Things Travel Guides Ought To Tell You About Newfoundland

  1. It’s always referred to as “the Rock”

This makes the place sound sexier than it is. In our extensive travels of the island, I met no former pro wrestlers. This would have been disappointing if Dwayne Johnson was my type, as it is, I’m partial to Pierce Brosnan and his squinty eyes. Also it should be called “the Cliff”, there were hills everywhere. I thanked the fates that we chose to bring an umbrella stroller because I forget to put on the safety strap when using the nice stroller and it tends to roll away on me. I would have spent the entire time speeding down hills after the Bob had we brought it. Also, at one point in Cornerbrook, I’m fairly certain we were walking perpendicular to the ocean. The city is built into the side of a cliff.

  1. It is Hawaii of the North but don’t tell the locals this- they’ll injure themselves from laughing so hard and then you’ll feel badly for harming the Newfoundlanders because they were so kind.

Mini-Tex made friends with bunch of firefighters and got to drive two of the big red trucks. While my son and I were waiting for a firefighter to return with a giant prize bag of firefighting related goodies and a personalized hat, I shared the Hawaii comment with the rest of the fire company. Once EMS finished stitching up the firemens’ sides after they busted a gut laughing, I shared that as long as one dresses for the cold, the outdoors are pleasant and that the untouched beauty of the island reminded me of Maui. They still looked at me like I had three heads. What can I say? Rugged, wild landscapes are my thing, regardless of climate.

  1. Newfoundlander is a synonym for Mother Theresa

In the same way that Canadians wear pins of the flag abroad, I feel like Newfoundlanders should have some sort of distinctive marking to let others know that they’ll give the shirt off their backs and then apologize for shivering. We encountered countless kind people, but the ones that stood out were the firemen, the Airbnb host who made us stuffed squid for dinner just so we could try local food and the park ranger who took her lunch break to drive home, get us her daughter’s toys and three pairs of snow shoes from her personal collection. The ranger lent us all of this during our stay.

  1. If given the chance, the island will kill you and swiftly bury the remains. In snow.

Tex and I are outdoorsy; we’re accustomed to signs like “No cell signal. Be self-sufficient”, or having to make a call to his parents or the ranger to say that we’ve made it out of the bush safely. Newfoundland took this, and ratcheted the difficulty and fear level up about thirty-seven thousand notches. There’s nothing quite like avalanche warnings with accompanying messages of “Do you have a pickaxe and collapsible shovel with you?” to make a person question their decision to hike with their baby on their back.

 

We were never in the avalanche areas of course- the map outlined their locations and Tex claims he understood the inscrutable instructions to skirt the danger areas. Had I been traipsing through the wildnerness with anyone else, I would have turned back. As it is, the man has two more professional degrees than I do and I take him at his word. So away we went through deep, deep snow.

 

There’s only been one other time in my life, where I’ve had to cling to various plant life to hold myself onto the mountain while hiking. And that was in Maui, where there was no snow and I didn’t have a two year old on my back. The adrenaline released by the prospect of tumbling off the cliff with your offspring sharpens your reflexes. That said, Mini-Tex loved every minute of it and talks about scaling the 800 foot waterfall.

  1. Seal tastes like wet dog fur

I suggest combining a gram of it with a pound of ketchup to render it palatable. It was Tex’s goal to eat as many forms of wildlife as he could in as many ways possible. We ate moose pie, moose soup, moose burgers, moose sausage, seal flipper pie, seal flipper stew, seal flipper sausage. The man would roast up a porcupine and declare it scrumptious. On occasion, Tex reminds me of Bart Simpson when the cartoon family visits New York City. In the episode, Bart attempts to attract sympathy and spare change from his fellow metro passengers by claiming that he was born without taste buds, then licks a subway handrail as proof. The difference being that my face after tasting seal looks like Bart’s whereas my husband wears an expression of contemplative delight.

None of this is published in the travel guides, but I thought you should know. Also don’t eat seal. It’s not an animal cruelty thing- it’s a taste thing. Even months later, I still sometimes burp the flavor.

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This Pig is My Father, Which Is Less Shocking Than The Part In Star Wars When Luke Loses His Hand Which Was SUPER Shocking To My 12 Year Old Self

When I was thirteen and Diana was eleven, our family was supposed to go on a trip to Europe. Two days before we were supposed to leave, my mother was playing basketball with my sister in the driveway. Despite having spent her life up until that point being a vaguely doughy nerd whose greatest athletic achievement was doing a thirty minute exercise video once a week , my mother decided that she was going to channel Michael Jordan and leaped to make a jump shot. She missed of course. And she also landed funny, snapping her left Achilles tendon in two.

My mother spent the next six weeks in a hip to toe cast while Diana, my father and me traipsed about Europe. It was the first time in our lives that our Dad had been responsible for us for any significant length of time.

While my Dad has a healthy respect for rules, ultimately his favourite go-to was “What did you mother say?” because when push came to toy begging, extra cookie wanting, may I stay up until midnight shove, my mother was the bad cop, the last stop, the enforcer of all the household regulations.

There’s nothing quite like a teen and a tween being given carte blanche to demand their wildest fantasies in a foreign country. My Dad’s greatest desire is for his family to be happy, so if that means that his children eat only apricots from the local produce stand for every meal three days straight, well bring on the diarrhea, because gosh darn it his girls are happy.

And we were. The only time I heard “No” that trip was when I told a snooty Parisian waiter that I wanted Nutella pizza for dinner and the man replied “Absolutely not. That is a dessert, you must choose something else.”

For two weeks my sister and I ate what we wanted. We ran wild through French cities. We swung our umbrellas and danced with them open on the crowded British tube. On the airplane we sang the same song over and over for forty minutes straight, no doubt annoying the hell out of every other passenger around us save for my father who smiled and recorded the event for posterity sake.

And then we visited Harrods. Renowned for being posh and having everything, crossing the threshold into the store’s hallowed entranceway; my father recounted the story of a man walking into Harrod’s asking to buy an elephant. The salesman, without missing a beat, replied coolly, “African or white Sir?”

My Dad wanted us to have a souvenir from this iconic store. We wandered around, looking at all the expensive wares. Recognizing how expensive the merchandise was, my sister and I ceased our umbrella swinging dance. Had I asked for a pair of 300 dollar bejeweled shoes, my father would have bought them- so long as I assured him that I would be endlessly happy with them. As it was, my sister and I were in essence, still children, which is how my father got away with not dropping a fortune that day. My sister chose a battery powered gerbil that you could place in a plastic ball that would then roll all around the room. I chose and obnoxiously loud toy pig which walked and oinked.

That afternoon we drove from London to Brighton. My sister and I were unimpressed with Brighton- we found it dirty. To this day, I remember my description of the hotel’s décor: 70’s psychedelic vomit. Despite my rudeness, my Dad laughed because we all found the brown carpet and wall paper dated.

There was one bright spot to the working class town- the pier with carnival games and rides which transported one back to the turn of the century as you walked along the aged boards with the bright, large light bulbs strung above the walkways. Diana and I begged to go on the rides. Ever the people pleaser, my Dad purchased a string of tickets. We elected to go into the scariest ride, an idea that wouldn’t have flown had my mother been there- she was absolutely opposed to any suggestion of violence. The gory exterior alone inspired fear in my young teenage heart.

The three of us wouldn’t fit in one cart so Diana, always the braver of the two of us, gallantly offered to ride alone. The doors to the ride opened and in front of us was a torture scene. This was absolutely not a children’s ride. “Close your eyes!” my sister shrieked at me, knowing my tendency to have nightmares. My hands flew up to my face, shielding my mind and my eyes from the terror all around.

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I kid you not, it was like being a horrified extra in the “Saw” movies. (Photo Credit : dreadcentral.com)

My Dad’s arm pulled me close, I felt badly for Diana who was all alone while I cowered against Dad. At one point I worked up some courage and peaked through my fingers only to see a person covered in blood and knives flashing above them. I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut again.

Despite having only seen approximately three seconds of the ride, my legs wobbled as we exited the ride car. Diana, my Dad and I explored the pier a little longer, and then headed back to the hotel. In all of the excitement of the day, Diana and I had forgotten about our new toys.

My eyes burned with the lateness of the hour but my face smiled with delight as we watched Diana’s gerbil roam around the brown carpet and wedge itself briefly under the bed. My pig’s loud “oinks” cut through the silence of the hotel night. I remember the joy of that moment, watching these toys with my Dad and sister after a day of “Yes”.20171007_120058

To me, this pig is my father; it represents all of the times he agreed just for the sake of my and my sister’s happiness.

On The Glory Of Shoving Oneself Into Flying Metal Tubes

Can we all just agree on one piece of information? No matter how you feel about Trump, gluten or labradoodles, I think that we as a species can decisively say that air travel sucks. Well more literally it squishes and compacts but the experience as a whole is a bit like ants at a picnic. If the ants were the size of tanks and trying to rip chunks out of you while stealing your lunch.

Regardless of descriptions, of which I have many, for example, flying is like having a mammogram of your entire body that lasts for hours and hours, airplanes are overrated. There are a limited number of places in the world whose beauty, amenities and people offer enough incentive to justify shoving myself into a flying metal tube for any length of time. In fact, I have more reasons to stay home than not.

A List of Countries and Reasons Why Sitting on the Couch With a Bag of Doritos Is Preferable To Forking Over Gobs of Money To United Airlines or Some Other Similar Company Hell Bent on Violating Your Rights in Ways that Only Airlines Can

Greece- People are always wetting their pants with excitement over the blue waters of this nation. Where I live, we have a big blue sky. Hanging upside down from a tree while my husband sprays me with water from the hose would probably have the same effect.

Australia – These people were once a British colony. Canada was a British colony. Why would I spend eighteen squillion hours on a plane to see what is most likely another version of Canada?

New Zealand – Is just Australia 2.0 as far as I’m concerned. New Zealand – The woolier version of Australia. Also they have an annoying habit of calling themselves “kiwis”, it would be like if all the Canucks decided to refer to one another as “orangillos”. Equally mystifying and ridiculous. By contrast, following the success of the Peter Jackson films, calling New Zealanders “hobbits” fits perfectly.

Mexico – A country that is losing the war on drugs. Nobody likes to hang around with a loser.

France – Historical, old buildings filled with dusty, aging furniture that no one is allowed to sit on. If I wanted to not sit on furniture, I’d visit my Grandma’s house circa 1980. Counterpoint- excellent wine but we can get that here.

Italy – France’s hairy, pizza making cousin.

Uzbekistan- Is this actually a real country? I thought this was made up for the Borat films. Also my jet setting Uncle had a policy that he never traveled anywhere that ended in “stan” for safety reasons.

Japan – I’m not a fan of being squashed into a small space for a short period of time, why in goodness’ name would I make a vacation of the experience? Also showering over the toilet is an experience I don’t wish to repeat, after living and bathing in an RV for a week, I can safely say I’m “over” this foreign country.

South Africa – My vampire skin makes this a bad idea from the get go. The fact that people are regularly mugged at gun point adds to the fire of my question of “But why?”

Greenland – This country is quite literally melting. Despite being a lifeguard, I’m not a great swimmer. Also my pale little legs just scream “eat me”. I’m not sure what kinds of human-munching sea creatures are up there, but they must be hardy and large to survive around a country made partially of ice.

Galapagos – It’s possible this isn’t a country. Or maybe it’s just a country for scientists. Regardless, I loathe regular air travel. Flying in teeny tiny planes is its own special ring of Hell that I never wish to experience. I’m told that’s a requirement of traveling to the Galapagos.

That’s an incomplete and abridged list of all the places that are not as good as a bag of Doritos and staring out my front window at home.  Please stay tuned for more whinging as my family convinces me to return home for Christmas.

Traveling Haikus

Squashed tight spaces

Though little I am crushed

In with a baby

 

Babies hate stillness

Discomfort, bedlam follows

Airborne Smarties, toys

 

At least he’s quiet

Quietly throwing objects

Hate me, I chose this

 

Babies shouldn’t fly

People shouldn’t fly period

But babies for sure

 

Even now, still flat

Air travel has crushed me

Junk food, wine, gossip

 

Only a Band-Aid

My two dimensional soul

Formerly 3-D

 

Tired drama queen

Say thanks for the right to fly

Travel is fun no?

 

Your regularly scheduled Unwashed shall return next week. Tragically, passage by plane has all but stolen her will to live.  In the meantime, you can find her convalescing on the couch while her son watches endless episodes of Peppa Pig. Sweet alcohol and pictures of high fashion can be shipped directly to her house. She will answer the door in pyjamas, with wild, unkempt Medusa hair.

My Friend Tom : A Fan Letter That Foams At The Mouth

I have a new obsession. And for once it doesn’t involve these girls.

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Don’t worry ladies, I still adore you, I just think about other topics sometimes now. (Photo Credit people.com)

Let’s just say his name. Tom Bricker. Or as he’s being referred to in my house currently “my friend Tom”, in the same tone that the acne covered, coke bottle glasses wearing girl who was just invited to sit at the popular lunch table would confidently and hopefully say “my friend Brittany”.

Anyway so this Tom fellow, we’re totally BFFs and by that, I mean he has no clue that I exist. Anyway my friend Tom runs a wildly popular website disneytouristblog.com. I suggest you pay a visit, even if Disney isn’t your bag. Because everyone loves good photography. And robots.

Did I forget to mention that my friend Tom is a robot? Yes he claims to be a human being with a job and the like, however in reading the Disney Tourist blog, this electronic side of him slowly became apparent.

Case and point. Tom is a lawyer. While not the most beloved job in the world, it’s a difficult one and requires a lot of education, thus we can all conclude that Tom is smart and well spoken. Robots incidentally are well spoken and extremely smart, take for example the Googles, totally brilliant and also a robot.

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You can rely on me for this one; I’m well informed when it comes to the interwebs. (Photo Credit : updatealways.com)

Now, being a lazy, layabout artist, I’m not too familiar with the rigors of being a lawyer, but the phrase 100 hour work weeks have been bandied about before. When this is considered, the fact that in addition to working full time, that Tom runs a successful blog and posts regularly, one must conclude that he is a definitely a robot who doesn’t sleep.

On top of being the world’s busiest, almost-human writer, Tom takes beautiful pictures. He takes theme parks and makes art. It’s beautiful; my friend Tom’s photos make me wish I knew how to operate my phone so that every image didn’t look like this.

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What is this? It appears to be a marine creature. I don’t even know, yet images like this appear on cameras operated by me ALL THE TIME. (Photo Credit : I wish I could say the The Drunk Unwashed but I don’t drink and breastfeed, so it’s just me and my terrible skills.)

I’d post an example of Tom’s work but that would be stealing, so you’ll just have to visit his website HERE. At first, this talent for photography made me question the whole “my friend Tom is a robot” conclusion, because robots don’t have souls and therefore are incapable of creating art like Tom’s. But then it came to me- Tom is a Martian robot. While our meager earthling robots are limited by their inability to feel the beauty of a sunrise, aliens are a superior race and thus their robots outpace ours in many respects.

Anyway, being a Martian-robot-lawyer and celebrated blogger wasn’t enough for Tom, after all, he was still getting about three hours of sleep per night or whatever it is that Martian-robot-lawyers do in the wee hours. Tom and his alien motherboard thirsted for more, so he bit the Flash. Or at least, I think that’s what happened, I mean isn’t that how Peter Parker became Spiderman? By biting? Or maybe Tom was bitten, seems unlikely given that his skin is made of Depertron the hardest element known to Martians. Regardless, some sort of exchange occurred between my friend Tom and the Flash because in addition to being a Martian-robot-lawyer-writer, Tom started running marathons. Without training. (Click the link to read about it.) And he began using all of those hours that he’d previously wasted “sleeping” each night to zip around the world. While the rest of us mortal earthlings were sleeping, Tom scaled the Great Wall of China and then he swam around Alcatraz.

Then because all of that awesome can’t be contained, it must be shared, our favourite superhero-Martian-robot-lawyer-blogger created ANOTHER website that he frequently posts on; Travel Caffeine in case any of you are interested.  With all of this busyness, I did question whether Tom was time traveling to get all of this done, but quickly rejected that idea. My friend Tom is far too generous a superhero-Martian-robot-lawyer to keep such a wonderful life changing concept as time travel to himself.

Now that everyone knows what I’ve been spending my time on, you should go check out each of my friend Tom’s blogs. I’m not greedy, I can share him. And to conclude, a message specially for my new pal; sorry to blow your “I’m a normal human” cover Tom, but it had to be done. No doubt your lovely wife will be surprised however I imagine you will quickly subdue her shock with an offer to jet her to Jupiter for your wedding anniversary.

Domestic Packing Battles and Unhygienic Oral Practices

A funny thing happens when I begin to pack. My thoughts become disorganized and suddenly the idea of wearing only a multi-coloured afro and suspenders for a weekend seems entirely appropriate. Tex had yet to witness this phenomenon until last night. Frankly I’m surprised that we are still together. Prior to becoming a cowboy, Tex was an engineer, as such, he approaches life problems like packing systematically, whereas I take the hippie-artist scattershot route.

Obviously a shirt would be overkill, but otherwise the perfect ensemble for any occasion. (Photo Credit : fancydress.com)

Obviously a shirt would be overkill, but otherwise the perfect ensemble for any occasion. (Photo Credit : fancydress.com)

7:00 PM – My flight leave in less than twelve hours

Tex “Have you started packing?”

Unwashed “No, why would I do that?”

7:45 PM – A 4:20 wakeup call dictates an imminent bedtime

Tex “You need to start packing”

Unwashed sitting on the couch reading “I’m getting there”

8:03 PM

Tex “Where’s your suitcase?”

I take the suitcase from its spot by the front door and choose to lay it on the futon which is only the second most inconvenient place in the apartment, the first being in the middle of the kitchen table.

Then I commence throwing random articles of clothing onto the shag carpet in the other room.

8: 21 PM

Tex, who is busy doing dishes and being helpful, calls from the kitchen “You’re busy packing right?”

I stop lolling around on the soft carpet for a moment to throw a pair of rainbow striped socks onto the mixed up pile next to me. “Yes, I’m so busy, in fact I’m almost done.” I call back.

Tex “So you have tights?”

Unwashed “No”

Tex “A skirt?”

Unwashed “No”

Tex “A dress?”

Unwashed “No”

Tex “Underwear?”

Unwashed inwardly “Does one really need more than one pair for four days?” aloud “No”

I spend the next twenty minutes walking back and forth between the bedroom and the living room where I’ve put my suitcase, depositing random items into it, like a pair of high heels, a camera battery charger but no camera. Tex watches all this with amusement and just a hint of concern.

A half hour passes, inexplicably I am no more ready to leave and I have somehow lost the capris and shirt that I was wearing in the process. It’s at this point that I decide to fine tune my twerking form in my underpants. Watching my leopard print butt wiggle back and forth in a manner that one could neither describe as dancing nor twerking Tex asks “And this helps you fold sweaters and shirts how?”

Unwashed stops bouncing “Ummmm”

Tex “Do you have pyjamas?”

Unwashed “No”

Tex “Do you have a toothbrush?”

Unwashed “I don’t need one”

The look of horror on Tex’s face necessitates an explanation. “One should replace their toothbrush every three months, I travel on average once every four to six, so I buy a new one when I arrive.”

Tex looks skeptical of my determination to buy a toothbrush upon arrival “I’ll get your travel one out of my bag.” He lays the orange toothbrush on the kitchen table, where it can’t be missed.

After nearly half an hour more of cajoling from Tex, I am packed and Tex is oddly exhausted. I don’t know why, he wasn’t the one running back and forth everywhere trying to find passports and the like.

This post is dedicated to my more hygienic half, who shows patience and kindness in the face of my ridiculousness and disorganization.

Ridiculous Debates and Second Hand Underpants

I’m currently preparing to leave Quebec, which means only one thing; it’s time to put all of my possessions into a suitcase that seems to shrink in size with each passing second. Packing also leads to one of my most loathed activities; lifting objects. My deep seated hatred of carrying anything heavier than a bag of marshmallows leads to bizarre thoughts because I will go to any lengths to lighten my load.

Around the time that my suitcase was half full, I started to question the utility of garments like underwear and whether I could justify donating them to Goodwill.

Underpants are like cars right? They’re better value when they’re used. (Photo Credit : copyblogger.com)

Underpants are like cars right? They’re better value when they’re used. (Photo Credit : copyblogger.com)

Or whether I actually needed hygienic items like my toothbrush. After all, I only use it twice a day- are clean teeth truly necessary? Bulky or oddly shaped objects were subject to the most scrutiny. Staring at my hairbrush, I weighed the utility of looking like a swamp monster against the additional room and decreased weight of my luggage.

So worth not carrying a hairbrush. (Photo Credit :sodahead.com)

So worth not carrying a hairbrush. (Photo Credit :sodahead.com)

When my suitcase was almost full, I contemplated becoming a fully-fledged hippie and going braless, however I figured this freewheeling lifestyle might not go over well at my work, thus the horror that is brassiere shopping to replace said bras won out over the reduced weight and bulk of getting rid of them.

As I laid across my suitcase, willing my body to be larger and thus able to make the zipper close, I had a long debate with myself over whether I actually needed my sweater and coat. Who needs body warmth when you can happily wheel a light suitcase through a train station? I also came |thisclose| to leaving my second pair of shoes at the Salvation Army in the name of carrying less.

Even after I dropped off all of the books I brought with me at the local second hand store, my suitcase still weighed an ungodly amount.  Scouring my possessions for anything that I could be rid of, I spotted them; my shampoo and conditioner. What right do I have to call myself the Great Unwashed when I’m schlepping cleaning products back and forth between provinces? Into the recycling bin they went. With that final act, I realized I had chucked, donated and compressed everything that I could and for better or worse my elephant sized suitcase was packed.

My suitcases once I finished packing. (Photo Credit: trekearth.com)

My suitcases once I finished packing. (Photo Credit: trekearth.com)

The Summer of My Amazing Luck

I broke another bicycle. Well actually if we’re being specific I broke three bicycles. With the latest bike, the chain got caught in between the gears and the frame. This of course occurred at the most opportune moment; in the middle of the night in the pouring rain. After trying in vain to fix it and covering myself in bicycle grease up to the elbows, I concluded I needed help, or at the very least a Kleenex. So I walked home.

Or perhaps a paper towel. (Photo Credit: andreafrazetta.com)

Or perhaps a paper towel. (Photo Credit: andreafrazetta.com)

The next day, for the third time during the program, I diligently walked the bicycle back to the home of the man who rented it to me. Tragically the man wasn’t home, however his wife was, she was prepared to lend me my fourth bicycle in four weeks. But then another student with more skills than either of us, swooped in and saved the day. And off I rode. Ostensibly happily ever after into the sunset.

I looked exactly like this. Only I didn't have a horse, or cowboy boots and I don't own a lasso. And my bike made "SCCCCREEEEEE" noises every time I changed gears which marred the fairy tale vibe. (Photo Credit: iamtemp.tumblr.com)

I looked exactly like this. Only I didn’t have a horse, or cowboy boots, also I don’t own a lasso. And my bike made “SCCCCREEEEEE” noises every time I changed gears which marred the fairy tale vibe. (Photo Credit: iamtemp.tumblr.com)

Only not really, because I got a flat tire two days later. For the record this was my third flat tire. I’m not entirely sure what is causing this problem. I wish I could tell you I was performing derring-dos on my two wheelers

I take curb jumping to a new level. (Photo Credit: tumblr.com)

I take curb jumping to a new level. (Photo Credit: tumblr.com)

but the more likely explanation is that I’m a magnet for nails and other sharp objects. Once again I wheeled my bicycle back to the garage of the owners, this time expecting some sort of speech about proper treatment of bicycles. Fortunately they merely gave me yet another bicycle. As soon as I hopped on the new bicycle, the handle bars fell forward and nearly off.  Rushing towards me with a screwdriver in hand the bicycle lender said “I’ll just fix that for you”.

Of course, two hours later the handles were flopping about like a fish on the bottom of a boat while I peddled along. Given that I could still ride the bike, I decided to just live with the wiggly steering.

Breaking News: The Great Unwashed Spotted In A Metropolis

The Great Unwashed disappeared late last week. Family and friends first noticed her absence when the The Great Unwashed blog had not been updated. A visit to the author’s house confirmed suspicions. Based on the items missing from The Great Unwashed’s home the Antarctic, Tahiti and Quebec were thought to be possible destinations for this unclean writer. Further investigation into her medicine cabinet turned up multiple tubes of sunscreen, consequently Tahiti was ruled out.

Neighbours could not comment as they were elbow deep in a set of barbequed spare ribs. But when reached via phone, her cousin Candy, of the stripper nom de plume, stated “Unwashed hates travelling, you should really stop looking for her. Seriously, she might bite you out of spite and jet lag.”

Yesterday The Great Unwashed was reportedly spotted exiting a car in Toronto while lugging two large bags. At first this sighting was falsely dismissed as this often disheveled blogger loathes large cities, cars and lifting anything heavier than a box of Q-tips. However the Unwashed sighting was confirmed when later a separate passerby overheard the following comment being made to a train station employee. “Sir, your promise that my luggage will meet me at the end of the trip had better be a good one because there is exactly one pair of underwear in my carry on and they’re not even clean.” This type of extensive, off colour overshare could only be made by one woman.

Further news of The Great Unwashed’s whereabouts is welcome, sightings can be reported using the hotline 1 888 NO BATHS. Bystanders are advised to use caution when approaching as The Great Unwashed is carrying hardcover books that she may brain people with, depending on her mood, which is assumed to be poor given that she hasn’t slept in her own bed for days.

The Whereabouts of The Great Unwashed

The Great Unwashed went missing last week. Recent reports have placed her in Tahiti, Quebec and the Antarctic. These suspected locations were based on the articles of clothing missing from her wardrobe.  Neighbours would be worried but cook out season has begun so their thoughts have been taken up by the art of perfectly grilling a steak. Friends close to the Great Unwashed gave the following statement “She’s gone? Thank heavens that woman was as curmudgeonly and disagreeable as they come.Also have you tasted this T-bone? Divine.”

It is suspected that The Great Unwashed is travelling, currently her location is unknown, When the press spoke with family members, relief was the only emotion expressed. Diana,who purportedly claims to be The Great Unwashed’s sibling despite a complete lack of resemblance told the press that “The Great Unwashed is a nightmare to travel with, I’m glad I’m not with her.”

 

The reasons surrounding her departure are shady, it is thought that the impending barbeque season forced Unwashed to colder climates where outdoor grilling is not an expectation. Another camp hypothesized that drugs, specifically Gravol may be involved. Murmurs of foul play with dodge balls and a rogue acrobat group also abounded. This was all the information available at the time of printing.