Gay People Should Have The Right to Burn Down Their Homes (And Then Have Their Husbands Or Wives Forgive Them)

526902_10151545212183128_1401302010_nMarriage is chock full of surprises. There are the things you thought you would never do, but more often there are the things you thought you’d never say. For example my sixteen year old self wouldn’t have pictured opening the fridge, realizing it was clean, then turning to my husband to say “You cleaned the rotting leek that decayed behind the giant bag of organic flour out of the fridge. I’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

Today I did something so stupid that I’m still struck dumb by it. And then I said something surprising to my spouse.

Our house is 85 years old, it houses a doctor’s practice, a particularly hardy centipede named Merle and a number of mice, none of which are pets. So I had always thought that our house would burn down as a result of a mouse fire. Meaning that a mouse would decide the electrical wires in the walls were tasty, start to snack, then be electrocuted and consequently lit aflame. From there the 85 year old insulation in the walls would make for quick tinder, and there would go our home.

Today our house was nearly burnt to the ground by an idiot fire. I of course was the idiot in question. We have two very nice votives that we burn candles in. However one candle had burned down funny and would go out a lot. So I lit a match, stuck it in the soft wax, and created a temporary wick. The candle now stayed lit. After puttering around in the living room, I moved to the kitchen, leaving the candles unmanned on the dining room table. After all, what could the candle do? It was in a votive so the flame couldn’t go anywhere.

I began washing the dishes while running our loud, twenty year old dishwasher. While hand washing the dishes that wouldn’t fit in the machine, I heard a distinct “tink” over the din that our ancient dishwasher makes. Roscoe generally texts when he is driving home from his work which is an hour away, so assuming it was the sound of my phone receiving a text message I thought nothing of it and continued with the scrubbing.

After the dishes were nearly all clean I remembered the candle with a match in it and so as I had always considered myself a responsible home owner, I went out to check on it, leaving the remaining dishes in the sink. The “tink” I had heard was the sound one of the votives cracking in half, the melted wax had oozed out the side and the match that I had placed in it as a wick was listing closer and closer to the table, which was covered in a highly flammable tablecloth.

Five feet away, I saw the pool of wax on the table first and tried to figure out how the candle, had managed to overflow. Then my eyes took in the cracked half of the votive lying inches away. I moved quickly to blow the candle out.

By my estimation had I been ten seconds later we would have lost our antique dining room table that we spent the summer refinishing to fire. Twenty seconds would have cost us the entire dining room set as the fire jumped from the tablecloth to the chairs that I had carefully reupholstered with my husband’s staple gun. The smoke detector, almost directly above would have gone off by then, at which point I would have run out of the kitchen to see what was wrong, and had to have raced back to retrieve fire extinguisher from under the kitchen sink. I’ve never operated a fire extinguisher before, my inexperience would have cost me another twenty seconds and possibly our love seat. The heat from the table being lit would have already caused the antique glass on our china hutch to explode, creating more damage.

The only casualty of my stupidity, thankfully.

The only casualty of my stupidity, thankfully.

Standing, watching the pool of wax slowly cool on the tablecloth my Gran had made, I marveled at how lucky I’d been that one breath had puffed out the tiny flame. My shock at how close the orange and cream tablecloth and my home had been to disaster held me still for a moment before I tried to clean up the mess on the intact dining room table and around on the floor beside the unharmed love seat.

In all, removing the wax from the tablecloth and vacuuming the surrounding carpet to be certain there were no shards from the tiny explosion of glass took an hour.

Roscoe, having received my text, “OH MY GOD! I nearly set our house on fire!” called as soon as he finished work just as I was starting to vacuum. Our conversation was short, his primary goal was determining if I was ok. Just before we hung up I apologized “I’m so sorry I almost burned down our home” I said.

“It’s ok.” He replied kindly.

Out of all of the things that I ever thought I’d say in my life. That wasn’t ever one of them. But knowing that my spouse not only forgave me, but could do so kindly meant so much. It is my belief that everyone has a right to have someone who loves them so much that they could be forgiven kindly and with love for any act, regardless of whether they love men, women, or both. And if you do care and can forgive someone like that, marriage is a way of proclaiming that to the world “This person is mine, and no one else’s, and they can do whatever they like, including set our house on fire, and I’ll still love them.” Everyone should have a right to that.

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Travesty Tuesdays- I Don’t Know If There’s a Title To Encompass The Contents Below

Over the March Break my youngest cousin came to visit me. I had grand plans for what we would do. But between my young cousin’s penchant for sleeping til mid afternoon and my tendency to go to bed early, we were unable to fit everything in. We did however manage to take over a hundred pictures for me to use on my blog, Facebook and Twitter accounts. This creative photo op came at the cost of another planned activity, something that I only remembered after my visitor had returned home. The following is a letter I wrote to rectify the situation. And the letter after that is the letter I wrote to rectify the situation that I tried to rectify.

 

Dear Young Person,

Last week I awkwardly photobombed your Skype session with your friend Candy* in order to obtain your address. It was my intent that Candy would practice the lost art of letter writing and send some post to you. However because of poor time management on my part this never occurred. I realized the other day that not only did I fail to instill the importance of handwritten correspondence in my youngest cousin but I also robbed an innocent young person of the pleasure of receiving a letter in the mail. An exciting experience if there ever was one. So I am writing to you now. Though it occurs to me that I have no more to say so I’ve included a poorly drawn cartoon of what Candy and I did instead of writing to you.

Because the only thing better than receiving a letter from a complete stranger is receiving a letter and a drawing, complete with unintelligible labels. Also best of luck everyone in deciphering my writing. As my Gran says “We love getting your letters! Especially after we figure out what they say.

Because the only thing better than receiving a letter from a complete stranger is receiving a letter and a drawing with unintelligible labels. Also best of luck everyone in deciphering my writing. As my Gran says “We love getting your letters! Especially after we figure out what they say.”

 

Dear Candy,

Roscoe intercepted my letter to your friend. He said that it was wildly inappropriate for me to write to someone I’ve never met and have only seen when I awkwardly leaped into the background of your Skype conversation. He suggested I should write to you instead and that you could show the young person in question the letter if you so chose.

Roscoe’s been raining on my parades of late. Just last week he broke up a starfish racing ring I’d been trying to set up.

“But it’s brilliant” I cried “Starfish don’t have any knees for mob thugs to break!” Roscoe gruffly replied “It’s the people’s knees who bet on the racing that mobsters break.”

Perhaps he did me a favour, I’m now seeing that I should start a people racing ring for starfish to bet on because then no one’s knees would be hurt by the mobsters and it might combat the obesity epidemic this country has going.

Much love, thanks for visiting me,

The Great Unwashed

 

 

*Names have been changed but only in the post because otherwise it would just be really strange to send a letter to a person who you don’t know about a person that they know but whose name has been changed. The concept alone makes the above sentence confusing, and the poor grammar just adds to the problem.

Birthday Wish List: Violence and Misery

This isn’t a funny story. It’s more the type of story where you think it can’t possibly get any worse and then it does. There’s an element of humour in there. There’s a lot of humour if you don’t like me.

For Roscoe’s last birthday he had a very traditional Canadian request; he wanted to go to a Leaf’s game. So I acquiesced and purchased tickets for him. That’s a lie. I would have had to use the internet to do such a thing. So Roscoe purchased the tickets, but I paid for them.

I digress so it’s the day of the hockey game, Roscoe and I drive up to Buffalo. The two of us often attend NHL games as a part of either his education because the med class enjoys going out together or as a part of my Dad’s Christmas gift to Roscoe. We cross the border just fine, check into our hotel then walk to the game and everything is good.

But the problem is I’ve purchased the tickets, not my Dad or another person from the med class with equally deep pockets so we get to the game and start climbing to our seats. And climbing. And climbing. Then two rows away from the very top of the arena we stop and sit down.

I’ve worn one of my nice skirts for the evening, it’s a favourite of mine by a designer from Montreal who has the silhouette of a curvy woman on her labels. I’m also in heels. This seems like a poor decision at the moment because of the stairs and the fashion choices of the fans around us. Many people are in sweatshirts and jeans and one man is in a Frosted Flakes cartoon costume.

“Why is he dressed as a cereal mascot?” I ask Roscoe.

“The Leafs are playing the Sabers, he’s a saber-toothed tiger.” Roscoe is already into the game and his beer, thus he is very focused and does not appreciate my questions.

For the record, during the game you are supposed to look at the ice. Not at the stands. This is a part of hockey that Roscoe reiterates to me often.

For the record, during the game you are supposed to look at the ice. Not at the stands. This is a part of hockey that Roscoe reiterates to me often.

 

The tension in the arena was incredible. Judging by the number of Leaf’s jerseys in the rows in front of us, we were not the only Canadians who had driven down. The roar when a goal was scored got progressively louder as the game went on. Jeering comments were shouted back and forth between groups in the stands. Roscoe and I watched as an older man started a fight with a fellow fan in a section below us. Their yelling escalated and the large security guards just stood idly by.

Finally it was the end of the game. Roscoe and I stood up getting ready to leave when all of a sudden we see a young man with a bloodied face tearing towards us in the row above. And not two feet behind him was a three hundred and fifty pound man, his face red and screwed up with rage. The young man tripped and fell to the ground, partially over the seats that Roscoe and I had just vacated.

I bolted, not wanting to become a target for the larger man’s rage or his girth which I had no doubt could break at least a few of my ribs if I was to break his fall. I turned around expecting to see Roscoe right behind me.

“No!” I screamed as I watched Roscoe dive into the fray. For the past three years while my husband was in medical school I’ve been the primary breadwinner. By my estimation I’ve poured about ninety thousand dollars into his head and had no desire to see his educated mind mashed or knocked about on the arena floor. Panic rooted me to the spot and I started to cry from fear and the feeling of being completely out of my element as I watched Roscoe attempt to restrain the obese man’s powerful arm. By this time the men who had been sitting around us jumped in, helping pin the punching, furious limb to the ground.

Seeing that there was no longer any danger, security rushed in removing both of the ruffians from the section swiftly. The smaller man’s face was completely bloodied by now. Roscoe picked up his jacket and walked over to me.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt!” I sobbed into his pea coat. “I know but the larger one would have mangled his face. He just kept throwing uppercut after uppercut” Roscoe said while hugging me.

After five minutes of having my hair petted and soothing words whispered into my ear I was calm enough to walk. The fan’s energy and anger still flowed through the crowd as we moved out of the arena towards the hotel, heated exchanges were shouted as Leaf’s fans passed Saber’s fans. On our walk we saw a large art installation and I ran over to hug it, believing it to be the only piece of beauty left in Buffalo.

In turbulent times even art needs love.

In turbulent times even art needs love.

Just as I had wrapped myself around the giant Christmas ornament and was about to wish some good back into the world a voice barked at me, “Hey lady! Don’t touch the art.”

Back at the hotel, I spent twenty minutes trying to rinse the blood out of Roscoe’s cream coloured sweater. His coat had been splashed with blood too and would need to be taken to the dry cleaners.

“Happy Birthday?” I said to my husband as I handed his damp sweater back. Shortly after, just before eleven we climbed into bed and fell asleep to the sounds of revelers celebrating the Saber’s win.

“DANGER. DANGER. FIRE. Please make your way to the exit. DANGER. DANGER. FIRE. Please make your way to the exit.” In the darkness of the hotel room, it took me a moment to remember where I was. And then a glance at the clock confirmed my sinking realization. We were at a hotel, and someone had pulled the fire alarm at three in the morning.

The voice coming from the ceiling was so loud it interrupted my thoughts. Roscoe was already out of bed pulling on his jeans and blood stained coat. The voice continued to boom it’s urgent message in the hall and then down the stairs.

Shivering in the parking lot, I turned to Roscoe. “I’m sorry, I will never ever buy you a birthday gift ever again.”

The next morning we both woke before six after freezing in the parking lot for half an hour and returning to bed at three thirty am. To say that we were both grumpy would be laughable. We were the kind of disgruntled that leads people to sacrifice goats and other small farm animals with their teeth. We drove back to Canada in silence, not stopping once for coffee or breakfast until we were safely two hours away from Buffalo.

 

Clearing Up The Confusion- Roscoe’s Job

Roscoe works very hard at an actual job. As opposed to my job which is imaginary according to my mother. My job isn’t really imaginary but my mother’s claim would explain why I’m paid in cheetos and unicorns.

English: Daffodils at Longdon Daffodils in the...

Sometimes I’m paid in these! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I digress, Roscoe’s job. So my dear husband is becoming a doctor. What this means is that he works day and night. This isn’t one of those exaggerated, only partially true posts where I write things that I don’t actually mean- Roscoe literally works day and night. Or rather he works fourteen hour to twenty-eight hour shifts depending on the day. And then he arrives home absolutely exhausted and has to get up and do it again the next day. In between these long, long shifts when he has down time, he studies.

List of Prime Ministers of Queen Victoria

Obviously Roscoe has to wear a fake nose to play him onstage. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 All in all that isn’t very much fun to write about, aside from the times when Roscoe comes home talking about things that people try to stick in their family jewels. Hence why I occasionally pretend that he’s an ottoman, or the lead performer in a Victor/Victoria style drag show about Sir John A. McDonald. It’s just more fun that way.

I mean, wouldn’t you rather live in a camper as a nomad, with a Corn Pops obsessed boa constrictor and your elephant trainer husband than in a normal house in a city with someone who has a job they like but works a lot? I thought as much. So on days when Roscoe doesn’t come home because he’s stitching someone’s ear back onto their head, rather than sitting and feeling sorry for myself because a stranger is getting to spend some admittedly painful, quality time with my husband instead of me, I picture Roscoe encased in a thick, down, sleeping bag, shivering in Antarctica while out on a mission to save three thousand year old ice.

Also it makes my bed seem warmer.

Side Note

You might have noticed that I’ve added some buttons and widgets to my website. If you’re finding that your week is just too clean, you can follow the Great Unwashed on Twitter. My most recent tweets will appear at the side of this page.

Also the Great Unwashed now has a Facebook page that you can “Like”, it has photos which were taken by Candy* on her recent visit to my city.

I’ve also divided up my posts into categories so if you really like reading about my family for example, you can click the word at the very bottom of my page and magically all of the Unwashed posts about my family will appear. There are a lot. Mostly because I have the kind of enormous family that you have to create diagrams of before introducing people into it. Roscoe still has no idea how many cousins I have.

*Even though the idea of using her real name to give proper credit for the beautiful and creative photos was thrown about, Candy Hooling is still a minor so I cannot reveal her identity. Also her father is a video game tester**, so he’s probably an incredible hacker and could take down my site in less than nine seconds for posting his daughter’s name online.

** Candy’s Dad is not actually a video game tester, but that and computer programmer are the only technology related careers I can remember despite Candy having repeatedly told me the name of her Dad’s job. Some things just don’t stick in my Unwashed brain.

Public Service Announcement -Protect Your Pecker, Pause Before Pill Popping

My seventeen year old cousin Candy* is visiting us for March Break. I’ve done quite a bit to try and amuse her; we’ve grocery shopped, gone to four different pharmacies in search of my favourite blister band-aids, sat on the couch and drank four pots of tea. A regular laugh riot.

However I decided to be kind and invite another person her age over for dinner last night. My second youngest cousin Sophie** has the misfortune of living in the same city as me. This means that on occasion she’s forced to come over to my house, listen to my boring, old person stories and eat my food.

So there we were, my husband Roscoe, Candy, Sophie and I, sitting around the dinner table attempting to enjoy a meal. I say attempting because invariably the talk turned to medicine and although I can still enjoy schnitzel while going through the intimate details of a gunshot wound, for Sophie and Candy this was not a daily event.

The conversation meandered around from rabies to Ebola and finally ended up on the half life of erectile dysfunction drugs. Roscoe and I both studied biochemistry at university hence we started by discussing the chemical properties of Cialis versus Viagara. An important difference between the two drugs is that the half life of Cialis is over four times that of Viagara. The half life of a drug is the amount of time it takes for half of it to degrade in your body. Erectile dysfunction drugs work to direct blood flow to the man’s fun pole.

Tadalafil tablet (20 mg)

Erectile Dysfunction Treatment- it’s all fun and games until you set a world record for stiffies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now the thing about erections is you want blood there, because that’s what makes an erection, but the flip side is that blood shouldn’t stay there too long. Your tissues need oxygen, if you have blood pooling somewhere, eventually the oxygen runs out and the cells could start to die. This is why it says on both Cialis and Viagara, “If your erection persists more than four hours, seek medical attention”. The only thing worse than a flaccid joystick is a dead one.

So because Roscoe and I can never appreciate normal television shows like The Bachelor, or Two and a Half Men, choosing instead to watch such delights as Hopkins, Boston Med or other televised surgery shows, we’ve actually watched the treatment for a never ending erection. Not the actual act itself, but mostly the reaction of the man with the member that was permanently at attention. If purple colour of the patient’s face was any indication it’s an excruciating procedure.

eggplant

Deep purple, flattering on an eggplant, not so much on a person’s face.  (Photo credit: JulkaG)

Roscoe when he’s not being an ottoman, is working towards becoming a doctor, and so he was able to describe the treatment for said malady. “It’s very easy, you simply lance it.”

Sophie’s reaction was priceless, her eyebrows flew up in horror as she exclaimed “You lance the peen?!”

Chicken noodle soup with leeks nearly came out my nose. Poor Sophie kept sputtering “That hurts so much! I had to have the back of my leg lanced and it was unbearable. I feel like there should be a public service announcement about this.”

Having laughed myself out at this point and no longer in danger of having a relative of the onion family and chicken broth come out my nostrils I added “Well it’s better than having it come off.”

“You mean like if your hand slips?” Sophie asked looking at Roscoe, like this sort of thing must happen occasionally in medicine.

Roscoe of course was still able to happily eat his soup, swallowed then calmly replied “No, the penis is like any other part of your body, if a piece dies, the dead tissue has to come off otherwise the area around it will become infected and cause more issues.”

“Oh my god.” Sophie having given up on eating, sat back in her chair still wide eyed and stunned.

Completely unperturbed by the conversation in the way that only a future physician could be, Roscoe tried to smooth things over “You’d get a prosthetic. They’re not very good, but you’d have one.”

As surprising and admittedly kind of funny as the idea of a false trouser snake was to me, nothing could top Sophie’s shocked exclamation “You lance the peen?”

It was like I’d been provided with a new way of judging catastrophe. As though I could stand outside a burning house, next to a shivering, abruptly homeless family and comfort them with “At least you didn’t have to lance the peen.”

Grapevine House Fire

Take heart- no peens were lanced. Grapevine House Fire (Photo credit: TexasEagle)

Or the next time I have to clean both the fridge and the toilet in one day “Well, I’m not lancing the peen.” Following being turned down for a job I’d buoy myself up by saying “No one’s peen was lanced.”

 

 

I spent the rest of the night giggling to myself. Cleaning the dishes was punctuated with my outbursts of “You lance the peen?”

Hilarious, mostly because I feel the majority of people would react in the same manner. Thus by writing this post, I’m performing a community service by getting this message out there. Hopefully that will excuse the fact that I wrote nearly a thousand words about problems you can have with your Johnson. So before the next time you or your loved one pops a little blue pill take a moment to ponder “Is it worth potentially lancing the peen?”†

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of young people who spent the rest of their March Break listening to me do impressions of Sophie’s exclamation.

**Fake names have been used to protect certain stylish young people who do not wish to be associated with their cousin who writes about willies.

† Just before posting this article I had Roscoe use his doctor knowledge to check the frequency of this side effect. He said there were less than ten reported cases ever but that a whole host of other medications can also cause permanent pant tenting. However then he started using his doctor voice rather than the nice husband voice that tells me my hair looks pretty, so I didn’t pay close attention. Regardless, as per Sophie’s suggestion I have now put this information out to the greater electronic world. Although I would say as a rule of thumb, if it’s big, red and painful, go to Emerg sooner rather than later.

 

Travesty Tuesdays- An Apology and a Plea

In honour of Candy*’s visit, this Travesty Tuesday post is a postcard that I wrote to Candy’s mother. Last June Candy came to visit for a couple of days. In this correspondence I was petitioning that she be allowed to visit again this past Christmas. Ultimately my December campaign was unsuccessful, something about New York being more exciting than making cider with your cousin.

Dear Aunty Camelia**,                                                                                                        Dec’12

I’m very sorry I told Candy where babies come from. Please let her visit me over Christmas, I promise not to do it again.

In my defense, she thought you had to pluck the arm hairs off of adorable children you liked and then plant the hairs in the ground for a fetus to develop like an oddly shaped potato. I thought my explanation might get her into less trouble than this.

– The Great Unwashed

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t actually believe that children grow in the ground like carrots.

** Names of adults who may not appreciate their children being exploited for the purposes of my blog have been changed in the hopes that maybe they won’t recognize themselves and force me to eat puffed rice in lieu of popcorn for the rest of my life. That bowl of round, puffy rice remains the weirdest movie snack that I’ve ever consumed. Although seeing as Aunty Camelia sampled my beet cookies, we may be even in the “Forcing Strange Foods Upon Distant Relatives Game”.

An Unwashed Interview

So Candy*, how do you feel about being interviewed on a little known blog whose readers are primarily composed of your enormous extended family?

(Laughs) Worried that whatever I say will be posted to my entire family.

Does the fact that your room was once inhabited by a black bear alarm you?

(Eyebrows raised, laughs nervously now) Not really. But I did not know that.

What are you most excited about seeing over the March Break?

Your city.

The Great Unwashed’s car just turned sixteen years old. Please list your experience in pushing gigantic, rusting trucks.

(Eyebrows now furrowed in a worried manner) What?

What sort of mental preparations will you go through to ready yourself for telling the Great Unwashed that “She looks absolutely stunning in every single dress” over and over on the bridesmaid dress shopping day?

I would actually tell you the honest truth because if you look funny and silly and the dress is hanging off of you and it looks awful I wouldn’t want you to buy it. I hate when people do that.

That’s the wrong answer, how do you feel about spending the rest of your stay in the cupboard under the stairs?

Cupboard? Meh, I’ll probably fit. (Note that Candy is the same size as me. I am approximately the size of an eleven year old child.)

Student Ghetto Pop Quiz. It’s 3 AM on a Thursday night, well technically a Friday morning, the frat boys are singing “Sweet Caroline” outside the guest room window – what do you yell?

Think of the farthest destination away from me and say there’s free booze there.

What are your feelings on child slavery, also do you know how to cook?

(Laughs, obviously disconcerted now) Child slavery is not a good thing, but I do cook.

Given that your cousin goes to bed no later than 8:45 PM every night- what do you think are achievable goals for your March Break?

Hey last night I got you out until almost 12:45 AM.

This is true, however I spent all of this morning doing impressions of our old roommate Angus, the black bear in question who lived in the upstairs room

So why did you choose to spend your March Break with your decrepit, boring cousin and her ottoman husband?

I wanted to see your city. I wanted to get to know my cousin more because honestly we were close when were really little but when we grew up we were more distant. Also I wanted to get out of my hometown.

Really, tell us why you actually are here. Did you set a car on fire?

(Laughs. Possibly in a guilty way?) No I chose to be here, there were no shotguns.

You came up with the shot gun answer really quickly, is there something you need to tell me?

No.

* Names have been changed to protect those who I thought were innocent but who I now suspect have an affinity for firearms.

Great Unwashed and Guest

So for the next week or so my posts will include a guest. Not because I’ve gone all professional and invited other authors to write on my blog but because my youngest cousin, Candy* is spending her March Break with me.

Now I’m not entirely sure why she’s coming to stay here for the majority of her March Break. Perhaps she pulled the short straw in the game of fun things in life, perhaps Juvie wouldn’t take her. For whatever reason she is coming to stay with me and Roscoe and boy am I happy.

We’re going to spend the week having all sorts of Unwashed adventures; she’s going to go grocery shopping with me, search for a bridesmaid’s dress with me, clean the house with me and shovel snow with me. It’s every teenager’s dream really. And just for kicks, I’ll bring my Unwashed followers along for the ride, so she can have proof of what a totally awesome break she had upon returning to school. “See this is my old, boring cousin’s blog. Here’s where she wrote about cleaning out the drains, that’s the story of organizing her closet. Now you show me your vacation pictures from Mexico!”

I’m terribly excited for this week.

 

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who may have been forced by their youth and an empty house to spend time with me. Also I may be risking the wrath of both my grandmother and aunt by giving my dear cousin the fake name of many a stripper. At least I didn’t name her Glitter. I doubt this fact will keep me in my grandmother’s will. I did try about eight different names in lieu of said offensive name but none of them reflected her lovable, sweet nature as well as Candy. I thought it was best to go right to the literal.

What’s funnier is that her brother who I wrote to in a travesty Tuesday message is fake named Phillip Hooling. Together their fictional names are Phillip and Candy Hooling, which makes it look like they were once a respectable family when they had Phillip but then lost not only all of their money but all of their sense too just before they had Candy and now subsist on only “sketti” and slim jims.

For the record both cousins involved have actual respectable names and do not exist on only “sketti” and slim jims, their father is an excellent cook and a computer programmer. I’m lying about the computer programmer thing but it is something to do with computers. He has one of those jobs to do with technology that I couldn’t understand if my life depended on it. They also do not live in a trailer, or their car.

I thought the last sentence was important to add in. I’m so being kicked out of the will.

Bring On Munch!

Man am I happy to see the back end of Fatuary. For those of you who just arrived, due to the food baby I made out of doughnuts, licorice candy and too much sitting around on my butt, I rechristened February Fatuary.

I’m relieved it’s over, not only because it means that I’m one step closer to getting rid of Jeremiah, my food baby, but also for the majority of Fatuary I was in a really bad mood.

No, that’s not an adequate description. For most of Fatuary when I wasn’t consuming junk food, I was on a tear, I was the kind of grumpy that people cross to the other side of the street to avoid, I was the antichrist.

And sometimes during Fatuary I spoke French and so I became the French antichrist. Then I’d revert to English and go back to being just the antichrist.

Also, I’d like to announce that I have a new favourite word- antichrist. I find it’s a versatile word, applicable to every situation. Have a pair of socks with those little threads that cut between your toes? Simply sum up your discomfort with a succinct “These socks are the antichrist”. Hate mayo on sandwiches? Express your true feelings with by stating “This sandwich is the antichrist.” As a descriptor its uses are endless.

But back to the original purpose of this post, goodbye Fatuary, with your grey, sunless days and long snowy nights, I’m elated to see you go. Bring on March*!

 

*Names of months may be changed due to the fact that I continue to sit on the couch and consume sugar, an event which Roscoe observed and commented on, saying “If you keep eating like this March will be known as Munch”. Thank you dear husband, I love you too.