Under The Threat of Being Grounded From 3,000 Kilometers Away

Dear the Bank and Mikey oops I mean Mike,

I’m very sorry about my earlier email. My Dad read it because I always CC my family when I think an email is funny and my father said, and I quote, “Unwashed, you are to email that man, then email the bank and beg them for forgiveness.” Actually that isn’t a quote, there may have been a speech about being grown up and writing for your audience.

It was a long soliquay, and my Dad sounded almost as disappointed in me as the time I wrote a post about sending my mother pictures of animal genetalia as a Valentine. That it was really bad, Mike, if I had still been living at home when the penis post came out, I get the feeling that I would have been sitting in my room sans computer, pen, paper, papyrus, stone tablet and rocks, all forms of writing tools hidden with me in the corner reflecting on “What I had done”. So like I said, my Dad’s reaction to the email was close to that, so allow me to take this moment to apologize and retract my words.

I am absolutely a responsible adult, who doesn’t drink at all. I am a pillar of society; I would never get my grandmother arrested or chase after a neighbour’s dog while barking. Also I come from responsible stock- my mother carefully drives around shopping carts instead of ramming them to make her own parking space. Also, I have a squeaky clean background, I sit at home weaving sleeping mats for children in third world countries; I have no time for those who commit break and enters.

If that doesn’t convince you, of what an upstanding, responsible, financially sound citizen I am, then you should come to my house to see my filing system. Admittedly I’ve been told that filing “G for swim goggles” is a bit confusing but once you get the hang of it it’s quite easy and the possum only bites when there’s the chance of kiwi.

Anyway, please give me my mortgage and disregard my earlier email. I promise to be grown up and very very serious from here on out. I’ll even wear a girdle if that’s what it take. Just as soon as I figure out what piece of clothing a girdle is.

Sincerely and most adultedly yours,

The Great Unwashed

UPDATE- Mike, I’m really sorry, I know I said I’d wear one, but I just discovered what a girdle is. It seems way too uncomfortable. Would you settle for a bonnet? Then I wouldn’t have to worry about bad hair days.

Advertisements

The Bank Got Drunk and Let Me Buy A House

To : The Very Understanding Man Who Patiently Explained Mortgages To Me And Wasn’t Offended When I Abruptly Hung Up On Him. Twice

Subject : CRAP!

Mike,

Hi, I’m so sorry about all the documents. It’s not that I forgot, it’s actually that I’m a horrible person AND I forgot. But they’re here now. Or at least they will be as soon as my husband gets home and makes the scanner work.

This would be why my mortgage was set up by my Aunt Camelia; she’s the only one tenacious enough to continually hunt me down and force me to complete all the necessary bank documents. Mike, can I call you Mikey? Mikey, if it makes you feel any better, I was writing and editing a book the month I applied for a mortgage three years ago, so if you think that I’m hard to get a hold of now, you can imagine what it would have been like then. Also I was constantly drunk.

This email is making me sound very responsible. Which I am. You should totally renew my mortgage. At a low rate too, just as soon as I figure out how to send those documents you requested two months ago. Did I mention that our scanner is confusing and has a vendetta against me?

In addition to no longer being drunk all of the time or spending my life writing a book that I’m not being paid for, you should know that I no longer have a filing system involving naked backs. That tidbit should probably go in the folder that the bank keeps on me, the comment should read “Has advanced organizational system- no nudity”. That comment alone is a testament to how grown up I’ve become.

And, I should add that this is the first off the wall email you’ve received from me. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is. Three years ago after my Aunt Camelia had left five messages on my phone requesting ridiculous items like my Notice of Assessment and other nonsense, saying things like “tomorrow” then, “Friday at the latest” and finally “Please, please Unwashed get it to me in two weeks and stop publishing posts about kicking financial institutions”, I would finally return her calls with a bizarre email about how I was channeling “Little House on the Prairie” and building a cabin in the woods so as to avoid all this mind numbing paperwork.

My aunt loves me very much.

Mikey, I realize that none of this email is those documents that you need but you have my assurance that I will send them to you post haste and won’t get side tracked by researching locally made bamboo toothbrushes or Playboy bunnies.

You’ll have it tonight, I swear. Tuesday at the latest. Maybe April, but only if I forget completely, which I won’t because I wrote myself a detailed note on the fridge “Mike, no naked backs” so as long as my husband doesn’t erase my words thinking that I’m protesting Channing Tatum movies,

channing-tatum-diet-plan

Who would protest chiseled abs? (Photo Credit : Pintrest.com)

then my mortgage renewal papers will definitely be in your inbox at some point this year.

 

Maturely yours,

Unwashed

 

 

What’s In a Name? Would A Rose Called Monkeyrind Flapjack Not Smell As Sweet?

I met my friend Charity* during my first year of university. She was a shy, but academically driven student whereas I was a loud, party and boys obsessed person who often made it to class. Whether I was in any state to learn upon arriving to there was another thing, sometimes I’d walk in when it was twenty below out in just a t-shirt and short shorts while mouthing “laundry day” at those I passed. Other times I’d run in after the lecturer had started speaking, taking the stairs three at a time while sloshing my beverage everywhere. I almost never had my notes.

Not surprisingly, Charity wasn’t keen to hang out with a hot splashy mess. At first I sat next to my long suffering lab partner Niles*. This unlucky young man and I became friends because his habits of ironing his pants before class and wiping down plastic seats with his cloth handkerchief before sitting, let me know that this was a guy to follow- not only would he for sure have his notes printed off beforehand, he would be able to explain the concepts when I was totally lost. Because who else travels with a cloth handkerchief but the incredibly well organized? While Niles allowed himself one ditzy, flaky friend, the rest of his posse, including Charity, was academia and success bound whereas as I had more royal aspirations, specifically Prince Al’s, the diner frequented by students after the bars closed.

After some time, Charity and I became friends too. Charity quickly revealed herself to be the most responsible person I had ever known, despite being two years younger than me. She used breaks between classes to study, talked about studying more in the evening, was a writer for the science paper while aspiring for the post of the editor and played piano in her spare time. By contrast, if left to my own devices, I would head back to my residence for a nap any chance I got, studied infrequently and my extra-curricular activities consisted of macking on my boyfriend.

Charity regularly shocked me with her ambition and her ability, landing a coveted research grant during our second year. But even after witnessing all of her triumphs, when Charity revealed that she had named not only herself but her younger brother as well, I was shocked. One lives with their first name for a lifetime, bestowing that sort of power upon a child seemed unfathomable to me. I can recall distinctly going through as least four phases where I asked my mother (who refused) to call me something else; Tracy, Krissy, Jasmine, the list goes on. The fact that Charity managed to choose her English name at six years old when her family emigrated from China and stick with the moniker impressed me to no end. When she added the part about her sibling, I was utterly flabbergasted. Had I been given the same power, Diana would be known as Princess Sparklehorn right now, or some other equally ridiculous title.

Conversely, Charity managed to give herself a name she liked and continues to live with. Her brother also still goes by the name Charity picked. As a result, Charity’s offhand comment that she regrets her choice of Unwashed nom de plume, on a Facebook thread about my last post caught me by surprise. To date, she is the only person who has picked their pseudonym on my blog. Four years ago, I was writing a lot of nonsense about naïve people in my life with hearts of gold and giving them stripper names like “Candy” just to be funny. To keep with the theme Charity chose her name here thusly, there was no way for her know that my blog would endure or that my focus would shift from strippers to bunnies.

Anyways, this is a long way of saying that I’m giving my friend the opportunity to change her name here. Because if one must have second thoughts about christening a person, it’s better that it should be in blog form; there’s less paperwork involved in changing it. So far for legal titles which end up on passports and driver’s licenses, my friend is two for two, let’s all wish her luck because in February that number will change to three when she has her little girl.

As for her online presence here at The Great Unwashed, I’m probably going to suggest that my friend shy away from the bunny theme; one never knows when I’ll take up a fascination with armadillos or blenders thus rendering all things Playboy passé.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who are more intelligent than me and therefore able to carry out devious plans involving salmonella or some other such unpleasant species that they’ve worked with.