I Am Not Jamie

Hello, everyone! I am not Jamie. I am, in fact, Ashley, the other half of JA Greetings. I draw things. Some might call me an illustrator (those included being the government and my college diploma) but they are naive. I am nowhere close. I am somewhere between Mike Meyer's "Simon" character from Saturday Night Live and that crazy lady that lives down the street and only emerges when she needs another box of wine and cat food.* Franzia...it's a party in a box!

Jamie is taking her life (or blog, I guess) into her hands by me to write something. So here it is...

The other night we (my husband, son and I) were sitting around the living room, watching Shreck 4 while the wind howled and shrieked around us. Suddenly, darkness. No more lights, no more space heaters, no more Shreck! Jack was terrified, and immediately burst into tantrums, made worse when my husband stepped on him while going for the flashlight and shouting that it had been moved. Eventually it was found (it has been in the same spot for months). Jack and Daddy proceeded to do manly-man things, like check the breaker box and see whether other houses had power (they did not). We lit all of my candles (I have a bajillion, and they are all scented) and soon the house was filled with the warm golden glow of a pre-1900 evening scene and the stench of a thousand Bath and Body Works.

Jack was still upset by the lack of electricity, and, in spite of our assurances that yes, people did once live by candlelight, he did not believe it was possible and was positive that they hearkened the end of the world. In the face of such fear, he was allowed to sleep in our bed for one night. It started out cozily enough, my baby boy snuggled between us like a sleepy little angel. An angel with cold feet. Who kicked. And stole pillows. After a while it went a little like this: "Jack, I Suwanee, if you kick me in the chin one more time you are going back in your bed for the rest of your life!" (I'm less rational with my threats than normal when sleep deprived). Finally, everyone seemed to settle down, and I drifted off to sleep. I was awakened, however, by a small hand rubbing my head. Not in a loving way, but as if my head was the belly of a Buddha statue, and the hand was trying to gain every ounce of luck possible. I opened my eyes to find my son nose to nose with me, his eyes wide and staring, expression blank, like a child from a horror film. I have never been so creeped out by my own offspring before. I got even less sleep after that bit of emotional disturbance that when I was being kicked in the face.


*I do not own cats, nor do I drink boxed wine. I drink vodka from a jug.** Classy!

**J/K