Bill Cosby Would Approve

So, the Boy did come and help out with the kids, and might even babysit them on his own next week (!), so my ovaries are bursting and his life is saved.

Other than his good behaviour, here are some gems from the night:

B.: (as I'm quickly changing into shorts) You know, my mummy wears big underwear. WAY BIG underwear.

---

W.: You remember that game we were playing before? Baseball?

Me: Yeah, I know it.

W.: (100% seriously, adorably earnest) I have this new idea for it, to make it more fun. When we throw the ball, let's hit it with a bat!

---
And some accidental (?) wisdom:

W.: (at breakfast this morning, discussing someone they know who grew up in Northern Ireland) But wait! Why were Irish people fighting Ireland? (smacks his forehead in disbelief) That's just stupid!

B.: It costs $10 an item to ship any American Girl stuff here. And I just wanted to buy the $7 special brush, but then Mummy and I decided that wasn't the best idea.


Added on to that is B.'s alarming but hilarious newly acquired pre-teen (!) reflex of rolling her eyes, blushing, and going "Yeah, okay, whatever, so anyway..." all at once. Ah, the joys ahead...

Ovarially yours,
Jordan

Today? Considering Life in an All-Female Commune

UPDATE on the Boy:

When I got home yesterday after The Lunch Incident, after the Boy had been alone in my all-female house, this is what I found:


When I called him to demand an explanation (or, er, calmly inquire about WHAT THE HELL HE THOUGHT HE WAS DOING) (or, er, --insert something fake and nice--), his response?

The Boy: Hey, at least I flushed.

He's coming with me to visit the Little Guys tonight. Hopefully it will melt my ovaries and save his soul.


Hardly Optimisticly,
Jordan

Miniature Men-In-Training

Two delightful Man Moments from the dudes in my life:


Little Brother W.: (in the backseat of my car, on the way back from his baseball game) Uh oh. Jordan, I farted.

Me: I can smell that. Is it bad- OH! OH MY GOD!

Little Sister B.: (shrieking and diving for window controls) EEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!! W.!!

W.: Hey! You know what, it's not my fault I fart big.

----

(The Boy, woken up by my call, still sleeping in my bed at 11:30, after I got up and left for work at 7am)

Me: Hi, you. I'm sorry to wake you up, but I'm having the shittiest day and I forgot my pass card and my lunch at home, so I was thinking that maybe you could get up and bring them downtown to me, and then we could have a nice lunch together before you go out.

The Boy: Yee-ah... No. I think I'll just go to a friend's house instead.


Oh vey.

Patiently yours,
Jordan

Musical Interlude in a Workday

Excitement reigns over here in Jordan-land!

My lovely girl M-Cas, roommate and fellow Catwoman devotee, has created a blog! It's called With Love From Me to You, and I think she explains it best. But it'll have amazing music, cool-factor, and her fantastic sense of humour.

My peer pressure and humiliation of her has finally payed off, and she will now display her awesomeness for all the world. Her musical taste is better than mine, promise.

---

In unrelated news: Things Learned From Having a Full-Time Job (finally): I am singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of the rainforests and Canada's wild north. Yesterday, I printed out a 830 page photocopy job in about 30 minutes. In the last week, I threw out probably 75 sticky notes, printed another 150 pages, and doomed about another 250 pages to the shredder.

This makes me very sad.

Also? These?

Are the binders I had to put away at my work. Using my head. I literally stood in front of the filing cabinet, balanced them on my head, then did some sort of French soccer player-like headbutting manouever that launched them onto the cabinet.

Who says the workplace can't be creative and athletic?

That's all for now,

Jordan

A Love Letter, A Birthday Letter

The lovely monthly letters written by Catwoman and Dooce to their children are some of my favourite blog-fare to read. I (fortunately? unfortunately?) don't have my own children, but I would like to write something to a little boy I love with my whole heart, the closest thing in my life to my own baby; to my little brother.

He (and his sister) and I are definitely not a traditional sibling set. He is the son of two women; my father is his sperm donor, his "bio-dad". I helped raise him and take care of him and forged an incredible, unique bond. We weren't even raised in the same family, or even the same part of the city, but for the last eight years he has moved in and taken up a piece of my brain and a half of my heart, and a great deal of my laughter.

In honour of a birthday that still blows my mind...
----
My Dear (Not-So Baby) W.,

On the day you were born, my dad spend the whole day with the phone never more than a few inches from his hand. Up and down the hallway he went, painting with coiled nervous energy, and with every shuffle of his feet, there went the phone, inching down the hall. With every burst of ringing my stomach decided to basically make out with my tonsils, but every time it was someone else, someone boring, someone tying up the line while I waited for you. When we finally dragged ourselves to bed, the phone was still silent.

In the morning, my dad woke me up with the biggest smile, and told me your name. I almost fell out of bed with excitement.

Of course, he also told me what your mother had been through, but since this is your letter, not hers, that can come later, ok? Let's just say you weren't as excited by the possiblilty of coming out to meet me as I was to have you come out (Which would have been hard to beat... I all but crawled up there myself to get to see you sooner.)
Two weeks later, when the concept of car travel was slightly less daunting for your mom than advanced organic chemistry or miniature pig breeding, I met you, and I held you... and I was like the Grinch. I'm pretty sure my heart grew three sizes. Either that or gained weight like my stomach at a brunch buffet. In any case, the swelling, heavy, bursting joy that broke through my ribs and up my throat was as solid and real as your solid, slightly damp body in my arms.
My heart had already gotten a hefty bursting from your sister, and I still don't know how you did it so well, how you flooded me so completely. But you did.


I'm pretty sure they thought I was going to kidnap you, because once I had you next to me I didn't let you down for one second (well, I did let the others hold you for a minute. But just a minute. And the process of handing you over made me feel like I was sawing it off and passing it to them with you). You puckered up your little red face and cried if I sat down, so I walked you and walked you, singing and whispering and staring as you stared back, for two whole hours. I couldn't figure out whether it felt like minutes or hundreds of years. When you left to go home, my arms were rubbery and tingling from the new strain, but they were cold without your big sweaty head and 10-lb body.

I was so in love.

As you grew, you made your mom your whole world. No one else should hold you, or comfort you, or reach out for you. If we did, we got a patented disapproving stare and the threat of screaming. I began to be afraid that you wouldn't love me, or that you would forget me, and that I would forget what it had felt like when I held you. At the same time, you did so many cool things: you walked at 9 months (!), talked to yourself constantly, could accurately hum along to almost any song (especially ABBA), and had the most full-body-melting smile I had ever seen.


Then one day, the summer you turned one and I came to babysit for a week, everything changed. Suddenly you were reaching out for ME, whining when I went away, and glued to my hip like your butt was made for it. I carried you everywhere, and we talked and talked and pointed at everything that went 'vrrrOOM', especially public transit ("Bup! Bup!" was the favourite). You were so funny and messy, like the one time you pooed a trail down the carpet and thought it was the most hysterical thing you'd ever seen. But sometimes you were so serious, and thoughtful. The way you looked at me, with your nose pressed to mine and your hazel eyes the biggest thing I'd ever seen, and you'd just touch my cheek, or wrap your fingers in my hair... and I would feel like the most beautiful girl on the planet.

You'll never know how much I needed that feeling. The love and adoration you and your sister lavished on me, the way I could be only just me and you thought that was better than good... for those first years of your life, there was nowhere I could be that I liked myself at all, except for being with you two. Even just playing on the floor, looking out for tow trucks ("Do duck!"), eating your half-chewed chicken fingers, or pretending that I was sitting at the kids' table with you out of obligation rather than preference, I was at my absolute happiest.


When we walked down the street, just the two of us, M. and B. far ahead and running while we took our time and noticed and talked, strangers used to give me the dirtiest looks. I eventually realized that they thought I was your mom, and a ridiculously young teen mom at that. It didn't even occur to me to be offended; I couldn't think of a much better compliment.


So thank you, W., for being the funniest, sillest, handsomest and kindest boy I know. Thank you for letting me be in the club of people you loved. Thank you for always saying my name, even though it was hard for you (and I loved every version along the way). Thank you for thinking I was prettier in my glasses than my contacts; it was the one factor which almost made me change my mind. Thank you for playing "Bury Jordan" and inviting me to your birthday parties, even now that you're such a big man (comparatively).

And you are such a big guy! I can't even get my head around it. So do me a favour: stay kind, stay happy, stay thoughtful, and I know you'll keep on getting just smarter and smarter until you start correcting my thesis papers in the sixth grade. You're not that far off.

Happy 8th Birthday, W. I'm so very proud of you. I love you.

Your big sister, your babysitter, your friend,

Jordan

At Least It Ends on a High Note

Because I'm procrastinating at work but have limited photographic resources at the moment (see below), a weekend round-up:

- Epic, wrenching, sad sad sad conversation with the Boy. Turned out fine, but fuck, was I terrified out of my skull for a bit. Funny how having to let go of a fantasy about somebody hurts both of you in so many ways. Funny how even though they broke your dream of the thing you longed for, you realize you betrayed them, too, by longing for something that they shouldn't have to give, and couldn't know you wanted.

- Realized that I will go to hell for extreme Attack of the Vague and Ominous.

- Had a healing, silly, kind and happy weekend with him afterward, playing house while his family were away.

- Had a drunken conversation with my equally drunken father and stepmother, in which we all thought we were much funnier than we were.

- Had a highly necessary french toast brunch with my Girl at my favourite restaurant.

- Scored sweet vintage finds that make me feel hip and fun, clothing-wise (hint: I am not) (also hint: below is not one of them).

- Hung with my father, went to a movie. Then, not unexpectedly, he did his usual litle disappearing act and was nowhere to be found after dinner, until suddenly re-emerging from Hell? the basement? the bathroom? to announce he was going to bed.

- Still cannot find fucking camera charger! I am bereft without my camera. Succombed to ordering a new one off Amazon, and hoping there is no repeat of the Chinese Pirated X-Files DVD Set Incident of 2004.

- Lost faith in humanity. At least, in tenant humanity. Again.

... At least it ended well.

What Does the Boy Have in Common with Peru?

Day 29, b), originally uploaded by Jormania.

Reason # 97376.3 to love the rain, concerts, and the Boy.

He's wearing a poncho. For actuals. And giving a 'west side' sign through the neck hole.

And I love him for it.

---

Who I'm Judging Right Now: People who DON'T undo their pants whenever sitting at their desk, and who look at me funny when I forget to redo mine. My belly's just gotta be free, okay?

I Fear For Humanity... Grumble, Grumble

(Edited: Grrr, the site hosting this image went down. We'll have to make do with the thumbnail)

My brand new apartment in Montreal has already given me my first grey hair. And I'm just 20 years old. I'll spare the full gory details, but let's just say that our attempt to be nice people and let a few of the previous tenants stay for the month has backfired to the point of potential legal action.

(My roommate Margaret is a human manifestation of a fantastically adorable bulldog when it comes to protecting herself and the people she loves. This experience has taught me that she will doubtless grow up to be a far more attractive and wealthier version of the above lady.)

Anyway, after issuing a reminder that all the tenants had to be out by May 31st, forwarding a copy of the agreement they signed, and amid incredible tension that made me want them out of there more than an earwig in my drain, the following occurs.

One guy in particular caused my usually mild-mannered father to yell about suing and cost reclamation and "assholes with tiny pricks" (an atanomically inventive but satisfying insult) in the middle of a restaurant. And we're Canadians. We don't sue people.

Today, Margaret showed up, and guess who was sleeping in her bed? Surrounded by garbage and old food and broken furniture and abandoned shoes? Guess who, after being made to begin cleaning the filth, disappeared an hour ago without remotely finishing the job, taking only his backpack and coat, his keys hanging in the door?

I can almost hear the cackling and squealing tires now. And I think I just sprouted a whole new patch of those premature greys.

---

Who I'm Judging Now: Take a guess. I mean, really! Who are these people, even? Who does this to others? I feel like I'm channelling my embittered eldery neighbours, but kids these days!

HA, but Margaret is calling his mother tonight. Awesome.

Though if she raised a son like that... ? Maybe he's just an unrepentant sociopath, and she's a lovely lady. A girl can dream. And start seriously considering the services of April The Terminator...

Sorry For Being So Smooth, Clearly

Conversation with the Boy on the subway yesterday:

Boy: I can't believe you paid full price to get on here. Sucker.
Self-Righteous Self: Um, it's the law.
Boy: No it isn't.
S-RS: Yes it is. It's not just a freaking suggestion. Anyway, I feel sorry for the TTC... it's very poor and needs our help.
Boy: Anyway, who are they going to tell if I don't?
S-RS: The police. And they'll yell at you.
Boy: I'll yell back.
S-RS: No you won't.
Boy: Who will they tell if I do?
S-RS: ... The police. Again.
Boy: Stony silence.
S-RS: Riiiiiight. Anyway... so... Okay, sorry for being bossy?
Boy: You were being bossy.
S-RS: And you were being...?
Boy: Thank you for saying sorry for being bossy.
S-RS: Er. Right. You're welcome. So... you wanna make out?
Boy: No.

And that's when I took this picture.

-----

PS: Congratulations to the awesome and hilarious Catwoman, who I lost my blogging virginity to and is the standard against which I compare everything online (and who made my LIFE by posting here the other day). She just found out she's living my recurring fantasy and is having her second baby boy. If he looks and acts anything like her first one, she's going to be fighting off the girls and the readers with large sticks for many years. And I know for one I can't wait to see it.

Multimedia Invasion

So, I've come to the conclusion that the only way I'm going to swing this blog thing while adjusting to my first ever full time job is to throw a little multimedia enjoyment your way... which the blog needed more of anyway. Pizzaz and all.

I'm doing a challenge with one of my trusty roomies- a picture a day, for at least the whole summer. I won't inflict all of them, but I'm going to throw some favourites (tm Canada) on here when I can.

Also, this same darling girl and I are bringing back the mixtape, in a big way. This week's theme: "To Stop Us From Destroying Property Too": the Fierce and Empowered Ladies Playlist. I'm responsible for the Fierce Country Ladies side, Side A, because they clearly often write amazingly fierce songs. Lucinda Williams is cleaning up the category so far. Any suggestions? As many are willing to tell you, my taste is either equal-opportunity or abysmal, so I will not judge you for any ideas! (Despite expectations)

This is designed to be played real loud at the greatest Girls' Night Out Ever, belted out at the bar, toasted to, mulled over, then belted out again on the streetcorner at 3am:

1. Before He Cheats - Carrie Underwood
2. Should’ve Said No - Taylor Swift
3. Family Tree - Loretta Lynn
4. It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels - Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton
5. Joy - Lucinda Williams
6. Picture to Burn - Taylor Swift
7. That Don’t Impress Me Much – Shania Twain
8. Come On - Lucinda Williams
9. Pass You By - Gillian Welch
10. Look For Me (I’ll Be Around) - Neko Case
11. Scattered Leaves - The Be Good Tanyas
12. This One’s For The Girls - Martina McBride
13. 9 to 5 - Dolly Parton
14. Jackson - June Carter
15. Redneck Woman - Gretchen Wilson

You all clearly want to be me, and have musical taste like this. To confirm some, I even Googled "Empowering Feminist Songs".

You can find the completed non-country half (by my lovely companion), here: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=S1HKILQF . Download and enjoy! Be fierce, my lovelies.