Hubby and I moved into our new place 3 months ago. Our first evening at our new place, we were sitting and watching out our new windows. There was a man in a white, crisp collared shirt with a big lady bulldog. Both Hubby and I remarking how cute the puppa was. Until she pooped and her owner pretended not to see it and then walked away. Needless to say; the Commissioner was not impressed.
Since that first day, the amount of excrement has drastically increased. Hubby is convinced that it all belongs to the bull-dogette, which would actually be very impressive. That stocky lady must eat a lot cuz there is a lot of poop at various stages of decomposition and petrifaction. It's been bothering my Hubby every time he takes our Stinker out. Bothering him every time he looks out our window. And it started to bother me when the Commish wouldn't stop obsessing about it.
Then this past weekend; after 3 months of stewing over pooh. While standing, some might even say lurking on our patio (the deck as I refer to it ironically). Low and behold, the lady bulldog with her owner, wearing the same white collared shirt, let's his big lady do her business in the same outback area. The man looks around taking stock of who is watching-sees no one and walks away from the chocolate swirl his big lady left:( Hubby has had enough, 3 months of starring at poo from our window and obsessing has emboldened him.
"You gonna pick that up?" To which the man looks up and sees the 2 of us watching him from the deck.
"You gonna pick that up?" the Comish asked again.
"Can you see where it went?" the man laughs
"Yeah, it's right there, where your dog pooped."
"Point it out to me."
Hubby leaning over the railing points into a dark spot and makes a broad sweeping gesture. The man in the collared shirt laughs it off, bends down to collect it, waves and then says goodnight. Hubby feels great. The pride he feels for sticking up for himself fills the air. Suddenly, there's a voice from below.
"Pick it up!?! What are you the shit police?" Hubby and I were both surprised to hear this. Shit police? No, we've got way bigger fish to fry.
"Dude who gives a shit if I pick up this dog shit?" looking down from our deck, we find our downstairs neighbour: the man in the collared shirt and his dumbass douche friend.
"Look at it out here." Backwards hat drunk friend says while gesturing to the construction holes, temporary fence and general disarray. His rudeness adding to the disaster that is our 'yard'. We are surrounded by mud and I understand that it can seem like a little dog turd is the least of our esthetic landscaping problems.
"Its a dump. You think one piece of shit is gonna make a difference?"
"I don't want to look at your dog's dump. Don't you want to make this dump a little better?" I ask with my heart on my sleeve and my optimism squeaking from my throat.
"Well, I don't even live here why would I even give a shit?" And why should he give a shit if we don't? It is our home; and we need to take pride in it, no matter the current state. Right?
So, what did we achieve? Hubby yelled at the man in the collared shirt who picked up one teeny tiny dog turd, leaving the rest on display. Then the man turns out he's our downstairs neighbour. What are the odds of that? In our 3 building complex there is an average of 20 suites per floor, each building having 8 + storeys. The only person we've yelled at is an unhappy downstairs neighbour with a sloppy lady bulldog and a douche with a big mouth BFF, making us feel bad for being the try-harddo-gooders we are. What are the odds? I guess they're stacked meliciously against us, but don't worry Comish, I am a great partner who's not afraid to call for back-up.
As you have perhaps noticed I have been getting up at 5am everyday this week. Blah. So, I feel like I've been missing my home life. Well I have been missing my Little stinkeroo Tink, Sushi-goose and the Hubby. So, I started leaving notes for them on the counter in my mind. Which I will now transcribe for your reading pleasure.
Monday:
Dearest Tinker,
You are my favourite Puppa. I had to leave very early this morning and I wanted you to know. I love you. I hope you have a great day.
Momma
P.S. If you could please Swiffer that would be great- as most of that hair is yours
Momma,
I miss you and wanna give you kisses. I was seeping all 'da day and didn't have time for swiffering. Also Lucy made some of that mess, so I don't know why I have to clean it all.
Jilly
Tuesday:
Jilly,
I was so happy to find you in bed with me this morning. You're such a snuggler. As for swiffering, you are the bigger sister and it's important to show Lucy how to pitch in. She's never been much of a helper. Maybe you can both do it, together
Xoxo M
Momma,
Lucy bopped my nose and even though she knows she's not supposed to hit- she did it anyways. I think she should have to Swiffer as punishment for hitting. 'Cause that's bad.
Tinker
P.S. You smell nice and I owe you some kisses
Wednesday:
Jill,
Please Swiffer. That's all I want. I took Lucy aside this morning and we talked about this behaviour. She apologized and told me she'll try harder to be nice. She also told me that you said she had to Swiffer and that you were being a bully. That's not the way I taught you to behave. Now I am trusting you 2 to get along when I am not there. So, please just be good.
I love you both,
Momma
Momma,
If Lucy won't Swiffer I am not going to either.
Your loving doghter,
Jill Bean
Mom,
Please stop Jilly from being so bossy. She was barking out the window all day, drooling on your quilt and licking her bum hole. She's trying to get me to clean the whole house, and I am not the dirty one. I don't even go outside or anything. Plus I just gave myself a pretty lengthy bath today. Please ignore me if I'm sneezy, think I am catching Papa's allergies to dander.
I love you more than Jilly does.
Lucy
Momma,
I saw what Lucy wrote and I mean c'mon who you gonna believe? Me or her? I was a good girl all day. Puppa-swear. Lucy just wants to get me in trouble so I have to do all the chores.
She's being so mean. Acting all fancy with her nail jewelry. It's not fair.
The bestest JB
P.S. She says she doesn't even miss you. But I do.
P.P.S I still have kisses for you
Thursday:
Girls,
It is Thursday. I have been asking for you to Swiffer since Monday. I am no longer asking; I am telling. Swiffer today or there will be consequences.
Your little less loving mother.
Momma,
Lucy and I have decided that swiffering is not something we want to do. We thought maybe if we just slept quietly together in the sun spot on the couch that would be alright. Cuz getting along is the most important thing, right?
Love your Fur babies,
Lucy and Jilly
Friday:
Hubby,
Please punish those lazy girls of ours: no treats. They haven't helped me out all week. If you could please Swiffer and clean their rooms (Jilly's crate and Lucy's poo-box) that would be great. I will have to sit those 2 down and give them a piece of my mind.
I love you, and I love them- I just don't like them very much right now.
Wifey
Wifey,
Why didn't you just ask me in the first place? It took me 10 mins and could've saved you the argument. You know those 2 don't have thumbs or cognitive cleaning skills.
You're silly, I love you.
Hubby
P.S. weren't you going to clean Saturday anyway?
Argh! I know, I know it's my fault for asking the wrong family member to take care of that on teensy job. I just thought it would be great to have those 2 laze-abouts finally pitched in. I was thinking though, maybe I should MacGyver 2 sets of pet sized booties made of Swiffer clothes, then all 8 of those tiny feet can do the work. You know what they say, many feet make for less fight. Plus their penmanship is terrible. Thanks for another great week! I'll see you Monday:)
This blog was written with a haughty British accent;)
In my life I've seen a plethora of wild, weird and amazing sights. I love learning and doing new things and exploring new places. Typically while in the throughs my adventures I must powder my nose, to put it demurely. In those varied facilities there has been many a loo I have endured, Port-a-potties and Johnny on the spots included. There are few places with such a wide variation of experiences, most of which are increasingly disgusting. But truly where to begin? Perhaps here:
1. Graffiti professing love and loathing. Which distracts from the task at hand...task at bottom.
2. Portable facilities at festivals and in parks. The limited cleaning of these is in and of itself: a nightmare. I am convinced that the toilet monster from Dogma resides within them and awaits an unexpecting bottom to latch onto and suck down into the bog below.
3. Disasters. Need a lady say more?
4. No flushing. It is a simple physical gesture that proves you respect yourself and others enough to not show them your waste.
5. Toilet paper on the floor. Both wrapped rolls and rogue strips. Wet it becomes a horrific paper-mâché soaked with urine or unidentifiable liquid.
6. Women throwing up and crying, typically a drunken phenomenon; overtaking the facilities, forcing the gentry to "hold it".
7. Hair; pubic and longer strewn about, but always in a location I must touch. And though I am sure you think your hair is cleanly, I do not desire intimate contact.
8. People having sex. I tend to think of public lavatories as out-posts, where you are only expelling, though some may consider me a prude.
9. Washing hands is recommended but how many other parts of the body should be washed in a public sink? Armpits, feet and crotches are business best left for home. Unless your home is Union Station.
11. Line ups and natural flow. Women, please let's agree that the rules of the road should apply to the lines of the restroom. First in, merging and line ups should be adhered to. Unless elderly or invalid.
10. Phone applications that make noise to cover the sound of using the facilities. There is a children's book: Everybody Poops. Please do your business and don't try to wait until the room is empty; everyone knows what you are doing behind that closed door. So my dear, relax and do it.
11. The smell. What foods must be eaten to create such a wretched stench? And if the water closet is a onesizie; leave the door ajar to air it out for the next occupant. Pretty please with a cherry on top?
12. Seat pee. The squatters who have convinced themselves that diseases will leap from the seat, attach and infest within the 15 seconds of contact. Problem? They are the reason other gentle ladies need to wipe the seat before use.
In softer times the loo was outfitted with chaise lounges, mirrors and complimentary beautifying supplies- well complimentary with a substantial tip to the attendant. Lavatories were a place for women in corsets and girdles to breath. For nose powdering and feminine gaggle gossip. It was not simply a place to make water and leave a mess. It was seclusion; away from the eyes of your gentlemen callers. In the comfort of a private place for ladies only. But the perpetrators of the fore mentioned offenses have lost sight of the dignity we had. And now there are fewer ladies, in a time when that's just what the world needs. Oh dear, my telephone is ringing. Please excuse me, I have to take this, it's nature calling:)
It's hard to pinpoint the start of my love affair with all things vintage. But I think it started just after my G'ma Far passed away. She was such a Lady. With gloves and pearls and legs crossed at the ankle. It was with her that I watched my first black and white movie. At the time I couldn't understand why anyone would film in B&W instead of colour; it just didn't make sense. It was also with her that I fell in love with Holly Golightly, Gene Kelly and the Sharks (though sadly, I would probably end up being a Jet). At the time she passed I was in high school and had just made the very educated decision to be an almost vegetarian- who ate the occasional steak; because who can resist Papa B's BBQ? But I did give up all pork, you know, for Babe's sake. I tried not to wear leather and fur was murder. I was a very worldy young lady, as far as I was concerned. But there was just one thing; Grandma's fox stole. This glamours furry, rust coloured wrap that smelled like her and felt like a satin lined hug. While cleaning out her house, the house where my Momma grew up; the house were my Bro and I spent Christmases and giggled and fought and played with the old toys that our grown-up cousins had played with. The house where we watched the Jerry Lewis telethon every year the weekend before back to school. It was impossible to think of the things you hoped would remind you of the Lady she was. For me it was the antique cannonball bed and this very non-vegetarian fox stole. I remember talking it out with my Momma; and her tenderness in a time of such heartache. Letting me know that a fox stole worn by my Grandma was very different than a new fur coat. That having something loved by someone before you makes it that much more special. So, I braved my inner critic and wore the stole home on the 3 hour car ride. Sitting in the backseat, wrapped in the smell of my Momma's Momma; and I slept.
Now, a fox stole wasn't something a 17 year old could easily accessorize in 1998, so it went into storage; wrapped and delicately laid there. As I grew, I tried to find my place in this fashionable world. Not an easy task when you grew up in a small town, move to the big city and didn't/don't have any money. Second hand stores and thrift shops were what I could afford or cheap 3 for $10 tops. So I ended up in shoes that didn't fit properly and clothes that even people with bad taste didn't want. These facts forced me to adopt a uniform: jeans, t-shirt and hoodie. This outfit had many incarnations, variations and colours, but it didn't seem to fit me either. I longed to be a Lady, with a capital L like my Grandma. How was a poor little fashion faux-pas like me supposed to make her mark?
Then it happened. A tiny hole in the wall with 12 hats in the front window. My college friend dragged me into a softly lit shoe box storefront- filled with cloches, clutches and class. Smelling vaguely like Chanel No. 5 a woman in rhinestone rimmed glasses smiled at us; 2 college girls in our sweaty dance gear; ogling her wares. I couldn't afford anything that day; not that I didn't want to have it all. I wanted the hats, purses, gloves, brooches, belts and most of all the panache. I wanted to be classy.
It was many years of pining before I started adding quality vintage pieces to my wardrobe. It began with a white sundress from my Momma's high school era; found packed away for a sunny day. Followed by many dresses designed in a time when women were classic and mysterious creatures clad in soft and flowing fabrics. Last year Hubby added my most extravagant piece to date; a chocolate brown Persian lamb 3/4 length coat with voluminous Fox collar and trim. That is a coat that gets noticed! When I wear vintage I can feel the love that the previous owner invested in it and it changes the way you feel about yourself. I am amazed to think that someday my new clothes will be vintage. But by then I think we'll be wearing matching jumpsuits like Logan's run, without all that dreadful running...and murder. That's not the best case scenario for a Lady like me, but who doesn't want hover shoes with automatic laces?
As I compose this blog there are 2 sets of fingers in my mouth. No, that's not right.
As I compose this I am fully reclined with a grinder drilling a hole in my brain...nope, still not there.
This blog was written from the comfort of a dentist's chair. As this new dentist, who I liked as soon as I met him, feels around inside my mouth for this dramatic fracture I am blogging in my mind. You know how people say "Go to your happy place." This is my happy place. But that Rod-damned grinding/polishing is throwing my thoughts into a tizzy- Rude. The weird thing is I don't want to talk about the hands in my mouth (though I have mentioned it twice). I don't even want talk about dentists in general, except this: I love Steve Martin. The topic of choice today?
It's you. Yes, you. Stop looking around. No, not that guy, why would it be that guy? I can smell his BO from here. Eww. I digress. Yesterday I spent time with 2 of my biggest cheerleaders- unrelated to me by blood or marriage. People who have chosen my basket for some of their eggs. A weird analogy, but I like it. These two fab folks are wicked sticks. The kind that beat the crap out of low-self esteem and prop you up when you're not too sure of yourself. While Hubby says I may give myself too much credit, it's still nice to hear it from others. There is a very nervous and shy girl under this bravado.*insert Home Alone face
When you're a little person, friendship is a game of proximity. You weren't friends with people you didn't see. That's the way it was. When you grow up, well get taller, friendship changes. You start realizing you can learn something from every friend in your life, near or far. Yesterday's lesson was in loyalty and dedication. These two get me doing all sorts of things I don't wanna do, but they knows it's good for me, so I do things for/with them. And maybe a little bit for me. Being more like them helps me feel better about myself. Is that alright? It almost feels like I am taking advantage of their kindness, and claiming it as my own. I hope they get something from me other than a blog entry:)
Another friend of mine has been teaching me generosity. He's generous beyond merit. It's strange to me- I don't like giving gifts. I am not very good at it. I am not good at it because I am cheap. He reminded me that giving to others is a gift in itself. Giving is the point, and it feels good. That is the reason you give someone something. To give it. But I forgot that. I am not sure if I will ever be great at this, but I think trying is the first step to changing that. Then there's Damnber who splits herself so many ways and still manages to make you feel special. Important. Understood. She is more whole while split than most people are whole. If you can wrap your head around that.
So dear friends near and far, old and new let's remember the lessons we've learned and the ones we are teaching. Oh, this UV light and schmancy glasses mean I am almost done at the dentist, and this blog. Which is a good thing cuz thinking about how special you are is giving me the vapours. Oh no, that's just stray spittle. Talk about grinding to a halt:) (That's a very happy smile. Thanks DDS)
I don't consider myself a girly-girl, though I am sure there are many people who disagree (those were stinging nettles Damnber and they hurt!!), but I am the one writing this blog- thus it is my reality not their's.*insert raspberry When I got home from work, took off my antique-dirty shoes with the caked mud and unrolled my jeans to release the sediment, I realized; It's mud! It's all dirt! It's ALL disgusting! Come rescue me! Eeww dirty! You might not believe me but I work in 1864. I am over 100 years dirty from work when I get home. I have been wearing the same 2 pairs of jeans for the last month (not the ones that split- though I've been asked to) cuz I don't wanna get anything else dirty. Who thought this was a good idea? Oh, wait it was me, and dirt or not, I still love it. Though everywhere smells like horse ass, rotten teeth and dust. The dust is a million years old, it must be special dust from a special place where all things old hang out. And I am not sure my co-workers have ever been clean- I mean it's dirty everywhere, everywhere. It's in my ears, up my nose and my hair. Yucky.
Then after long hours, for my 5 th day in a row; I go home...Home to a place surrounded by temporary fence, preventing me from falling into ever deepening holes. It smells like burning cheese, which I can't decide is a good thing or bad thing. Upside: it's not 100 year old dust, Downside: it's fresh, earthy and wet. Then the rains came and it's mud. Seriously? The street is mud, the sidewalk is mud; the mud sinks into my shoe treads, making this already clumsy person start walking like Peter Sellers. I am slipping and sliding, and trying to get my stubborn Beagle to poop and she won't. She hates the mud, the rain, the wet- treating me like I did THIS to her...Which I never would. So, now I am soggy, dusty, dirty, grumpy and muddy. My whole life is filthy, except my condo hallway. It's a hyper-barrack chamber. After the flood, my hallway was ripped apart and naked. Now, it is a plastic lined, newly re-insulated hazmat tunnel. An eerie bubble leading me towards ET; I walk through it 4 times daily. Each time expecting to enter zero gravity or meet John Travolta (the boy in the bubble for those too young), it's a strange feeling. Oh no, how rude of me, I think, looking behind me to see the trail of filth I've left on the plastic floor- World's oldest dirt-meet brand spanking new condo hallway. Everything here is new and hepa filters and static electricity. Jilly thinks the plastic drop sheet is a giant toy for her delight, it squeaks like her toys, tastes like her toys and the tape must smell like bacon- cuz all she wants to do is eat it...though I can see in her eyes, she knows she's being a bad girl. Finally, I enter my own sweet home, where I am free to shed the dirt and grime and grumps. After taking special precautions to wrap all this fancy dirt into itself, I jump in the shower and sing showtunes, while making up fake conversations with handsome men I have never met- Ryan Gosling-and practising my giggle. Okay, so that sounded girly, but who wouldn't be in a cupcake scented shower?
Day 3 of captivity. Time is starting to drag now, my days and nights determined by the sunlight peeking through the clouds. The men keeping me captive walk the halls of this stripped and soggy building, talking loudly to each other in a language I don't understand. The machines they use are grinding a low hum- worse than constant laundry- somehow bigger, reminding me that we are the only people living on this floor. The 6 surrounding units evacuated, us left unscathed by the flood we are punished by being left here alone. The men entering units while knocking, forget this unit is still occupied. And me who likes to write in my pajamas, yelling: "Hold on!", scaring my sickly cell mate, who wants to sleep all day and cry all night. It's been days since I felt at ease... I like ease. No man shall be left behind, but I gotta get outta here. The animal paces when she awakes, banging into walls, door frames and getting caught on corners. There is an eeriness to her gait, the sad and familiar tinker toes with the gruesome cone snags and bangs. Her pile of blankets twisted into a sad and smelly nest.
The phone has been quiet, no word from the outside world. Except the get better texts, no work, no auditions, no play dates. I think the world knows we're in quarantine, on total lockdown. In an effort to feel less captive, and more stay-cation-ey, I gave my self an at home spa day... well, let's just say, at home disaster day. An intensive hair reconstruction treatment- that left my hair heavy and looking like I groom with a combination of seal blubber oil and adolescent insecurity. I soaked, trimmed, shaped and buffed my nails to an appropriate ukulele length (though it may be a few more days until I play as my pupparoo is always sleeping*insert air strum). This didn't go well. I cut my thumb, pointer and middle finger nails WAY too low and split the pinky one, and my cuticles are uber-dry from the change in seasons and lack of attention! As for my feet? Les sigh. These tender tootsies have been in winter boots with bamboo socks that give me splinters, so I again soaked, trimmed, buffed and shaped them- taking extra care to work off those calluses. Oh wait, only to walk the 10 steps my dog can take and stub my big toe- fracturing my big toe nail and maiming me.
My mother says there's never a dull moment with our family, and when things get overwhelming she's right. But when we're on a roll, I mean when we're really cooking, it's hard to stop us. I guess the tough thing about being a juggernaut is that it doesn't matter what direction you're going in- cause you're going all the way. I remember the sunny days, and I know I will see them again soon. I will get to snuggle Jilly, who will have grown all her hair back, in a building that has no water damage, with shiny, healthy hair and fingers and toes that belong in a spa magazine, oh yes, the time will come. But for now, I must wait for the damn machines in the hallway to stop screaming and be a quiet and vigilante cell mate, planning our escape. Leaving no man behind, except maybe hubby, he's normally a home body.
Oops, I did it again. After the gratifying experience I had taking all my old stained raggedy "painting clothes" and donating them to a good cause... I now have to paint my new apartment. Les Sighs and a big Boo-urns. It seems like I would have been better holding off on the uber-rewarding pre-spring cleaning by 2 weeks, as now I have to use my slightly better clothes and be careful, which is another thing I am not very good at. Double sigh. On the upside I get to move into a bigger, brighter and BETTER space. For those of you not in the know, I have been inhabiting a teeny-tiny-itsy-bitsy- green one room 420 sq ft bachelor pad with my non-bachelor Husband, our stubborn Peagle- Jilly a 3/4 Beagle & 1/4 Pug, Lucy-our Kitten Giantess and ReAction Jackson the former heavy weight fighting fish champion of the world, who recently passed away- sad though he was 4 years old! Way to go Jacks. RIPee as we were forced to flush him, because the condo board wouldn't let us start a Pet Cemetery, as apparently they're cursed or whatever... Oh yeah, painting clothes. I am super psyched about moving into a space that has more than one closet and a door between the bedroom and television/game console. I will finally be able to sleep soundly. Let the Packing begin! It's a 2 week countdown... I will keep on posting. Here we go!!
Dear Opportunity,
I heard you were here and I missed you. I am sad to say that I was looking forward to catching up, it seems like so long since I've seen or even heard from you. There are so many things I wanted to tell you, for example, have you heard that I started a blog? It's not very good yet, but I am hoping that if I actually just started doing it I would get better. This opinion could be horribly wrong and it probably is, but I keep telling other people that they should just shut up and do it, so that's what I am going to do. Well, not the shutting up part, the doing it part.
The uke playing is coming along nicely, it is such a dainty little demon in my hands. Strumming Betty (to which I lovingly refer her) creates a sense of an island vacation, though sometimes it sounds like it's screaming as it hurtles down a flight of antique stairs, but that's because it's old. Not that I'm ageist, but poor Betty is a senior citizen, a crotchety old woman, who is equal parts stubborn and rewarding.
Onto Jilly, she's still asleep since the last time we spoke. Somehow, that beast manages to bury herself in a cavern of our stacked pillows. Burrowing deeper into sleep, and weaving her fur into the soft fabric of our bedding creating a prickly night time canine-reminder, as though her snoring and deep sleep chases aren't enough. Lucy is good. She has taken up asylum underneath my dresser, which has been recently excavated, which brings me to spring cleaning.
Here we go! Oh dust, dirt and animal hair, I find you it every corner of our tiny Toronto abode. Jammed into corners, woven into rugs and saturating blankets. Making fresh washed socks look like wooly 7 day dust bunnies, but the swiffer and dyson seem up to the task of apartment shaving, when I am. Spring cleaning this year includes culling my wardrobe, and removing the surprising amount of shirts and pants with various stains on them, that I was apparently saving "to paint in", though I have no idea what I thought I would be painting and for how long, I can only imagine from this extensive wardrobe that it would be Sistine-like. Also, joining my painting clothes are the "garage towels"- for what condo-car-port calamity was I saving them? What projects did I think I would undertake that I would require a wrecked wardrobe of such magnitude? Regardless, it is a gift to be able to close my dresser drawers. The dresser excavation is another story, I retired 2 pairs of boots, one bright but leaky and another dark and split open, sending them to a better place* hopefully with a new sealant. I will "miss" them all but I think it will be a smoother track for my drawers to glide, and ease is something I should strive towards.
Opportunity, I would now like to take this chance to invite you back for a visit. I know I have made progress and you promised if I kept my head down and worked hard, you would come and see me again soon. I look forward to it, though I can no longer help you paint your living room, is that gonna be a problem?
xoxo
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