The Call Is Coming From Inside the PlayStation

Dear Roscoe,

You are gone, therefore, the Netflix is broken. This happens every time that you leave the house. It is a fact of my life; I do not begrudge the Netflix’s refusal to work when you are not present, I merely accept it. I don’t even get grouchy now when the technology malfunctions. Admittedly I’d probably become surly if the internet broke but even then I’d just head to into the university to use the computers and unnerve the frat boys when I pass them in the library.

“Hey Guys!” I’d say cheerily waving at the young men.

“Uh, hi Mrs. Unwashed from next door” they would reply awkwardly.

After the Netflix’s refusal to function and show me good things, I turned to the DVD collection on the bookshelf, happily picturing a night spent watching the antics of Mike and Sulley in “Monsters Inc”. When I opened the package however, there were three, count ‘em three DVDs. I hadn’t the remotest clue what to do. Is one in French? Is one entirely special features? So I’m writing to tell you the DVD collection is broken. It’s being confusing and audacious with its excessive features.

Please send help or tech support immediately. The Frat boys next door have refused to come to my aid because I mentioned their large garbage collection in front of their girlfriends. I didn’t know what else to call it. Certainly forgetfulness only goes so far before your mountain of garbage becomes a collection. If they’d buy curtains, I wouldn’t be able to see the pile in the first place.

The Great Unwashed



It’s a Vase, It’s an Oven, It’s a Mausoleum Where We Keep Your Great Uncle Arnie

Welcome my Unwashed Public, to another indistinguishable Monday; here we have an image taken while I was on vacation. I’m not entirely sure what this object is but clearly it wasn’t that important because I cut off the top. Sometimes while wandering around museums with my family I would take pictures of pieces that the guides would point to even if I hadn’t heard what it was. Otherwise I would have come home with a bunch of images that I thought were important like four pictures of a man’s moustache or a photos of part of someone’s hand. Mind you I came home with those same photos anyway but that wasn’t intentional.img006

My guess is this was taken in Europe. Or possibly on the Titanic. A place with old things at any rate. Europe is probably the better guess because I’ve never been on the Titanic. Although apparently that boat had grand staircases so it’s entirely possible that it had ornate vase-oven-mausoleums aboard to keep the flowered dead baked goods fresh too.


My House is Haunted and Ripe For Thieves

My home is filled with poltergeists and thieves attempt to break in constantly. This kind of living situation would cramp my style but it is limited to when Roscoe is not home. I live in an 85 year old house in the student ghetto, this fact rarely bothers me. But the moment that Roscoe leaves something changes, shadows grow to enormous sizes, the hallways become endless and the ghosts emerge from the woodwork. Suddenly every passerby on the street below is a convicted felon, hell bent on stealing my toaster oven and collection of jigsaw puzzles.

I do my best to deal with the unwelcome spirits and burglars on my own. And by on my own, what I mean is I call my parents, grandparents, friends, sister, the Coca Cola 1-800 number, anyone who will pick up their phone. “The house is haunted ! And there are armed bandits outside the door.! ” I’ll wail into the phone. My parents, having lived with me for twenty some odd years are rarely fazed. They will say “The strange thing is, our house stopped being haunted the day you moved out. Just lock the door- you’ll be fine”. Not a helpful observation when one hears a ninja with a baseball bat lurking near the kitchen window.

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn't terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit :

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn’t terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit :

My best friend Chastity, who is a PhD candidate and a first rate problem solver immediately starts looking up natural remedies “A ghost? Did you try burning sweet grass? You’ll need a match, and some sage too.”

My sister, after seeing I’ve posted strange things on her Facebook twice that evening; “Diana, my house tripled in size, I got lost walking to the pantry, please call me” and “Diana, I’m becoming strange because Roscoe isn’t home, please call me” won’t even pick up her phone.

The people at the 1-800 Coca Cola number quickly tire of talking with me. “My house is filled with ghosts! Cannibalistic ghosts! And robbers!” I say in a high pitched voice that my parents endearingly named my “hysterical chipmunk” tone. “Thank you for calling ma’am but what does this have to do with your Sprite beverage?” the kindly operator will say. “Oh, I don’t consume soft drinks but I thought a multimillion dollar corporation might have some suggestions for how to deal with a paranormal infestation and burglary” I’ll reply. Funny enough my calls to 1-800 numbers seem to disconnect a lot.

After exhausting my conversational skills, I’ll retire to bed. This is a whole process in and of itself. In order for me to sleep when I’m home alone, the chest of drawers must be pushed up against the bedroom door. However last night this was impossible because Roscoe had moved the chest of drawers upstairs. Lacking any other option, I began to move the giant, dirty laundry mountain in front of the door. It is widely known that ghosts hate the scent of old socks. Also any potential intruders would be caught in the many arms of the clothes-spider  I created using Roscoe’s dress shirts.

With all of my ghost busting and crime protection measures in place I am able to climb into bed. Just before I nod off to sleep, many hours past my standard eight thirty pm bedtime I send off a text to Roscoe. “Stop treating all the car accident victims and come home. House has become a den of thieves and Mecca for the afterlife.”

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the brilliant. However for once I actually let the person in question choose their written name. When she was three, after emigrating to Canada from China, not only did Chastity get to choose her English name but she also chose her little brother’s English name when he was born. I don’t even know if I could have shouldered that level of responsibility now as a fully functional adult let alone as a toddler. If given the choice, three year old me probably would have called Diana “Dry Goods”. She would have been easier to sell that way.

My brilliant and somewhat conservative friend chose the name “Chastity”, because she wanted to keep with the stripper nom de plume theme The Great Unwashed has going.

I Wish This Wasn’t True

The Great Unwashed – “I kicked a bank today.”

Diana – “Then what happened?”

The Great Unwashed – “Nothing, so I punched it.”

Diana – “Then what happened?”

The Great Unwashed – “Still nothing, so I kept yelling at the top of my lungs and then a fifty year old bank manager came out and said “Closed” emphatically while making a frowny face, so I snarled at him and bared my teeth.”

Diana – “You know this story doesn’t make me worry about you less. Also you need to go to a different branch now.”

There is no explanation for my behaviour on Thursday. Well there is, it’s just not very good and doesn’t excuse me from transforming into a rabid, mental patient outside of a financial institution. In my defense, the mental patient appearance was not entirely my fault.

The end effect was like this only shorter. (Photo Credit :

My hair looked like this only shorter. (Photo Credit :

All of the pipes had clogged that morning and it was supposed to be bathin’ day. To distract from my unwashed state, I decided to put my hair up. Unfortunately my hair is currently about chin length, so the end result of pinning my curls meant that tendrils poked out from my head, making my scalp look like a mismanaged, wild garden in the spring. I was wearing utility pants which I had haphazardly sewn extra pockets into. However I hadn’t bothered to finish the pockets so the ones I sewed in were fraying about the edges. The end result was bag lady chic.

As a card carrying adult, I accept certain necessary evils in my life for example, banks and insurance companies. My life philosophy is “Most people probably want to help me and be my friend”.  The bank’s philosophy is “We don’t want to help you and we will take ALL of your money”. As a result, I do my best to avoid this institution, however purchasing a house has meant that I’ve dealt quite a bit with the bank recently. As I headed once again to the dreaded financial institution, I was aware that the interaction was going to be long, possibly unpleasant and one hundred percent certain that the fees would be astronomical. But it was ok because I was going to get my down payment for my house. I had even written down the financial terms to use in conversation with the bankers so I wouldn’t be nodding my curly head while saying “You know, the paper that you give to people, to give to the other people, to give to your mortgage company?”

But at four thirty two PM, when I arrived outside the locked doors of the bank, having run almost a half a kilometer because traffic was moving at a crawl so I was forced to park far away to have a hope of making the closing time, all of those terms flew out of my head. This bank closed at four thirty on Thursdays. Pulling with all of my might against the doors, I yelled “Mortgage! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Yanking again with my entire five foot-ish frame, the door did not budge. “AHHHHHHH” I yelled in frustration “But, but, but HOUSE! NOOOOOOOOOO”

It was one of those times in life where you can’t believe your poor luck, when the sheepish shrugs of the employees inside are almost taunting in the face of your time-sensitive To-Do List.

Around the time I yelled “HOOOOUUse. Down payment!” the dour faced bank manager appeared. What I needed most in the world at that moment was a hug. But people don’t approach nut cases with their arms outstretched. I do expect a video of my meltdown to appear on Youtube though, seeing as all of this occurred in front of a crowded bus stop.

I booted the door. The bank manager frowned. I punched the metal frame. “Closed” he said firmly. “No? But, down payment, house! MonEEEEEEEEEEY!” I bellowed, having lost the ability to form coherent sentences half a minute before. “Closed” he repeated sternly. That was when I snarled and bared my teeth, shoving my face as close to the door as I could. Realizing what I had done, I pulled myself back. “Thank you!” I shouted turning and rushing away from the building towards my car. Then upon realizing that I had thanked someone who wasn’t remotely helpful I turned again “I mean, NOT thank you!”

In the end, I called the helpline on my bank card and explained the situation. The kind voice directed me to a branch two kilometers down the road which was open slightly later.

I Count April Rain Showers Towards My Monthly Bathing Tally

The following is an interaction I had with my coworker after I told her about the name of my blog.

The Great Unwashed– “So basically it’s named that because I’m always dirty.”

Coworker who had been amused by the blog talk up until this point, looks at me serious and wide eyed. “But you do bathe right?”

The Great Unwashed debates answering honestly and waits just a second too long to reply.

Coworker stares me down “You must bathe.”

This seemed like less of a question and more of a reminder.

Add some curly blonde hair and you have me in July. (Photo Credit :

Add some blonde hair and you have me in July. (Photo Credit :

The Great Unwashed Voice “Well ish. Sometimes. Actually not really; in the summer I morph into a curly haired clod of dirt. ”

The Great Unwashed Voice At Work thinks -I’m receiving a panicked look, I should probably give an answer that adheres to social mores to calm my coworker. Hence I emphatically say “Of course” and watch as my coworker visibly relaxes.

I can commit to showering once every seventy-five years. (Photo Credit :

I can safely commit to showering once every seventy-five years. (Photo Credit :

While it’s a given with my family that I will only shower for special events like the Pope visiting or the appearances of Halley’s Comet, I forget that the rest of the world isn’t as accustomed to this. Last winter while staying in a swanky pants hotel my sister, upon seeing me emerge from the bathroom in a towel asked “What’s the occasion?”

In my social circle I’ve been known to put off hopping into the tub until the last possible second, because there comes a time, around the six or seventh day after your last shower, when it’s easier to live in your own grease because the amount of effort one has to expend to clean oneself feels almost too much. At home my mother seems to sense when this critical dirt mass moment is approaching and tries to veer me off my Unwashed path.

The reminders begin early in the morning “You need to shower today.” Then later on they continue when my mother urges me to “Think about showering at some point.” These types of prompts will increase in frequency until my mother all but throws me and my curls-cum-greaselocks* under a faucet of some sort. Surprisingly it would seem that this sort of behaviour is not welcome in the workplace.


*This was the first time I used that particular three letter preposition. As always, I googled to ensure I was using it correctly. Having typed in the word into the Google search bar, I was all set to click “enter” when I thought, “Wait Unwashed, that’s not going to bring you the result you are hoping for”. Hence I was forced to sit and determine what type of word “cum” was. For everyone out there who isn’t interested in dirty pictures on the internet, it’s a preposition.

Unwashed Logic Strikes Again

Normal Person Logic “My friend Dave is a chartered accountant. I wonder if he will do my taxes?”

Unwashed Logic “My friend Sula is a taxidermist. I wonder if she’ll cut my hair.”

The Great Unwashed– “Hey, sorry to call out of the blue like this, I have a favor to ask you.”

Sula *- “Of course. Anything.”

The Great Unwashed – “Will you cut my hair?”

Sula thrown off guard says a wobbly “Ok?”

The hair trimming experience went about as well for Sula as you might have expected. Sula is one of those women who takes pride in her appearance, thus she was a ball of anxiety wielding scissors about my head. By contrast as long as I have an appearance I’m good to go. Consequently while Sula painstakingly cut my curls with herb shears, (the kitchen scissors were deemed too large)  I was as happy as a clam because I had avoided making small talk with the stylist who was filling in for my regular hair dresser who was on vacation.

Just an FYI I’m going to need sanctuary when Sula finds out that I made her cut my hair just to avoid talking to a stranger about the weather. She might be peeved because I may have skipped over that part and forced her to trim my locks for “safety reasons related to my work”.

However I will say Sula had a sense of humour about the whole thing, because here is a transcript from one of our most recent phone calls.

The Great Unwashed– “Can I ask you a favour?”

Sula– “I’m going to need more information. You’re not going to ask me to cut your hair again are you?”

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who could have said “No” and forced me to talk about cumulonimbus cloud formations with a stranger for almost an hour.

There Are No Words, Except Maybe I’m Sorry

I was all set to put up a canned post. Completely canned, like peaches in the dead of winter, a post written way back in the wilds of November during NaNoWriMo. But instead I’m taking a page out of my dear friend Chris Hinton’s book from the Dimwit Diary and just writing whatever is in my head. God I love a man with a half beard. So sexy.

(Photo Credit :

Is there a woman in the world who doesn’t want to tap that? I personally can’t resist.(Photo Credit :

I’m going to email this post to him tonight. He won’t receive the email because Chris of the beloved partial facial hair is currently holed up in the mountains somewhere typing out a manuscript hopefully while sleeping with a beautiful woman. He loves to do that.

Can you say that? That you hope someone is sleeping with a beautiful woman? I just did. I’m drunk on exhaustion, which is far better than being drunk on boredom. And the former is less likely to end with pairing up mismatched socks.

I had better get to the meat of this post soon before I start talking about mailing people condoms because safe sex is like swimming- everyone should know how to do it.

The above statement makes far more sense if one knows that my closest friend is moving away and I had offered to send her obscure objects in the mail so she wouldn’t miss me as much. I think post marked condoms bring warmth and joy to most people’s homesick hearts. I would also send three wingnuts and an acorn in the mail too. It’s questionable whether this is more or less normal than the last batch of postcards I sent out.

The following is an excerpt from a postcard I sent to family friends.

Even centaurs have to do laundry. Although given the expression on his face, it seems he’s excited by this. Perhaps because that’s what passes for entertainment in the centaur world. Pity. Someone should really teach those creatures how to bowl or skeetshooting.

Even centaurs have to do laundry. Although given the expression on his face, it seems he’s excited by this. Perhaps because that’s what passes for entertainment in the centaur world. Pity. Someone should really teach those creatures how to bowl or skeetshooting.


So I’m two hundred and some odds words in and I’ve realized that there is no meat of this post. Which is tragic, except for the vegetarians, they’ll be quite pleased. As it is I’m a steak lover myself, thus I’m going to bed. Good night all, I bid you a tired adieu.