Tea and figs

There comes a time when you find yourself gazing across the breakfast table at your partner's lovely, toast-becrumbed face, and you smile. You thumb the handle of your coffee mug and think, "I am looking at the love of my life. I want to watch this face grow old, and, if they ever want to leave, it should be difficult and involve a lot of paperwork."

So it was with Jer and Meg, and one day that one writer turned to another lovingly and said:

"Dyawanna?"

And she said, "um, ok."

So, dear friends (and if you're reading this, that includes you), we wanted to share the news with you in a way slightly more personal than a Facebook status change: We're getting hitched.

We don't have any other answers, but here's what we're pretty sure of...

1. We know what you're thinking: "god dammit, another wedding?" and we share the sentiment. So we will not spend the next year blathering on about invites and doilies and all that stuff. And there won't be any cutesy-themed parties. (We both prefer showers of the "I've been out dancing all night and I'm sweaty and I need a shower" variety.)

2. Meg refuses to wear white. That gig is up.

3. There won't be a giant, poofy wedding. It's going to be a very small thing with family. But we promise that after the formalities, we'll have a big party for all, of the dance-your-face-off-all-night-till-you're-so-sweaty-you-need-a-shower type. So we guess there will be a shower, after all.


All our love,

M&J

August 3 - 10: This is the week that my hair tries to escape

It's been working on these plans for years, really. And no one can blame it. It's endured horrific abuse at the hands of "professionals" for years: mousses, scissors, curling irons. At the end, it was made to look like a poodle, it was teased, it was beaten into submission. I may have split its ends, but I've never broken its spirit. And now it wants out.

I thought this was the usual rebellious phase that it goes through whenever the weather gets humid. I thought that maybe it would just go all pouffy and then send a few brave but tired souls down my bathroom drain again, to freedom. But this time, it's different. It's been saving its strength. And it's not going to take it anymore.

Labels: this is the week

July 21 - 27: The week that the robot insects descend from the trees

What's that? A cicada? Wrong. It's not a giant, whirring insect; it's a tiny, deadly robot. It is, as yet, unclear what the little guy wants. But watch out for him, he's up to no good.

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July 14 - 20 - This is the week that the spiders test their boundaries

We've been having a pretty good go of it, spider. Yes, our relationship is a little co-dependent. You need me not to sweep you into the dustpan, give you the autonomy to build webs as you see fit, and keep the birds away. In exchange, I need you to eat the insects that really just want to land on my face while I sleep. I mean, it's my sunporch, I figure you have squatter's rights. You've been doing a fairly good job holding up your end of the bargain:



So why have you chosen this week to test the boundaries of our relationship? Did you think I would not notice the egg sac? OK, I did not notice the egg sac. And I even allowed one of the mini spiders make a tiny web around the base of my bedside lamp. But that is getting very close to my limit, spider. You have seven days to clean up your act. Be warned.

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July 7-13: This is the week when the fruit flies are defeated.

For weeks, they have been everywhere. Even after I got rid of all the fruit. The fruit flies were teeming, and they were trying cause great madness. So minute as to almost be a hallucination, they rose in great clouds from lemon rinds and the lips of glasses, inspiring fits of waving and coughing. Some might see this attack as opportunism: the flies, noting the municipal garbage strike, had seized upon the chance. But I possess evidence, which I have no doubt will prove admissible in court, that this plot predates the city's smelly woes.

The only thing that stood in our favour was that the summer has yet to bloom into unbearable heat. Had that happened, I have no doubt that this year, the flies would have prevailed. Dizzy from the heat and faint from the putrid fumes of our own refuse, we would have been overwhelmed as the flies numbered into the millions and beyond.

We have emerged victorious, for now. But the next wave lie in wait, blueprints at the ready. Remain vigilant.

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June 28 to July 4: the week of the great slug conference.

On my way home, I passed four of them, silently stretching their way across the pavement. With every step, I feared the squish-pop under my shoe. These slugs were out for business. Surely, they would seek revenge.

I don't know what world event provoked such a meeting. There are safer things for a leopard slug to do than try to cross the road at midnight on a dark street. Perhaps the news of Michael Jackson's death just reached them. Perhaps they were on the long pilgrimage to a good viewpoint for the Canada Day fireworks (you know how slugs love fireworks). Perhaps this is the week when all slugs everywhere go back to the ravine and let the raccoons keep the city streets.

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