Put Away Your Zagat Guide, This is the Country

I grew up in the throbbing metropolis which is known for having too many people in too small a space. This leads to phenomenon such as line ups, traffic jams and general rage. The last one may just be something I have when in the throbbing metropolis but still. The upshot of this is, I line up. I am awesome at lining up. In addition, I rock at showing up early to avoid the aforementioned line ups.

The country, or the middle of nowhere, where I currently reside has lots of space and very few people. Yet instinctively, I still stick to my learned habits of showing up early and expecting a mad house to events. It’s exactly like the “Field of Dreams” where they say “If you build it, they will come” only there’s nothing built and yet I’m still standing here waiting for masses of people.

For example Santa visits. In the throbbing metropolis Santa is available all day, every day the month of December. Parents cut off their right arms to pay to meet the jolly guy and then turn sideways for the photo to hide their missing limb while underpaid youth wish them “Merry Christmas”. Families wait upwards of an hour for this privilege. This is my normal. This is what I know.

So when I found out that Santa only met twice in December, for only two hours, at what we call our local mall, I expected a madhouse. I debated the merits of the baby carrier versus the stroller in the event that we were trampled in the rush to get to Santa. I ultimately concluded that the stroller could double as an ankle battering ram as well as protection for our son. I made my husband take out fifty dollars in bills because I knew these kinds of places only accepted cash. The four of us, my husband Tex, myself, our au pair and my son had an early supper so we could be there thirty minutes before Santa arrived to line up.

Being from the middle of nowhere, my husband Tex tried to reason with me, saying the five minutes was more than enough time. But he quickly lost that argument because I’m from the throbbing metropolis- we metropolites KNOW we are right. Always.

Supper took a while. As it does with a toddler. Also I insisted on bathing our son and dressing him in a specific outfit and that everyone freshen up. Because I am unreasonable seeker of memories and a tyrant. It’s one of my best qualities. All of this prepping and unnecessary eating meant that we were only twenty five minutes early instead of thirty.

“Go, Go GO!” I shouted to our au pair as our husband dropped the three of us at the entrance so we wouldn’t waste the thirty seconds it took to park. “We’re late!” I cried. I tucked Mini-Tex under my arm like a football and sprinted for the doors slamming through them. There was no time to wait for the slow automatic door to open. We were late.

I ran past the bank and the store that sells tissue masquerading as clothing to teenagers all the way to the giant Christmas tree at the center of the mall to see… nothing. There was no one there except for the sign saying the times when Santa would appear and an empty chair.

One minute later, my husband appeared. “Excellent” he said “There’s no one here, can we go grocery shopping now?”

“NO!” I cried, “The crowds will arrive any second- we have to get into line!”

The urgency in my voice and my statement would have made a lot more sense if there had been more than you know, fifteen people in the whole mall. And by fifteen people, I mean they were all scattered either working or shopping in the stores and clearly not there to see St. Nick.

“Oooooook” said my husband in the “I’m going to leave you to this” way that he does when I get crazy. “I’m going to do our shopping and come back in twenty minutes” Then he and our au pair took off and Mini-Tex and I wandered the vacant mall for twenty minutes. Mini-Tex mauled the Christmas decorations while I was on high alert, ready to start throwing elbows and fighting the throngs of people who would inevitably appear in an enormous group to meet Santa and take up the full two hours so Mini-Tex missed out.

Just so you know, we weren’t the first ones to meet Santa. Five minutes later, at the sound of the jingle bells, a family materialized out of nowhere and rushed Father Christmas. Exactly like I predicted. Then our son had a full five minutes with Santa. I’d like to say this is because he loved Santa so much but it was actually because Santa was smitten with our au pair and tried unsuccessfully to convince her to sit on his lap. Also the whole interaction was free. Well unless you count creepiness as a price in which case Janey our au pair paid dearly.

One would have thought I learned my lesson.

But no. Last week the circus rolled into town. I was unreasonably excited the whole week. Because nothing happens here. Well not nothing, but traveling acts are few and far between. I may have shaken my son awake that morning “The circus is coming!” in an effort to make him as excited as I was.

I had the day planned down to the minute. Every moment was used to ready ourselves for the circus. I bathed. Mini-Tex had a bath. I did laundry so he would have an adorable outfit to wear. If I had owned Spanx, I would have broken those out to ensure attractive and svelte looking family photos. I took Mini-Tex to the indoor playground as soon as it opened and ran him like a tiny greyhound so he’d nap before noon.

My husband got off work early that day. As he walked in the door he shouted “I forgot my phone”. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem except that THE TICKETS WERE ON HIS PHONE. Luckily, thanks to my advance planning, my son and I were ready. So we all hopped on our bikes and cycled back across town to retrieve Tex’s phone.

This makes it sound like a gigantic, athletic debacle, but across town to the hospital where Tex works is all of two kilometers away. However the upshot of this is that we were only twenty minutes early, rather than the thirty minutes that I had planned for.

Biking back from the hospital, I resisted the urge to shout “What’s our time?” at my husband at every stop sign. I remembered the Santa Claus meet and greet. I also calmed myself by picturing a warm, sunny beach. Of course I wouldn’t be lying on it, because even in my fantasies, I realize that such a place would result in my pale skinned death. But I also imagined a giant curtained cabana that I could peek out of at said scene. In between sitting in absolute darkness.

I managed to keep my calm long enough to stop to get Mini-Tex a snack. A hotdog, because he has an obsession with the book “The Pigeon Finds A Hot Dog”. Previous to this, Mini-Tex had never shown any interest in hotdogs and I had actually thrown out two packages because my husband and I don’t eat them either. However they seem like good toddler food so I bought them.

Walking into the tent, I expected bedlam, with parents frantically throwing diapers bags and coats over the bleachers to reserve seats. Instead we were met with strobe lights, the smell of popcorn and a whole lot of empty stands. There were about ten people there.

Even with all that empty space, I was still judicious about choosing where to sit. After all, the tent could fill up at any time. We biked through the back field, so it’s possible we missed a lineup of cars all paying thirty dollars to park. I resisted the urge to walk around the entire tent in order to determine the best vantage point. Instead, I picked a side and a row a little ways up, explaining that even if people filled the rows in front; we’d still have an excellent view.

Then we waited and Mini-Tex finished his hot dog. And requested another. So Tex ran out and returned within thirty seconds with a second hotdog. Apparently not even the concession stand was busy. A handful of people trickled in. Mini-Tex demolished a second hotdog. A clown came around and took photos with all the groups. A family trooped into our section and took up the back row. I tensed up expecting a swarm of people at the last minute.

Mini-Tex requested yet another hotdog. While peering around at the empty rows, I silently vowed to write “The Pigeon Eats Kale Salad”. Then I placed the tiny Skip Hop penguin back pack on the bleacher next to me, silently cursing myself for not bringing a large bag, because no doubt when the crush of people arrived, I’d be smushed up against a large, hairy man who bathed even less often than I did. I asked Tex the time. The show was supposed to start. I scanned the entrance, expecting a stampede of people. The show did not start. Apparently the circus also expected more people.

I silently and smugly congratulated my urban self for arriving early and getting the best spot before all these late comer rural people arrived. Three more people walked in and seated themselves across the ring.

Then the show started and I conceded that I may have to stop being quite so Type A if we’re going to live here for any length of time. Well you know unless we want to be the people who show up an hour before the party starts. But nobody likes them.

Advertisements

Muscly CFL Footballers Drinking Egg Smoothies Make The Best Housemates. Just In Case You Were Wondering.

I lived with a CFL footballer. Not like lived with as in passing him in the kitchen on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night being all “Hey Craig, having your 2 AM egg smoothie? Nice. Well I have to pee”, but more like lived with in the same heritage home that had been divided into apartments. Although the egg smoothie bit is totally true, his wife wrote about it on her blog. Apparently footballers get up in the middle of the night and down a glass of a dozen raw eggs. I found this deeply upsetting because

  1. That would give me a wicked stomachache and heartburn
  2. If I’m up in the middle of the night, it had better be for the purposes of consuming something delicious, like my husband’s lunch.

Even though Craig and I were in separate apartments, it still totally counts. I lived with a footballer, that makes me 3,000% more sporty than before. Really ask me about anything athletic- I’ll know the answer as long as it’s “What colour is a football?” and “Why are there names on the back of jerseys?”

Also, I saw Craig a lot. Mostly when he would walk past my son and I while we were playing on the lawn, with me completely entombed in my sun protective gear looking like I was on my way to rob a bank that had a rule requiring people wear large hats. Craig, for his part would wave, say “Hello” and act normal, like he always lived with women vampires. I would then wave back while holding a Bubble Guppy and possibly pull down my buff so my voice wasn’t muffled to ask how he was. Regardless, Craig the footballer was super nice which was not what I was expecting.

For starters, he’s the size of a house. I’m fairly certain that once I heard him get stuck in the doorway when he forgot to turn sideways to exit his apartment. No doubt his poor wife had to call the nice European couple next door to help pull him out.

winnie_the_pooh_s_ordeal__part_2__by_psudders0121-d6xsknc

In my mind it was exactly like this but instead of a cuddly bear, it was a giant, muscly footballer. Also his wife is significantly more comely than rabbit. Photo Credit : deviantart.com

This hunch was confirmed when Craig showed me the tennis ball that he had hung from the ceiling to remind himself to duck before entering the bathroom because he bumped his head on the doorframe so often. Heritage homes were not designed with men the size of houses in mind.

Between his physique and career choice, I half expected him to be constantly pulling the legs off of creatures as a demonstration of his strength because he LOOKED like a man that could do that. Like some Gaston come to life, who would, in addition to eating five dozen eggs, would remove the limbs of eight dozen crabs and fry them up as a snack.

Given that Craig is a celebrity who appears on national television, I also expected him to be aloof; instead, when I asked him if he would sign a ball, he offered to take it in for the whole team to sign it! I NEVER would have thought to ask for this. For starters, I thought that kind of thing only happened to people with either a terminal illness or a lot of money. While my vampire-ism is unsightly, it’s not deadly, and being a stay at home mom is not the highest paying job I’ve held.

As it was, I had already purchased a ball. A basketball, because my Dad thinks I’m funny, and likes my jokes. And while all of the Blue Bombers’ signatures would have been neat, I didn’t live with all of them. And only Craig attempted to high-five my son. So his signature seemed far cooler to me.

Hence why Craig very kindly inscribed his name and number on a basketball for me, along with the message “I hope your grandsons know more about football than your daughter.”20180627_181224

This may possibly be the only photo of Craig on the internet holding a basketball. Also, he forgot to angle himself in the doorway, so when he flexed his biceps after the picture was taken, he became lodged in the doorway again. It took a crow bar and a container of bacon grease to get him out.

Also please note how humble this man is, the message is written in tiny letters, as if he expected me to take it to all the other celebrity athletes I know to have them sign too. Happy belated Father’s day Dad, this may also be your birthday gift because I’m desperately disorganized.

Forget Locking Up Your Daughters, You Need To Lock Up Your Washers

So a couple of weeks back, I did something bad. Not like murdering someone and tossing the body under a bridge bad, but worse than stealing Tex’s car keys so I could secretly eat Halloween candy for breakfast. (He locks our Halloween candy in the car because I’m like a devious, curly haired raccoon.) I broke our washing machine.

To be fair, Tex gave me permission to do it. Because when I held up our bathmat that had seen better, cleaner days, and asked “Can I wash this in the machine?” Tex replied “Yes”. So he’s an accomplice in the death of our washing machine. I would like you all to remember that when the Maytag police show up at my door. Yes, our son will be an orphan but at least I won’t go to appliance prison alone.

But the thing is, I’ve done this before. Not washed our bath mat, but when we were staying in the walk-in closet a couple of months ago, the place came fully furnished. Complete with a bathmat that was proving the theory of evolution every single day by spawning new and disgusting creatures for Tex and I to squish under our feet.

trash heap

(This trash heap from the The trash heap from the Fraggles was cleaner and less concerning than the walk-in closet’s bathmat. Photo Credit: youtube.com

I’m the Great Unwashed. I freely told my doctor that I only bathe once a week. I regularly let my son cover himself head to toe in dirt and then send him to daycare like a living, breathing Pig Pen. However, this bathmat was a whole different, more gag worthy version of dirty. One that I am not comfortable with.

That’s saying something.

The bathmat was so dirty that you could feel bacteria wrapping their mutant tentacle arms around your toes when you stepped on it. Like a horror movie crossed with science fiction. Had I left the bathmat as it was, it undoubtedly would have inched its way to our bed during the night and suffocated us in our sleep. It was maybe eight days away from forming intelligent life.

So I washed the walk-in closet’s bathmat. I didn’t have high expectations. In fact a part of me expected the creature to spawn in the water so that when I came back down, it would have sprouted legs and taken off with the washing machine, dryer and the random giant painting of a pear in the basement.

A better option would have been to use fire. Or even better Tex’s ray gun that he still claims doesn’t exist. Although undoubtedly Tex would deem that washing a bathmat was an inappropriate use for a ray gun. As it was, all I had was a washer. So I threw the sucker in.

It was so disgusting I may have used tongs to transport it downstairs. Then I said goodbye to the washing machine, dryer and the random painting. But forty minutes later when the cycle finished, lo and behold the washing machine was still there. And after drying- it looked like a whole new mat. Complete with a different colour! Like entirely different. I still shudder when I think about the degree of change.

The whole point of that new life form filled story was that I have successfully washed bathmats before. And also if pushed I can kill entire civilizations. But only those living on towels.

Fast forward two months when we are back at home in our house. While washing our bathmat I discovered something- bathmat washings are not like cats. Both in the way that you can’t put bathmats in the crate, spray water at them and hope for the best like my sister did once with one of our cats; more in the way that cats have nine lives and apparently a person only gets to wash a bathmat successfully once in their life.

I washed our bathmat and destroyed our washing machine.

Like completely destroyed it.

Part of me wished that I had ruined the walk-in closets washing machine because there were six other units in the building so I could have walked away and pretended it was someone else. But no, it was OUR washing machine, in OUR house and there was only one person who could take the blame.

There was water sitting in the drum. There were little bits of rubber everywhere. And I could tell that this rubber-bitty situation continued all the way through the washing machine’s innards. “Tex?” I called, inhaling deeply to mentally fortify myself before admitting my mistake, “I, um, I did something bad.”

The next three hours were my and Tex’s punishment because I had to put our son to bed by myself while Tex took apart every single piece of the washer and laid it out on our basement floor. Then he swore. And not in the normal Tex way, when he uses curse words as exclamation points. For example “It’s a &%$@ing beautiful day!”

No, this was more of an angry pirate, on a sinking ship, fighting a giant shark for his peg leg kind of swearing. I’ve never heard the word “tree” included in a curse before. Once or twice, I’d poke my head around the stairs and ask ruefully whether I could help. Then Tex would sigh, mutter another new profanity into the belly of our former washing machine and say “No, just go upstairs and never wash another bathmat again.”

It took him three hours to fix the washing machine.

Three hours.

Nothing takes my husband three hours. The man is a farm boy, engineer, doctor, black smith who knows how to pick locks. I’m not even sure his ray gun took him that long to put together. Although he swears up and down that it doesn’t exist.

And we’re getting to the worst part.

The repair didn’t work.

Well, not the first time.

Tex of course successfully ran a test load of laundry. And then I ran a load of laundry and everything was fine.

But then, oh then, my parents came to visit. Which everyone knows is a completely stress free experience for all involved, and when I washed the sheets, a little bit of water trickled out the bottom. I ignored it. Because I make bad decisions like that. Regularly. And I’ve been known to get a little splashy with the liquid soap sometimes. Also did I mention we have a two year old? I found a chunk of banana in my shoe the other day. Stuff happens. A little water can be ignored.

But then I made the mistake of doing two loads back to back. And then there was a puddle. One large enough to soak my socks if I wore socks. I brought my mother into my confidence. “You mustn’t tell Tex” and she agreed especially after I told her about the tree curse word thing.

Previously, in my life, when my butt sat much closer to my back and I didn’t have weird lines in between my boobs that may or may not be wrinkles, I didn’t do laundry often. And by “not often” I mean, I wore things three or four times until I determined that they smelled (OK, maybe five or six). I worked at many different job sites so wearing the same outfit the entire week wasn’t an issue. The point is- I am accustomed to being a little dirty. I am after all the Great Unwashed.

By contrast, Tex might as well be known as the Obsessively Cleaned. He loves washed clothes. He attacks stains with the same vigor and effort that Mr. Clean would if he showed up at your door, all bald, shiny, and grinning.  For the record it’s equally disturbing to watch.

There was only so long that I could put off doing laundry. If Tex had been away, my son and I might have gone months. I mean at some point, when the stink lines coming off my and my toddler’s body became visible, I might have sprayed some Febreeze, but then we would have been fine for another month. As it was, I got a week in before I was forced to tell Tex.

Happily, he fixed it in an hour. It’s been working since then. Now everyone knock on wood for me.

 

If This Isn’t Contraception I Don’t Know What Is

Greetings from the center of the sun. Or as I like to call it “home”. In a fit of insanity, I chose to live in a fourth floor walk-up that’s the size of a celebrity’s walk in closet. The kicker is NOT the forty steps up to our suite, no, it’s the lack of air conditioning.

So we’ve all become nudists. Mini-Tex has stopped saying “Mommy! Your pants! Find your pants!” when I walk around now. We can all just sit on the couch in a partially-clothed, over-heated heap. The newest toddler game has segued from jumping on the couch to sticking himself to the couch. Given that he was always wearing clothing before, Mini-Tex only just discovered the joy and entertainment of peeling bare skin off vinyl. A trick he repeats over and over in the way two year olds do.

For some strange reason when Mini-Tex goes to bed, my husband and I don’t find the same glee in unsticking our bare skin from the couch.

Fun Fact– Air conditioning changed the timing of babies. Previously people didn’t want to bang-a-lang when their goolies were all sweaty, so fewer babies were born in April and May. But with the advent of central air suddenly people were bumping uglies year round and there were more spring babies. True story.

Tex and I lived this fact the other night. So it was 35 degrees Celsius outside and approximately 7,000 degrees in our apartment. Mini Tex had demanded the fan be moved to the bedroom so my husband and I were left to sweat it out in a sticky, mostly naked mess on the couch. Sounds hot right?

You better believe it was. I mean I was lying there, completely motionless and yet beads of sweat still were forming under my eyes. If that isn’t hot, I don’t know what is. The couch is small, so my legs were draped over Tex. He put a hand on my knee, then moved it to my ankle and uttered the words every woman desires to hear. “Your entire body feels like a dog’s nose- vaguely moist and clammy.”

My God, it was like the trilogy of Fifty Shade of Grey right there in one sentence.

“You know,” I responded “now would be as good a time as any to experiment with ice cubes”.

“Do we have ice?”

I snorted. “This place doesn’t have a pot with handles. Do you think there’s an ice tray?”

“There are frozen peas.”

The prospect removing a package of frozen peas to cool myself was attractive, but liable to be messy given my habit of tearing into the plastic bags like a cougar ripping into a gazelle. It makes for a lot of large and oddly shaped holes, which would make for many tiny, frozen marbles on the floor. I shot down the idea “Nope. The pork chops could defrost on my stomach though.”

In the end, we stole the fan back from a sleeping Mini-Tex and lay on the couch thinking about all the celibate couples like ourselves before the advent of air conditioning.

Seeking Short Term Rental- Frat House Adjacent With Live-In Poltergeist Preferred

I failed being an adult. Again. It’s worse than the time I wiped my son’s butt with one of his socks but better than the time that I didn’t change the oil in my car for six months. Tex is working in the big smoke for a couple of months and wanted Mini-Tex and I to accompany him. Thus I was charged with finding us accommodations. No small feat because the place needed

  • To be available for one and three quarter months starting May 7th
  • To be furnished
  • To be within walking distance of Tex’s work
  • Also to be in our limited price range

In retrospect, Tex should have been the one to search for housing because I choose housing based on

  1. The proximity to frat houses. My ideal living space is a soundproofed duplex with frat boys on the other side, so I can be right on top of the action. Isn’t “Baby’s First Kegger” one of the major milestones? Of course Mini-Tex wouldn’t imbibe; he’d just be the adorable celebrated mascot that the young men would nickname “Little Bro”.

 

Frat boys are the literary equivalent of living on a gold mine. They create it just by virtue of doing everyday actions, for example peeing. Most people choose to do this in the privacy of bathrooms. By contrast frat boys will take any old alleyway. Even the one that my kitchen faces.

  1. Amenities like functional plumbing are less important than say a poltergeist because how else am I going to explain who ate Tex’s lunch in the middle of the night?
  2. A self-described cheapskate, this quality is the key reason why I’ve lived in somewhat unique housing for the majority of my adult life.

As it was, Tex works full time and I am a stay at home Mom, meaning that procuring a short term rental fell to me. After a couple of false starts- no one responded to my frat house with poltergeist ad, we found a place. Tex is a fan of the apartment in spite of the fact that it’s the size of a celebrity’s walk-in closet. I mean yes, there’s a bed in the kitchen and we have to move the kitchen table and chairs one way if we want to sleep and back the other way to open the dishwasher, but first world problems – am I right? I keep telling myself that it’s training for if I ever lose my mind and embark on a train trip across Canada and have to shower over a toilet for two weeks. These are the kinds of life skills I was missing.

Also, my refrigerator Tetris skills have never been sharper, due to the fact that one of the two vegetable crispers can’t be used because the bed prevents the fridge door from opening fully. Should TLC ever pilot a show “Food Storage Wars” which chronicles the struggle of polygamous families with thirteen teenage sons trying to fit the week’s groceries into a small space, I will swoop right in like an organizational Mary Poppins, only I’d have a parachute of kale rather than an umbrella.

As much as I joke, Mini-Tex LOVES the place. He is never more than five feet from either parent. If this doesn’t cement his attachment to us, I don’t know what will. Also the “using the back of the kitchen chairs as a framework to bounce himself on the bed” is the best toddler game ever. Two year olds don’t care if they can touch three out of four walls while standing in the middle of the room, or that it was the only place available, no, the springy nature of the futon coils is what counts.

The funniest part is, I’m beginning to like the Lilliputian life. I’m trying to convince Tex that we should actually become elves and live in a hollowed out tree. We’d have our mortgage paid off in no time.

The Lifecycle of a Diet As Told By Me, The Very Hungry and Chubby Caterpillar

Going on a diet is EXACTLY like the story “The Very Hungry Caterpillar”. Only instead of eating your way through every single food, you merely stare at the edibles and say things like “Ohhh chocolate torte, you look like my ex-boyfriend from high school, is there a reason you still have to look so damn delicious?”

Also, rather than starting as a tiny egg on a leaf, you begin your diet story as a giant blob at the kitchen table. Or at least that’s where my story begins. My son is learning his numbers. I started my diet the day he counted my chins.

the-very-hungry-caterpillar-fat-canvas-wall-art-13_1

Don’t take my picture right now- that bagel made me bloated! (Photo Credit : rosenberryrooms.com)

From there you slowly unfurl from your chair and begin to move. Remember movement? Walking? The gym? God in heaven why aren’t these methods of torture illegal? You vow to change your eating habits instead.

On Monday, you eat only apples. And still get bigger.

Tuesday, you decide pears are lower in carbs but still you get bigger.

You conclude that the key is eating tinier fruits. So on Wednesday you mow down on three tiny plums and the scale laughs at you when you step on it.

Thursday you throw out the scale and eat a bag of Cheetos.

Friday morning brings regret in many forms, so you dumpster dive to rescue the scale. Your garbage adventure gives you an old pizza and sour milk smell that you can’t seem to wash out of your hair. The scent makes you gag so much that Friday becomes an all-day fast.

On Saturday you’re invited out for dinner and drinks. Thankfully the spoiled milky-pizza smell came out, so you watch as your friends eat chocolate torte, a plate of penne, a churro, shawarma and a lobster. Afterwards, you are very tired of your diet and make a cocoon of blankets to comfort yourself before bed.

Sunday morning, all of your hard work has paid off because you emerge from your bed, a thin, beautiful winged creature with well styled hair.

Only not actually, you’re still fat. Also hungry. But your partner informs you that he managed to lose 8 pounds this week.

What the Hell Wednesday- Kicks in the Pants and Hillbilly Televisions

After my most recent Storyworth post, Tex commented that he liked what I wrote but he felt that he could ask better questions, so he wrote me some. I have to admit, they’re better questions, so here are a handful.

You have been selected to participate in “The Amazing Race”. What five countries do you NOT wish to visit and who will be your partner?

When I was eleven, life was amazing because my Uncle was traveling all around the world for his job, which meant that all of his stuff including his TV lived at my family’s house. Our TV was three thousand years old and weighed as many pounds. It sat underneath my Uncle’s TV in our living room in a set up that would have been completely hillbilly if one of them was broken. As it was it was, the two TVs gave our house more of a sports bar vibe. I got to live every preteen’s dream of playing Nintendo 64 while watching Boy Meets World at the same time. This lasted for the year that my Uncle spent crisscrossing the globe. This story does have a point, stay with me.

Anyway, in all of his travels, my Uncle said that the only places he wouldn’t go were places that ended in “stan” so basically Pakistan, Kazakhstan, Iranistan, war torn, dangerous countries. I stand by that. Although I’m pretty sure that Iranistan doesn’t exist and Kazakhstan might have been the fictional country that Borat was from, but I’m sticking with that statement.

As for partners, it would have to be Sula. The Amazing Race is the most intense form of punishment I can possibly imagine for myself, after traveling for hours and hours, people are expected to eat spiders then luge down mountains? It sounds like a recipe for my death. If I was to try something like that with Tex, on the very first leg of the tour, I’d say “I’m tired I hate this, now I’m going to gnaw your arm off in a show of my displeasure.” Tex would then soothingly tell me that we should find a nice, quiet restaurant to sit down and a Westin hotel because they have excellent beds and wouldn’t I feel better after a long night’s sleep that wasn’t on an airplane?

Sula, by contrast is equal parts glamour and adventure. Also she takes no prisoners and never surrenders. We’d be about to jump out of a plane and I’d say “I’m petrified and want to go home” Sula would respond by hurling into her barf bag because she gets motion sickness then use her foot to kick my butt out of the aircraft. Next, she’d jump out after me, and yell while she passed me on the way down “I believe in you!”

Yes, I realize that all objects fall at a constant rate so Sula couldn’t pass me but she is so badass that my friend doesn’t have to obey rules like physics. Then she’d hit the ground and scale the giant sequoia with her bare hands to earn us the first place for the stop.

scorpion-venom-milking-machine-1

I could picture Sula mowing one of these down without hesitation. By contrast, I prefer food that doesn’t put up a fight. Photo Credit newsatlas.com

A Dementor is bearing down on you, what terrible form does it take and what animal is your patronus?

The Dementor is without a doubt a manatee, aka “Terrors of the Sea”. I have an irrational fear of swimming with manatees and all of them congregating over me, thus preventing my ascent to the surface for air. It’s the aquatic version of being trampled to death by elephants. Although I’m pretty sure that the creature that inhabits closets and takes the form of your worst nightmare in Harry Potter’s world is a Boggart. Dementors force you relive the most horrible moments of your life. Undoubtedly I’d be sucked back to a date I had with a young man who kept awkwardly swatting my arm and calling me a “bad girl” in a way that I’m sure he thought was sexy but was actually just eight different shades of awkward. My patronus would be a honey badger because the name sounds sweet and you’re all “Look! A badger-how adorable!” and then it gnaws your face off.

Knockdown Brawling Walker Rugby and Grandma’s Spanx

While cleaning out my grandmother’s room, I found the most bizarre garment I’d ever seen in my life. It was like a cross between bike shorts, underpants and football padding. “What is this?” I asked my aunt, holding up the object in question for her to see.

0001471_standard-hip-protector-male-medium_415

This image doesn’t capture how GIANT and thick the pads were. Also obviously my Grandma’s were for a lady. Photo Credit activemedicalsupplies.com.au

“Oh those” she laughed. “They’re hip protectors. I bought them for Mom when she got unsteady. Mom refused to wear them though.” I placed the hip protectors in the charity pile and continued sorting.

A little while later, my Dad was stuffing the charity pile into garbage bags and he came across the hip protectors. “What in the heck are these?” he asked, justifiably alarmed. Before I could answer, my aunt jumped in with her boring explanation. I was so disappointed; my father is trusting to a fault, making him the best person to prank.

He was the only person who believed me when I said that I sent out naked pictures of Tex in my Christmas card a couple of years ago. However, my favourite joke was when my mother came home with a fake belly button ring. My Dad blew up like a puffer fish, opening and closing his mouth in angry indignation “How could you? What kind of example does this set for the girls?” At that moment his face was the reddest I’d ever seen it. That is until my Mom took the ring out and Dad realized that he’d been had.

All the Outlandish Stories I Would Have Told My Dad Instead of the Truth

  1. They’re Grandma’s Spanx

On occasion she’d put them on to impress the church ladies. Paired with her support hose, she’d have all the male church elders hollering. But obviously Grandma only wore them once in a while out of deference to Jesus.

  1. Thursdays the old folk’s home hosts walker rugby

It’s exactly like normal rugby only the players have fewer teeth to lose. Also the nursing home mandates that the elderly players protect all their fragile parts hence the hip padding. Grandma’s rugby nickname was ironically “Ruthless”; she had the most knockouts of anyone on the floor.

  1. The Turkish baths downstairs are nude but require a flotation device

Grandma could have worn a lifejacket but she liked the feeling of letting the girls loose in the water. Also it was a better spot to receive all those cat calls. The pads on the sides are buoyant.

  1. New technology incontinence pants

Standard incontinence pants bulk up in an obvious way. These skintight ones have special wicking technology that moves the liquid to the removable pads at the sides. NASA invented them for the Mars mission.

  1. Hockey top for my cousin

This was why Grandma didn’t sew much- she remembered the shoulder pads but forgot a hole for the neck.

 

I’m fairly certain I could have sold every story but the Turkish baths, and that one only because the nursing home didn’t have a pool.

This post is dedicated to my Aunt Camelia who follows in her mother’s kind and loving footsteps, whereas I tread in my mother’s impish and occasionally devious ones. You remind me to be nice Aunty Camelia- thank you.

What the Hell Wednesday – Mixed Martial Arts and What Actually Goes On in Cars During Highschool

Would you encourage today’s generation to join the military?

Yes, millennials are damn irritating and I take any opportunity to ship their voice-conversation-phobic selves away. The old people can stay though. Also the quietest of the children.

Did you have a car in highschool?

Oh yes, I had a car in highschool. I did not have a choice in the matter. Five long months after I turned sixteen, my mother frog marched me to Canada’s version of the DMV and we waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. FOR SIX HOURS. When I finally got to the desk, the woman pushing the button said “smile” brightly to me and I sneered a curt “No” at her. I am a peach, let me tell you.

Anyways, back to the car, ever since I can remember, I have hated driving, hated being in the car, basically despised everything having to do with four wheels. This is definitely a person who should receive their own car. And so I did because my parents are both exceptionally generous and delight in my misery.

To make the best of it, I prided myself in having junk in the trunk. Actually. At any given time, there five/eighths of a plastic skeleton, thirty or so mostly dried up markers, a bucket of feathers and bowling pins in the back of my highschool car. I’m uncertain whether the goal was to scare, amaze or put on an impromptu cabaret, regardless it was a mess.

This car followed me around for thirteen long years. After 350,000 kilometers and more than a decade, I junked it, converted to a hippie lifestyle, grew dreads and began making my own kefir. Not actually though. I did live without a vehicle for a year. And then I got pregnant and it was decided that hippie-ism is romantic but impractical with a newborn so we have a van that sits in our driveway during the warm months of the year here. Meaning two, not actually but close.

Have you ever done drugs?

Never. My sister once taught me the smell of good weed and bad weed though. For those not in the know like me- there is a difference, I couldn’t tell you what now but rest assured, I’m well informed. Also, I accidentally brokered a drug deal because I knew the frat boys next door liked to party. But no, the closest I myself have ever come to drugs was in university when I discovered a bag of what I believed to be desiccated broccoli under my bed following a visit from a friend of a friend of a friend. I was understandably horrified because it’s one thing to be unwashed but to drop vegetables under ones bed and leave them there until they crumble like old green leaves? That’s revolting. I took said baggy to my friend who had invited the friend of a friend of a friend. This friend always had a spotless room, I clearly needed tips. I showed her the bag which she took for some reason and she gave me tips on life- like the importance of making your bed every day.

 

What were you like when you were 40?

Well I’m not, so I’ll tell you what I will be- first of all I’ll have so many abs they will start calling it an Unwashed Dozen, I’ll likely be a prized Mixed Martial Arts fighter known for my signature move- the ear bite which is two parts distressing and one part disgusting. And I’ll own roof top llama farms, a concept that I will have helped to create, starting a worldwide movement. No one will ever see me without my rocket boots.

Did you ever think of joining the military?

No, I resent being asked to carry heavy objects and my understanding is that the military has an infatuation with moving heavy objects around and teaching people to lift heavy objects. Ostensibly they call it “training” I call it “torture” or as it’s known in today’s world “helping friends move”.

If you could do it over would you join the military?

Storyworth, you seem to be on a real military questions kick, are you secretly trying to figure out whether I’ll help you move? The answer is no, I’m busy developing my signature ear bite to rise to MMA fame.

 

All of these questions were taken from the website Storyworth, when they’re not convincing people to enlist, they are a company that sends your loved ones questions, which are only half about the time they served and compiles their answers into a book that will be beloved by the whole family for years to come. Check them out.

 

Killing Old People For Sport- Likely The Most Questionable Aspect of Student Life

I’m grieving my grandmother’s death but actually, for the past ten years, she’s been living on borrowed time. In reality Grandma should have died the day that we attempted to move the giant, white, lead elephant that was masquerading as a freezer in her basement.

That morning, my mother asked me to go to Grandma’s to help my sister. Mom phrased the demand like it was a reasonable request, being a respectful child, who was still in university and therefore living on her parents’ dime, I obliged. So off my sister and I went, supposedly to move a freezer, but actually to murder our grandmother.

We got there and discovered that the appliance in question was NOT in fact one of those charming, petite chest freezers meant for apartments but rather was a hulking, metal behemoth designed to house enough frozen food for a medium sized army. In “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”, the children burned down the house because it would have required a crane to move their deceased and beloved but morbidly obese mother. As far as I’m concerned, my grandmother’s freezer deserved this kind of ending. Not surprisingly, me, my sister and my grandmother discovered that we were unable to lift it ourselves.

“Not to worry girls” my grandmother cheerfully told us. “We’ll get Tommy from down the street- he’s very strong”. My sister and I pictured Tommy as a strapping nineteen year old who has a chin up bar installed on his bedroom door, the kind of guy who wears t-shirts with protein shake logos and whose vocabulary consists primarily of the words: bro, dude and Yeeeeeah! No – Tommy was another octogenarian, although supposedly a freakishly strong one based on Grandma’s faith that he could assist us in moving this freezer. Not recognizing that his demise was imminent, Tommy chatted happily as we walked back to the house, strategizing that we’d use carpet ends that Grandma had kicking around to slide the enormous, metal freezer across the basement and up the stairs.

It bears mentioning the stairs. Specifically the fact that had it snowed in my Grandma’s basement, the pitch of the stairs was so steep that Olympians could have competed for downhill skiing gold on these steps. Later in my grandmother’s life, when she finally acquiesced to having one of those chairlifts installed, cousins would take turns scaring the bejesus out of themselves by taking a ride, moving sideways down the steep slope. One can only conclude that four children gave Grandma nerves of steel even into her 90’s because I would smell like a decaying antelope before I’d ride that chair twice a day to do laundry.

I digress- this was the treacherous path that the gigantic freezer was supposed to take up and out of the house. Suddenly burning the place down to escape moving the  gargantuan appliance wasn’t looking so crazy.  When the freezer slid backwards down the stairs on the carpet ends and foiled Tommy’s plans to ease the process, it was decided that we would each grab a corner and hoist the enormous metal beast ourselves. Diana and I offered to lift from the bottom of the stairs but Tommy and Grandma insisted that they would take that position, essentially sealing their dark, flattened fate. It was like some sort of elderly Hunger Games with my Grandma and her friend volunteering as tributes. Despite our best protests, they gave Diana and me no choice.

Up the freezer went; slowly, painfully. There were a couple of tense, harrowing moments when someone had to adjust their grasp on the smooth metal. But after every other step Tommy would call out “Up we go now girls, Everything is tickety boo” or “Almost there now, Bob’s your uncle” while Diana and I exchanged skeptical looks because everything was NOT tickety boo and we had many uncles but Bob was not one of them.

The whole experience was horrifying, but the worst part was when we reached the steepest point of the stairs, the shape of the house meant that the top of the freezer almost met the ceiling, so for what felt like thirty minutes but was probably only three or four, we lost sight of Grandma and Tommy. I gripped the freezer tightly with my flimsy, pipecleaner-like arms, stepping up when Tommy’s muffled voice instructed, because even though I was going to be party to his manslaughter, the least I could do was listen to him. Once or twice Diana and I glanced at each other to silently commiserate about our poor choices that had led us here, an act that we’d no doubt continue for many years in prison as we served out our sentence for double senilicide.

Perhaps there was a guardian angel helping us, one who had spent its heavenly days bench pressing Bibles or other weighty items in the afterlife, but we managed to get the freezer up those steep, steep steps. To be honest, I can’t remember how we moved the freezer out of the house, or even how it was hoisted up into the bed of our truck. All of that is overwhelmed by the memory of the relief I felt when we turned the corner away from the stairs and Grandma’s white haired head came back into view.

The freezer made its way to Diana’s house at the university, where it remains, I’m assuming to this day because she left it there when she moved out. As sad as I am today over my grandmother’s recent passing, I’m grateful that she and Tommy survived that day and for all the memories we made during the years afterward.