This Is Goodbye, This Is I Love You

Sula*, my friend, who I am so close with that we are occasionally mistaken for a couple, (admittedly I do everything in my power, short of snogging her, to make the world think this) is leaving today. FOREVER.

Ok not quite forever but eleven weeks is a super long time. That’s like eight chihuahuas in dog years. For someone who speaks with Sula as often as twice a day, this is an interminable length of time.

We just finished our last Skype conversation together; we laughed and we cried, mostly because we were laughing so hard about the existence of penis cancer (Men- wash your willies). And then we said goodbye. It was terrible, like that moment with the plane in Casablanca. However unlike Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Sula and I shall be reunited and it shall be glorious.

Similar to this.

Dear Sula, I love you so much that I'll even be the beardy one in this scene. (Photo Credit :

Dear Sula, I love you so much that I’ll even be the beardy one in this scene. (Photo Credit :

In the mean time, I shall content myself with dreaming of our future and growing old together when she returns.

We shall build sand castles with strangers and shovels. (Photo Credit

We shall build sand castles with strangers and shovels. (Photo Credit

We will bungee jump and septagenarians and the force of our love shall keep us and our bones together. (Photo Credit:

We will bungee jump as septagenarians and the force of our love shall keep us and our bones together. (Photo Credit:

And then at some point we will decide that we’ve had enough excitement and shall stay home to craft and eat bear pizza.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who will laugh at the concept of a cancer caused by poor hygiene with me. Also take note this post is 265 words- you can do it.

Secret Sharing Time and Macaulay Culkin

My name is Unwashed. I am thirty years old and I am terrified of being home alone.

Unlike this kid, being home alone seemed to be his life’s goal. (Photo Credit :

Unlike this kid, being home alone seemed to be his life’s goal. (Photo Credit :

This has been a problem and my existence for as long as I can remember. The lovely creative part of my brain that feeds my fingers nonsense to type onto my computer screen is also the part that tells me there is a killer hiding under my bed, or that thieves will use the backyard trampoline to catapult themselves through my second story window. It concocts three headed sneering monsters out of shadows and gives them low hushed voices that sound vaguely like the hum of the refrigerator.

When I was younger, until the middle of high school, I struggled with being home alone during the day. Then my parents had the basement redone so the witch that lived there had to pack her bags and head for darker corners without track lighting.

In university, my father would arrange for me to stay with my grandmother who lived in the next city whenever he and my mother were away. After university however, I was on my own. This arrangement worked with varying degrees of success, the nights my parents were away, I would shun my environmental beliefs and turn on every single light bulb in the house and leave them burning until the morning. I would jump at every noise, and once a group of raccoons invaded the porch because I let the cat out but was too scared to leave the door open while calling Splat’s name and instead threw half a bag of kitty chow all over the deck. The cat didn’t return until the next day however the neighbourhood pests had a field day or rather a field night enthusiastically feasting on the cat food and ripping chunks of deck’s planks out in their excitement. When my Dad returned home I told him the chunks had always been missing.

As a full-fledged adult, when my former partner Roscoe was away, I would lock myself in the bedroom at eight o’clock and push a chest of drawers up against the door, then cross my legs and pray for morning, or a chamber pot depending on how badly I needed to pee.

After hearing about the difficulties associated with moving a chest of drawers, when Roscoe started working overnight shifts, Sula* invited me to her house for sleepovers. At one point I spent upwards of four nights a month at her home.

When I bought house by myself, evening was a difficult time, and Gordy** frequently offered to drop by whenever I would text him “Prowler! Imminent death!” after hearing a squirrel tip over my garbage can. I solved this issue by acquiring a roommate who was small but mighty. When nocturnal sounds became overwhelming I would repeat Meredith’s^ athletic stats in my head to calm myself; she squats 150lbs, she once carried a mirror four times her size and three quarters her weight up three flights of stairs, she can outrun a moped. I may have exaggerated the last bit, but my roommate was super fit, and in the event of life or death I could see her leaving a Vespa in the dust.

Now I live in the north with Tex, who enjoys a manly night out every so often. Normally this isn’t a problem, however tonight I’m reading a Jodi Piccoult book which centers around kidnapping and missing persons. Suddenly the monsters in the closet and the killers under the bed have detailed and exceptionally gruesome plans. Reading all alone in the silent second bedroom where I’ve been sleeping of late, to avoid my upstairs neighbour’s nocturnal phone calls, I found myself all but quaking with fear. Not wanting to text Tex to come home because he’s such a nice guy I knew he would, I went to my tried and true standard. I phoned a friend. Well not really. I mostly sat under one who was on the phone. Like clockwork my upstairs neighbor is talking at top volume just so I know he is there. Let this post be my official letter of apology;

Dear Sir Who Lives Above Me,

I’m sorry that I pictured waving Tex’s guns around to scare you. I would still slap you with my fish tail if I was a mermaid though; you really need to stop the middle of the night chatter.

More fondness than my last correspondence,

The Great Unwashed

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who made sure I had a warm bed to sleep in and coffee every morning because I am a wuss.

** Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who willingly battle ghosts and shadow men whose presence only I can detect.

^Names have been changed because although this person acted as my protector as stated before, she’s super strong so I try not to tick her off by doing inconsiderate things like putting her name on the interwebs.

To read about the time that ghosts broke into my house and Gordy saved the day- CLICK Here

In case you missed it I threatened my upstairs neighbour with guns, fairies and robots. I can’t promise that I won’t still when he wakes me up at 3 am, however I will feel a little bad while doing it since he sort of kept me company last night.

Robots, Fairies and Cold Blooded Murder

I’ve been woken up the past couple of nights at three am, by the man upstairs who is clearly speaking to people in another country where it is a reasonable hour. At first, I was myself, but as the night progressed, I became a blood thirsty killer.

3:04 AM

I am lying in bed with my eyes open listening to what can only be the sounds of a man describing how he singlehandedly saved the world. Or at least that’s what I assume he was talking about, after all, who could be excited about anything less than being an international hero at three am?

3: 22 AM

The man is still talking, loudly and at various volumes so I cannot fall back asleep. I sleepily remind myself that I feel homesick here too and spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone. The difference is that my family is in relatively the same time zone.

3:37 AM

Now he’s talking about cooking up a feast for three million people and describing all of the recipes he will use. Actually that’s just a guess, because what else could have taken him this long to communicate? I picture quietly tiptoeing upstairs, knocking on my neighbour’s door, looking pathetic and small like a sad twelve year old and saying “I can’t sleep when you are on the phone.”

3:49 AM

It’s becoming clear that a man who outlines the exact method that he uses to clean his bathroom at three am needs more than the pathetic image of a woman who looks like a child knocking on his door asking him to stop, in the middle of the night. I picture writing an amusing note to him.

Dear Sir,

If I was a fairy, I’d sprinkle you with magic so you’d sleep through the night without hearing your phone.

If I was a vampire, I’d bite you, not enough to kill you, just enough to make you anemic so you’d be too tired to talk at three am.

If I was a unicorn, I’d pin you with my benevolent hoof and communicate through unicorn mind powers the social mores of society- HINT: we sleep at night.

If I was a robot, I’d put you in a cage without your phone because robots are soulless, but I’d put a bed in there because I’d be a nice robot.

I think we can agree empathy isn't this over-sized toaster's strong point either.  (Photo by Paul Gilham/Getty Images)

I think we can agree empathy isn’t this over-sized toaster’s strong point either. (Photo by Paul Gilham/Getty Images)

If I was a mermaid, I’d slap you with my giant fish tail to get my message across- you’re being rude.

If I was a werewolf, I’d rip my couch apart and eat it, werewolves are unpredictable.

Please go to bed.


The Great Unwashed

4:07 AM

With no end to my neighbour’s jibber jabber about his belly button lint in sight, I move to the couch and quickly discover that our new couch is not comfortable for sleeping on.

4:30 AM

I crawl back into bed, the man upstairs is talking about all of his wonderful qualities; his ability to speak for three minutes without taking a breath, how he is so charismatic that curiously no one wants to hang out with him. He has others but I stopped listening because I had a quest.

“Tex” I said shaking my boyfriend’s shoulder gently, “the gun cabinet is locked; I need the combination.”

“Shhherfenismah” Tex replied before rolling over. My visions of appearing at the man’s door like a tiny pyjama clad Annie Oakley were crushed.

This looks like a woman who always had a good night's sleep. (Photo Credit :

This looks like a woman who always had a good night’s sleep. (Photo Credit :

4:41 AM

I rearrange all of the furniture in the second bedroom so the futon will fold out and switch out the flimsy curtains with the blackout curtains in the living room and finally fall asleep.

6:30 AM

Tex is awoken by my alarm next to the bed because I am not there and then is shocked because my first words to him are, “I want to make the man upstairs special cement boots then take him swimming.”

Apparently I am never getting the code to the gun cabinet, Tex is also looking into anger management classes or calming yoga classes for me, he can’t decide which will better prevent cold blooded murder.

Your Mother Is So

“Here have a look” Sula held up her Blackberry screen which was also a mirror so I could inspect the braid she had just put in my hair. “That’s useful” I commented on her dual purpose mirror/phone cover “Your mother?” I asked using our personal shorthand of “That item looks so useful that only your mother who possesses impeccable taste could have picked it out”. “No, me actually” Sula replied.

I was surprised. Almost everything beautiful and multi-purpose in Sula’s house and wardrobe was chosen by her mother. Her mom’s particular brand of style and elegance are at work in every aspect of Sula’s life and by virtue of being Sula’s close friend, some of Sula’s mother’s good taste spills into my life too. When she lived in my city, Sula’s house was beautifully decorated and artfully arranged, because of this, it was a hub of social activity; people wanted to be there. I remember helping Sula move in and watching her mother direct where to put the furniture to create the warmest atmosphere then heading out to choose drapes to accent the room.

Sula’s Mom prides herself on being a Mom; Sula’s parents live thirty seconds from my Dad’s house so when Sula and I lived in the same city, we would frequently carpool back and forth on weekends. My job once we got back home was to hold onto Maddie while Sula unloaded the endless bags of groceries and things her mother had sent back with her. The weeks afterward, on craft nights, Sula and I would feast on delicious delicacies. “Where did you get this?” I would ask, hungrily eyeing my forkful of salad covered in a layer of delectable bee pollen. “My mother” Sula would say.

Eventually I stopped asking about the origins of items and instead just commented when I borrowed Sula’s winter boots which made my feet warmer and more comfy than they’d ever been in the winter; “I love your mother’s taste”.

Even before Sula’s parents’ home became my go to place and the locale of many a drunken discussion with Sula, I felt I knew Sula’s mom, through her choices of upholstery, through Sula’s stories of her mother’s adventures with her sorority. I saw Sula’s mother’s commitment to her friends and family in Sula by the way she valued our friendship and how much time she devoted to her perfect little spaniel. From bee pollen to a perfectly designed, tailor-made purple dress which is so gorgeous that I beg Sula to wear it every time I see her, Sula’s life in filled with her mother’s charm and care.

Let’s have a cheer for loving women who enjoy nothing more than sharing the best of themselves with others that allow the joke “Your mother is so” to become a conversation piece; your mother is so stylish, your mother is so intelligent, your mother is so kind, your mother is so welcoming.

If you have such a lovely lady like Sula’s mom in your life, please leave a warm comment below because even in the midst of a difficult time, Sula’s mother is somehow finding the energy to help me.

Bacchanal Desires and Pipe cleaner Disappointments

Tex* has played a nasty trick on me; he put all of the booze in stoppered bottles and then abruptly left the apartment. Admittedly the wine might have been bottled prior to his departure for manly games night, however he did take the wine opener with him. Mostly because Tex is my wine opener.

Prior to living with Tex, I had a lovely wine bottle opener that was designed for lefties with pipe cleaner arms. Because it worked backwards in order to accommodate my backwards lefty brain, and thus confused anyone else who tried to use it, my bottle opener did not accompany me when I moved. Instead whenever I have wanted wine, I’ve turned to my muscly, cowboy boyfriend and said “Please open this for me”. This method has worked wonders for ages until tonight, when I decided to take all of the feminist chants of encouragement that “I am equally able in every way” and attempted to open my beverage by myself.

What followed was a knockdown drag-out battle that left me winded and still thirsty. Despite trying all of the positions in the Alcoholic Karma Sutra of Bottle Opening; the on the counter, two-handed pull, the one leg against the wall, three limbed extraction, the left handed half-nelson, the right handed half nelson, the two footed clothespin. The cork didn’t even have the decency to squeak when it failed to move an inch.

In the end I shoved the bottle, complete with the opener still stuck in the top in the fridge as homage to my spindly, weak arms. In the future, I’m going to check for an open bottle of hooch before Tex leaves to shoot bears with crossbows, or whatever it is that he does during manly game nights.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who keep the booze flowing.

The Party Crasher

I think we can all agree; Chad is a jerk. The king of the jerks, the jerkiest jerk that ever jerked. Yet everyone knows him, and regardless of how we feel about him, he still comes around every so often.

I should explain, for starters, Chad doesn’t own a watch. He runs on “Chad time” which is code for “I’ll show up to the party whenever I want and whenever I want is never on time”, leaving everyone questioning when he’s going to arrive, even though no one invited him.

Chad is often late, the irony is, even if no one invited him, you’re still left worrying “Where’s Chad? I hope he’s going to come, I would have known if something happened right?” and then he shows up around midnight, in all his sloppy glory, completely unaware that anyone was expecting him.

Did I mention he’s a messy S.O.B.? He never cleans up after himself, which normally is fine, except when he arrives early just as you are preparing for an event. Luckily this doesn’t happen often- in Chad’s words “Being on time or early is for trains or those European dudes with moustaches”.

According to Chad this man is always on time and eats only blue cheese. I know, I don't understand Chad's thinking either. (Photo Credit :

According to Chad this man is always on time and eats only blue cheese. I know, I don’t understand Chad’s thinking either. (Photo Credit :

Although he’s rarely early, Chad loves showing up unannounced. Like on a Sunday morning when you’re sitting on your couch, enjoying a morning coffee and Chad bursts in “WAAZZZZZZZupppppp” like an obnoxious, attention seeking beer commercial. And so the peace is broken and once more you have to deal with him.

Chad loves to go out, but as I said before, he’s a mess. If you thought giving a two year old a purple slurpee was a bad idea, try taking Chad anywhere, one would almost believe that he enjoys causing embarrassment, but he’s so unaware, that you can’t really blame him.

Luckily his visits are infrequent, but in the same way that Chad has no idea that he’s causing embarrassment, he also has no clue when he’s worn out his welcome. After spending a day and a half with him, secretly I often wish that he’d go away and never return. But like ants in a dirty frat house basement, no matter what you do, Chad just keeps coming back.

I can’t decide whether to dedicate this post to teen girls everywhere, or to my Uncles, father and grandfather for unknowingly reading about my period.

I’ll pick the last one- you’re troopers boys, now go take a walk because I’m sure that you all have the willies.