…as continuing sagas tend to do.

The continuing saga continues, as continuing sagas tend to do.

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

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

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

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

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

but the title scared him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

“What?”

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

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

“I was asleep”

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

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

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

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

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

  • 1. The film was almost painfully boring and I will openly admit that I loved the first one.
  • 2. What do I do about the nut-cake who lives upstairs from me?
  • 3. ⬇ Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!! ⬇

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

Jennifer June

Breasts Ablaze

So.. for those of you who are not familiar with the age old art of striptease, otherwise known as Burlesque, the name Satan’s Angel might not mean much to you…

I’m about to change that.

5 days of rhinestones, feather boas, swarovsky crystal, fringe and lace, twirling tassels, butts bouncing, shimmying and shaking, and you’re almost about ready to cry,

“Put your clothes on!”

I’m guessing backstage at a burlesque show is one of the few places you’ll hear the following things,

“I’ve put many things in ass but class? Nope, never that”

“Well, Bee was kind enough to swing by Chicago to pick up Michelle’s panther cage and drive it to Vegas for us…”

“Does anybody have any double-sided carpet tape?”

“I mean it, an ovary, an egg, a uterus, whatever you need, it’s yours”

and…

“Are my butt pasties even?” all in the same night.

By the end of 120 hours of glitter, glam, burlesque, boylesque and all the rest, drag queens, drag kings, a sexy lobster, ladies growing peacock feathers out of their butts, snow white stripping and The Godfather morphing into a Dirty Martini, you pretty much think you’ve seen it all, but you haven’t, unless you’ve seen the spunkiest 66 year old sex symbol on earth stomp across the stage like Tina Turner, wearing Ozzy Ozbourne’s cape, pumping her fists and twirling her tassels, all with her breasts on fire.
Lady’s and Gentlemen I present to you, a legend in her own right,

~Satan’s Angel~


P.S. Dew Lily, I totally meant what I said about the ovary/egg/uterus thing… whatever you need, it’s yours.

Jennifer June

Stay Gold

Holy crap-bag this is the Mother’s day of all Mother’s days.
I woke up and had a green tea, ignored the dog and cursed the snow as it fell violently from the sky, as if to taunt me.

“Hahahah!! That’s what you get for throwing your winter boots in the garbage you self righteous winter-hating witch!

I wandered down to Café Campus for rehearsal and felt proud and excited about our show coming up on May 19th.

When I got home, there was a bouquet of lilies on the table, and they’re not the kind that smell like goat pee!
Also, my kids gave me a sexy Evil Under The Sun-esque sun hat and some smokin’ vintage movie star sunglasses.

“They’re for you to wear when you go meet Franky in Spain”

PLUS
the dr. Seuss book Oh! The Places You’ll Go AND homemade vegan cupcakes.

BUT WAIT!

Then we snuggled up on the couch together, me and my girls, and watched…

THE OUTSIDERS.

Yes. The Socs and the Greasers all came back to life and so did my teenage infatuations.

My hair is almost the same colour as Cherry’s now… OK maybe a little closer to middle-aged-burgundy, but still.
What’s even better, I remembered every word of Robert Frost’s poem by heart. I recited it word for word, my lips moving in
perfect sync with Ponyboy’s, our souls connected, our hearts beating as one.

Not only did my daughters agree whole-heartedly that my undying adolescent lust for Matt Dillon was totally warranted but
they almost shed a tear when he was shot dead by the police for basically tearing a magazine in half in the corner store. Grrrrr… such a bad bad
boy.

When that movie came out I had posters of all of them plastered from ceiling to floor on my bedroom walls. I bought every issue of Tiger Beat, Teen Beat and Bop magazine chalk full of interviews with all the boys, Ralph Macchio, Patrick Swayze, Tom Cruise, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez, etc…

I used to lay in my bed listening to the radio and applying root-beer chapstick while mouthing the lyrics of I’ll Melt With You at the glossy 3 page centerfold of C. Thomas Howell; his boyish good looks, peroxide blonde hair, denim on denim ensemble and all.

On my summer vacation in Westchester, I waited by the side of the road with my horse EVERY SINGLE DAY waiting for Matt to ride by. My mind so young and naive, my heart so tender and wanting, my hair so chestnut and feathered.

“Oh cute” my daughter cooed, when Johnny asked Ponyboy to read him Gone With The Wind.

“Can we have beer and chocolate cake for breakfast tomorrow?” Asked the other, reaching for the Kleenex.

So maybe being a teenager has changed a little since then and maybe not… my niece has watched every instalment ofsoft vampire porn the Twighlight saga and I couldn’t stomach sit through the first fifteen minutes.

Time may move forward, but girls will be always be girls.

Nature’s first green is gold…

Jennifer June

Boobies! Boobies!

For the most part it is a lot easier to find an audience than it is to find the paycheck to fund the performer, but it can’t be entirely impossible to fuel one’s bank account as an artist.

There are plenty of musicians and dancers who have food in the fridge and a roof over their heads, aren’t there? God knows there are artists selling paintings of nothing for thousands of dollars, and celebrities who star in films about nothing, for millions.

I am a singer, an actress, comedienne, founder and former co-producer of a series of Burlesque style cabaret shows. I am many things, but I am definitely not a salesperson, particularly if the product I’m selling is myself.

I am presently a full time intake counselor at a women’s shelter. It’s rewarding but not satiating. When I am at work I spend most of the day pining for my life as a performer, but when I take time off to work on music or shows I feel horribly guilty. I cringe at the thought of lost wages, and reprimand myself relentlessly for being self-serving and irresponsible.

I’m a little displaced, or stuffed rather, between the world I want to be in and the world I feel I should want to be in.  Shouldn’t I aspire to work for the government or The FBI? Shouldn’t I fantasize about being a stockbroker, a politician or corporate goddess of some kind?

Sadly, I’m lacking both the education and, more importantly, the interest required to throw on an Armani and strut into the office to ascend the corporate ladder.  I have nothing personal against Giorgio or his rager for linear fashion, and it’s certainly not at all a moral or ethical issue. In fact for years I dreamed of being a lawyer, and some of my favorite friends and family members are traders, engineers, judges etc…  It’s just not me.

Fine, how about something more down to earth? Maybe a receptionist or a dental hygienist would be reasonable? How about something straightforward, you know, something that comes with an instruction manual. I’ve lost count of how many times I have begged and pleaded with myself to (please) want to be a plumber, a goat farmer or a television repairwoman.

I spend more time trying to convert myself to conservative ideals than I do nurturing my creative side, simply because I don’t know how to be creatively productive (financially profitable) enough to justify it.

I’m not connected in the industry, I don’t get unique strokes of genius, I don’t know how to do anything any better than anybody else, I don’t know how to make anything that anybody wants to buy (sparkly play dough, anyone? I didn’t think so), and I’ll be honest with you: I’m also not very smart. I don’t know why but I forget pretty much everything. Well, everything that isn’t every single word that all and any boyfriend I’ve ever had has ever said to me, which can be used later in life as proof or self-validation. Somehow that information (ammunition) is seared permanently into my mind. But ask me the name of the book I read last month, or if I’ve seen a movie that I’ve seen 20 times, and I’ll stare at you blankly and clueless. So yeah, trading stocks, brain surgery, rocket science and/or having somebody’s fate resting solely on my ability to recall every single law and loophole ever incorporated into the Canadian justice system is probably not in the cards for me.

I once attended the induced delivery of a pre-mature baby, which inspired the potential for a future as a midwife. The nurse and the anesthesiologist restrained my friend and made repeated attempts to inject her with an epidural, while the expectant mother shook uncontrollably, crying that she had changed her mind and wanted to go home.

“She’s in transition.” I announced,

“The baby is coming any minute, get away from her spine with that needle!”

The nurses barked at me and shoved me aside. I dodged Jenny’s flailing arms and did all I could to come between her and the over enthusiastic syringe wielding practitioner. The nurse reached over and attempted to pin her back down on the cot. “ I’m sitting on my baby you bitch!” Jenny lifted her self up a few inches and below her lay a three-pound handful of human who was immediately whisked away for observation. Granted, having given birth myself a couple of hundred times neither make me a doctor nor qualifies me even remotely to deliver a child, but I clearly had a natural gift.

When the doctor finally arrived, after incidentally missing the entire birth, I rolled my eyes, motioned towards the nurse and smugly informed him that he was working with a ward full of morons. To reassure any parents who read this, Baby Isaiah had a very long stay in the I.C.U. but he is now a strong and perfectly healthy five year old.

After subscribing to the life channel and sobbing through at least 100 televised and two more live births, miracles that they all were, it became evident that a career as a midwife would require a talent much greater than the mere ability to recognize a woman in obvious transition. Besides, competing for the spotlight with a mother in labor is just tacky. My calling was clearly elsewhere.

So, I’m faced again pondering (if I can call banging my head repeatedly against the wall pondering…) as to how to mix profitable with fulfilling. It feels impossible to find the time and energy to be “creative” waking up at 5:30 am every morning, working 40-hour weeks at the shelter and coming home to 3 children to feed and snap at every evening. By the time the homework and dishes are done, I’m all out of brilliant ideas and ready to collapse.

Maybe I should go back to teaching pre-school. It may be the closest I’ll get to a compromise between a conventional job and starring in burlesque shows. The bills were always paid on time, I was covered in sparkles and glitter glue by noon almost everyday and at some point, usually between snack and Hebrew class, a choir of boys would inevitably start leaping about the room, pointing at me and chanting “Boobies! Boobies!”

www.theladyslounge.com

Jennifer June