It’s important to keep your options open, which is why I routinely send written marriage proposals to any number of men that I’ve never met. In these letters I cite the reasons why holy matrimony is perfect for the two of us.
Dear Rob Ford,
Please marry me. I’m a minimalist hippie, hence I don’t buy items like fancy glass paperweights, and as a result whenever I open the windows on a blustery day, my documents fly everywhere. If you were my husband, I’d have you sit on these unruly stacks of paper, thus saving myself from redoing hours of filing. Based on how your weight loss challenge went, I’m assuming you don’t like to move much, so I feel this would be a match made in sedentary marital heaven.
In the event that you did want to move about, we could get you a wheelie desk that would double as a chair. I’m quite short so this lowered desk concept would work well for me when you aren’t sitting on it. This would also serve the dual purpose of allowing you to relive your glory days of elementary school gym.
I’ve enclosed a photo of a scooter board to give you an idea of how the desk cum scooter board cum chair would look.
Please write me back if you’re interested. Just a heads up, I’m not willing to move to Toronto, so you would have to quit your job and move here. Based on what I’ve heard on the news, that might not be the worst thing in the world.
Much future love,
The Great Unwashed
My home is filled with poltergeists and thieves attempt to break in constantly. This kind of living situation would cramp my style but it is limited to when Roscoe is not home. I live in an 85 year old house in the student ghetto, this fact rarely bothers me. But the moment that Roscoe leaves something changes, shadows grow to enormous sizes, the hallways become endless and the ghosts emerge from the woodwork. Suddenly every passerby on the street below is a convicted felon, hell bent on stealing my toaster oven and collection of jigsaw puzzles.
I do my best to deal with the unwelcome spirits and burglars on my own. And by on my own, what I mean is I call my parents, grandparents, friends, sister, the Coca Cola 1-800 number, anyone who will pick up their phone. “The house is haunted ! And there are armed bandits outside the door.! ” I’ll wail into the phone. My parents, having lived with me for twenty some odd years are rarely fazed. They will say “The strange thing is, our house stopped being haunted the day you moved out. Just lock the door- you’ll be fine”. Not a helpful observation when one hears a ninja with a baseball bat lurking near the kitchen window.
My best friend Chastity, who is a PhD candidate and a first rate problem solver immediately starts looking up natural remedies “A ghost? Did you try burning sweet grass? You’ll need a match, and some sage too.”
My sister, after seeing I’ve posted strange things on her Facebook twice that evening; “Diana, my house tripled in size, I got lost walking to the pantry, please call me” and “Diana, I’m becoming strange because Roscoe isn’t home, please call me” won’t even pick up her phone.
The people at the 1-800 Coca Cola number quickly tire of talking with me. “My house is filled with ghosts! Cannibalistic ghosts! And robbers!” I say in a high pitched voice that my parents endearingly named my “hysterical chipmunk” tone. “Thank you for calling ma’am but what does this have to do with your Sprite beverage?” the kindly operator will say. “Oh, I don’t consume soft drinks but I thought a multimillion dollar corporation might have some suggestions for how to deal with a paranormal infestation and burglary” I’ll reply. Funny enough my calls to 1-800 numbers seem to disconnect a lot.
After exhausting my conversational skills, I’ll retire to bed. This is a whole process in and of itself. In order for me to sleep when I’m home alone, the chest of drawers must be pushed up against the bedroom door. However last night this was impossible because Roscoe had moved the chest of drawers upstairs. Lacking any other option, I began to move the giant, dirty laundry mountain in front of the door. It is widely known that ghosts hate the scent of old socks. Also any potential intruders would be caught in the many arms of the clothes-spider I created using Roscoe’s dress shirts.
With all of my ghost busting and crime protection measures in place I am able to climb into bed. Just before I nod off to sleep, many hours past my standard eight thirty pm bedtime I send off a text to Roscoe. “Stop treating all the car accident victims and come home. House has become a den of thieves and Mecca for the afterlife.”
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the brilliant. However for once I actually let the person in question choose their written name. When she was three, after emigrating to Canada from China, not only did Chastity get to choose her English name but she also chose her little brother’s English name when he was born. I don’t even know if I could have shouldered that level of responsibility now as a fully functional adult let alone as a toddler. If given the choice, three year old me probably would have called Diana “Dry Goods”. She would have been easier to sell that way.
My brilliant and somewhat conservative friend chose the name “Chastity”, because she wanted to keep with the stripper nom de plume theme The Great Unwashed has going.
I go to bed at the same time as most third graders, this is not so much an active choice as it is a response to my body shutting down. Prior to the magical hour of nine pm I am a normal, (relatively) functioning adult; I do chores, have conversations with Roscoe about things which need to be done around the house and what not. However after nine pm all bets are off and I am transformed by exhaustion. I decided to record what happens on a typical evening.
Roscoe and I are in the office. Roscoe is doing work. I am reviewing my day with him.
The Great Unwashed – “So the mechanics have an opening at 9 AM Saturday which would work around the family function at one and leave me enough time to cook dinner for our friends at five.”
Roscoe – “That sounds good, you look tired. Why don’t you go to bed?”
The Great Unwashed exits the room to go sit on the sofa.
The Great Unwashed – “I’m not tired.”
It’s at this point when the magical hour begins and I transform from a perfectly functional adult into a nonsense spewing, sloth.
The Great Unwashed calls to Roscoe in the next room.
The Great Unwashed – “Why don’t we own a llama?”
The Great Unwashed – “We should eat more capers.”
The Great Unwashed – “I want to learn skeleton.”
The Great Unwashed – “Wait is skeleton the one where you’re face down or is that luge?”
Roscoe sensing that there is a question that actually requires an answer pipes up “Skeleton is facedown”
The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Then I want to learn to luge.”
It’s around this point generally that Roscoe hauls himself out of the pilot chair in the office and comes to tell me to go to bed.
Roscoe “Go to bed”
The Great Unwashed sprawled across the couch lacking any sort of muscle tone, squints and says defiantly -“No”
Weary but not beaten Roscoe returns to the office.
The sound of the Great Unwashed voice is tinged with exhaustion now.
The Great Unwashed – “Where’s your lumbago?”
Roscoe is now approaching fed up and once again leaves the office to face The Great Unwashed who actually appears to be liquefying before his eyes from lack of muscle tone.
Roscoe – “Go. To. Bed.”
The Great Unwashed – “No, I’m not tired and I don’t want to have to brush my teeth.”
The Great Unwashed – “Would you still go out in public with me if I wore stick on mutton chops?”
The Great Unwashed – “The bathroom is too far away. Carry me!”
Roscoe will be unmoved by this plea. Mostly because previously when he has acquiesced to my demands to be carried I have gone limp and turned into what he calls “a 300 lb blob”. This of course causes me to take offense that he thinks I’m 300 lbs and annoys Roscoe because I’m still no closer to brushing my teeth.
It’s at this point generally that I start to sing fragments of songs over and over. I may have migrated to the floor in a half hearted attempt to go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Roscoe once more extracts himself from the pilot chair and stalks to the living room to face me.
Roscoe – “GO TO BED”
The Great Unwashed in a thoroughly defeated and utterly exhausted tone “No.”
Roscoe stomps back to the office.
The disembodied and miserable voice of the Great Unwashed floats into the office.
The Great Unwashed – “I’m so tired I don’t want to exist!”
And with that I promptly brush my teeth and go to bed. And then I wake up at five am, perky and raring to go in a way that would cause people around me to become homicidal, luckily most of the world isn’t up at that time. Thus far no bodily harm has come to me for awaking at this early hour.
The other day Roscoe arrived home from working at the hospital to a problem.
The Great Unwashed– “I think I swallowed a maggot, can you look at my throat?”
Roscoe his voice heavy with disbelief “You swallowed a maggot.”
The Great Unwashed undeterred by Roscoe’s lack of concern for her wellbeing- “Yes.”
Roscoe – “Why were you eating maggots?”
The Great Unwashed– “I wasn’t but one time a friend of mine ate a maggot that got caught in his throat and then crawled up into his sinuses and he described the sensation to me. My throat feels exactly like that, so I need you to check it out for me.”
Roscoe realizing this problem is not going to go away until he acknowledges it- “Fine. Come here. Open your mouth.”
Roscoe is giving The Great Unwashed’s mouth only a cursory glance “Wait, don’t you need your expensive ear and mouth thingy that looks the emergency car window breaker? Or at the very least the pepper shaker with the light on the end of it?”
Roscoe – “Do you want me to season your throat or examine it?”
The Great Unwashed -“Examine please.”
Roscoe inspects the back of my throat for creepy crawly things.- “No maggots. You’re fine.”
The Great Unwashed – “I don’t think you followed the proper insect ingestion protocol.”
Roscoe – “Who went to medical school here?”
The Great Unwashed – “All I’m saying is that if I were checking if someone had eaten a maggot, I would have used a flashlight, or maybe some maggot food to entice the maggot to come out.”
“Arrrrrrrrrgggg!!!” Roscoe throws up his hands and stalks out of the room.
The Great Unwashed calls after him “What do maggots eat?”
Not really however the series of texts that I sent to Roscoe would make you think otherwise.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:52 PM
We are out of wine. Please bring some home with you, it will make me a nicer person.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:53 PM
And by nicer person what I mean is drunk. Which is as close to nice as I get.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM
In fact I was once called “agreeable” when I was tipsy.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM
Which is the opposite of what I am now, you’re at risk of losing an arm to biting if you come home without wine.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:56 PM
Which even if you happen to have chainmail stashed in the car to protect your appendages, is still not a good thing- human bites are super infectious.
From The Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM
Also I love you.
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM
But I would love you more with wine.*
From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:58 PM
I’d also bite you less. That sounds dirty but it’s meant to be intimidating.
*Now this would make a good greeting card. Appropriate for all occasions. I would love most things more with wine. I’m not alone in this either. Paul Johnson from The Good Greatsby freely admits to enjoying his children’s company more with alcohol.
Also no Roscoes were harmed in the making of this post. The man had the good sense to bring home two bottles of hootch.
I wrote the following message to Bill Paxton.
Dear Mr. Paxton,
You are trustworthy, reliable, serious and devilishly handsome. These are all qualities that make an excellent husband. Please marry me. I want to cook for you. I think you look hungry. Actually, if I’m being honest, all of Hollywood looks like that, however I only want to feed you.
Not feed as in lie in bed and put pieces of cupcake in each other’s mouths, more like feed as in make you soup. Because that’s true love- banana bread and lentils.
Let me know your answer, I’m ready to move in and start having your attractive babies whenever you give the word.
The Great Unwashed
In a marriage it’s always important to be honest. Hence why last night I decided to tell Roscoe about my card to Bill Paxton. Although I would concede that in the grand scheme of things it’s unlikely that Bill Paxton would ever A) receive my letter and B) consider it even if my lentil recipe is the talk of the town. It’s kind of like a matrimonial version of the lottery- you buy a ticket but don’t expect to win. Even still I like Roscoe to be aware of everything that goes on in my life.
The Great Unwashed while taking out her earrings and getting ready for bed – “So I wrote to Bill Paxton today saying I wanted to be his wife and cook for him.”
Roscoe shocked and bordering on enraged- “You DID WHAT?”
The Great Unwashed taken aback by the magnitude of Roscoe’s anger, turns around to face him- “I said I asked Bill Paxton to marry me and wrote that I want to cook for him.”
Roscoe relaxes, visibly relieved –“I heard “h” not “c”, I was worried there.”
Roscoe and I do not have cable. There are a number of reasons for this; the first being that I haven’t yet figured out how to work the television itself. It has three remotes. Roscoe says that the remotes and the television are easy to operate. I question this factoid, as he also claimed that his car was easy to operate and I spent fifteen minutes in the driveway trying unsuccessfully to turn it on.
The second reason that we don’t have cable is that I’m very susceptible to marketing; subliminal or otherwise. I don’t sit for long periods of time so my television watching is limited to programs that are ten minutes long or less – like an ad on the shopping channel. When Roscoe and I were dating, I lived at home with my parents who had cable. This led to a number of phone calls in which I tried to convince Roscoe that I needed an ab blaster or a mandolin made in Switzerland despite the fact that I believed in neither gyms nor cooking at the time.
Hence in the interest of not filling our house with useless pieces of exercise equipment and chotchkes we live without cable. And life was fine and dandy, that was until Netflix arrived.
Although Netflix does not have a shopping channel, it does have documentaries. Unlike sitcoms or movies one can watch ten minutes of a documentary, pause it then walk away only to sit back down a day later without feeling as though a plot refresher is necessary. For this reason I love documentaries. However my favourite genre of documentaries are the sketchy ones. Documentaries without enough proof or information tend to be short thus my sense of accomplishment is greater as I can watch two of these a week versus just one of the more reputable, longer documentaries.
Although this new habit has had some unexpected side effects- last night Roscoe walked in on this scene.
The Great Unwashed stands in front of the bedroom mirror staring intently into her reflection.
The Great Unwashed -“You are valid” pauses, still staring into her reflection. “And hopeful” pauses again for longer “Also you like cheese.”
Roscoe unable to watch this bizarre scene for any longer asks “What are you doing?”
The Great Unwashed speaks to Roscoe’s reflection in the mirror – “I watched part of a documentary today on vegans. It told me to look at my reflection and repeat a message to myself every night, only I forgot was the message was.”
Roscoe- “Vegans don’t eat cheese.”
The Great Unwashed – “It might have been a movie about the Kennedy conspiracies, I don’t really know, I only watched ten minutes of it.”
For some reason I have a feeling the Netflix subscription will be cancelled shortly.
Roscoe standing in the bathroom looking perplexed -“Unwashed*?”
The Great Unwashed appears in the bathroom doorway- “Yes?”
Roscoe holds up a giant white mound of hardened scented goo- “What’s up with our soap?”
The Great Unwashed – “I believe what you meant to ask was; What’s up AND out with our soap? As it has clearly grown both up AND out.” The Great Unwashed gestures to emphasize the soap’s growth.
Roscoe still not any closer to having clean hands- “What did you do to our soap?”
The Great Unwashed- “I blew it up. For the good of mankind.”
Roscoe takes a closer look at what was a bar of soap and watches as small pieces flake off into the sink- “How does this help mankind?”
The Great Unwashed- “It’s science, and science is good. As a doctor science employs you every day and helps people. Ergo I also helped people by microwaving our soap because it was a part of a scientific experiment.”
Roscoe looks as though he is about to ask a follow up question but refrains until The Great Unwashed is walking away, undoubtedly to create more calamity away from his watchful eyes. “Does this mean the microwave is clean?” he hopefully asks The Great Unwashed’s back.
Fun Science Fact For The Day: If you microwave a bar of Ivory soap it expands and you can mold it or just keep microwaving bars continuously until you have a series of small soap explosions. I don’t recommend the last option though. It seems fun at the time, but then your spouse realizes that all the soap in the house looks funnier than the stuff they sell at Lush and disintegrates when it’s touched. This might result in microwave privileges being revoked.
Unless of course you are the kind of pious, responsible person who never microwaves uncovered tomato soup.
I’m not- I heat up uncovered chili in the microwave too and I never ever, ever clean it out. I am an excellent wife. Roscoe would probably hug me right now if his hands were clean. Nonetheless microwaving bath products is a fun and educational science experiment. And science helps everyone. Especially Roscoe, even if he doesn’t always recognize it.
*On occasion Roscoe omits both the article and the “Great” from my name. Generally when I have done something not so great, like dying my hands blue or purple, or putting dirt in our freezer and making him eat chicken fingers for eight days straight.
So earlier this week I was struck by a brilliant idea- I could work in Hawaii. Maui in particular is short 500 people in my industry every year. There were a number of obstacles in this plan, the first being Roscoe. Here is how I presented the idea to him.
The Great Unwashed– “I want to work in Hawaii.”
Roscoe– “Can we please have this conversation another time? Or can you at least carry your end of the couch while you are doing it?”
Roscoe and I have an agreement that me and my bendy, pipecleaner arms will pretend to help him move big pieces of furniture and Roscoe will act as though I’m actually helping.
The Great Unwashed obligingly pretends to pick up half the couch- “I want to work in Hawaii, they need people in my field there.”
Roscoe grunting from the exertion of carrying a couch alone- “That’s great?”
The Great Unwashed– “No it is! You could work there too. People lose bits all the time in Hawaii, sharks are always biting surfers’ arms and legs off. You’d have lots of work. Also I hear some fish even bite. You’d be overrun with sewing bits back on, honest.”
Roscoe– “I question your knowledge of ichthyology.”
The Great Unwashed– “I question your knowledge of cosmetology. So there. The point is we need to move to Hawaii.”
After the couch was placed in it’s new spot I went online to find more persuasive information about employment and carnivorous fish.
What I discovered was that in order to work in Hawaii I would have to get my degree accredited, write an exam, fly myself out to Hawaii to attend an interview on my dime and then go through the process of applying for an international work Visa.
After doing all of that to the tune of approximately five grand I might, might get hired to work and be paid two thirds of what I receive here.
“Nutbars!” I cried upon this revelation “Super peanut-y O’Henrys! King Size Snickers!
There is only one possible solution to this costly problem.
I’m going to write to Hawaii and recommend that they install a zipline from Canada, thereby cutting the travel costs down to zero and making the process far, far cheaper. Although it still would be a pain. Now there would be some start up expenses with the installation of the zipline but I think it would be minimal compared to the number of people who would benefit from its use. And it would certainly cut down on the labour shortages.