Tag Archives: The Lady’s Lounge

Baby New Year

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A new partner is exhilarating but comes with inhibition and caution.

There’s this whole courtship involved. It’s exciting but I feel like I have to approach with tenderness and sensitivity that I am not accustomed to. This isn’t a bad thing. It heightens mindfulness and appreciation.

When I touch you I am aware of every curve and crevasse. I explore every inch of you with wonder and adoration.

That having been said, I kind of can’t wait till I’m used to this and can treat you like a real girlfriend. You know, manhandle you without hesitation, call you my bitch and make you sleep in the wet spot.

You’re so perfectly beautiful.



Handcrafted and photographed by Richard Chapman

Jennifer June

Did I do that?

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There are the days that you accidentally imply that your children have personality “issues” … to their face.

There are the days that you wish you children didn’t look so much like their father so you could pretend that they were accidentally switched at birth and due for a return.

There are days when your kids make you so mad that you might find yourself saying things that you never in a million years imagined saying to your children.

“Because I’m the mom”
“Because I said so”
“Because if you don’t get out of my site right this minute I am afraid I might hurt you”
“You were switched at birth/adopted/an accident ”
“Mommy drinks because you make her cry”

etc…

There are days when you look into your child’s glazed over, blood shot eyes and remember when you gazed into them as the adoring mother of a precious new born baby.

There are days when you look into your teenager’s glazed over, blood shot eyes and remember that smacking sense into them is pointless when their as high as the fireworks on the fourth of July. And also, it’s a tiny bit illegal

There may be days when you literally run away from home in tears because you just can’t take one more second of it.

“You’re the meanest mom in the whole world!”
“I hate you!”
“You’re crazy!”

etc…

There are days when you feel like you’re talking to Satan himself and wondering… Am I the worst mom in the whole world? Did I create this myself? Really? Did I do this?

There are days when you see that same child, in their grandfather’s workshop, working her fingers to the bone, building a gorgeous creative masterpiece and you think…


Did I do that?




All photos ©Richard Chapman and Cloee Cuzner

Jennifer June

It’s Tricky…

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Apparently The Face Magazine published an article in 2008 claiming that vocalist Martina Topley-Bird had to single-handedly bring up the child that Tricky had fathered. I’m assuming the author of the article was referring to Tricky and Martina’s 15 year old daughter but I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they were actually speaking of the the entire stage show.

Saturday night’s show at Club Soda was highly entertaining but Adrian “Tricky” was hardly present.
Despite the fact that on the Tricky website, all the videos and photos are of Adrian as well as the band bio, he pretty much left 90% of the singing and over-all front-man-ship to Franky Riley.

Honestly, there were a few times where Franky looked over at Tricky in a “what are you doing?” and “will you be joining us for any of these songs?” kind of way.

His contribution, as far as I could see, was taking off his shirt immediately upon gracing the stage, occasional back-up vocals, compulsive joint smoking and standing with his back to the audience, swaying back and forth.

In fact, if this picture were of the back of his head, it would depict perfectly what we saw of him all night:

Oh wait! There was the part where during the encore, Adrian invited the entire audience on stage to dance with him. For some reason, mostly guys took him up on his offer and it was only a matter of minutes before the venue was overcome with the thick stench of sweaty ball sack.

Then Tricky disappeared off the stage, leaving the band alone to stand around watching the audience flail around on stage to a pre-recorded track of Nelly or 50 Cent.

2/3 of the room emptied before we realized the show wasn’t over and the band and Franky finished up the night with a couple of songs; Adrian still MIA.

Highlights of the event include discovering Franky Riley, applying Jen R’s hand lotion liberally before realizing that it was flavoured-condom scented and the two hot chicks having sex in the stall next to me while I was in the bathroom.


Jennifer June

Aaaaaaand scene! (round 2)

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In the spirit and anticipation of Christmas and back by popular demand, a re-post from December 2009:

Christmas reminds me of childbirth, in that there is all this exciting build up, decorating, shopping, alerting and gathering of the family etc… but then, when it is just about to happen, you suddenly change your mind and want to either stop the whole show or just skip straight to the day after.
The day after Christmas feels like the day after childbirth in that you are in this delirious semi-coma, basically non-functional, happy that it’s finally over and in complete disbelief that there was room for all of that (person, pie whatever…) inside your body and the children are laying around like zombies, convulsing and coming down off of crack candy canes, playing with the over priced gifts you bought them to make them love you believe in Santa and/or compensate for you knocking them down the food chain pecking order by forcing yet another spawn of Satan sibling on them.

I love Christmas, I love it to death but this year I had a little trouble hanging on to the spirit

My boyfriend hates Christmas, or so he lies says, but I swear, he is the one who brought the cheer this year, and by brought the cheer I mean stopped me from:

a) killing half the shoppers at Urban outfitters and two Clerks at the Mac store on Christmas eve

b) Selling one of the kids so I could afford to buy what the other two asked Santa for.

c) Drinking all the booze (alone) before noon Christmas day.

*It’s official, he’s a keeper.

I stressed for days that the gifts/food/decorations weren’t good enough, because that’s what I do, and to insure an element of self sabotage left starting the construction of my boyfriend’s present, for 11pm on Christmas eve which needless to say was moronic of me and by the time he rolled in after work, at 3:30am, it was still incomplete. Fortunately, I was too drunk with Gin exhaustion the next morning to feel inadequate and besides, my daughter gave him a Lily Allen photo vinyl, which he rubbed all over his body and made out with for about an hour before breakfast so it was all good.

Christmas came and went, and we all survived, even the kitten that my father in law brought along for fun, who was miraculously not eaten by Darla our mentally challenged boxer or Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Whose cat is that? (the neighbour’s cat who refuses to leave…going on 5 months now).

Darla did however take it upon herself to urinate repeatedly throughout the house during the day, in protest of the kitten and subsequent rejection, what with the kitten being adorable and Darla being, quite frankly, repulsive…in comparison.


This makes perfect sense of course. I mean, were I faced with say…a skinny blond, half my age and twice the leg, I’m sure that rather than embarrassing myself by trying to out-cute her, I would strategically place myself within plain sight of my boyfriend and simply pee on the floor. It’s a no brainer.

Who brings a kitten to a Christmas dinner you ask… yeah…anyway…

I spent the whole day drinking cooking (and mopping), while the men did man things and the kids did kid things. We ate way too much, we drank too little, we watched old reel to reel films of people none of us have ever met and a few of my boyfriend playing with his wiener the bath when he was a baby, played two rousing games of Seinfeld Clue, one of which I won because I’m just that amazing and one of which somebody else won but who cares because I won the first one and that’s all that matters and then we finally collapsed at about 2am.

I can’t move, see or breathe and if ever my goal was to morph into Jabba the Hut the last two days have launched me half way to realizing that dream, but technically I am alive. We survived another Christmas.


*One of the gifts he gave me was a copy of David Cross’ I drink for a Reason. How fitting.

Jennifer June

…as continuing sagas tend to do.

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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