Ode to Jester

It has been exactly five years and ten days since Jester made the mistake of legally binding herself to me in exchange for a handsome dowry. I don't usually write too much about Jester, unless she happens to get punched by a dumpster or make a baby.

The fifth anniversary is the famed "wooden anniversary," so I built Jester an oak desk, and I'm currently whittling her a life-size statue of Daughter hoisting a life-size Stanley Cup, all out of a giant piece of driftwood I found on a beach in Jamaica on our honeymoon. I also got her one of those little balsa wood planes.

She puts up with a lot, and I appreciate her more than she knows. A shining example of this was the night the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. A bunch of us went to Rocks to watch the game. Jester and Daughter came for what Jester hoped would be dinner, but then daughter spilled Jester's beer all over Jester's pants. (Note: never put a full pint of beer within a six-month-old's reach.) Daughter then stared getting cranky, probably because she hates Philadelphia, so Jester was nice enough to take Daughter home and leave me to my own devices.

Things got away from me after the Hawks won. I drank beer out of a makeshift Cup, I may have had an old fashioned, and Gregerson and I ended up closing Rocks down. When I got home, I felt the need to sit in the dark and blog. My two-paragraph post from 2:30 that Thursday morning took me at least a half hour to write, as my fingers had apparently doubled in size since the last time I had typed.

Jester came upstairs (our sleeping chambers are in the basement), and was livid, as it was nearly 3 a.m., and I was clearly intoxicated. I did my best to explain that it was a special occasion, and I tried to put it in terms that she would understand. As Jester was an art history major, here's the analogy I came up with: it's like if Monet came to Chicago to visit you.

Even though it's a horrible analogy, I ran with it. I then began to speak like I assume Monet spoke: like a vampire. "Ahh, Jessie, I have come to Chicago to visit you. Please accept this oil on canvas painting as a token of my appreciation for your love of my art." This wasn't really hitting home with Jester, so she went downstairs to bed. I followed, somehow managing not to trip over my own feet.

She crawled back into bed. The demons that reside in my head would not allow me to lie down without spinning me, so I just stood at the foot of the bed for a while. This was extremely creepy, and Jester mildly berated me. I responded the only way I knew how: through Monet. "But dear Jessie, I am one of the greatest painters of all-time. Although neither Picasso nor I are more important in the history of the world than the Beatles, it is still a very big deal for you that I am here." And then I would pretend to be Jessie: "Oh, yeah, thanks Claude. This is kind of like when the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup and Andrew stayed out until 3." Monet: "Indeed it is, Jester. Your ability to recognize that will not go unnoticed."

This dialogue continued for some time. Jester said that she rolled over so she couldn't hear me, and when she rolled back over ten minutes later, I was still carrying on a conversation between Vampire Monet and Jester. Eventually, I grew bored with it, and realized I needed to wake up in about four hours. The demons put the kibosh on the spins and graciously allowed me to go to sleep.

Despite the fact that I pull shit like this everyone now and then (granted, much less often since Daughter arrived), Jester manages to stick by me. I love you, hon. You truly are the Jester to my Vampire Monet. Here's to at least another five years!