Eating Rodents Like Farley Mowat and Making Pastry Drug Lord Style

Posted on March 26, 2019 by The Great Unwashed

Just before she left, Sula sent all her nearest and dearest a message containing the number of the satellite phone (a fifteen digit number if you can believe it) along with the dates of her departure and return. Included in this message was the surprising piece of information that in the case of emergencies, the satellite phone could receive texts.

This is Sula’s fourth year in the bush. It is also the first year that she has given any indication that her only means of communication could receive texts. It was my understanding that the satellite phone was for emergencies only. Events along the lines of “The narcoleptic field hand ate all the food in the night; please send help as we are dining Farley Mowat style- eating roasted mice with tails, fur and all.” were what I thought the phone was reserved for.

The texting tidbit was news to me, whether we, her family and friends, had shown the proper respect for the phone in not contacting Sula ever during her field season (no emergencies came up) or whether this was a new function on a delicate and temperamental piece of technology, I’m not sure. Whatever the case, while Sula was away, when I was having trouble with baking or was just thinking of her, I would write imaginary texts to Sula. I never sent them because doing so would have landed the both of us in hot water, as Sula works with top government agencies that don’t care about superfluous items like false eyelash glue.

Is now too late to text your mother?

Message sent at 12:49 AM

My mother and I are wearing false eyelashes.

Message sent at 12:52 AM

We have no idea how to remove them and are afraid of waking up with our eyelids glued together.

Message sent at 12:54 AM

Is this a thing? Please advise.

Message sent at 12:55 AM

Wait, sorry, just realized that it’s five am in the Arctic.

Message sent at 1:04 AM

Or maybe it’s 10 AM. I have no clue. Time zones are hard. Are you even in the continent?

Message sent at 1:05 AM

On the continent? Prepositions are hard too. Especially whilst drunk.

Message sent at 1:06 AM

You may have figured that last bit out.

Message sent at 1:07 AM

I probably should have paid more attention in high school geography. In my defense, I didn’t know my best friend would be an Arctic researcher.

Message sent at 1:11 AM

Along with possessing more experience with finicky makeup tools than me, Sula is also a better baker. When she’s at home, I sometimes go to her for advice when working in the kitchen.

I’m making a pie crust. It isn’t going well.

Message sent 3:24 PM

What does it mean when it says to cut the butter in?

Message sent at 3:26 PM

That sounds like something a drug lord would do.

Message sent at 3:27 PM

Regardless, this process is wildly unsuccessful.

Message sent at 3:27 PM

You’re not answering. Despite the fact that you’re an expert on pie crusts.

Message sent at 3:44 PM

It’s kind of like you’re too busy befriending polar bears and furthering science to care about dessert.

Message sent at 3:46 PM

When Sula is away, or off the grid, I try to contact her mother more often, presumably so that Mrs. Jackson will appreciate her talented, couth daughter more when Sula returns from the North.

I just sent your mom a postcard about penises. I’m sorry.

Message sent at 11:23 AM

It was an accident. Again, I’m sorry. For whatever reason, these types of writing accidents always seem to happen to me. Like the time I sent my aunt a postcard about why she should make out with Colin Firth.

Message sent at 11:26 AM

Someone ought to take away my stamps. Or at least proof my correspondence before I send it out. My son is phenomenally poor at editing. Something about him only knowing eight letters of the alphabet.

Message sent at 11:31 AM

I of course never sent any of these text messages. For whatever reason I’m already on the Canadian government’s radar based on the number of times they audit my taxes. Texts like these on a government phone might get me added to the “No Fly” list.

Golden Equine Showers and Other Dubious Events I Can Anticipate In My Future: An Update On Where I’m Going To Live

Posted on March 7, 2017 by The Great Unwashed

Remember when I swore that I would update everyone on where Tex and I were going to live in my post Man Eating Fish, Bakery Theft and KKK Heaven: Let’s Introduce the Contestants? And then I didn’t? Well I have an excuse. It’s because I was showering off all the horse pee that was dumped on me. Figuratively thankfully.

Not so secretly, I had thought that Tex and I were staying. That our family would get to enjoy our happy home with its sun room and live in peaceful northern harmony for a couple more years. Or at the very worst, that we would be placed in the town that is a smaller version of where we live. After all, Tex is well liked at work, I mean who can live without a man who uses the word “eutectic” in a sentence? I know I can’t. Anyways with that confounding term and all Tex’s other shining qualities, I thought we were good, no better, I thought we were golden.

And we were. Covered in golden horsey showers that is, as the universe, or karma, or the gods, or whoever it was smited the both of us for being so cocky as to believe that we were going to stay.

When Tex told me where we were going to be placed, I quickly mass texted my family and close friends the name of the town and the words “I can’t even speak.” Then I dropped my phone and went to go curl up, lick my wounded ego and contemplate where I was going to live.

Frantically Sula tried texting, then calling all the while scrolling through my words to determine what place it was on my posted list we had been placed at. “Charm City?” her voicemail asked. “I don’t think it’s Charm City.” Then, when she Googled the place name, she realized the terrible truth. That we weren’t staying where we live, that we hadn’t been placed at my second choice, or my third choice or even my fourth choice with that fabulous indoor playground.

No dear readers, I’m heading to my seventh choice. The town that considers indoor plumbing and eeelecktricity, as they call it, to be “new fangled technology”. It was karma’s way of dumping a trough full of horse urine onto my head for being so smug as to only compose one version of my “updated” post revealing where my family was going to live. I was like those actors at the award ceremony who are nominated and still stand up when their name isn’t called on the stage.

I was going to invite you all to a bonfire at my house. We were going to light up all the boxes that I had saved just in case. Instead I started frantically packing said boxes, while my cowboy brother in-law who was visiting for the day said “Well $*@^, that sucks, I’m sorry.” while wrapping my equally shocked husband and I enormous, warm, bear hugs that only a rancher can give. My brother in-law then encouraged me to “scream, cry or break things- do whatever I need to do” while he watched Mini-Tex. I didn’t need to scream or break things, but I did cry while I started to box up our life.

So now that the moving van has been booked and housing with indoor plumbing has been secured (“Golly gee- you’re going to love this marvel!”), I can write an addendum to my Introduce the Contestants post.

Goodbye cruel world. I had wanted to invite you to a bonfire, but instead I’m moving six hours away, which doesn’t sound, far but it might as well be the moon in terms of distance to everything which resembles civilization. I hope everyone enjoys their grande coffees, automatic washers and dental floss. I will miss all of those things and you, my Unwashed public.

It is with a sad heart that I will pack up our covered wagon (we had to trade in our car to move to this place which is in the middle of nowhere) and bid you all adieu. The Great Unwashed will continue for ten or so posts because I have them banked but there’s no telling how long it will take me to teach a carrier pigeon to type my thoughts so wish me luck.

Soon to be very remotely yours,

The Great Unwashed

We Need To Talk About Bunnies

Posted on June 14, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

Not these bunnies.

They are cute though. (Photo Credit : yogadork.com)

This man’s bunnies.

(Photo Credit : montecito-realestate.com)

I have a long running history of, let’s call them intense interests. Normally my obsessions are understandable. For a while there I would only talk about a certain type of fuzzy collectible.

They’re like Pokemon- gotta catch’em all. (Photo Credit : live-av.info.com)

But I was twelve so that was developmentally appropriate. Although talking about Beanie Babies all day, every day for two years might have been a little much for my parents.

And of course there’s my long running fascination and love of anything to do with this celebrity.

Not being obsessed with Mickey and his empire is like hating unicorns and drinking their blood, so essentially not loving Disney transforms someone into a unicorn hunting mutant, that’s right Voldemort got that way because he didn’t worship all things Disney. Take heed my Unwashed public. (Photo Credit : en.wikipedia.org)

For a short period of time I watched this woman everyday while eating my steel cut oats.

This makes more sense in the context of learning French. (Photo Credit: http://www.renaud-bray.com)

But then, somewhere around 2010, something strange happened. When I say strange I mean strange for me, it wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill homeless man setting a fire in public, or threatening your upstairs neighbor, or starting a frog pond in your basement kind of above average occurrence.

In 2010 I became obsessed with these women.

This would be easier to explain if I were a dude. (Photo Credit flickr.com)

It started out innocuously, in the way that these things do; I began watching their television show “The Girls Next Door”. But then my interest took on a life of its own, first I bought the box set of their series. Then I watched the whole thing start to finish. When I was done I watched it again.

Down the Rabbit Hole indeed Holly. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

And I kept watching it.

I can’t tear my eyes away. (Photo Credit : janetcharltonhollywood.com)

And reading about them.

The-Girls-of-The-Playboy-Mansion-the-girls-next-door-2023720-360-484

Have you ever seen a group of more interesting ladies? (Photo Credit : fanpop.com)

And acquiring Playboy related paraphernalia- come sleep on my red satin Playboy sheets; they’re super slippery!

I followed them on Twitter, which was quite remarkable considering that I barely know how to use Microsoft Word most days.

The obsession grew and I kept watching and re-watching their ditzy antics. My mother was ashamed, my father was amused, Sula was bewildered. I would proudly trot out my Playboy magazines at dinner parties. “Look at them” I’d exclaim, “Aren’t they beautiful?” My favourite part was when male guests would take the opportunity to spend twenty minutes perusing the magazine at the table.

The perfect addition to any social gathering. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

This bizarre preoccupation with all things Playboy was still going strong when I met Tex. But somewhere around the time that I moved to live with Tex, my passionate, undying love of the bunnies began to diminish. Instead of watching them every day, it was once a week. And rather than discussing their latest exploits at length (Holly had a baby! Kendra is contemplating divorce!) I talked about work, or books I was reading. Gradually as my life became my own personal fairy tale, including a tall, dark handsome cowboy and adorable baby, my interest in these women’s laughable exploits shrank, and I put away the DVDs and their scrapbook, rather than sitting open on the table or couch moved to the book shelf.

Yes, they published a scrapbook and yes I have spent hundreds of hours reading it. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

I even contemplated selling my Playboys back to the used bookstore. (We won’t discuss how grossed out my mother was that I bought second hand nudie magazines.) Now, the girls have returned to their rightful place in the world, I think of them as often as I ponder the Kardashians or string theory, which is to say rarely, although it must be said that I never turn down a trashy magazine or book which mentions the lovely trio.

What It’s ACTUALLY Like To Have A Baby, Including All The Gory Details Your Mother Wouldn’t Tell You

Posted on May 31, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

A couple of months ago, I transformed from this

Two days before Mini Tex arrived.

into this

You can’t see it from this angle but I have in essence created a Mini Tex, the only way you’d know for sure that my baby is related to me is if you watched him emerge from my junk.

Sometimes I can’t even tell them apart.

What happened in between was kind of like when a butterfly emerges from a cocoon. That is if butterflies screamed at the top of their lungs and covered the space around them in blood like something out of a B grade horror movie.

Until Mini Tex actually came into the world, I had no idea how it was going to happen, I mean obviously I had a rough idea of which people were going to come out where but Moms and surprisingly the internet have a way of keeping the whole process hush hush. Something I discovered before Mini Tex’s arrival while researching online. My friend Sula also commented on this fact after she asked her mother to elaborate about having children. So strap on your helmet interwebs, I’m going to give you a crash course in the birthing process. SPOILER ALERT – It’s going to be terrifying and also possibly a little gross.

Early Labour

Babies like to inconvenience people. Hence they choose to start their entry into the world at inopportune times like 2 am. You can lie in bed during this time but good luck sleeping because contractions hurt, not bad enough to take your breath away but just enough so that you can’t have sweet sweet dreams about former Playboy bunnies or whatever it is you like to dream about.

GND-the-girls-next-door-8809580-1572-1600

Don’t judge me, their ditzy mannerisms and way of deeming everything “Super fun!” bring me joy. (Photo Credit: fanpop.com)

This continues for a while. Like a long while. Such a long while in fact, that you decide that your baby’s arrival should inconvenience your partner too, so at 4 am you wake him up. At this point you’re both stoked because your baby is almost here! All you have to do is walk forever to get him out faster. So even though it’s the middle of the night, even though it’s minus twenty-five out, even though you’re both a little drunk on sleep deprivation, you start walking. And walking, and walking. For Pete’s sake where is this baby? Does he need you to march an actual marathon with kilometer markers and race officials before he will come out?

10 am – Still walking. The good news is your labor is progressing; the bad news is that means during every contraction you have to lean a little on your partner, also you aren’t getting very far very fast. Please note labour is not the time to do sightseeing.

11 am – You walk past the hospital where your partner proclaims that it’s time to see a doctor. Having seen the birthing “suites” you are reluctant to check into the hospital; it appears the people who designed the rooms have never visited an actual hotel and didn’t understand the meaning of the word “suite”. Just outside the doors, you realize you need to pee NOW. However your body needs to contract this baby out of you. It’s a dramatic fight to see whether your bladder sphincters triumph over your slow pace to the washroom. After dragging yourself up a flight of stairs you make it to the loo just in the nick of time.

12 pm – You arrive at the maternity ward where there are wheelchairs everywhere as if women just randomly lose the use of their legs and drop to the floor. After checking in the receptionist asks you if you can walk the five feet to the next window. Clearly she hasn’t looked at the steps on your Fitbit that day.

12:30 pm – You are directed to a room with another woman in it who is either dying or about to have her baby right then and there based on the pained groans coming from behind the curtain. Her husband runs frantically in and out of the room crying “Epidural! Epidural!”

Get ready my Unwashed public, you’re about to get the Coles Notes version of how labour progresses. Standing between you and your beautiful newborn is your cervix. You’d call it an asshole for keeping your baby from you but your cervix has kindly been holding the little bugger in for nine months, so you forgive it. In order for the baby to emerge, your cervix both has to thin out (efface) and dilate 10 cm (Make a hole 10 cm in diameter for the baby to come out of. Also, does that seem like a really small opening to anyone else? After all, you’re having a human baby not a ferret. )

The doctor comes in to check your roommate, it isn’t polite to eavesdrop but you and your partner do anyway because in all likelihood the father of the child is going to be running down the halls shouting for pain meds rather than in the room to catch the baby who is certain to come flying out any moment now if the woman’s cries are any indication.

It turns out your fellow labourer is three centimetres dilated, just like you and a long way from having her baby. Score one for yoga breathing to reduce pain and relax your contracting muscles. You ask to go home so you can continue the world’s slowest walking tour of your city.

4:00 pm – You lie down to rest because you are not the Proclaimers walking five hundred miles and then five hundred more because you can’t fall down at the door at the end as directly after all that endless marching about, you have to push.

That’s great that you guys want to keep going- I’m going to take a nap. (Photo Credit : citylab.com)

However, sleeping is a bad decision because between this bout of inactivity and the bath you take immediately afterwards, your baby takes the opportunity to turn and you have back labour.

7:00 pm – If given the choice between pushing another human being out of me and back labour, I would happily squeeze another person out of my lady garden. Back labour is painful, for the first and only time, yoga breathing fails you; there is nothing aside from loud sobbing which can contend with this pain.

Funny side note about back labour and marriage – One of the many aspects I found sexy about Tex was this sprinkling of salt by the temples in his dark coloured hair. The day after Mini Tex was born, I noticed a new patch of grey by his ear, it’s hard to say whether it was caused by watching me scream in agony while his son was coming into this world or watching me rock back and forth while sobbing because of back labour.

8:00 pm – After watching you rock back and forth sobbing for an hour, your partner insists that you return to the hospital. Existing is uncomfortable, breathing is uncomfortable, so walking back to the hospital is definitely out of the question. Also when I say “uncomfortable”, I actually mean excruciating.

9:00 pm – After all of that laboring, the doctor checks and deems that you are fully effaced but still only 3 cm dilated. Being fully effaced is a good thing but you don’t hear that part through your pain, all you hear is that you’re in the same place as ten hours ago and conclude this labor is going to continue forever. Then you think of the video from birthing class of the woman who had to have a C-section after her labor failed to progress. You dissolve into exhausted tears.

Baby birthing side note – While caesarian sections make for cuter infants right out of the womb; Mini Tex came out puffy eyed, bruised and looking like he’d been on the losing end of a baby bar fight. I don’t know what babies would come to fisticuffs over. Who gets dibs on the breast with the tastier milk first?

I digress, C-sections are actual SURGERIES. Meaning there are stitches and a much longer recovery process. Having had six stitches in my leg this past year which hurt like the dickens, I can’t imagine enduring a surgery and then caring for a small person while I recovered. Also you stay in the hospital for longer which is zero fun. Picture traveling on an uncomfortable bus for four days, that’s what the hospital is like; there is a lack of fun and it smells funny.

If you add an IV to this image, the experience is identical, right down to the person next to you who gives WAAAAY too much information. (Yes I recognize the hypocrisy of this comment as I am in the process of sharing my birthing story with the greater electronic world.) (Photo Credit: yelp.com)

10:00 pm – Given that you’ve been up for twenty hours, are in pain and exhausted, you decide to try some morphine. There’s a catch though, morphine makes people puke so the doctors administer Gravol along with it.

There were a couple of reasons I decided that I didn’t want an epidural. The first is that pain evolved for a reason; people without pain receptors don’t live as long. Those little jabs are your body’s way of communicating what’s going on. Also, it’s my completely unfounded belief that epidurals mean more tearing. So in my mind, an epidural was like trading short term pain for long term recovery pain. Lastly and most importantly, I’m built small and metabolize pain medications poorly. Cold medication leaves me a stoned wobbly mess. This was why when I was given a normal adult dose of Gravol and morphine during my labor, my pupils shrunk to pinpoints and I passed out. It was so bad that Tex had to lift me into my preferred position during a contraction and then lay me back down after it was done so I didn’t topple off the bed.

12 am – You walk around the hospital, still wobbly from the Gravol and morphine. You swear off drugs, green fairies and rainbows for the rest of your life.

Except for you my delicious morning friend. (Photo Credit : fakefoodwatch.com)

12:30 am – Having spent the past five months practicing squatting because it shortens labor and helps get the baby into position, you decide to squat.

12:31 am – You scream bloody murder for your partner to help get you out of a squat because it makes the contractions so intense you can’t bear it. There goes five months of doing the malasana yoga pose for zip.

2 am – You get moved to a delivery suite. Again don’t let the second word deceive you, unless this is some sort of private American hospital for millionaires, there is nothing swanky about this hospital room. By contrast, the staff are amazing. I’m not saying the labor nurse was an angel, but if she had pulled out a harp and sprouted wings, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The nurse spoke in soft soothing tones, anticipated all of my needs and was wonderful.

3 am – Not everyone’s water breaks in a grand and embarrassing splash in the middle of a grocery store. Some must have their water broken during labor. The doctor will apologize for the discomfort while they do this, I’m assuming because they’re under the impression that every other part of this process has been like a day at the spa.

4 AM – The heavenly nurse decides to leave her harp in the closet for the time being, but offers you something even better -gas. You remember from birthing class that if laughing gas is used for longer than an hour that you get a wicked bad hangover. You make a mental note to check the time and then realize that time and your ability to tell it, has lost all meaning.

5 AM – You’ve now been up for twenty-seven hours, niceties are no longer necessary, you yell at your caring husband when he doesn’t move his chair right away. You bellow at the doctor that you are ready to push. Perhaps it’s because you seem rude and unreasonable that the bad cop physician is called in.

When I was young, thin and believed that short shorts were appropriate attire in February, I ran marathons. My mother who has run the Boston marathon five times ran my races alongside me. She would yell when I walked, urging me back into a run then run circles around me singing and taunting me when I slowed my pace and once, my mother threatened to leave me in the middle of nowhere if I didn’t run faster. That last story may be a slight exaggeration, but only slight, all I remember were chasing her heels for five kilometers as I tried not to lose my ride back to the hotel. Anyways, it seems that all of this loud, determined coaching was preparation for the consultant who bellowed a baby out of me.

Nowadays doctors are taught empathy and to think about patients’ feelings. This woman must have been trained before this era. She was merciless. During every contraction she yelled “PUSH GIRL PUSH!” at the top of her lungs as if she was on a distant mountaintop, instructing me from afar. Her insistent instructions were contrasted against the soft, angelic tones of the labor nurse who whispered into my ear “You’re doing great Unwashed” in between the drill sergeant’s shouts. When this forceful woman wasn’t roaring instructions at me, she would critique my efforts to the resident who was sitting in the hot seat, silently waiting to catch Mini Tex; “she’s not using the full contraction, she could be pushing longer; she’s barely doing anything.”

This is the part that some women dread, that you’re told about beforehand. You poop in front of God and everyone. But it’s a bit like being the kid in line for a carnival ride. You’re just so damn excited and caught up in what’s about to occur that you mess your pants then keep going because – what the hell? It’s the tilt-a-whirl.

The part that is not mentioned is that all the signals for your bladder get kind of scrambled, so if it’s full, which it probably is, it will make pushing a baby out harder but more on that later.

So you keep pushing, and the bad cop doctor keeps shouting instructions and you can feel your baby’s head almost coming out of your kootch. You change positions, ostensibly to make pushing easier, but in reality because you’re more likely to be able to kick the vocal doctor-cop while sitting up. The bad cop tells you to feel your son’s head as a way to try and encourage you to keep pushing. This is a bit like someone saying at mile 25 of a marathon “Look! You’re almost there! You just have to run for fifteen more minutes!” Instead of being invigorated, you want to slap them and then lie down and die from exhaustion.

The only tidbit I could find which described the actual birthing process said that when the baby crowned (laymen’s terms for when the largest part of the baby comes out) it felt like someone taking a blow torch to your crotch. Having received a small terrible burn on my hand once, I kept waiting for the blowtorch. It didn’t arrive. I will admit that it hurt, and you definitely feel your skin stretching and tearing. If your husband is watching, he might be horrified. Those who didn’t grow up on a farm should likely stand near your head around about this time. Although that puts them in closer proximity to your mouth which at this point is emitting a lot of sound because you’re yelling so loudly that your voice will hurt for two days.True story.

But then you have a baby. Which is awesome for the twenty minutes you hold him for before you pass out from exhaustion.

Afterwards

Remember the spoiler alert that it was going to be gross? And the part about the bloody butterfly and everything looking like a B horror movie? We’re totally at that part. You might want to stop reading. Or at least put down your sandwich.

Birthing is a messy business. I feel badly for the custodial staff of the hospital, because despite my attempts to clean up, after I used the bathroom, it looked like the set of “The Shining”. There was blood EVERYWHERE. The poor sod would have needed three mops to deal with that floor.

Also recall my statement about the wiring from your brain to your bladder being scrambled? Basically there’s so much going on in that area that your brain is all “Bladder, shut the hell up, we’ve got bigger issues than the need to evacuate your contents” this lack of communication continues even after you’ve had the baby. Luckily the nurse who took care of me in the maternity wing knew this. She carefully explained this fact, then turned on a faucet full blast, told me to sing in to help me relax and basically did everything short of sticking my hand in a bowl of hot water while showing a slideshow of Niagara Falls.

“What does this make you think of?” (Photo Credit : youtube.com)

Have you ever gotten a paper cut? On a joint? It’s super painful and keeps opening up right? That’s exactly what peeing after having a baby is like. Only there are a thousand paper cuts. On your kootch. And some jerk keeps smearing hot sauce on them.

This sounds awful but urinating is a picnic compared to your first bowel movement after having a baby. Nic Sheff, author and drug addict, described in his book “Tweak” having to pick pieces of granite-like stool out of his butt after going on a month long meth bender. This experience seems preferable and significantly less painful than pooping after having a baby, an event which happens multiple days after the birth. My advice? Take the stool softener they give you at the hospital, and then steal your neighbour’s supply of stool softener too, consider it their comeuppance for not having read The Great Unwashed’s cautionary tale of birthing before creating a person.

So that’s a true life birth story. If I had a larger audience I would expect the birth rate to drop significantly but as it is, I think I’ve probably just traumatized my uncles and grandfather. Sorry, but I did warn you to stop reading multiple times.

Also, I should probably add that even though my doctor missed her calling as the furious head of a military operative, I only pushed for forty-five minutes. The average amount of time is two and a half hours. The take home point here is that if you want to get the job done, choose a physician with anger management issues who really wants their coffee break NOW.

This post is dedicated to Sula who asked all of the best questions and was appropriately horrified by my responses.

That Time I Made A Murder-Suicide Pact

Posted on May 23, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

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.

Travesty Tuesdays On The Road- The Arctic Edition Part Two

Posted on February 23, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

I’ve talked about loving Sula more than cheese; when you have that kind of affection for someone, it tends to spill over. Every year before she heads off to the Arctic, I write Sula letters. Last year, even that wasn’t enough, I started writing her crew. Here are two of the inappropriate pieces of correspondence that I penned to her crew.

Dear Luke,

It’s more than halfway through the field season so I can understand feeling a little homesick, so this letter is here to provide you with some comfort. I mean sure civilization is great and all, and yes we do have the internet and thus porn but who needs naked people and videos of puppies learning how to climb stairs when you could have vast open tundra where the entire world has the potential to be your bathroom? Peeing in public is not encouraged down here, and so while we do have images of nipples readily available, you sir, have it much better.

So the next time you are wanting a burger, or perhaps television, simply drop trou and urinate freely to remind yourself of the wonderful amenities of the Arctic. Unless of course you are next to a camp mate’s bunk, that might make you unpopular.

No amount of GIFs of kittens on pianos could possibly complete with this level of freedom. (Photo Credit: http://www.dreamstime.com)

Sincerely yours,

That lady who has no concept of social mores and writes to random people under the guise of offering comfort but not really.

This year was Liz’s second year on Sula’s crew. When I grow up, I want to be Elizabeth- she is the ultimate hippie, living completely off the grid and making art some of which appears on Sula’s blog Northofthegrid.com.

Dear Elizabeth,

You can almost see the end of field season, so understandably you might have a touch of homesickness.

Actually probably not. Based on what I hear from Sula, it sounds like the Arctic is your home; it has no running water, you have no running water, the Arctic has no electricity, your house has no electricity. You, my dear, are living out my minimalist fantasies and if my information is correct, I think you may in fact live in the Arctic year round already.

In fact we’re having your significant other and pets flown in to stay here for the other ten months of the year. I don’t think you’ll notice much of a difference. Also it will give you more time to come up with awesome drawings for next year’s camp swag.

Yours truly,

The woman who isn’t brave enough to actually live with a zero carbon footprint like you and is also not as committed to science, really if I’m being honest- I’m a bit of a sissy and Elizabeth, you rock.

P.S. Sorry for the long yours truly, on top of being a failed scientist and a bad hippie, I apparently don’t know how to write letters.

Travesty Tuesdays The Arctic Edition – Part One

Posted on February 2, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

Occasionally my weirdness can’t be contained to those who know me and I branch off into writing to complete strangers. Happily, Sula, my closest friend is keen to deliver my nonsense to the people that she works with in the Arctic for three months out of the year. Theoretically these letters were meant to comfort her crew members and remind them that the South and civilization is actually not all that, whether or not they accomplished their goal is another thing. Here are a couple bits of correspondence that I penned to Sula’s crew. To celebrate the middle of the season, they open my writing and read it aloud to one another.

Dear Mara,

You’re like a horse that’s coming back to the barn right now. Is that the correct phrase? I think what I meant to say was that you’re on the homestretch, so you are going faster, or time is going faster, or you’re eating hay. Wait, that came out wrong, I’m sorry. I might need to review my sayings. Regardless, it’s like in a marathon when you pass the halfway mark and start speeding towards the finish line.

I’m here to tell you to slow down, the South, it isn’t all that. For starters people have all these unrealistic expectations, like one should wash more than once a week. Up in the Arctic you’re like a fresh-faced, rock star of hygiene if you rub a wet cloth over one or two parts. And smelling good isn’t ever a requirement. Can we both just agree that this particular aspect is awesome? With all the showering I have to do down here, I feel like I’m never dry. Also nobody congratulates me for washing my underarms. So take a moment, stop and smell the mild body odor, you should enjoy the unwashed benefits while you can.

With warmth and just a touch of greasiness,

The person who inexplicably has trouble making friends- they always seem to move away from me when I get close to them.

Apparently after Mara read this letter aloud to the crew, Luke one of the other crew members said “Unwashed is so right,” It would seem that I am not the only person who feels society’s cleanliness expectations are excessive.

When Sula gets home, she regales everyone with tales of the tundra. While it all sounds exciting and heroic, I know in my heart that I have never been and never will be that tough. I won’t even take my seat belt off in a car, let alone remove it on a tiny twin otter airplane the way that Sula’s crew does only to then throw their own sense of safety to the wind as they make a human seat belt for the equipment bouncing about in the small aircraft.

Dear Leslie,

I get it; home and the feel of those freshly laundered garments are so close, that you can almost smell the faint scent of “Dewy Rain” on your shorts. But before you get too excited about indoor plumbing and cell phone reception, let’s take a second to appreciate the wilderness street cred you’re building here.

Every minute you spend roaming the tundra, is a minute more of life experience that you have to lord over your friends and family. Or maybe you are a nice person and don’t do that- I’m not, I ran marathons for a decade for the simple reason of bragging rights. When you stroll into any party after this you can be all like “What did you do this summer? Costa Rica? Oh how exciting, I just went to the Arctic and kept myself alive on the frozen tundra through a combination of my wit and determination, but you had to sleep under a mosquito net- that sounds exotic.”

Or at least that’s what I would do, if I was brave enough to live in a remote camp, each chilly step of the day would be adding to my tome of “Why I am Awesome and was Possibly Partially Raised By Polar Bears.”

Kind regards,

Someone who once cried because their feet were cold on an overnight back packing trip.

One of Sula’s crew members was a giant. Like Hagrid but only skinnier. Please note, I am only exaggerating slightly.

Robby after a couple hundred hamburgers and a donut feast. (Photo Credit: en.wikipedia.org)

After having seen a photo of the crew’s lodgings with each bunk bed jammed right up next to the following one, like some sort of sleepy game of human Tetris, I pitied Robby and imagined trying to sleep an entire three months in the frigid cold packed up like a folding chair. However, there are some benefits to being the largest human around, so I chose to focus on those in his letter.

Dear Robby,

I know this is exactly what you wanted this morning- a letter from a random lady who has no clue about what it’s like to live in the Arctic. I’m here to tell you Robby, that it’s ok. I totally understand what you’re going though. Well actually not, I’m super short, not so short that I receive sweet, sweet government compensation for my lack of height but short enough that my feet never touch the ground and every shelf is the high shelf. So really our worlds could not be more different.

Getting back to the heart of the matter, the end is in sight, I know, and while it would be nice to be back in civilization, where else in the world would you be king of the smaller people. Here in the Arctic you’re the tallest man around, you alone decide who eats dessert if the cookies are stored on the top shelf. That’s a kind of privilege that should be valued and revered. So yes, home has washing machines and socks that haven’t been worn every other day for six weeks, however it also has NBA players. As long as you are in the Arctic Robby, you are the tallest thing going, because I heard that even the shrubs are bowing to your height up there.

Sincerely,

The woman who needs an adult booster seat in order to safely drive a car.

That Time I Proved I was Inefficient and a Weenie

Posted on January 12, 2016 by The Great Unwashed

It’s possible to love someone to the ends of the earth but to also realize that you could never work with them. Sula spends three months of the year living in the Arctic without running water, electricity, and heat. In my heart, I knew that not only am I neither tough enough, nor brave enough to do this, but that I possess nowhere near the amount of common sense to make a field season happen. I proved this fact repeatedly the last time Sula came to visit and we hiked into the back country to camp.

After returning from the Arctic, not only did Sula have the best pack, she was also the heartiest, having carried guns, science equipment and everything needed to survive on her back all day, every day for the previous three months, thus she was given the heaviest load. (Did I mention she returned with a six pack? And not the alcoholic kind.) By contrast, at almost five months pregnant and carrying a pack that Tex bought for five dollars that proceeded to fall apart over our eight kilometer hike in and out of the back country, I was given the smallest load. Also Maddie, who functioned as a kind of a doggie tow rope for my exhausted self.

Everything was going fine, we arrived at the camp and Sula was tasked with setting up the tent. Given that she can set up equipment that she’s never seen in complete darkness, in the middle of a howling blizzard with no instructions and both eyes closed, it was a cinch.

This would take Sula all of ten minutes, And thats with a coffee break. (Photo Credit : pinterest.com)

I was asked to get water, an errand normally completed by Tex when he and I camp together.

Even though it was summer, Tex and I live in the very, very, very far North, which is to say that there are approximately two days a year when one would want to swim outside, and both of those days occur in July. Sula and I went camping at the end of August so the water was exceptionally cold. Prior to filling the collapsible camping bucket, I removed my shoes and waded out, my knee may have bumped an iceberg or two in the process and I shrieked in pain and surprise.

Always the leader, in hearing the most vulnerable member of her crew scream, Sula ran from the tent, down to the beach to make sure I was ok. “I’m fine” I called to her, “Just getting water. See?” Emerging from the chilly lake, I proudly showed Sula the fruits of my labour- a bucket of water so murky with sand and “seaweed bitties” that one would never be able to drink it. If I’m being honest, there may have been a small fish or two in my gathered water as well. Sula nicely explained that it wasn’t potable even if we did strain the bucket, that would leave approximately two teaspoons of clean water.

What do you mean we can’t drink the beach? (Photo Credit tcpermaculture.blogspot.com)

She then pointed to a more appropriate location to gather clean seaweed and crayfish free water.

Aside from spilling the first bucket of clean, “bitty-free” water I gathered on the beach, things started looking up from there. That is until I set my socks on fire twenty minutes later. Thankfully they weren’t on my feet at the time, they were only drying next to the fire. The night continued to go downhill when I revealed that Sula had packed in two litres of milk and a giant container of potato salad for dinner. Jokes were made about how I will be made to carry a lasagna in a Pyrex dish into the back country when Sula is pregnant.

Between my dismal packing abilities, dramatic over reactions to water and partial lack of common sense, as we were hiking slowly back to civilization I turned to Sula and asked “I could never come to the Arctic with you, could I?”

“You could,” Sula answered kindly, “I’d just have to send you back in the twin otter airplane before you ever touched the tundra.”

The neat part about close friends is that even if you can’t ever work with them, you can still have all kinds of fun.

(Photo Credit : Sula)

The Highest Distinction

Posted on October 25, 2015 by The Great Unwashed

“You are the only person I know that has handled this much of their own urine. I’m not sure whether to be impressed with your perseverance with this or be repulsed by the fact that you stored your own urine in your fridge [twice] hahahaha then again, what do I know [?] I have a dead fox in my parents freezer.”

This is a direct quote from Sula’s most recent email to me. She’s off in the frigid north without a phone, electricity or running water again. I think it’s secretly her dream to wake up in the stone ages and clunk a brontosaurus on the head for breakfast.

Now before anyone goes jumping to conclusions about what the two of us like to do in our spare time, I should explain that I’m being tested for a rare type of porphyria. For those who have no idea what porphyria is, you clearly need to read more of the National Enquirer. At one point they loved doing articles on vampire children who blister in the sun and live under cloaks and who can only play in darkness with bats and owls.

I might be exaggerating. But it is a real condition. Tex thinks I have it based on the fact that I got a ripping red burn from sitting next to a window at the farmhouse. In my skin’s defense it was a big window.

Tex : “Somethings wrong; those are double-pane, tinted windows.”

Unwashed : “It’s fine, it’s just my skin.It’s my fault; I should have been wearing sunscreen if we were going to open the curtains.”

This was how I found myself collecting, decanting and the refrigerating my own urine for 48 hours. It was supposed to be for only 24 hours, but the first time I collected the sample, the lab forgot to tell me that I had to protect my urine from light. (Apparently my pee gets sunburned too?)

It might make a good birthday gift for an enemy. How’s my wrapping job?

Which was why I spent part of Saturday morning wrapping a container in tin foil and trying to decide whether this was the world’s grossest gift or the worst arts and craft project ever. Regardless, I don’t think Martha Stewart would ever have deemed it “a good thing”.

My beloved, modern comfort hating friend, Sula found the whole story to be hilarious and disgusting. Apparently she draws the line at storing bodily excretions in the fridge but dead woodland creatures are acceptable. The only reason I can think of is because you can eat one but are immediately unpopular if you consume the other (I won’t even try to imagine the halitosis one would have after drinking a day’s worth of urine).

Nevertheless, I now have earned the distinction of being the person who has handled more of their own pee than anyone in Sula’s social circle, which is saying something because her boyfriend once made her an Arctic porta-john out of scrap metal, a chair with a shotgun hole blasted in it and reindeer antlers. Clearly I’m in with the in-crowd.

On The Road : The Flying Maddie Kerouac

Posted on August 30, 2015 by The Great Unwashed

10 AM – This is bad. This is very bad. The bags are packed. I repeat the bags are packed. Every single one of them, from the small purse bag to the over-sized wheelie bag. I would run around in a frenzy but anxiety has pinned me helplessly to the floor. Worst of all, the purple prison has emerged.

Life up until now has been pretty good. Admittedly there have been some rough times like when Sula disappears for what feels like forever and I stay with either the nice smelling woman who gives me endless treats (Who gets a cookie for peeing and has no thumbs? This dog.) or the newly fat one who takes me paddleboarding and hiking but ultimately, it’s a good life.

Then I met the purple prison. It showed up at the nice smelling woman’s house. I got stuck in it for longer and longer periods of time. Sure I got treats afterwards but nothing makes up for shoving yourself into the world’s smallest hiding place in a hellish game of hide and go seek where everyone can see you.

Now it’s out again. I rode in it ages ago when we went into a tiny building with bad smelling air and too many people that made my ears hurt. The building made a lot of noise and I was trapped in the violet temple of doom for what was probably a day before Sula helped me fight my way out. Then we got in a car and drove for what must have been two days.

The point is, the bags are packed, the purple prison is out and nothing good can happen from now on. Possibly forever, the purple prison is exceptionally powerful.

4 PM – Terrifying update – The fish is being packed! When Sula returned from Alaska she brought with her a giant box of delicious smelling frozen fish. Sula said while I was staying with the newly fat one and the tattooed man that she had caught the fish in a river. She was silly and wrapped all of the fish in plastic so they’re difficult to eat raw and all at once, but I forgive my master when she does foolish things sometimes.

Oh no, oh no, why are the fish being packed? I liked the fish. I had planned to eat the fish with Sula, but now I don’t know what’s happening.

4:30 PM – There are shoes. I repeat everyone is putting on their shoes! Please let me come, please let me come, please let me come, don’t take away all of the bags and the fish and leave me here forever. I’m standing next to the door so you know that I’m ready to leave, I will follow you anywhere, please let me come.

4:35 PM – The newly fat one is holding onto my leash while Sula and the tattooed man carry everything else including (horrors!) the purple prison. I would prefer that Sula hold my leash so I knew I was staying with her, but her hands are full.

4:36 PM – Sula and the newly fat one are urging me to pee. Who can pee when everything good in the world is packed up into bags???

4:37 PM – Me apparently. After I relieve myself, Sula, the newly fat one and I continue down the street without the tattooed man and the fish. Why are we leaving the fish? I liked the fish! And the tattooed man wasn’t too bad either; he would play a game to towel me off when I was wet and I slept in between him and the newly fat one on their bed.

4:38 PM – Calm yourself Mads, we can live without fish and the tattooed man, we still have the two most important people, life is good. Ok, life isn’t good, but it’s manageable, your favourite ball went into the suitcase, we can remedy this awful situation.

4:39 Pm – We are in the car, sure it’s a really hot car but this isn’t so bad. Focus; you are in the car with your two most important people, life is ok, pant, life is ok.

4:40 PM – We drive the car down the road and pick up the tattooed man and the fish. Hurray! The fish are back. I jump on the tattooed man’s lap when he climbs into the car to express my gratitude; thank you for returning my fish! Dinner is back on.

4:45 PM – I am riding on the newly fat one’s lap which has become smaller of late. I do not like this arrangement. Not only would I be more comfortable in the backseat on Sula’s lap but then I could be sure that she would stay with me and not leave again.

5:00 PM – The car is slowing down. This does not look like the dog park. I do not like this new place. I give a plaintiff look to both Sula and the newly fat one in the hopes we will leave and go to a dog park. Or even better we could go to a beach! I love the beach.

5:05 PM – This building smells like cleaning fluid, fear and hurry. Worst of all I am being held by the newly fat one while Sula walks away with all of the bags. Newly fat one, follow her! Don’t you understand that the only way to survive is by staying together?

5:07 PM – Where are they taking the bags? My favourite ball is in there!

5:11 PM – We’ve actually lost the fish now. A frowny woman I didn’t recognize in a uniform came and put them in a machine. Goodbye fish, goodbye dinner. I guess I don’t actually need you now that my bowels have seized up from worry. I don’t think I will ever eat again. This fact is confirmed when Sula tries to feed me a piece of buttered bagel and it falls directly out of my mouth. The world is ending and food tastes like sawdust.

5:15 PM – I am standing on both Sula and the newly fat one to prevent them from getting away. Sure I’d like the pack to stay together but I am small, and the tattooed man feeds me treats but not meals; I have to be prudent about my choices.

If I can just stay in this position until the end of time, then everything will be good. (Photo Credit : Tex)

5:20 PM – Ack! I moved to stretch my legs and now Sula is walking away.

If I don’t blink, I can keep her in my sight. (Photo Credit : Tex)

5:21 PM – She is back, the world is ok now. Well not ok, but you get my drift.

5:25 PM – A horrible thought has just occurred to me, the bags are gone, but the purple prison is still here. Am I supposed to go in the purple prison again?

What if I can’t ever get out? (Photo Credit : Tex)

5:27 pm – Seeing my distress, the tattooed man tries to cuddle me.

Tattooed man, you are not good at this. It’s for this reason that I was willing to cut you from my pack. (Photo Credit : The Great Unwashed)

5:28 PM – Sula picks me up and I relax entirely in her arms. This would be a good place to die, maybe I should just expire here while we’re all together and the horrible purple cage hasn’t captured me.

5:30 PM – My worst fears have been confirmed; the newly fat one is placing me in the purple temple of doom.

Please beloved fat one, don’t put me in here, I might never escape. (Photo Credit : Tex)

5:32 PM – Everyone is hugging. Why is everyone hugging? People leave after this happens. Stop hugging! Or hug me so I know that I am coming with you.

5:33 PM – All is well, Sula is picking me up, I am going with her.

5:34 PM – Scratch that, the pack is breaking up again; the newly fat one and the tattooed man aren’t walking with us!

5:36 PM – The rest of the pack has reappeared, but they’re stuck behind a glass door. I plead with them to find the handle so they can join us. They are smiling and waving. The newly fat one is pressing her face into the glass. How can they joke around at a time like this? Do they not understand that I will need all of their help to escape the purple prison?

For Pete’s sake come out from behind that glass and rescue me from this purple case of torture! (Photo Credit : Tex)

Update: Maddie survived her harrowing adventure and made it safely back home and out of her traveling case, after flying once again in a small noisy building. A day and a half later, her bowels unclenched and she attempted to recreate herself in poop form. This would have been more impressive had I myself not done such a thing after a trip. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why I love her so much; we both hate traveling and airplanes.

In case you are interested, small dogs may fly in the cabin of airplanes if they and their carrier together weigh less than 22lbs or the weight of a small personal item. The dogs must stay in the case FOR THE ENTIRE TIME and must be stored under the seat in front of their owner. The airplane must be notified in advance that they are flying with someone and there is an additional fee. Animals are not permitted on flights longer than four hours out of respect for their well being and need to pee. Sula limited Maddie’s water intake before the flight to visit me and going back.