Tradesperson Wanted Regarding Cement Boot Removal

Wait until the guy responds to my Kijiji ad and realizes the boots are attached to my psyche. Now that’s going to be a bewildered look.

I’m stuck. Stuck like a frat boy after an unfortunate super glue prank. Stuck like a Smart car in an eight foot snow drift. Stuck like my twelve year old self in the maroon swimming level.

Much like my twelve year old self, clinging to the pool wall, refusing to do a front roll into the water, I don’t foresee this situation changing anytime soon. Only unlike my twelve year old self, who was scared to death of hitting her head on the way in and dying, (Two group lessons, three private instructors and no maroon badge later, Mom, are you regretting not asking me why I wouldn’t forward roll into water?) I’m worried about not being funny.

I’d love to melodramatically claim that it’s “Writer’s Block” but someone on WordPress debunked that last week saying that writer’s block is merely a writer’s will. So apparently I’m willing myself not to write. Likely due to the aforementioned fact that I’m not funny anymore. For starters, I no longer do weird and bloggable acts like kicking banks, partially because there are no banks here there’s only THE bank and Fred would get offended if I started wailing on his establishment and would consequently pull my husband aside in the grocery store “Hey Tex, like your choice in onions by the way- Spanish, always a winner. While I’ve got you here, is your wife all right?” but also because I’m a Mom and am therefore not out and about hoofing any businesses let alone Fred’s bank. Instead I spend a lot of my time convincing Mini-Tex that apples taste as good as breastmilk and singing “Down by the bay”. While wombats in top hats are amusing, the story of my days pretty much ends there.

Furthermore, on top of not being funny anymore, I’m seriously bummed. Everyone, we have got to stop egging Stephen Hawking’s house. For starters, computer voices are not nearly as entertaining as irate voices of neighbour’s while they shake their fists at teens while the vandals speed away from the scene- pick a different home. Secondly because giving this scientific legend’s home an omelet shower is clearly pissing Stephen Hawking off. In case you missed it, this renowned physicist and researcher damned the whole world. According to Dr. Hawking, humans have about 100 years until we face extinction.

Mind you, if the CBC is to be believed, people may have damned themselves first. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation reported that young people now prefer to talk to twenty people at once on Facebook and Instagram in lieu of telephone calls with a lone person. If that isn’t a recipe for slow, isolating extinction, I don’t know what is. So I’m bummed, because whether by Stephen Hawking, or our own ridiculous love of handheld technology, we as a species are done for.

Now everyone start a slow clap for me, because I’ve just written something that is almost as depressing since the news that the villain from the last bachelor show has a girlfriend. If society had been paying attention, the concept that such a man could be in a position to approach procreation is terrifying and obviously foreshadows more horrible news. This has been Debbie “Unwashed” Downer in your weekly “Reasons to Read a Book Rather Than Use Your Device” list.

For the record, I’m still searching for foot and psyche friendly jack hammer wielding tradespeople.

Writer’s Block

So I went to my normal spot in the library, third floor tables, under the sky light, right in between the homeless man who talks to himself and the homeless man whose odor speaks for him.

But no magic happened. I walked home, on my normal route by the river, under the trees. I still didn’t feel better so I did what every author who has writer’s block does on occasion, I rolled around on the floor clutching my netbook to my chest crying “Oprah will never love meeeeeeeee!”

And then I covered my face in make up because my face can look good, even if my words can’t. But I still didn’t feel better.

So I put on all the pieces of clothing that make me happy; my giant Kermit the Frog stocking socks, my skirt which looks like someone took multiple swipes at it with pink, purple and black paint, my navy blue t shirt with the desert on it which is actually hand painted. Then I topped the whole bizarre overly made up, yet clashing look off with my circus coat. I added a bright blue scarf with a crazy print for good measure.

Then I walked down our street looking like a cross between a carnival and a cartoon. The frat boys ignored me. The metallers next door turned their pierced heads and looked the other way. Even the druggies sitting out on their porch, who normally give a whistle when I pass, paid me no mind.

The wind had gone out of my sails. Not even the colourful racket the circus coat was making against the green grass could cheer me up. So I asked Roscoe to take a photo of me. This is what my writer’s angst looks like.

Not pictured- the face of marital angst. Roscoe- "I don't mind when you dress up like a colour blind clown but I don't want to be seen with you much less take photos of it." I wish Candy* had been here, she would have suggested I put on my big floppy hat to feel a little better and to add to the photo.

Not pictured- the face of marital angst. Roscoe- “I don’t mind when you dress up like a colour blind clown but I don’t want to be seen with you, much less take photos of it.” I wish Candy* had been here, she would have suggested I put on my big floppy hat to feel a little better and to add to the photo.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t mind when I dress like a three year old who has been allowed to pick out their own clothes to cheer myself up.