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Living a life you don't need a vacation from

I touched on this in the magazine that I publish for my holistic nutrition website recently. It's been just over a year since we went into our first COVID-19 lockdown here in Montreal. Among the many other understandable complaints that I've heard over quarantine is the pining away for travel. I want to state for the record that I too miss travelling, and felt a little put-out that the plan to spend my 50th birthday in Italy was being completely derailed. Don't get me wrong! I appreciated all the effort put into my physically distant socially awkward 6 person backyard birthday party and an even more socially awkward family birthday zoom experience. For those of you who don't know what a family zoom is... it's where you SURPRISE sit in front of your laptop and stare at a Brady Bunch-esque checkerboard display of your children, your sister, your 2 brothers, your 2 mothers, your 3 fathers, 4 of your closest friends... and a cat, as they all stare back at you, waiting for you to say something profound. And when they can't take the silence anymore, somebody finally breaks the silence and asks you if you feel any older. I mean... Italy. Come on. The more I heard people mourning the loss of their annual all-inclusive and tropical winter vacations, and the more desperation I heard expressed, ("If I can't go on vacation I have nothing to look forward to" and "If I have nothing to look forward to, how am I supposed to cope with real life?") the more I felt sorry for all those people who were having "real lives" that they feel they need so badly to escape from. Of course, we all need a break from time to time, and we all can benefit from taking time off from the daily grind, stress, and responsibilities that come with day-to-day life, but to have a life that seems unbearable without that escape seems really, really heavy. After judging these people rather harshly and rolling my eyes, I stopped and asked myself. Wait... Do I look forward to my life? Or am I also just coping with it? I'm living it. I'm definitely living it. But that doesn't mean there isn't room for more joy, more mindfulness, more gratitude. And it doesn't mean I don't have my moments. Ok yes, there I admit it, even I have moments. I went through a phase (we'll call it) where I kept catching myself saying things like "I just have to get through this day/week/month, and then I can relax/be present/enjoy myself". Yuck. So moving from judgement to humility, I began to get curious about whether or not there might be some changes that these people could make to their lives, to feel more inclined to embrace or even enjoy their lives instead of feeling like it was a trap that they had to claw their way out of. This led me to start exploring ideas of how one might actually do that, without quitting their jobs and taking up full-time poolside crochet, unless they can afford to of course, in which case, "HEY! What are you waiting for?!?!" Because a life that needs escaping from, is not a life. I started by writing a list of things I love about going on vacation. And then I wrote a list of which of those things I could do right here where I live, within the limitations of local protocols; from trying new foods and wines to sightseeing, (home) spa days, and even just days off work, to simply wander aimlessly and explore new neighbourhoods. Needless to say, I have made and enjoyed A LOT of Italian wine food this year. Again, I'm 100% on board (see what I did there?) with vacations and travelling, but I also know that I'm not the only one who has slipped into the habit of saying "just trying to get through this day/week/month", and if there is one thing we've learned over the global plague that has descended upon us, it's that none of us actually know how many days/weeks/months any of us have left. I'm absolutely not going to "just try and get through" any of them anymore. I've promised myself that I was going to be present for each and every day I do have, that I am going to savour and move through them mindfully and with intention, even if some of them are a little harder than others. These are my days and I'm not rushing through them ever again. My wish for you all is, no matter how challenging it might seem or how daunting it might feel, that you find a way to create a real-life that you find joy in living and that your vacations are just some of the many things about it that you have to look forward to. And also that if you are finding ways to do that, that you share. I will. I will start sharing with you, all the vacation inspired things that I'm up to if you do. What things do you love to do on vacation, that you can incorporate into this lockdown life? Read the full article

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If you're bored, you're boring

Dear Jennifer June, I follow you on Instagram, Facebook and twitter. You seem so down to earth and fun, even now, during this global disaster. I don't know how you do it! Sorry for writing about something so depressing, I'm sure you have more interesting things to do than read this, but I'm having a hard time coping with this whole Corona Virus thing and you're basically my idol and there's nobody's advice I would cherish more than yours at a time like this. It's hard enough living alone in this 3 story house, with nobody to talk to but my extraordinarily independent, mute, non-shedding, hypoallergenic cat, and nothing to do but play my baby grand piano, cook in my Wolfgang Puck inspired kitchen, and watch the plants in the solarium grow, without having to try to make sense of all the contradicting political and public service announcements on the news - on top of it all. How do you stay so grounded and levelheaded during this crisis? Anxious and alone, with nobody to share any of my wine with, Samantha P.S. I love your hair like that. You’re so pretty. Dear Samantha, Thank you so much for following me, and for your very kind words. I know that times like these can be very trying for anyone, and I honestly can't imagine how hard it must be for you to have all that empty quiet space to occupy all by yourself. The solarium alone sounds dreadful. I don't know if they will be of any use to you but here are 10 of the tools that have kept me calm, reflective and mentally grounded over the last few weeks. Regular exercise - At least 4 times a week (weight training, cardio, stretching etc.) Ritual - meditation, prayer, lighting candles, manifesting and projecting feelings of love and positivity for others, iChing, vision cards, visualizing acts of kindness etc... Weekly check-ins with a fabulous therapist who reminds me to honour all of my feelings and be true to myself. Minimum of 90 minutes daily gentle hand-picking of individual cat hairs out of every single inch of fabric/carpet/my body that I can find. Poking my lettuce seedlings with a chopstick several times a day to "check" if they're growing. Robert Mondavi Private Selection Cabernet Sauvignon Bourbon Barrels Sartori Valpolicella Superiore True Zin Puglia Boisseaux-Estivant Réserve de la Chèvre Noire Bourgogne Santa Julia Biologique Cabernet-Sauvignon Mendoza Hope this helps!  JJC Dear Jennifer June, I've been to pretty much every single show you've ever done, and I love how funny you are. Everything you say on stage is so relatable even though you're obviously cooler, smarter and prettier than me. I got 3 cats and 1 dog because of you and I named them Phoebe, Flo, Willow and Nina, just like yours! But not in a creepy way. Anyway, enough about me, but not really because I'm writing to you about me, because this quarantine vibe has me so down, I can't take it anymore. Ugh, Montreal is supposed to be the city of lights, or the city that never sleeps or whatever but I'm so lonely and bored, I literally almost thought about inviting my pharmacy delivery guy in for a drink yesterday when he came to deliver my topical rash ointment. You post the coolest stories on IG and you seem to be actually having fun. What do you do all day? How are you not dying of boredom right now? PS Prescription guy - cute a f Bored Becky  Dear Bored Becky,  Thank you so much for the kind words. I'm so glad you enjoy the shows. I'll be honest with you Becky; I have never once been bored in my adult life. I am actually fortunate enough to be able to work from home at the moment. I also have many projects on the go at all times.   I love spending time with my family, listening to music, reading, and cooking. I also try to truly  savour the rare moments that I get to just sit back and relax, whether it's in an Epsom salt bath, in a pile of blankets and cats (hair) on the sofa, or in a pool of my own nap drool /cry-orgasm-tears at the foot of the basement stairs. I think that first, it's important for you to ask yourself, are you truly bored? Or are you feeling something else. Possibly, what you're feeling is avoidant. Maybe you're trying to procrastinate.   Perhaps you're simply paralyzed with terror because the whole world has the fucking plague and people are smashing into each other in the streets like a swarm of contagious germ feast zombies. Or maybe you're truly bored, Becky. And if you are.... Well, I don't want to be the jerk who says "If you're bored, you're boring" but I am, and it's true. Seriously Becky, there are 22 different species of squirrel (in Canada) to post photographs of on Instagram, 165 shows on Netflix, over 100 knitting stitches you can learn, 19054 different red wines at the SAQ, millions of bananas that have not yet been baked into loaves of bread, and 64 editions of Guinness World Records, compiling thousands of really fun, super safe feats for you attempt to break, from the comfort of your own home, including heaviest weight lifted by human beard, most apples crushed with the bicep and longest fingernails grown by a woman. Hope this helps! JJC Dear Jen, First: You’re hilarious and I LOVE your dog. Second: I have a never-ending to-do list that I always say I don't have enough time to tackle. Thanks to the global pandemic, I am currently unemployed and under quarantine, which means that I have all the time in the world. I don't know why, but for some reason, I can't seem to get my shit together and do any of the things on my list. I basically just scroll through Instagram, watch television, drink wine and bake cookies. I feel so lazy, I'm even embarrassed to be sending this to you. I mean, I know that this kind of life changing event is enough to cause anybody trauma and make them feel creatively blocked, if not paralyzed. And I get that I should try to be self-compassionate and realistic about what I my limitations are under these times of great stress, but I can't help but feel a little bit guilty for not being able to do more. Is there something wrong with me? Shauna Dear Shauna, I think it's super important to remember that despite all the extra time you might have on your hands, it can be difficult to find inspiration for anyone right now. The fear of the unknown, being inundated with a storm of anxiety-inducing news and so much contradicting information that leaves us entirely confused as to whether to go for walks or not go for walks, wear masks or not wear masks, stay 6 feet from people or 6 meters from people etc... It's a lot and can be really demotivating and even completely draining. That having been said... Get off the damn sofa and do the shit on your god damn list. If months go by and you come out of this with nothing done but 15 new pounds gained on your lazy ass, you're going to fucking hate yourself. Study your damn Italian, post the dumplings on your vegan web site and do those stupid stair push-ups every stupid day or you will keep crying every time you can't do more than 10 of them. Oh! And write your book already!!! You have time to send 86 memes back and forth with your kids and post pictures of squirrels on Instagram every single day, sew 4 pairs of pyjamas, bake cookies you don't want to eat, watch every single episode of Game of Thrones in under 2 weeks, set up a photography corner in the basement that you don't use, and try all 19054 different red wines they sell at the SAQ, meditate, pray, light candles, manifest and project feelings of love and positivity for others, throw the iChing, pull vision cards, and visualize acts of kindness, and write not 1, not 2, but 3 drippy whiney love songs that you'll never let anybody hear because they're "not funny", "not done", and "not good enough", but you can't write a single chapter for your book? Are you kidding me right now? Jen seriously! Get it the fuck together. Hope this helps! PS My dog smells like rotting Doritos. JJC   Read the full article

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In which I practice self-care, turn into the hunchback of Notre Dame De Grace and still go on Vacation

Monday afternoon, 3 days before our departure date, I participated enthusiastically in Self-Care day at work. We had various workshops to choose from, including natural soap making, cooking, arts and crafts etc... In the spirit of preparing for what I had decided was going to be the most restful, reflective and rejuvenating vacation of my life, I chose a 13 minute massage followed by yoga. One of my colleagues got a foot cramp during her practice, another couldn’t find a painless sitting position and a third pulled her back during a strengthening pose. But they are so much younger and fitter, I thought to myself, while marvelling at my own flexibility. Strap in hand, and wrapped around my right foot, I extended my leg to the side and lowered it almost to the ground. I couldn’t help but notice that I was able to reach more closely to the mat than anyone else in the class. I can’t believe how well I’m doing, I thought. I can’t believe this doesn’t hurt! Tuesday afternoon, I started to feel a nagging pull in the groin area. Wednesday it hurt more and more to walk as the day progressed. Thursday I was limping like the hunchback of Notre Dame (de Grace) and Jo was starting to look into our trip cancellation policy. I’m fine! I said, lifting my right leg with both of my hands and heaving it upward, my foot landing heavily on each step it landed on. I fought back tears throughout my pedicure. “Yes, yes I’m fine, madame is fine, thank you.” I’m not sure what was more upsetting, the sheer pain shooting through my groin and radiating through my hip and down my thighs, or paying to have the calluses on my right foot pet by a frightened pedicurist who  kept wincing at me (with me) every time she moved my leg. I reassured her gently and even encouraged her, to no avail, while screaming in my head, ”I’m FINE!! Make me pretty!! I’m going on vacation!!!” I could see in her eyes that Jo had moved on and started a short list in her head of friends she might invite to replace me on our 2 1/2 week Greek get-away. ”I’m fine!” I texted my entire medical team (my mom, my boss, and my two closest friends, Other-Jen and Nanci), all of whom threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t “take an anti-inflammatory, ice your crotch and get on the GOD DAMNED PLANE!!!” I rolled my luggage, and my body, down our front stairs and into the cab. I hurled myself out of the car and cursed Jo under my breath for insisting that the cabbie drop us off at Canadian arrivals “because it will be so much less crowded” instead of driving us to international departures a kilometre further and up on the second floor. ”I’m fine!!!” I gently reassured her when she asked for the 2,000th time if I was sure I wanted to “do this”. Jo tore my baggage from my hands with a heaving sigh that could be heard throughout the land, and dragged it it behind her cursing me to no end, I dragged my body through security, gnawing on my options, my dignity and a mouthful of Advil gel caps. We were sitting on the plane, seat belts fastened, trays in an upright position and waiting for a charming announcement from our captain. Jo looked at me as if to say, “you’re sure you wan...” ”I swear to God, if I am crippled and writhing in agony and thoughts of self-amputation for the next 2 weeks, I am doing it to the smell of lavender and wild fennel, to the sound of the crashing waves of the Mediterranean Sea, and surrounded by mountain goats; not at home, to the smell of  the compost bin, the sound of the upstairs neighbour clogging (or Phoebe in false labour), suffocating on mountains of cat hair.”.   Tune in for the next post; A one-legged adventure in Amsterdam.     Read the full article

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Where dreams go to die

My good friend Nanci and I have known each other since we were about 14 years old. She's one of the smartest, funniest and most talented people I know and I love her to pieces. I'm not sure exactly how the seed was planted. I think my girlfriend suggested we do it so I brought it up and then bullied Nanci for months, until she finally agreed to it. We started brainstorming over supper at her place one night, which brought on the onslaught of ridicule and sarcastic comments the kids. "What are you going to talk about?" "Our lives, our view points, our years of experience, our hopes, our dreams and our bank accounts." "So you're going to talk about sitting around watching Netflix? hahahaha!" "Yeah! Is it going to be a podcast about checking your facebook and getting your nails done?" "This is gold kids, keep it coming, we're writing ALL your deep and thoughtful suggestions down. in our heads." To be fair, we do talk about all of those things... It's in the baby-fresh beginning stages so we're just figuring out the difference between gain and volume control, sound cards and audio interfaces, honesty and oversharing. But if you want to be able to say "I knew them when" and not be lying, I suggest you bite the bullet and get on board now while we're still learning how to "walk". We have a ways to go but we're on the same page. We had a dream. Many dreams. Some of which expired ages ago, others that we still cling to desperately, and others that have blossomed and evolved into bigger and better (or just other) things. On The Same Page with Jen and Nanci is an exploration of some of these dreams, our fears and inspirations, and some of the  obstacles we've encountered and the tools we've experimented with while working toward them. We're still waiting for iTunes to finish judging us but in the meantime, Spotify has agreed to love (or at least accept) us for who we really are, and so have we!

  Read the full article

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Is there such thing as too much Self Care?

It wasn't even 7:00pm and I literally couldn't keep my eyes open. I had chills even though the thermometer read 16 degrees Celsius in the house. What? Oh, yes I know, the BBC weather guide says that the "recommended temperature is 21 degrees Celsius (69.8 degrees Farenheit), but you may be more comfortable at a higher temperature. If the temperature falls below 16 degrees Celsius (60.8 degrees Farenheit), the elderly especially could be at risk of suffering from hypothermia, heart attack or a stroke" but my girlfriend assures me that "It is weird that you're cold because it's SO HOT in here!" but... I'm sure it was just the fatigue causing my lips to turn blue. "Don't slip into a hypothermic coma fall asleep," I kept nagging myself, "or you'll be up at 3:00am". I scrolled webMd - Does Fatigue give you chills? answer:  you must be fighting a serious infection, have a high fever and/or have contracted an exotic parasite and/or flesh eating disease. and Google,  Why am I so cold?

It's true... I do get itchy a lot. I forgot about that. I felt less alone, while violently and repeatedly snapping myself out of nodding off. I perused articles about circulatory disfunction, natural remedies and self-care routines.

Problem solved. Along with my desperation to stay awake, as it was finally 8:00pm, a perfectly reasonable time to retire for the evening, according to whoever this is:

I was so excited yet serene, and more than ready to melt right into the blankets, but had promised myself earlier that day that today was the day I would reinstate my elaborate bedtime ritual; Brushing and flossing all of my teeth, followed by a face cleansing, exfoliating, toning and moisturizing routine, 5 minutes of bedtime yoga and a 10 minute meditation. I got up, ran to the bathroom, shivering uncontrollably. I frantically waved my toothbrush in the basic vicinity of my face, grazing at least 3 of my front teeth, and raced back to the bed. I wormed my way back in between the sheets. "Good job Jen. You're nailing it. Way to win" I whispered, and let my heavy eye lids fall closed, "God this feels amazing..." into the pillow case, as I felt the muscles in my body start to relax one by one. And then start tensing up again two by two. Nocturnal anxiety started to set in and the chills got worse. I tossed, turned, puffed, plumped and punched the pillows. I turned the light on and off and then back on. I heard the banshee start wailing in the hallway; a half soaked catnip rat hanging from the side of her mouth, along with half her forked (long story) tongue. I tried to to ignore it. I wrapped a pillow around my head, plugged my ears and rocked back and forth humming. Nothing could muffle the sound of her shrieking. I threw the blankets off and chased her down the hall. "I'm sorry but I need to sleep Phoebe, mommy loves you but so tired, so so tired..." I crawled back into bed, soggy plush rodent in hand,  and resume thrashing about wildly. "Shhhh Jen, calm. Deep calm. Gratitude brings grace, grace brings calm. Remember the self care articles, remember the night time routine and the gratitude, grace and calm. Breathe." "I don't remember" I argued defiantly with myself, I picked up my phone and flicked through my browser history. Ah... yes, the beautiful layout, the serene wordpress theme, the blogger who has her shit so together she has morning routines and afternoon routines and printable to-do lists with exotic fonts and bullet points. Whatever it is she does, I'm going to do it right now. I don't even care that it's 10:00pm. I'm doing it, let's go! Let's Go for a walk Work on my blog for an hour Watch a few episodes of  a TV show Have a lil’ snack and some tea Write tomorrow’s to-do list Meditate for 10 minutes Read for 30 minutes Okay wait. Go for a walk... even if that's only 20 minutes + the hour of blog writing + a few episodes of a show (let's say they're only half an hour long, that's 1 1/2 hours) + a little snack (20 minutes?) Tomorrow's To-Do List (10 minutes?) + Meditate for 10 minutes + Read for 30 minutes... Where are you going with your  4 HOUR BEDTIME ROUTINE LADY!!!!! Half the blog posts I wrote from other self-loving power-house care-fo-yo-self gurus said be in bed by 8:00pm! I'm going to have to start getting ready for bed at 4:00 in the afternoon! I don't even get home from work until between 8:00-9:00pm some days. And the nights when I have a set at the Comedy Club, even later. I mean how am I supposed to adskljfasahfglaaaaaaaaahhhg... I think that's about where sleep finally kicked off and the night sweats kicked in. I'm all for self-care. I clearly need it if I'm going to survive in this society, with its wildly stressful expectations on me like being grateful, graceful AND calm,  manifesting a good credit score an organized wallet, and paying my rent every single month. Not to mention the physical strain of having to wash, exfoliate, tone and moisturize my face before bed; to say nothing of doing all of that while trying to keep my blood circulating in this igloo of a house that I live in! 16 degrees Celsius people!!! All ranting aside, I'm wide open to all and any tips, suggestions, success stories and even don't-dos (like ripping half your eyebrow off with a charcoal mask - yay! Spa night!) so share people, dish! What works for you? How do you keep balanced in this crazy world during these crazy times?   Read the full article

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Sleepless In Montreal

As the upstairs neighbours drift into a euphoric slow-wave dreamless delta state, their  brain waves slowing and enlarging blissfully like the heart of an angel (with dilated cardiomyopathy), a sudden and almost paralyzing shriek fills the air. "FLO GET THE F*@&! AWAY FROM THE DOOR! I swear to god I'll spray you!" The screen door we installed on the bedroom, so that air and heat could circulate without the cats getting in (because even the mere sound of them licking themselves at the foot of the bed is enough to wake me from sleep. And also there's already enough cat hair in the rest of the rooms of our house to knit enough blankets to keep the entire population of Oymyakon warm), slams shut repeatedly. One of our 657 cats has figured out how to pull it open not enough for her to get in, but  just enough that when the magnet pulls it back from her little paw, it slams against it's frame, over and over and over again with each attempt at entry. "I'm going to spray you! Where's the Spray bottle? JO! Spray Flo!" and then later that night, "Okay Phoebe, shhhhhh it's okay sweetie, bring the toy here. Ok, we see it, that's nice, you can be quiet now..." Phoebe howling like a banshee in heat, excitedly announcing to the entire house that she has found a tinsel ball, or catnip mouse, or 2 pound dog toy, or a dirty sock. "Okaaaaay Phoebe, shhhhhh. Okay Phoebs, please be quie... PHOEBE! SHUT! UP!" My throat often hurts and I can barely sing anymore. Talking for more than a few minutes is painful, due to the feeling of tightness and vocal strain. The ENT says my vocal cords look thin and tired. She prescribed vocal therapy and a sleep study. Your body might not be rejuvenating adequately at night. The sleep specialist asked about my sleep hygiene. What is sleep hygiene you ask? Oh, well according to sleepfoundation.org sleep hygiene is: a variety of different practices and habits that are necessary to have good nighttime sleep quality and full daytime alertness. Limiting daytime naps to 30 minutes. Napping ? I'm sorry... I'm not familiar with this napping thing. It sounds like something somebody would need at least 30 extra spare minutes in the already not long enough day, in order to participate in. Also, I'm a little bit kidding. Not about the no time to nap thing - that's real. But about the not knowing what it is. I've tried it a couple of times but apparently it takes practice to be able to do it without waking up in a state of disoriented terror. I'm sure it's lovely if you can get past that hump.   Avoiding stimulants or other disruptive substances, such as caffeine, alcohol and nicotine, close to bedtime. Guilty. but only because I don't stop to unwind until about an hour before bed. I'm still frantically stumbling through life at "happy hour" so wine o'clock is inevitably very close to bedtime. Why don't you stop drinking wine then? You might be asking me in your head, or in the area designated for comments below which would be cool because then I would know that more than one person reads this blog. And I would even respond. Even if only, and probably, just something like "hahahaha! Hilarious!" but still...   Exercising to promote good quality sleep. As little as 10 minutes of aerobic exercise, such as walking or cycling, can drastically improve nighttime sleep quality.  Cute. I never stop moving in a day but thank you. And also I've been known to exercise up to 2 days a week on a good week. I box almost every week. I'm not sure how much exercise I'm getting but I do a lot of fake-cat punching so it works for me.   Steering clear of food that can be disruptive right before sleep.  Heavy or rich foods, fatty or fried meals, spicy dishes, citrus fruits, and carbonated drinks can trigger indigestion for some people.  So... white rice and baguette for supper?   Ensuring adequate exposure to natural light.  So move to a different province, at least for the months of November through to mid-June. Got it.   Establishing a regular relaxing bedtime routine.  A regular nightly routine helps the body recognize that it is bedtime. This could include taking warm shower or bath, reading a book, or light stretches. When possible, try to avoid emotionally upsetting conversations and activities before attempting to sleep. So... no more falling asleep in my supper while watching Rachel Maddow tear yet another  strip off of Trump on MSNBC, then taking the dog out in -40 degree weather before crawling into bed and listening to my girlfriend's exestencial rants on the trials and tribulations of artificial intelligence taking over the world, right before attempting to re-enter a slumberous state?   Making sure that the sleep environment is pleasant.  Please see the first paragraph of this post   According to WebMD, which I never ever EVER go to, because I am sophisticated lady and sophisticated people do not diagnose themselves on the internet, lack of adequate sleep can contribute to depression, memory loss, impaired cognitive process (it makes you stupid), impaired judgement (makes you do stupid things or let stupid people do things to you), kills your sex drive, promotes chronic diseases and autoimmune disorders, increases the risk of death, and most devastating: makes you fat and ages your skin. My multitude of specialists are not entirely convinced that the cats are 100% to blame for my sleep issues and have asked me to participate in a sleep study.

Needless to say, the night I went to bed looking like this, I got about 2 hours of sleep in total: 

Even though my girlfriend and all of our pets where too horrified by my get-up to come anywhere near the bedroom, much less attempt to disrupt me in it.  

Waiting with bated breath for the results...    Read the full article

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Send in the reinforcement!

It seems that almost everyone from those living on the cobble stone streets of Europe and in the ocean side villas of the mediteranean to the bowels of northern Quebec Canada, is suffering from an affliction at the moment. Some are calling it a nasty cold, some a sinus thingy, and other's a debilitating flu, while others refer to it more as "this ^$%ing bloody sickness from hell, it's been #$*&ing weeks, Jesus christ somebody just kill me and put me out of misery please". The symptoms vary slightly but are either a sore throat, dry cough, wet cough, congestion, nasal flooding, sinus punching, face swelling/slapping, head aching/pulsing/throbbing/exploding, gut wrenching, eyeball stabbing or a combination of some, if not all, of the above. For the few of you who are not currently ill, grace to your crippling agoraphobia or a general love of a pleasant quality of life - which has kept you indoors and far away from the germ infested population that currently roams the earth and its crevices, I have documented my own journey with this insufferable plague for you:

Day One

  Day Two

Day Three, Four, Five.....

  Read the full article

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Sophistication, Success and Serial Killers

  My idol, Julia Cameron, includes this exercise in a few of her brilliant books, The Artist's Way, the Sound of Paper and perhaps some others, where she encourages her reader to visit their own perceptions of what items for them could serve as a token of success. I have taken it a step further and included things that maybe aren't physical or tangible items.   I do this exercise often and the list items change from time to time but basically my list of 25 symbols of sophistication and success might look something like this:   An organized wallet  A newspaper subscription A nice watch  A good credit score  Manicured and Pedicured at all times  Monthly hair appointments  Wine savvy  Up to date on current events  Wears a belt  Polished shoes  A non-expired driver's licence  A savings account with actual money in it  Impeccable handwriting  Well trained dog (if you have a dog. Not get a dog and train it, but if you already have a dog, it doesn't jump up or go ballistic when somebody comes to the door, and doesn't try to eat other dogs for trying to share the sidewalk with her etc...)  Clothes that aren't made up 80% of cat hair Is punctual Has a life plan / action plan /mind map taking up half the basement wall made up of chalkboard paint and post it notes but in an organized and grown-up yet whimsical and not at a all OCD/stalker/serial killer way

 Phone isn't almost always at 1% battery life Knows where key are Knows where (organized) wallet is Doesn't have oppositional defiance disorder Goes to the dentist for check-ups and cleanings when they call to remind them that it's time.  Doesn't argue with themselves about whether or not it is bedtime and then stay up way too late watching Netflix and wonder why they're so exhausted all the next day, pausing repeatedly to search "fatigue" on webMD Doesn't search anything on webMD ever Washes face before bed instead of smearing off excess eyeliner from yesterday and pretending they are responsibly prioritizing and economizing on time by counting what's left of it as today's make-up. The idea is to scan your list and just select one symbol by which you can celebrate your soigné adulthood.     Desperate to be sophisticated but too lazy to think of your own list? Prefer to follow a clearly outlined step-by-step guide? You're in luck!   According to the wikiHow staff While "Sophistication means more than just smoking a thin cigarette in a French café while discussing your latest trip to an art gallery." this online document illustrating (literally)  how-to steps will get you fast tracked to sophistication in no time at all! Okay, it's not actually just a few simple steps. there are 4 parts to the process with several steps in each so I did you the favour of giving it a quick browse and grabbing what are clearly the most important steps of each part. Ready? Part 1 - Getting the Look Keep your face looking sophisticated. Both men and women should keep their faces looking sophisticated and well-groomed. Here’s what they should do: Women should wear some makeup to show that they’ve made an effort, but not so much that they end up hiding their natural features. Just a touch of eye shadow and liner and lipstick or lip gloss will do; there’s no need to throw on fake eyelashes or layers of blush. Men should keep their faces looking fresh, but they can keep their beards or just a little bit of stubble. You don’t have to be free of facial hair to look sophisticated. A beard can even make you look more sophisticated, especially if you have some gray in your beard. Part 2 - Talking the talk Avoid discussing any subjects that make people uncomfortable. Knowing what not to say is just as important as knowing what you should not talk about. Though you shouldn’t completely censor yourself and end up sounding like another person, if you want to sound sophisticated, then you have to avoid discussing subjects that make people cringe, roll their eyes, or generally feel like leaving the room. Here are some subjects that you should avoid talking about if you want to sound sophisticated: How much money you make Bodily functions Your latest hookup How drunk you got last night Part 3 - Picking Up Sophisticated Interests Be well-read. Being well-read is a must if you want to be truly sophisticated. Having some knowledge about classic works of literature as well as contemporary works will make you a more well-rounded, interesting, and sophisticated person. Though it’s hard to make room for reading in your busy schedule, try to read at least 2-3 books a month, or more, if you can make time for it. Here are some ways to be a more well-read person: Stop watching silly TV shows and curl up with a good book instead; stop listening to pop music and listen to an audio book on the way to work. Join a book club. This will motivate you to read regularly. Read the books on the Modern Library’s 100 best novels list. Read widely. Don’t just read fiction, non-fiction, or books written about America. Read books of different genres that represent different cultures. Make a list of books you want to read by the end of the next New Year. See how many you can check off your list. If you want to sound sophisticated, make sure you know that the writer George Eliot is a woman, and that the writer Evelyn Waugh is a man. Learn to pronounce the names of French writers. For example, Proust is pronounced “Proost,” to rhyme with “roost.” Appreciate wine. Drinking wine does not mean chugging a box of Franzia in your college’s parking lot before the big football game. It means knowing how to appreciate wine from different regions, and learning how to recognize different types of wine and the different flavors that you can find in a glass of wine. Here are some things you will need to master if you want to be sophisticated: The different types of wine. Cabernet, Merlot, Pinot Noir, and Zinfandel are some common red wines you may encounter; Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, and Pinot Grigio are some white wines you may drink. Wine tasting. To taste wine, swirl it around, smell it gently, and then take a small, thoughtful sip. Don’t down the whole glass without noticing the richness of the flavors. Pairing wine with foods. White wine tends to go better with certain fish, while red wine can bring out the flavors in a rich steak. Dessert wines. If you’re really into wine, you can enjoy a glass of sherry or port after your meal. Don’t drink this wine during your main meal. Identifying flavors. Does the wine taste oaked, not oaked, earthy, or fruit-forward? Can you detect a hint of chocolate, blackberries, or oranges? You’ll have a refined palate with practice. Chilling your wine. White wine should be cold; red wine should be kept out of the refrigerator. Don’t put ice cubes in your white wine to cool it down unless you want to look unsophisticated. Aerating your wine. Let your red wine breathe for a few minutes before you drink it. Better yet, pour it into a decanter or even pour it through an aerator into a glass. Part 4 - Acting Sophisticated Avoid getting visibly intoxicated in public. It’s sophisticated to sip a glass of Rosé or white wine on your patio and keep up witty conversation—it’s not sophisticated to be seen stumbling around a bar, falling into stools and not being able to keep your food down. If you want to be sophisticated and have embarrassing drinking habits, then it’s time to change your ways. The next time you go out, stick to having just one or two drinks, or to drinking until you feel slightly buzzed and then stopping. If you want people to think you’re sophisticated, although it goes deep down within yourself, then people will take you seriously, and nobody takes a person who can’t hold his liquor very seriously. Spend time with sophisticated people.   Sophisticated company will improve your level of sophistication. You shouldn’t drop all of your friends at a moment’s notice just because they aren’t as sophisticated as you’d like them to be; you should, however, make a goal of hanging out with more cultured, interesting, and open-minded people so that you can improve your own level of thinking. You can meet sophisticated people at book clubs, book readings, gallery openings and events, poetry readings, concerts, or at any art-inspired events. I don't know about you guys but I'm super inspired to get sophisticated now that I know how easy and straight forward it is; To the point where I have re-written my own personal list of symbols of sophistication.   Stop going out looking like a drag queen Stop talking about poop Cancel my Netflix account, quit my job and take up full time reading Develop a very strong dependancy on wine without chugging boxes of Franzia in my college’s parking lot before the big football games. Only drink alone and in private. Hang out with other unemployed alcoholics who wear modest amounts of make-up/beardage who don't talk about poop and have lots of words, all the words, the best words. *For access to the rest of the steps, so that you can become a truly sophisticated person, follow this link: https://www.wikihow.com/Be-Sophisticated   Read the full article

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The results are in!!

As some of you may or may not know, eight hundred and sixty seven years ago, instead of making an appearance on the Maury Povich show,  I spit in a vial and sent it to Ireland. While normally I am perfectly at home in the spotlight, I have to say that I'm pretty relieved to have gotten the results in the privacy of my own home because it turns out that not only is my mother my mother and my father my father, but my daughter might actually be my parent or other immediate family member and I'm not sure how I would have taken that news in front of a live studio audience.

Now, you maybe be asking why? Why would you spent $18,789e234eafsde33 on a DNA test when a) You are not an orphan without an identity or any connection to your heritage and simply only needed to ask you crepe making, beret wearing, pasta loving French + Italian/German/English parents what your ethnic background is. And b) Law enforcement knows these companies have your DNA, and they may want it. They're already asking for it.   And, most importantly c) You know that these test results aren't always accurate. When your girlfriend DNAd her dog they told her that this giant beast:    

was a Basenji

  And my answer to all of your questions is. I have the mental capacity of a 12 year old girl. And not the kind of 12 year old that people say "she's so mature for her age" about.   Also a) My parents can't be trusted. They told me I wasn't a bastard child born out of wedlock yet,  when I had to produce their marriage certificate to the US consulate in order to get my passport, it was the agent working who pointed (and laughed) out that my birth occurred 9 months before their wedding day. b) "The Law" caught the Golden State Killer suspect by using DNA from relatives. and since over 120 of my "4th cousins or closer" have already submitted their DNA samples I figure "The Law" can already find me if they need me. Plus if that's how I'm going to get caught  for all those murders I committed, I might as well get VIP access to the documentation of my great grandfather Vito riding Madonna from Italy to Ellis Island out of the deal.

  c) I'd love to find out I'm secretly smaller, prettier and more African than I thought I was! Bring on the Basenji! All of that having been said, drum roll please.  budahbudhabudabudabudahbudahbuda.....

So now what? Now you know your ethnic origin is real. What does it change? What are you going to do? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO??? I am going to fully, and completely and unapologetically start living my truth!!

  "Jen..." You might be thinking, "this pretty much looks exactly like how you already live you life now". To which I would respond, "WRONG! I do not own an Italian Greyhound! Yet..." I'm looking at life through a new lens people, and I am going to live it, love it and share it with each and every one of you! Stay tuned for upcoming entries such as "I knew I was Swedish and here's why - A  moving tome exploring cultural obligation to exercise passive aggressive behaviours and eat food out of tubes", "I have to eat Pasta, it's the law - and by law I mean - I know a guy...",  “Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre, and other signs of early onset tinnitus" and more!             Read the full article

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Women are 'horrible horrible liars'

      Warning: Exceptionally, the following content was not written in a humorous tone and and may be disturbing or triggering to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.   Women are 'horrible horrible liars'. According to Donald Trump in 2016, while referring to some of the women who have... accused him of sexual assault or harassment. Trump. The same man who finds it impossible to believe, much less understand, how a woman might not be able to remember the specific geographic address of the party she attended 36 years ago even though she claims to have been sexually assaulted there. Horrible horrible liars. But maybe that's just because he's never been a woman? Rachel Mitchell on the other hand, is a woman. She didn't call women horrible and she didn't explicitly call Dr. Basey Ford a liar. She did however, write a nine-page memorandum that lied implied stated that Ford “struggled to identify Judge Kavanaugh as the assailant by name.” even though anyone who was watching the hearing saw that Ford was entirely clear about the identity of the person who assaulted her. The memo also seriously questions Dr. Christine Blasey Ford's claims based on her memory, or lack there of, about details that Rachel felt far too pertinent to forget. "Dr. Ford has no memory of key details of the night in question — details that could help corroborate her account." Mitchell notes that she doesn't know the time or place of the incident; she doesn't remember how she got to the party or how she got home.  I don't know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh assaulted Dr. Ford 36 years ago but she seems credible and I can't see any reason why not to believe her. I do however know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh is a bold face liar. And I do know that the speculative "questions" regarding Christine's testimony are not evidence of dishonesty on her part. And I do know that if Rachel truly believes that Christine's inability to remember irrelevant details on the evening of her assault is proof that it didn't happen... it's likely that Rachel has probably never been forcibly violated in the distant past. I have been sexually assaulted 3 times in my life, not including being pressured and/or bullied into having sex when I wasn’t comfortable doing so. And not including attempted attacks or assaults. Not including being *forcibly dragged into a vehicle, at 16 years of age, by a complete stranger and clawing and clambering my way out of the moving vehicle, screaming bloody murder and then being stalked by the driver for months afterwards. Two of the times, I woke up to it happening in my own home, in my own bed, where I was asleep. I have no idea what time of year it was, let alone what the date was. I remember that I was 18 or 19 years old at the time. I remember what my room looked like. I remember the person who did it (it was the same person both times) and I remember waking up to it happening even though I was home alone when I went to bed/sleep. One of those two times I had been drinking, the other time I had not. One of the times was at a party on a houseboat. I don’t know whose boat it was and  I have no idea where it was docked, what day of the week it was or what month or even year it was. I was about 15 years old. I remember the rooms these assaults happened it, the faces of the people who committed them and the way I felt while it was happening and for days after it happened. But I don’t have a clue what led up to it happening or when. I imagine if you had told me the morning of, that I was going to be raped that evening, I might have remember what led up to it because I would have been sick and terrified all day and being sick and terrified is somewhat more memorable than a date or address. I don’t remember what day of the week June 4, 2006 was or what I did throughout that day leading up to the police coming to the door of my home to tell me that my husband's body had been found either. Does that mean they didn't tell me? Does that mean I wasn't traumatized by it?  Does that mean he didn't die?  "Dr. Ford has not offered a consistent account of the alleged assault" — among other things, her accounts about the number of people at the party and whether she could hear conversations varied.  I have no idea how many people were at the party where I was assaulted, I don’t even remember which of my friends were with me that night.  I might have counted at the time and repeated the number over and over and over again in my head until it was etched in my mind if I’d known it would one day be considered “key evidence” in keeping a sexual predator out of the seat of the associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, but there's still a pretty good chance that I would not have remembered 30+ years later.  I also don't remember if I could hear conversation in the background on the houseboat. I do remember the sound of water lapping up agains the side of the boat, the sound of his breath on my face and the muffled grunting noises he made into the pillow case next to my head. I could almost hear my own stomach turning; my own blood curdling. All of those sounds - so much more memorable than meaningless backround chatter. One afternoon when I was about 17 (yes, about 17, because I was no longer living in the apartment I rented when I first turned 16, but wasn't yet with the boyfriend I started dating when I was 18 - And that is as accurate as my memory and this statement is going to get) years old, I walked into a police station to file a report. "He jumped out of the bushes at me and he grabbed me but I screamed, I pulled myself out of my jacket and I got away" I sat in the chair across from the police officer who was taking my statement. "Is that what you were wearing?" he nodded toward me. I was sitting in the chair wearing a pair of converse high tops, leggings, a skirt, a Corrosion of Conformity T-Shirt and a plaid flannel coat. "Excuse me?" He rolled his eyes and motioned again, "Is that what you were wearing?". What was weirder to me than the fact that the officer felt that the question was relevant to the crime... and what was weirder than the fact that what I was wearing wasn't even remotely provocative, was that what I'd been wearing the night in question was a pair of baggy overalls and my roommate's huge winter parka, at least 3 sizes to big for me, and a pair of work boots. I do not remember the name of the street I was walking along. I remember that I had tonsillitis because it hurt my throat to scream and my glands were so swollen that my voice sounded muffled. I remember how big his hand was on my arm. Because these are the things we remember over a quarter of a century later. If we asked any other person aged 30 years or older... what they were doing on any given day in 1988, I'm pretty sure that unless they were being born, giving birth, receiving news that a loved one just passed away, getting married or finalizing their divorce. They probably don't have a clue, but they'll still insist they existed. Horrible Horrible liars.   Read the full article

[ladyslounge-blog-blog]

Women are 'horrible horrible liars'

      Warning: Exceptionally, the following content was not written in a humorous tone and and may be disturbing or triggering to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.   Women are 'horrible horrible liars'. According to Donald Trump in 2016, while referring to some of the women who have... accused him of sexual assault or harassment. Trump. The same man who finds it impossible to believe, much less understand, how a woman might not be able to remember the specific geographic address of the party she attended 36 years ago even though she claims to have been sexually assaulted there. Horrible horrible liars. But maybe that's just because he's never been a woman? Rachel Mitchell on the other hand, is a woman. She didn't call women horrible and she didn't explicitly call Dr. Basey Ford a liar. She did however, write a nine-page memorandum that lied implied stated that Ford “struggled to identify Judge Kavanaugh as the assailant by name.” even though anyone who was watching the hearing saw that Ford was entirely clear about the identity of the person who assaulted her. The memo also seriously questions Dr. Christine Blasey Ford's claims based on her memory, or lack there of, about details that Rachel felt far too pertinent to forget. "Dr. Ford has no memory of key details of the night in question — details that could help corroborate her account." Mitchell notes that she doesn't know the time or place of the incident; she doesn't remember how she got to the party or how she got home.  I don't know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh assaulted Dr. Ford 36 years ago but she seems credible and I can't see any reason why not to believe her. I do however know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh is a bold face liar. And I do know that the speculative "questions" regarding Christine's testimony are not evidence of dishonesty on her part. And I do know that if Rachel truly believes that Christine's inability to remember irrelevant details on the evening of her assault is proof that it didn't happen... it's likely that Rachel has probably never been forcibly violated in the distant past. I have been sexually assaulted 3 times in my life, not including being pressured and/or bullied into having sex when I wasn’t comfortable doing so. And not including attempted attacks or assaults. Not including being *forcibly dragged into a vehicle, at 16 years of age, by a complete stranger and clawing and clambering my way out of the moving vehicle, screaming bloody murder and then being stalked by the driver for months afterwards. Two of the times, I woke up to it happening in my own home, in my own bed, where I was asleep. I have no idea what time of year it was, let alone what the date was. I remember that I was 18 or 19 years old at the time. I remember what my room looked like. I remember the person who did it (it was the same person both times) and I remember waking up to it happening even though I was home alone when I went to bed/sleep. One of those two times I had been drinking, the other time I had not. One of the times was at a party on a houseboat. I don’t know whose boat it was and  I have no idea where it was docked, what day of the week it was or what month or even year it was. I was about 15 years old. I remember the rooms these assaults happened it, the faces of the people who committed them and the way I felt while it was happening and for days after it happened. But I don’t have a clue what led up to it happening or when. I imagine if you had told me the morning of, that I was going to be raped that evening, I might have remember what led up to it because I would have been sick and terrified all day and being sick and terrified is somewhat more memorable than a date or address. I don’t remember what day of the week June 4, 2006 was or what I did throughout that day leading up to the police coming to the door of my home to tell me that my husband's body had been found either. Does that mean they didn't tell me? Does that mean I wasn't traumatized by it?  Does that mean he didn't die?  "Dr. Ford has not offered a consistent account of the alleged assault" — among other things, her accounts about the number of people at the party and whether she could hear conversations varied.  I have no idea how many people were at the party where I was assaulted, I don’t even remember which of my friends were with me that night.  I might have counted at the time and repeated the number over and over and over again in my head until it was etched in my mind if I’d known it would one day be considered “key evidence” in keeping a sexual predator out of the seat of the associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, but there's still a pretty good chance that I would not have remembered 30+ years later.  I also don't remember if I could hear conversation in the background on the houseboat. I do remember the sound of water lapping up agains the side of the boat, the sound of his breath on my face and the muffled grunting noises he made into the pillow case next to my head. I could almost hear my own stomach turning; my own blood curdling. All of those sounds - so much more memorable than meaningless backround chatter. One afternoon when I was about 17 (yes, about 17, because I was no longer living in the apartment I rented when I first turned 16, but wasn't yet with the boyfriend I started dating when I was 18 - And that is as accurate as my memory and this statement is going to get) years old, I walked into a police station to file a report. "He jumped out of the bushes at me and he grabbed me but I screamed, I pulled myself out of my jacket and I got away" I sat in the chair across from the police officer who was taking my statement. "Is that what you were wearing?" he nodded toward me. I was sitting in the chair wearing a pair of converse high tops, leggings, a skirt, a Corrosion of Conformity T-Shirt and a plaid flannel coat. "Excuse me?" He rolled his eyes and motioned again, "Is that what you were wearing?". What was weirder to me than the fact that the officer felt that the question was relevant to the crime... and what was weirder than the fact that what I was wearing wasn't even remotely provocative, was that what I'd been wearing the night in question was a pair of baggy overalls and my roommate's huge winter parka, at least 3 sizes to big for me, and a pair of work boots. I do not remember the name of the street I was walking along. I remember that I had tonsillitis because it hurt my throat to scream and my glands were so swollen that my voice sounded muffled. I remember how big his hand was on my arm. Because these are the things we remember over a quarter of a century later. If we asked any other person aged 30 years or older... what they were doing on any given day in 1988, I'm pretty sure that unless they were being born, giving birth, receiving news that a loved one just passed away, getting married or finalizing their divorce. They probably don't have a clue, but they'll still insist they existed. Horrible Horrible liars.   Read the full article

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Are You My Mother?

  I'm going to tell my real mom!! And she's going to come and get me! I wanted so much to believe, as so many perfectly happy and well loved children do, that I was secretly adopted from somebody interesting, exciting and foreign. Switched at birth or stolen from my birth-mother who was probably a rich celebrity and would certainly have let me eat gum and cotton candy for supper whenever I wanted, get a perm, and stay up to watch Saturday Night Live every crack of Sunday, like any decent parent would. I pushed and prodded and bullied. "TELL ME THE TRUTH!!! WHERE IS MY REAL MOM??" but my not-my-real mom refused. "I just want to talk to her. I just have to tell her something. Do you have her phone number at least??" Sure! I look just like both my fake parents smooshed together. And sure! I appear to have inherited the entitled the plague that is their feeling smarter, sassier and generally superior to all other living things attitude, but that could just as easily be a learned behaviour. Also, they both can spell and have an excellent command of english grammar which is a pretty clear indication that we probably do not share DNA. I know for a fact that my Grandmother Rose (may she rest in eternal self righteousness) would agree that there is cause for suspicion,   "Where did that giant butt come from? Definitely not my side of the family", she insisted. And certainly not from my mother's, as none of her relatives even have one - to speak of. And where did I get these fat lips? This gloriously ample bosom? These deformed little child's feet? The patchy barely eyebrows? The moustache? Where?? I have begged, pleaded and sifted through their sock drawers, but come up empty every time. Nobody will grant me the decency of a solid lineage. "Please! Something! Just give me something! Were we immigrants? Vagrants? Pirates? Royalty?" "You had a paternal great grandmother that had that disease... you know, the one from the movie Awakenings..." So I've taken it upon myself to register on Ancestry.com and start searching for the truth. And by searching I mean obsessing. And by truth I mean a glimmer of hope that somehow, someway, I might possibly be eligible for a European passport. I would GLADLY renounce citizenship and hand over my American one for it. Although I imagine, thanks to you-know-who, I would be hard pressed to find anyone who would take it these days. It doesn't have to be Italian specifically, but as long as my family is going to continue to insist that I'm rightfully theirs, Italy is my only hope. I was going to try for French but my grandmother Mauricette  threatened me with violence if I mentioned her name to the French authority; Muttering something about paperwork, undocumented post war re-entry to Paris (defection from the US) and making her life a living hell.  I am planning a trip to the Italian consulate this week to ask for help finding out if my alleged great-grandfather Vito and his wife Carmella were already Naturalized Americans when Rose was born in New York. But as my own personal Plan B, in case they show me to the door, I have taken it upon myself  to order a DNA test.  I'm secretly hoping for Mexican descent but I'll settle for anything mediterranean-ish if need be.

  Spit in tube *check* Inject highly toxic stabilizing liquid into tube *check*  Shake for at least 5 seconds *check* Insert tube in bag and seal *check*  Insert bag in box and seal *check* Mail to Ireland? *check* Only 6-8 weeks before I find out if I'm part Basenji! SaveSave SaveSave Read the full article

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Fingers

    Naturally, as a child I thought the world was a cruel and unfair place to live, which of course it is. And naturally, I placed the blame solely on my Mother, therefore coming to the conclusion that most children make at some point in their evolution, or another, which is that I must have been adopted. This made it possible to cling to the fantasy that one day my real Mother would come and take me away from all that was evil, and buy me all the ice cream, bubble gum and comic books a girl could ever want.   "Sooooo…” My mother taunted me, “What's your realmother's name?"   I'm not sure where this came from exactly but I do remember quite confidently announcing, almost defiantly, "FINGER!" You know how when you're little and you lie to somebody and it’s too embarrassing to back pedal, and once you realize that there is just no going back, you just kind of throw everything you’ve got into the lie until you are so passionate about it that you eventually almost start to convince your own self that what you are saying is true? Well, I guess that's pretty much where I was at, because I was heartbroken that not only did nobody believe me, they were even mocking me. This made me horribly homesick and I began to long desperately for my realmother... Finger.   I was bouncing from couch to chair and back, in my wonder woman underoos and a pair of rubber boots, watching a baseball game on our tiny black and white TV, when suddenly, through the blabbering commentary of the game…  "Rollie Fingers is up and he’s…!" "See!!!!!!! I shouted gleefully, " I told you my mom was real!!" I think it was at this point that my mother stopped ridiculing me and started worrying about me instead.  

Rollie Fingers Read the full article

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Streaming TV ruined my life

Okay, that may have been a bit dramatic. What I meant to say is that streaming TV is evil and everyone should stop doing it right now. Too harsh? Fine. What I mean is, that streaming TV is making me sad and I wish people weren't so into it. I'm not saying that I have never watched 2 entire seasons of Homeland, Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul or Curb Your Enthusiasm in a row, of my own free will. I am not saying that I have never caught myself squinting out of  eyeballs that felt as though they were being dried out by a blowtorch, but still hung in there, blinking, rubbing, taking my glasses off, putting them on, taking them off, putting them on, like a trooper, for just 2 more episodes, while mindlessly alternating  bowls of spaghetti and tubs of Coconut Bliss, shovelling either/or into my face like an excavator, to distract me from the relentless pain of viewer fatigue induced eye strain. The last time I had the flu, I probably watched 6 consecutive episodes of the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt (taking breaks only to rest my eyes long enough to imagine myself living in my very own New York City brownstone basement), 8 episodes of Comedians in Cars Drinking Coffee (breaking only long enough to quickly peruse the iChing web menu and call for soup), and at least 4 episodes of Peaky Blinders (breaking only long enough to do what any non-self-respecting estrous mammal watching that show would seek a private corner to do), before succumbing to severe symptoms of digital motion sickness. So I'm not saying I've never streamed television shows, or liked it, or forced myself to do it no matter how dizzy or nauseous it made me feel. But I am saying this: I miss weekly TV!!  There.  Don't get angry! Hear me out! Remember (if you were born before 1990) when TV shows were only on once a week, and you didn't make plans that night because it was Desperate Housewives/The Sopranos/The L Word/The Real L word night? Did any of you used to make a night of it? Plan your food, invite friends over maybe even? The last show I remember doing that with was True Blood . There was an open invitation to all my friends to my living room every Sunday night. I'd cover the mirrors, hang the plasma bag wreathe on the door (so gross - so gross but I wrote it even though I never actually did it, wow that's gross) and hide all the pointy steak-like objects. I'd serve Vampire and or Louisiana inspired snacks and beverages for all.

I looked forward to that night every week, with great expectation.  I miss that. I miss the gathering, the snacks, the covering of the mirrors... And the call from across the house, of ravenous waifs weeping into the stocked but untouchable refrigerator...  "Mom... is there ANYTHING in the fridge that we ARE allowed to eat?"

Read the full article

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Streaming TV ruined my life

Okay, that may have been a bit dramatic. What I meant to say is that streaming TV is evil and everyone should stop doing it right now. Too harsh? Fine. What I mean is, that streaming TV is making me sad and I wish people weren't so into it. I'm not saying that I have never watched 2 entire seasons of Homeland, Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul or Curb Your Enthusiasm in a row, of my own free will. I am not saying that I have never caught myself squinting out of  eyeballs that felt as though they were being dried out by a blowtorch, but still hung in there, blinking, rubbing, taking my glasses off, putting them on, taking them off, putting them on, like a trooper, for just 2 more episodes, while mindlessly alternating  bowls of spaghetti and tubs of Coconut Bliss, shovelling either/or into my face like an excavator, to distract me from the relentless pain of viewer fatigue induced eye strain. The last time I had the flu, I probably watched 6 consecutive episodes of the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt (taking breaks only to rest my eyes long enough to imagine myself living in my very own New York City brownstone basement), 8 episodes of Comedians in Cars Drinking Coffee (breaking only long enough to quickly peruse the iChing web menu and call for soup), and at least 4 episodes of Peaky Blinders (breaking only long enough to do what any non-self-respecting estrous mammal watching that show would seek a private corner to do), before succumbing to severe symptoms of digital motion sickness. So I'm not saying I've never streamed television shows, or liked it, or forced myself to do it no matter how dizzy or nauseous it made me feel. But I am saying this: I miss weekly TV!!  There.  Don't get angry! Hear me out! Remember (if you were born before 1990) when TV shows were only on once a week, and you didn't make plans that night because it was Desperate Housewives/The Sopranos/The L Word/The Real L word night? Did any of you used to make a night of it? Plan your food, invite friends over maybe even? The last show I remember doing that with was True Blood . There was an open invitation to all my friends to my living room every Sunday night. I'd cover the mirrors, hang the plasma bag wreathe on the door (so gross - so gross but I wrote it even though I never actually did it, wow that's gross) and hide all the pointy steak-like objects. I'd serve Vampire and or Louisiana inspired snacks and beverages for all.

I looked forward to that night every week, with great expectation.  I miss that. I miss the gathering, the snacks, the covering of the mirrors... And the call from across the house, of ravenous waifs weeping into the stocked but untouchable refrigerator...  "Mom... is there ANYTHING in the fridge that we ARE allowed to eat?"

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Jen's family and other animals

When I was quite young, I happened upon a copy of Gerald Durrell's book, My Family And Other Animals. It is an autobiographical journey through Gerald's eyes at about age 10. His family has moved from England to the Greek island of Corfu. To this day, it is still my absolute favourite book on earth. Followed closely by David Sedaris's Naked, and Shirley Jackson's Life Among The Savages. I don't know if it's just because he is a brilliant writer, and can make even the daily routine of a dung beetle seem like a rollercoaster ride of trials, tribulations and life affirming victories, or if Corfu really is, as he describes it to be, a magical place like no other. What I do know is that I have longed to see it since the day I read that book. And I don't know, if it's because, while much of the rest of the world is presently enjoying the wonder of actual live blades of grass growing from a softening earth, and gearing up for cherry blossom season,

I live in a world where going outside hurts your face and freezes your eyelashes together. A world where even my cat has basically  lost the will to live, if it means leaving the safety and warmth of this radiator:

But I've been completely overtaken by the driving longing aching need to see it now. Right now. I want to see what he saw, the strawberry villa, the Venetian Villa, The Daffodil Villa, the olives, the insects, the ocean, the locals, the land. I know you're just going to think this is just yet another one of those posts about me wishing I was somebody that I'm not, living somewhere that I can't, doing something that I don't... but you're wrong. I realize I'm not Gerald Durrell. I'm not the youngest in my family, I don't have a widowed mother whose best friend is a Greek taxi driver named Spiro and I don't have a dog named Roger. My villa (what? Okay fine apartment. Whatever) doesn't have a steady stream of eccentrics, artists and literary intellects passing through and I don't have a team of private international tutors. Although I wouldn't be opposed to any of the above. I am fully aware that this is not my reality.  I mean sure, I've looked up a few apartments on Airbnb, and I've saved up 1200 airmiles and $18.50 toward air fare. But it's not like I've quit my job and packed my bags. Well, I've packed my bags... And sure, I literally have a zoo living in my house, and I may be in the beginning stages of growing a beard but I'm pretty sure I'm perimenopausal so it's more a hormonal thing than a wannabe Gerald thing. Anyway that's silly, I don't even know if Gerald had a beard as a grown man, much less when he was 10 years old. Okay he did. I just checked. As a grown man I mean, not a 10 year old child. Or a perimenopausal woman. I mean sure, I may have taken down all family photos from around the house and replaced them with ones that look like this: Well this one. This exact one, with my face photoshopped where the face of the actor that plays Gerald used to be.  

  That's right, the actor. Because there's a TV show based on the book now! Only I haven't watched the show, because I'm scared that I will hate it and it will make me question why humans are such money grubbing vultures that nothing is sacred to them, and it will send me spiralling into an black hole of obsession and consequential grief. Or that I will absolutely love it for illustrating everything I adore about the book and more, and  it will send me spiralling into an black hole of obsession and consequential grief. But I'm not in denial! And even if I was, even if I secretly wished that I was prolific writer who.. who... well anything really, because honestly a prolific writer would be more than enough for me without the awards and honours and namesakes. Although Centroline Chapmanorum does have a nice ring to it. But even if I was! So what? So what if I'm back on fantasy island again? And surely this bout is better than when I wished for months and years that I was Jack Black isn't it? So what if I wish I were a British naturalist, zookeeper, conservationist, author and television presenter who lived a great deal of his life on a Greek island in the Ionian Sea, surrounded by flamingos, dolphins and monk seals, where the average temperature on a day in oh let's say MID MARCH is between 12 - 16 degrees celsius ABOVE ZERO! Would that be so wrong???? Oh my God I just found out that there is a week long conservation course called Gerald Durrell's Corfu that takes place every spring at the Venetian Manor. They describe it as an "opportunity to spend a week re-living the life of Gerald Durrell,  giving you an unforgettable experience on the beautiful island of Corfu. " I might actually cry. Who am I kidding? I am crying. I can't stop crying.   

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theladyslounge.com/on-being-yourself

    Dear Jennifer June, You seem so grounded and together. I feel so scattered and lost, unsure of what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I feel like I’m in constant conflict between who I think I am supposed to be and who I am turning out to be instead. I yearn for the self-assurance and calm that you radiate through your writing. How do you do it? Jeannette P.S. I love your blog. You’re really funny. Dear Jeannette, I think the most essential tool in self-discovery is to have a creative outlet. I personally have a few; writing, singing, and performing etc… I strongly suggest you explore some artistic channels to help calm and ground you. Also, I’ve invested in hundreds of dollars worth of motivational cassettes and self help books, and I have attended countless hypnotherapy and conventional therapy sessions. I think the most important lesson I have learned is that there is a difference between that which we expect from life, that which we intend to manifest, and that which we are actually destined for. If we waste all of our time and energy beating our expectations and intentions to death, we miss out on who/what/where we really are. For example: When I stopped hating on myself for not being a good enough mother, and let go of any preconceived ideas of what my destiny was supposed to be , I was then able to allow fate to guide me, therefore giving myself permission to explore my actual strengths and excel at being “the meanest mom in the whole world”. And I am a better person for it. Believe in yourself and let your destiny guide you - Love JJC Dear Jennifer, One of the things I enjoy most about your blog (besides how funny you are) is how you write without worrying about what anybody else thinks. I want to be myself so bad but I’m so nervous that everyone will think I’m a loser. Why aren’t you worried that everyone thinks you are a freak? And how can I be more like you? I mean, not a freak, but just not care if people think bad things about me. Alison Dear Alison, The key to being your absolute truest, most honest self, and in order to be genuinely fulfilled, and all that you can be in life, is making absolute certain that whatever you are doing, you are doing it for yourself. You are the only person who is stuck with you for life. You deserve to be happy and confident and proud of yourself, no matter what that means. And anyone who judges you is not happy with who they are. I spent many, many years putting all of my energy toward trying make myself attractive to other people, I was left feeling empty and alone, degraded and sexually unsatisfied. Once I allowed myself to celebrate that which I am good at, ie. Being alone, compulsive masturbation and cry-orgasms, I began to feel somewhat more sexually satisfied and… Yeah. You see? So be yourself! Love yourself! And satisfy yourself the way no one else can - Jennifer June Dear Jen, First, You’re hilarious and I LOVE your blog. Second: I need help in a way that only you will understand. I am really sick of everybody in my family telling me what to do. My parents and husband all want me to go back to school and get a degree so that I can get a “real” job. The only thing I feel passionate about in life is blogging. I am subscribed to about 86 blogs right now and I don’t have enough time in a day to read them all. If I go to school or get a job, I won’t have time to read them at all, let alone comment on all the posts. What’s worse, I really want to be a blogger. I already have some photos of my cat and my lunch from every day this week, plus 4 of my favourite memes ready to go.

Yummiest lunch evahh!!   How do I tell my family that I have found my real calling, even if they won’t approve.? Melanie Dear Melanie, It’s important to manifest enough strength, no to be vulnerable too your critics (family and friends), most of whom have not yet gotten in touch with their inner-selves, and are feeling blocked and resentful that you are on your path, while they haven’t the faintest idea where theirs is. Be careful not to be swayed or influenced too heavily by others, BUT still open to suggestions. Sometimes others see in us what we are not able to see in ourselves. I remember, my late husband, on more than one occasion, telling me that I would make an excellent martyr. Looking back, I realize that he was probably right. Sadly, I was too busy doing everything all by myself, with no help from anyone else, to find out. And I have regretted it ever since. Blog your brains out and keep me in your RSS feed – JJC

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