That Time I Made A Murder-Suicide Pact

My life was ending. As far as I was concerned, everything good was moving four hours away, so in my car-less life there were only two reasonable options; kill or be killed. Luckily Sula felt the same way. And so, without vocalizing our intent, a murder suicide pact was made. The night before my best friend moved away forever, we decided that the best way to mark this occasion was to drink ourselves to death.

In lieu of beer pong, we took a shot for each happy memory, throwing alcohol down our throats in an attempt to obliterate the knowledge that spontaneously popping over after work, after church, before bed, just because, would never again be an option.

The evening started with wine. Toasting all the nights we had spent eating, “like peasants” as Sula’s brother would joke, with just one light on. We drank because never again would I keep a stash of my favourite vino in Sula’s fridge because I was there so often. Pouring out the last our bottles; red for Sula, white for me, we celebrated all of the hours spent sitting in our pyjamas working diligently on our respective projects.

I poured stolen Baileys onto ice cubes to commemorate when Sula learned how to crochet left handed in order to teach me the beloved pastime. We tossed back a second mug of that delicious, creamy liquor while reminiscing about my inability to line dance and the Friday nights that we walked down the street to the local bar to take lessons after dinner.

With a bit of spray and a satisfying crack, cans of cider were opened and consumed as Sula and I talked of all the weekend when we spent first the morning at the Farmer’s Market and later paddleboarding or cross country skiing at the local provincial park in the afternoon. It was at that point that we decided to take our goodbye party on the road. Specifically down the street to that same bar where I used to crash into strangers while attempting to learn the electric slide.

At the bar, while slugging back beer, we sat on top of a picnic table and stared up at the night sky trying to brainstorm ways we could continue our craft nights, sewing tutorials, dance lessons and hiking trips. In the place of a solution, we ordered more beer.

Initially we believed that our attempt had been unsuccessful, until we woke up the next morning with the most killer hangover in history. Sula and I spent the day running back and forth to the bathroom or dry heaving into the sink when the other person beat us to the coveted porcelain spot. Despite our painful heads and certainty that the end was near, at six o’clock Sula packed up her belongings and drove off forever. I couldn’t have pictured a more appropriate send off.

This post is dedicated to Sula who is once again heading off into the frigid north. Good luck lady, I’m glad that you graduated from crouching in the woods with bears at night to walking the tundra during the day. And even more glad for the giant anti-polar bear rifle you carry.

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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.

To Don’t List

Normally one makes a “To Do” List and giddily checks chores off, one after another. Today I made a “Things I Didn’t Do” List. And I’m going to chronicle them for you in the same annoying manner that girls with low self esteem call up their boyfriends and detail everything they ate that day. I’d do that too but the list would be very short because I’m trying to clear out my pantry in preparation for moving and might upset my grandparents as half of it would be Bailey’s liqueur. Normally I mix Baileys with milk however going grocery shopping was one of my errands that wasn’t completed so there we are.

Things I Didn’t Do But Really Probably Should Have Because Sometimes I Call Myself A Grown-Up But I Have A Feeling My Membership To That Particular Club May Be Revoked Soon

Grocery Shopping– I really should have done this. I’m going to regret this inaction tomorrow when I have no milk for my coffee and a wicked mean hangover from drinking the remains of my pantry.

Going To The Bank– In the grand scheme of things, I’m giving myself a partial pass on this errand. Earlier this week I found important government papers that I thought I had lost hidden in with pictures of naked backs. Ostensibly I could have been searching for more mortgage related papers in my Bailey’s bottle.

Dropping Donations Off At Goodwill– Aside from the fact that a corner of my bedroom is currently being overrun with junk, I think the impoverished people of the city will be just fine even though I didn’t drop off my collection of sparkly wigs* and thirty year old hard cover books.

Vacuuming– The average temperature outside this week has been negative twenty. Inside my house it’s averaged only slightly more than that hence extra thick socks are now a part of my indoor wardrobe but even without being trod upon by shoes the carpet has taken on a fawn tinge. The situation wasn’t helped by my decision to complete one task on my actual To-Do list and shred paper with a dull Exacto knife, which had the effect of recreating the scene in “Elf” where Buddy makes it snow.

If you flip this picture upside down that's what my carpet looks like. (Photo Credit: kenward.blogspot.com)

If you flip this picture upside down that’s what my carpet looks like. (Photo Credit: kenward.blogspot.com)

Wipe Down Counters and Tabletops in the Kitchen– It looks as though the International Convention of Toast Eaters met on my kitchen table and counters then proceeded to devour hundreds of loaves of thick crusted sourdough bread. A family of mice could live off these surfaces for a year or two in their current state.

Recycle the Giant Collection of Boxes that is in a Closet for No Good Reason– If pillow forts were made of cardboard I would be the reigning queen and emperor of the home made fortress world. As such they aren’t and I just have a huge box of collapsed and unusable boxes in my closet to take up space. Also half of the cushions on the sofa are sewed in because the designers were enemies of fun.

Bathe– I rarely do this one anyway, so this isn’t actually a huge disappointment**.

*This special extra post is dedicated to my mother who is doing lots of unfun things this weekend like going to the bank and running tedious errands. Also Mom do not freak out I didn’t donate all of my sparkly wigs. I know you like to wear them to work on occasion.

** Excerpt from a conversation with my Dad:

Dad “Sweetheart, about the title of your blog “The Great Unwashed”, how do you explain that to people?

The Great Unwashed “I tell them I don’t bathe. Just tell people that.”

Dad “But that makes you sound strange.”

Dad, I included that last item just for you. To make you uncomfortable. Because that’s how I show affection and love; by publicly announcing my poor hygiene.

This Post Was Supposed To Involve Barfights And Then It Was About Me Being Half Naked In Church And Now It’s A Note To My Husband

At the end of every work day what I want most is a glass of wine. What I need to do most is to go for a run. Sometimes wants and needs conflict and I consume half a glass of wine before lacing up my shoes.

Sometimes this is a good idea. Other times I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’m approximately the size of a large tween. This has the expected outcome. The following is a note I left for Roscoe written with Sharpie marker on an envelope offering 2 for 1 pizza coupons.

 

Dear Roscoe,

I’ve gone running. Drunk.

I’ll try not to cross any major roads.

Love you,

The Great Unwashed.

 

When I arrived home Roscoe was quite upset. Not over my inability to run in a straight line but over the company I keep on runs. Occasionally while jogging through my favourite park I am chased by homeless people and meth heads. He argued that these people made running in an inebriated state a poor choice.

I countered that I went running in my second favourite park, which also happens to be the meth head’s second favourite park, so they weren’t there to make haphazard attempts to keep up with my wobbly pace. Besides I can’t figure out why Roscoe is so worried about a few disheveled people chasing me when I have yet to be caught.

Part two of the award post is coming, however I did show up in church only half dressed last weekend, so that story needs to be told first, some things are so embarrassing that they need to be celebrated.