front-man-ship to Franky Riley.

Honestly, there were a few times where Franky looked over at Tricky in a “what are you doing?” and “will you be joining us for any of these songs?” kind of way.

His contribution, as far as I could see, was taking off his shirt immediately upon gracing the stage, occasional back-up vocals, compulsive joint smoking and standing with his back to the audience, swaying back and forth.

In fact, if this picture were of the back of his head, it would depict perfectly what we saw of him all night:

Oh wait! There was the part where during the encore, Adrian invited the entire audience on stage to dance with him. For some reason, mostly guys took him up on his offer and it was only a matter of minutes before the venue was overcome with the thick stench of sweaty ball sack.

Then Tricky disappeared off the stage, leaving the band alone to stand around watching the audience flail around on stage to a pre-recorded track of Nelly or 50 Cent.

2/3 of the room emptied before we realized the show wasn’t over and the band and Franky finished up the night with a couple of songs; Adrian still MIA.

Highlights of the event include discovering Franky Riley, applying Jen R’s hand lotion liberally before realizing that it was flavoured-condom scented and the two hot chicks having sex in the stall next to me while I was in the bathroom.

]]> http://theladyslounge.com/its-tricky/feed 1 http://theladyslounge.com/aaaaaaand-scene-round-2 http://theladyslounge.com/aaaaaaand-scene-round-2#comments Fri, 10 Dec 2010 18:17:36 +0000 Jennifer June (admin) http://theladyslounge.com/?p=1553 Continue reading →]]> In the spirit and anticipation of Christmas and back by popular demand, a re-post from December 2009:

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.

]]> http://theladyslounge.com/aaaaaaand-scene-round-2/feed 0 http://theladyslounge.com/as-continuing-sagas-tend-to-do http://theladyslounge.com/as-continuing-sagas-tend-to-do#comments Sun, 05 Dec 2010 17:46:08 +0000 Jennifer June (admin) http://theladyslounge.com/?p=1507 Continue reading →]]> The continuing saga continues, as continuing sagas tend to do.

The woman upstairs is either clearly suffering from a brain tumor or a medical condition that causes her to have hyper-intense senses or is quite simply insane.

Two nights ago, in attempt to secure my love, my boyfriend brought me on a hot date to see Harry Potter part 7,30987. He didn’t want to go at all and he made enough comments to insure that I was fully aware of this. Still, despite my polite resistance he insisted he “let me do this for you”.

To be fair, he first offered to take me to see Burlesque but the pain in his voice was evident.

I suggested Due Date which looks stupid but has potential to at least be entertaining and not have CGI magic induced virtual pubescent make-out scenes in it.

“They say that Zak Galifianakis is supposed to be the new Jack Black you know…”

but the title scared him off.

So this is how wild and crazy we’ve become with old age maturity.

Please know that I am not only embarrassed to admit this to you but concerned for my own mental health as I watch the words fall from my fingertips to the screen before me. I really do have a full, wild and exciting life. I do!

We went to Commensal for a healthy vegetarian meal. Then went to the cinema to watch the 3 billionth installment of Harry Potter.

We arrived home at approximately 24:15 talked about snakes and special effects for about 15 minutes, tolerated half of a song performed by GWAR on the Jimmy Fallon show (volume 2) which naturally led to a 5 minute conversation about my embarrassment for having *slept with the singer when I was young enough that my breasts were more developed than my brain (which I suspect may still be the case but that’s for another day…)

This leading to Franky’s 4 second attempt at digging more garbage out of my closet followed by a 1 1/2 second beat down with a pillow and silence.

So… about 22 minutes and 4 1/2 seconds of vocal communication that occurred in my house after dark on Friday night before we passed out cold.

2 AM the door bell rings. I am startled awake.

Only 1 out of 3 of my children are in the house tonight.

I see police at the door and flashlights through the window.

I try to swallow my stomach back down from my throat as I fumble for the lock.

The last time the police were at my door, they came bearing news that smashed me square in the face and turned my family’s entire life upside down.

“Yes?”

“M’am, we’ve had a complaint about noise coming from your apartment”

“What?”

They crane their necks to peek into my pitch black and completely silent flat.

“Did you hear any loud noises? Lots of people? Blasting music? Banging and crashing?”

“I was asleep”

Our stupid kitten took advantage of this moment to make a break for it and one of the police officers tore off after him down the road.

I stood on my snowy balcony in my pajamas waiting for him to bring idiot Sheldon back,
the police both apologized for disturbing me and left.

I went back to bed where Franky and I had a very loud conversation at the the ceiling about how COMPLETELY INSANE THAT CRAZY B!TCH UPSTAIRS is and agreed at top volume that she should maybe GET A LIFE or even just go see the new Harry Potter movie OR SOMETHING!!!

It took me almost an hour to fall back asleep and I woke up plotting the neighbor’s demise.

Franky woke up and reminded me how lucky I am to have a boyfriend so sweet that he would take me to see The Deathly Hallows of his one free and good will.

• 1. The film was almost painfully boring and I will openly admit that I loved the first one.

• 2. What do I do about the nut-cake who lives upstairs from me?

• 3. ⬇ Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!! ⬇

*I promise to inflict the details of this and the many other entertaining horrors of my life on all the readers of my book that is almost entirely written. So if you’re a masochist or a glutton for tales of the trials and tribulations of being me, keep your eyes and ears open for it.

]]> http://theladyslounge.com/as-continuing-sagas-tend-to-do/feed 3 http://theladyslounge.com/like-watching-the-paint-dry http://theladyslounge.com/like-watching-the-paint-dry#comments Wed, 13 Oct 2010 14:05:47 +0000 Jennifer June (admin) http://theladyslounge.com/?p=1370 Continue reading →]]> The paint has dried people.

And I FINALLY have a bedroom!

I can now almost sleep through the night without being rudely awakened by the stomach turning sound of the dog smacking her lips and licking her paws.

I can protect my precious things from being kidnapped by my evil spawn.

I can host pajama parties.

I can find my underwear!

*Happy* *Happy* *Joy* *Joy*

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