This Was Supposed To Be A Post About My Weekend, But It’s A Weather Report Instead. Or An Instruction Manual For Peeping Toms, I’m Not Sure

It is raining. It is raining torrents. It is raining so hard that I can hear the water droplets hitting our house. I find this situation unfair for a number of reasons.

A)     It is winter in Canada. It should be snowing because otherwise I look ridiculous when I wander around in my snow pants.

B)      Rain causes my creative Chi to go AWOL.

This blog is my attempt at becoming a “real” writer. Prior to releasing the Great Unwashed I was a person who wrote in creative spurts. Such spurts were generally associated with sunlight.  Roscoe keeps telling me that I need to write even when I’m not creative, consequently you, my Unwashed public are getting this post.

So because I can’t blog about funny things, I’m going to blog about the rain.

Reasons Why I Hate The Rain

  1. This is my second list in this post, apparently rain causes me to write in lists rather than paragraphs like a normal person. Thanks a lot rain, like I needed another thing to separate me from everyone else.
  2. It prohibits me from engaging in my second most beloved hobby- frat boy watching. We live next to a frathouse. A fratboy’s purpose in life is to; hang out, play basketball, drink and have parties, all of this occurs outside in their backyard. I don’t actually participate in any of this, I just like to pull out my sleigh chair, sit on our miniature deck and read while pretending that I’m young and hip by association. Fratboys don’t go out in the rain, they play videogames inside during inclement weather. I don’t actually know this for sure though, I misplaced my binoculars awhile back so it’s entirely possible that they have parties inside when it storms.*
  3. Bus tidal waves. Rain doesn’t keep me indoors but it does prevent me from enjoying the outdoors somewhat. I’m fortunate in that my city has a well developed transit system. This however means that when I’m running along small puddles become potential sites for bus tidal waves, i.e. the wall of dirty street water that rushes at you at high speed when a bus goes by. In my non matching hat, mittens and multicoloured socks running outfit, I feel like I become a target on wet days. An outlet for irritated bus drivers who are tired of dealing with rude students.
  4. And of course the last one. Rain = water. Water= bathing. And everyone knows I’m so not into that concept.

*I’m kidding about the binoculars. I’m not that weird. Also you don’t need binoculars where I live, students don’t own curtains. **

**See I added the addendum so I would seem less creepy for not owning binoculars, but then I added the curtain thing and now I’m seeming more creepy, even though I’m not. I feel like I’m digging myself into a perverted hole. In my defense students really don’t own curtains, they put up flags, bed sheets and the occasional towel. Unless of course they’re exhibitionists in which case they don’t put up anything at all.

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Travesty Tuesday- Because It’s Always Important To Say Thank You

I’m not shaped like anyone else in my family. My Gran who frequently made me dresses when I was younger often lamented this while trying to dart a dress for the fourth time. Yanking the material this way and that she would snap “Why can’t you be a cylinder like your mother?”

Please note my mother is a shapely cylinder. You’re welcome Mom.

Anyway so when I turned sixteen and started filling up bra cups, my mother was at a loss for where I got this figure from. Finally we found the culprit- Great Grandma Kay.

Now being a respectful and polite sixteen year old, I decided I needed to thank her for her generous gift of hourglass shape genes so I penned the following card.

 

Dear Grandma Kay,

Thank you very much for the breasts. I really like them. They look very nice in my sweaters.

Love Sarah

 

 

For some reason my mother deemed this card wildly inappropriate and I wasn’t allowed to send it to my 84 year old Great Grandmother. I don’t know why, I always thought it was important to thank people for everything.

My Dirty Reputation Remains Untarnished

I spent the past couple of days with Carter*, a little boy whom I care for whenever he travels to my province, or I travel to his. We have a riot together; we play in the mud, in pools, in large art installations, whatever he or I can think of. Late last night after returning to my parent’s house after spending the day with him I had this text conversation with his Mom.

9:50 PM   From the little guy’s Mom

Carter says you washed his hair. Is that true?

9:51 PM   From the Great Unwashed

What? No, I don’t bathe myself, why would I bathe him?

9:52 PM   From the Great Unwashed

He picked the wrong person to fib about. Anyone else would have bathed him.

9:53 PM   From the little guy’s Mom

Well I wouldn’t have double checked with anyone else.

 

I’m going declare this text conversation a massive, Unwashed triumph. It pleases me immensely that I’m known the country over for my avoidance of showers.

* Names have been changed to protect identities of the innocent and apparently future Unwashed.

Recommendations Versus Restrictions

This will be a short post, mostly because I’m typing with my feet. My hands and arms are out of commission currently. I’d ask for sympathy but I did this to myself, so you may direct laughter and slightly amused judgment my way instead.

I spent today at what may possibly be one of the most fun places on earth- a truly spectacular indoor playground. There were two ziplines, countless slides, obstacle courses, rope mountains, firemen’s poles, the works.

These types of places often have height restrictions “You may be no more than 60 inches tall to play in the structure.” Now the thing is, on a good day, when I stand up very straight, when my hair is at it’s tallest, curliest peak, I am about 62 inches. So I looked at that sign and thought that no one would question me if I went into the huge play structure along with the little boy who was with me, whose presence was the reason for the visit. So in we both went.

 This evening I’m ready for a stretcher, or maybe one of those chairs that four beef-cakey men carry you around on. It would seem that there was more to that height restriction than initially thought.

Travesty Tuesdays

Some people enjoy watching television, others enjoy playing sports, my beloved hobby is writing weird anecdotes to people. If you are a member of my family, or one of my friends, it is more than likely that you have received this kind of correspondence from me; emails, letters, cards or postcards I send them all.

Roscoe was working on the days when I painstakingly wrote out all the thank you cards from our wedding. Thus my strange may have run a little wild over the paper. I wrote to one dear friend thanking her for the gift of salt and pepper shakers and explained how our previous pepper grinder had met it’s somewhat grisly demise.

On the cream cardstock, I wrote that our old pepper shaker had in a fit of panic, thrown  itself from the top of the spice cabinet to the floor. Roscoe had been cooking a dish with scotch bonnet peppers just below. We think that the little pepper grinder confused the hot fumes coming off of the spicy peppers for a fire and so in an effort to preserve it’s life, flung it’s little shaker  self, grinder and all to the ground. However not only had it misjudged the severity of the situation, it also had misjudged the distance and thus it would season our dishes no more.

These are the types of things my family and friends received in the mail from me. Occasionally I decide not to sign the cards and so they’re left wondering what weirdo is sending them this kind of stuff in the mail.

I debated having mail Mondays, but then I thought some people might get confused when Unwashed followers were like “Yeah! It’s Mail Monday!” So the uninitiated might hear “male” and think that this was a blog where on Mondays we act like men and wear flannel shirts and go chop up bears with axes as manly men are want to do. And I really didn’t want to be responsible for people applying fake beards for no reason because they were trying to support my blog.

Then I thought “Throwback Thursdays” like on Holly Madison’s page. However “throwback” intimates that the material is from some time ago and I’m constantly writing new bizarre stuff and sending it to my family so that wouldn’t work.

But then I remembered a story my Great Aunt had told me when I visited her. She was in an IKEA and there was one of those little Swedish horses that was painted beautifully and it would have looked just like any other Swedish horse if it weren’t for the tattoo of the word “Mom” in a heart on one of it’s flanks. A woman who was also shopping at the IKEA walked by this horse and declared it “a travesty!”

So for the rest of that week my Great Aunt and I proclaimed everything “a travesty”. For those who are very attached to the concept of traditional, polite correspondence my writing could be considered “a travesty”. Thus occasionally on a Tuesday, you might read one of my travesties that I’ve sent out to those I know and love.

Revolutionary Diet Secrets of the Great Unwashed

It’s the New Year! Oprah and Doctor Oz have decided that everyone is too fat. But before you get upset, read on, because they’re willing to help you!

 Now I would post what Doctor Oz and Oprah recommend for a “Newer, Healthier You” but that would be plagiarism. And it would also severely detract from advertising my diet plan. Now I haven’t patented it yet, or copyrighted it, or whatever you’re supposed to do to prevent people from stealing your brilliant dieting secrets but since you are all fans and avid lovers of my Unwashed wisdom, I will share my slim down strategy with you.

My diet is called the “Would Tori Spelling Eat That?” diet. For those of you who don’t spend hours perusing the 791.45 section of the library also known as the “Biographies of D-list movie stars and the cast of Jersey Shore” section, Tori Spelling is Aaron Spelling’s daughter. I can’t tell you much about Aaron mostly because he was a somewhat respectable character and I only read poorly written biographies about people who probably really shouldn’t have biographies. On that note I’ve read all four of Tori’s books and her mother’s.

Anyway, so Tori was on a big TV show in the 90’s but mostly she’s known for being very,very skinny and not having much acting ability. This doesn’t prevent me from watching the majority of her work including the very mediocre and disturbing “House of Yes”. Let’s just say the theme of incest figured prominently into the movie. Roscoe thinks that she looks like a cross between an alien and a praying mantis. Personally I think she’s pretty- potato, potahto, same thing.

Anyhow, on with the weight loss!

 

The “Would Tori Spelling Eat that?” Diet

Step 1.

Find multiple pictures of Tori Spelling. Ideally she should be pursing her lips so her cheekbones all but slice through the paper you’re going to print the picture on.

Step 2.

Print the picture. Now some people might lump this in with step one however I enjoy checking off steps and our printer also HATES me. Almost as much as the photocopiers at my work. It waits until I need to print something vital and then abruptly stops working, or prints it backwards and upside down or on polka dotted paper. Now admittedly the last one might be partially my fault for loading the printer with polka dotted paper however it works so infrequently for me that I’m going to shift the blame onto the obviously faulty technology. You may want to have a bit of Printer Crack on hand to complete this step.

 Step 3.

Post pictures of Tori Spelling’s head all around your living space, wherever you eat. You could even put her picture in the bathroom because even toothpaste has calories and everyone loves being watched while they pee. Note I may be making the toothpaste calorie thing up.

Step 4.

Cut out large speech bubbles then take a thick Sharpie marker and write the following messages in block letters “Would I eat that?”,  “That doesn’t look like thin air”,  “I exist entirely on lettuce and my love for the children that I’m constantly having.”  Then put the speech bubbles next to the disembodied Tori heads that you’ve posted around your apartment.

 

 

Allright you caught me, this isn’t actually a diet plan but a ruse to make people cover their houses with pictures of Tori Spelling’s head with odd quotes next to them. If truth be told you’re better off with the Oprah magazine. Unless you have a thing for reality TV décor, in which case, I think you’ll really like my blog.

The Fallout of the Grand Opening

So ever since the Grand Opening I’ve been expecting a visit. For those of you who are just arriving the Grand Opening was last week, you missed it. There were balloons, and rotten egg flavoured pastries. Anyway, since unleashing the Great Unwashed on the world I’ve been expecting a knock at my door. Mostly because I know that this scenario is going to be happening at some point in the future.

~Somewhere in the Kawarthas~

The sound of a phone ringing. It’s my great aunt calling my Granddad to catch up.

(Sorry Aunty Betty, I’m not meaning to pin Granddad finding out about my blog on you, someone was bound to tell him.)

Granddad – “She what?”

The sounds of scrabbling and Granddad stepping over three poodles to get to his beloved laptop that Roscoe helped pick out. More sounds, this time of furious typing.

Granddad’s eyes will scan the web page, growing more alarmed with each line he reads. Finally he’ll bellow “Gran! Get the dogs in the RV, we’re going to visit our wayward granddaughter.”

Several driving and dog filled hours later there will be the sounds of footsteps and paws coming up the steps and violating our “No Pets” lease followed by a knock on my front door.

I’ll open it. He’ll gruffly hand me something before pulling me into a hug and an equally gruff lecture.

Granddad- “Here’s some soap, start bathing dammit and you need to stop telling the world that you don’t.”

It hasn’t happened yet but I‘m expecting a reaction on par with the one that I received when I dyed my hands bright purple on Boxing Day five years ago.

Our Junkie Printer

Generally when I need to print, scan or copy something it goes as such. I crouch in front of the printer looking completely confused at the small digital display. I press a whole bunch of buttons. The printer then beeps a lot but doesn’t do anything. Cue Roscoe calling from the next room “What do you need printed? If you tell me and can wait until I finish these notes, I’ll do it.”

However today I decided I was going to be techy and scan something myself. I was going to keep pressing the buttons on the printer until I hit the magical combination that resulted in my computer having the file I needed.

Or that was the plan at least, it was made before I found out our printer was a junkie. Now Roscoe’s job is very busy so he doesn’t often text or call during the day, it generally has to be what he deems an emergency situation. Hence the following one sided text conversation.

9:54 AM

Our printer is broken. It wants us to be penniless, I can’t submit forms for work.

9:55 AM

Printer does not appreciate soft lullabies. Still not working.

9:56 AM

The printer is asking for PC. I don’t know what that is.

9:57 AM

Is PC short form for “Printer Crack”? Would make sense why the printer never works if it is a junkie.

9:58 AM

Do I need to give the printer Printer Crack before it will work?

10:03 AM

Searched the office, couldn’t find printer crack. Found printer ink, but still wouldn’t print the last time I tried switching the cartridges.

10:06 AM

Am going to try classic drug dealer trick of passing off powdered sugar as crack to appease printer.

10:07 AM

Am going to try combining flour, icing sugar and my scrap booking glue and offering it to the printer to see if junkie printer will believe it’s crack and scan my document.

10:07 AM

Don’t worry, you taught me how to lift the glass panel to get to the electronic printer innards.

 

Surprisingly Roscoe called very shortly after this, just as I was figuring out which mixing bowl to use to make my printer crack. Apparently putting any combination of baking supplies and glue in technology is bad for it, even if you think the electronic device is specifically requesting it. Also PC stands for personal computer. I thought everyone should know this.

Missing Persons Report

My mother visited me this past week and stayed in our upstairs room. As the stairs leading down to the lower floor are both narrow and steep, I asked whether she wanted me to leave the light on in case she had to use the washroom in the night. Mom replied “No, I’ll just use the upstairs washroom.”

Which caused the following outburst from me “Did you not see the invisible “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape strung across the doorway? That’s Merle’s bathroom.”

Mom very calmly shrugged and said that she would use that room in spite of him.

Apparently it takes more than gigantic insects with a billion and a half legs to scare my mother. Resigned to the fact that I would be woken up in the night by my mother’s shrill scream when Merle made her acquaintance, I went to bed.

I slept soundly the entire night. Thus it would seem that Merle, our many legged tenant upstairs is missing. There are a couple of theories surrounding his disappearance the first is that he’s afraid of women with guns. While our dear friend who crouches in forests with bears at night couldn’t scare him with her knowledge and skills with weapons it would seem that my mother and her set of guns did.

My mother is not a firearms aficionado, however she does have guns. At one point when I was a teenager she was what most people would call a body builder. My mother claims that this isn’t true however the reason that she stopped was her biceps were as big as my head and this made my Dad uncomfortable. This was of course around the time when boys would appear on my parent’s doorstep ready to take me out for a night on the town. Traditionally this calls to mind an image of the stern father standing on the doorstep with a shotgun. However for me and my sister’s boyfriends my mother was the terrifying parent. She would answer the door, in a tank top naturally, let them inside then start flexing her biceps in the same style that Arnold Schwarzenegger once did in the “Mr. Universe” contest.

Ok, this may be a slight exaggeration but she would answer the door in a tank top then proceed to compliment the young suitors on their “muscle tone”. This would of course call attention to her muscle tone and communicate the unspoken message of “I can totally take you in a fight, think twice before you try and have sex with my daughter.”

This would invariably lead to the following comment as soon as the young man and I were safely in the car, away from my mother’s ears and her intimidating back muscles. “Your mom’s kind of jacked.”

Now there are two ways that a girl can deal with this comment. The far more common one is to downplay your mother’s fitness obsession with a slightly embarrassed “Yeah kind of” while slinking down in your seat. The other is to own up to it and revel just a little in your date’s discomfort; “Yeah, I wish you had come five minutes earlier, she was bench pressing my Dad in the hallway.”

 

I wouldn’t blame Merle for fearing my mother and her impressive one-arm-chin-upping limbs. Anyway, if you see a giant centipede with a billion legs hanging half out of a drain somewhere, he’s mine. You can tell him that my mother is gone and he’s welcome to come home now.

Welcome to the Grand Opening of the Great Unwashed!

You might have noticed that I’ve been here for a week already. That means you’re late. Really late.

I kid, I decided to write a weeks worth of posts and then invite the public in. However some people have been here from the start, mainly a person whose username is “movingon”. They’re my biggest fan. I like to pretend they’re my friend, and I call them by their first name “Anti-Diana” because not only do they read my blog, but they’ve liked a post even.

So why did I decide to do this? Well, you always see stores with “Grand Opening January 10th” but it’s January 4th and they appear to be open and so you go inside and wander around and they are actually open. But then you come back on January the 10th and the whole place is filled with balloons and streamers and music and people and there’s free coffee and donuts. Then you think to yourself “Oh I get it. This is the grand opening.”

Anyways so welcome to the Grand Opening of the Great Unwashed. Please help yourself to the pastries, there’s lots, mostly because they’re imaginary so I suggest you try the banana- truffle oil ones, some people have been comparing them to the rotten egg Harry Potter jelly beans but I really like them. There are balloons too, but only in my mind, mostly because I only learned how to post words on the website and haven’t the remotest clue of how to do anything else.

At any rate, I’m delighted you came, please enjoy.