Light My Fire

I am sure that if 30 year old me could have had a word with (i.e. influence upon) 20-something me, my life might not have been nearly as exciting as a Twixter. Let’s compare site statistics alone. DC Cookie, my long-[permanently]-hibernating site of singledom, gets twice as many daily hits as my current project. Because let’s be honest, despite the melody of my voice, who [besides best friends and cyber-stalking exes] really wants to hear the droning hum of an old woman’s romantic drivel? I have such vast, worldly wisdom to extend upon the lovelorn masses, but nary an interested, needy listener.

As such, I challenge those who stumble across my SAT-vocab-infused mumblings to suggest a topic of interest (within PG-13 boundaries, of course). In my infatuated state of matrimonial exhilaration, without assistance I simply cannot conjure a "Stream of Jessica" that is not directly related to my emotional jubilation – which, lovely in small doses, can also act as a ferocious audience-repellant. I welcome any and all commentary, anonymous or otherwise, to ignite my creative spark plugs. I am aching for new fodder...

Holiday Family

I have never spent a Christmas Eve or Christmas Day without my family. Whether Canadian blizzard or temperate West Coast aurora, my sister, my parents and I have always unwrapped our multitude of blessings together following the yuletide dawn; our day awash with giggles, hikes, family games and gluttonous turkey giblets. There is enough laughter in our Christmas celebration to fill a lifetime.

This diaphragm-tightening chortling got me thinking last night about those who are not lucky enough to have family, friends and in-laws vying for their companionship in the holiday season, and those who are unable to escape the claws of their employment to relax for a few weeks as the New Year approaches. The Christmas season is my absolute favourite time of year; a time when stress disintegrates from the merriment of loved ones around a warm fire. And the concept of somebody unable to experience that same warmth with his or her own congregation of relatives minces my heart to shreds...

Viva

I don’t know what it is about the city of sin, but I absolutely cannot get enough of it. Las Vegas is a desert mirage of grandiose proportions. The clocks stop [or rather, cease to be] and the multitude of toothless gamblers and Amazonian women propel forward as if with slow, chaotic purpose. I am infatuated with the din of clanking slots and techno, the barren breeze and the perpetual neon. I’ve seen the city from every angle; stripper pole to artisan bar; thousand dollar bottle service to e-infested late night rave; family musical to sensuous revue; cool, mountainous hike to sweltering poolside; strip to suburban home. The gaudiness is magical and the local inhabitants are simple in their wants but complex in their open-mindedness.

I have been to Las Vegas more times than I can count (I flew there four times last year alone), but I have never celebrated the beginning of a New Year in this necromantic cesspool of wonder. It is perplexing how uncontained my excitement is for my upcoming Sin City holiday…

Yin and Yang

After landing on the runway at National Airport a few weeks ago following a trip to Mexico, my cell phone vibrated repeatedly with news from my best girl. She is in love. As I patiently awaited the reappearance of my overstuffed bag at the luggage carousel, I called to listen to her amour-intoxicated voice describe her knight in all his untarnished valiance; she sounded as relaxed and jovial as I’d ever heard her. I beamed. I adore hearing tales of love-revelation, particularly when it’s my best girl who has unearthed her long-merited, romantic compliment. I absolutely cannot wait to meet this fresh, deep-water catch.

Our conversation later reminded me of some unsolicited advice I gave last year, when my sweetheart was being slandered by a woman scorned. Though horribly misconstrued, the intent of my pointed blog post was to remind the Infuriated that love can never be forced, nor should we permit ourselves to erupt green with jealous vitriol when the path we have taken to find it dead ends. We stumble unknowingly through a series of unfit lovers until the yin to our yang comes along and when he does, it’s glorious. I wonder now, when an irrefutable love has been deservedly delivered to her doorstep, if she’ll understand that the blunt vocalization of my counsel was never uncongenial. I hate to see a woman suffer, whether a best friend or a complete stranger. In fact, despite that we have never met, I feel oddly delighted by her new found happiness.

I cannot stress enough the validity of the most common of clichés; “when you know, you know” and nothing else is worth the draining effects of wrathful, heartbroken spite. If rapture, trust and devotion do not instantly envelop both parties in a milkshake of sanguine euphoria, then the recipe needs an ingredient overhaul. And tender patience is the only means to reach that perfect state of satisfaction with the partner for whom we are intended.

It's a Wonder I Don't Starve

It is with unfortunate biological chance that I did not inherit the gifted cooking genes from my mother’s side of the family. Thankfully my husband is a genius at the stove; even his drunken snacks at 3am involve the sautéing of exotic mushrooms with avocado oil and finely diced shallots.

But when my sweetheart travels, I am left to my own devices. Knowing that there is an elevated likelihood of all the Frosted Mini-Wheats in our house disappearing this week in his absence (for lack of other pre-made ‘instant gratification’ options), he set it up that I would have a series of delicious, reheatable portions of homemade turkey soup available for the duration of my brief solitude. Before packing for a trip to Puerto Vallarta (where I will be joining him shortly), he meticulously cut the last of the turkey from the bones and boiled the carcass into a flavourful stock. The only thing I had to do after dropping him at the airport was add the contents; an easy task, for someone who isn’t a bumbling idiot with a hot pot. How could chopping carrots and scooping grains of rice possibly go wrong?

Humbly, I am the living proof that it can.

First, I determined that celery, onions and carrots were not enough legumes for me. Why not broccoli, or better yet, cabbage? The pretty purple variety…that just happens to turn turkey broth into a veritable borscht (oops number one). And exactly how much dry rice should be added to a 10-quart pot? My un-cuisine-educated guesstimate was 3 overflowing cups, which unfortunately was at least double what was necessary (oops number two). So instead of turkey soup, I’m left to consume an indigo-hued rice casserole for the next three days.

I’m praying that my fatuous housewifery is recessive…

Namaste

I know for a fact that the lore of the creative muse is not mythical. I happen to have one myself in the fetching form of an olive-skinned femme fatale. She has pillow-y lips, zooma-zoom-zoom rump cheeks and a rhythmical hip thrust that could break a man mid-mambo. Her acorn-sized, cocoa eyes are as arousing and welcoming as a sun-kissed, temperate ocean. When she graces you with a smile, your world becomes so much more than a simple oyster. She neutralizes fear; she discourages boundaries; she cleanses, sanitizes, blesses. She is heaven’s gatekeeper and the caregiver of the universe. For a reason understood only by the cosmic powers that be, she has chosen me as the apprentice friend to whom she reveals [almost, some things are sacred] all. I know both the character she has developed (what Hollywood coins ‘based on a true story’) and the resilient, but oft vulnerable, maiden beneath the cloak; the innocent, untamable, commanding, genius of an edifying wellspring.

She is my muse for many reasons, at the forefront of which is her mastery of expression. She breathes inspiration into a vacant keyboard. If she ever discontinued my complimentary access to the verbal manifestation of her emotional impulses, I fear my writing would evaporate. My ability to place two unlikely words in the same sentence would be lost to apprehension. My blog is the mosquito to her elephant; her posts are the necessary red river of platelets from which this Stream subsists.

This, my dearest Namaste, is my significantly more befitting commentary.

Tears of Sweat

A word of advice: don’t read Tuesdays with Morrie at the gym. I was out of trashy, starlet-glossed magazines and the book was compact enough to fit on the reading ledger of the cross ramp. The read was quick, common and predictable. Regardless, the final chapter brought a few embarrassing tears to my already pink, puffy, salt-encrusted cheeks. Might have been an ugly scene for a crowded cardio floor if I hadn't been able to pass them off nonchalantly as sweat beads. Thus, can anyone recommend a Plan C to this hour-a-day gym rat who yearns to avoid the quick-sand monotony of her exercise routine? I can only read so much about Brangelina before I want to beat my head with my ipod and the dense content of my latest Erica Jong read is far too thick to rest motionless in front of my bouncing eyes.