That Time That The Government Was All “Show Us the Goods, Unwashed”

I got audited. Hard. The Canadian Revenue Agency showed up at my door, kicked it in, and then frisked me. Afterwards, just for kicks, the CRA stuck my hand in the toilet while singing “Swirlé, Swirlé Swiiiiirrrrlééé”.

Ok, it might not have happened exactly like that, but it was close. 2014 was kind of a nutty year for me. I decided to follow it up with an even crazier year filled with two cross country moves, a wedding and a baby. The baby was four days late and arrived in 2016 but the vast majority of the baby-making occurred in 2015. Anyways, because of all this moving, shaking and baby-making, I didn’t get the letter where the government was all like “We need proof of these antics; send us your receipts, proofs and your third grade report card”, what I got instead months later, was an angry letter demanding me to pay them allllllllll of the money. To which I sniffled “But, but, but, I don’t understand!” and after that promptly paid them alllllllll of the money, then stood on street corners singing the blues with my hat held out for people to throw nickels in.

Last month, I finally received all the mail that had been sent to my former address the previous summer, including the aforementioned letter in which the government wanted to see written proof of my life up to and including Mrs. Bobbitt’s thoughts on my third grade Claymation project and life started to add up again.

So I dutifully, gathered all the documents and sent them into the heads of our true north strong and free. Even though my receipts, letters and Mrs. Bobbitt’s praise for my addition skills explained a lot, I felt the government deserved the whole story.

 

Dear Bilingual Dudes and Dudettes in suits,

Bonjourno! Wait, that may be the wrong language. At any rate, hello! How’s it hanging up in parliament? That’s great! Sorry; I stopped listening after the first syllable because no one except for Justin Trudeau cares that much about politics. Unless of course politics involves our Prime Minster taking off his shirt.

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This man’s shapely torso is the answer to voter apathy. (Photo Credit : http://www.alanifagan.com)

I received your letter and enclosed the requested documents but I thought I should explain, I mean, I totally understand your incredulous response to my year. Looking back, I can’t even believe that I bought a house, went back to school for ten months, worked part time and traveled for three months. It doesn’t show it anywhere on those documents, but I met the cowboy of my dreams in there too. What can I say? It was a super packed year. Clearly I didn’t sleep. But even still, I see your questioning eyebrows, Canada Revenue Agency, you’re saying to yourself “These numbers don’t add up, we need concrete proof of this tomfoolery and possibly a road map” so let me draw it out for you.

I’ll admit it, I bought a house. It was a small house though, which meant the mortgage was manageable, even as a single, quasi-employed lady. Also then I sold my car. Ok, the word isn’t sold. I took my car to the junk yard, poured out a little for my mechanical homey and then was driven home by my friend Gordy. So that saved money. Lots of money in fact, have you seen what insurers charge in Ontario?

Then, to fund my piling tuition bills I took a page out of Burning Man’s book

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Everything good can happen when this is the model one works from. (Photo Credit : http://www.rollingstone.com)

and started trading topless pirate Macarena dances for watermelons. Not really, but I did exchange meals at my house for rides to places I wanted to go. I relied on my friends that year. I am especially indebted to my close friend Gordy; he drove me everywhere and offered to fight evil, trash can tumbling raccoons cum burglars for me. But don’t call him to verify this; Gordy’s so humble he’ll claim that he didn’t do anything.

Even with lots of help, that still didn’t save enough money to fund ten months of schooling, so I kept cutting my budget. I shopped at Giant Tiger and ate produce which tasted like blue cheese. I raided my Dad’s pantry and mowed down on ten year old wild rice. When that wasn’t sufficient, I cut out all activities that weren’t free or directly related to school. CRA, you don’t even want to know how many walks I took.

I know, taking all those cost cutting measures into account, the numbers still don’t add up. Dearest government, that’s the best, most comprehensive explanation I have for that year. All I can say is when I look back; I was running, running, running the entire twelve months. I hope this helps to clarify matters. If it doesn’t, you’re welcome to call me at home, although I wouldn’t suggest it, I’m even more inexplicable in person.

Inscrutably yours,

The Great Unwashed

Death By Frozen Tundra

We’ve had cold weather warnings all week here in Canadatown. However this has not stopped me from walking to my beloved haunts like the library and campus. It has meant that I look like a larger, fabric laden version of myself; suiting up in no less than five layers up top and a minimum of two on the bottom.

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Having walked in negative twenty degree temperatures for an hour several times recently, I concluded that today was the perfect day to drag someone who once called himself my friend (possibly no longer) into the wretched, frozen wilderness with me. So off we headed to the local park.

I insisted that we go to the beach. Because it’s January, and who doesn’t love the beach in January?

What we found was this.

I'm standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

I’m standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

In the summer months the water line began about fifteen feet from the dunes. As a result of this unusually cold winter, the waves have been freezing as they crash against the shore, forming a moonscape made of porous ice mixed with sand. It was stunning. It was rugged. It was so slippery I was reduced to bumbogganing at points. This sounds uncomfortable but I had a far easier time of it than Gordy what with my ample bottom being cushioned by three pairs of pants.photo 2

Initially I was hesitant to climb over the craggy surface, fearing that at any moment the ice would crack and the two of us would plunge into the lake. Luckily Gordy was all “To heck with safety!” and made a beeline for the sandy ice hills.

I followed after him, making sure to listen for sounds of the ice breaking and stepping exactly in his footsteps.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of vulnerable possibly mentally incapacitated persons. Because those in possession of all of their faculties would not have spent the day wandering about in foot high drifts and exploring ice mountains. Either that or I have a nice friend who didn’t want me doing this alone.

Nocturnal Apparitions

So I had a “Travesty Tuesday” post all written and ready to go with the intention of posting it this week then I realized last night that it was Wednesday. If four day weeks back to back separated by a four day weekend don’t throw your sense of time and day for a loop, I don’t know what does. However I was heading out to a friend’s and decided to post it when I got back along with a note about my thinking it was only Tuesday.

But then our house got broken into. By ghosts. So instead of posting hilarity for my readers, I spent fifteen minutes crouched in my bathroom because it’s the only room in the house with a lock, on the phone with my parents waiting for Gordy* to come over.

Gordy has been a close friend for nearly a decade and thus is well versed in the Great Unwashed hierarchy of fears. After hearing that the door to the upstairs was wide open without my having touched it, he rushed right over.

Queue the two of us searching the entire house. Now if Roscoe and I lived in a normal apartment this wouldn’t have taken long. Regrettably we don’t. We live in a two story apartment in an 85 year old house that has always had a doctor’s office on the lower floor. We have more walk in closets than most people have fingers and toes.

Luckily our search turned up no intruders. Therefore the only logical conclusion is that my house was broken into by ghosts. This does happen occasionally, most often when Roscoe isn’t home, the last time that he was on call there was a poltergeist in the fridge.

That was a really long way of explaining why the Travesty Tuesday will now be on Friday.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who are willing to drive over to my house in the middle of the night to search for the phantom of the doctor. Mostly because if his name got out everyone would be calling him and then he’d be run off his feet with women who thought they had a spook in their toaster.