Bump in the Night

Last night, I woke up to Marty flickering the lights on and off, confused and apologetic, but not stopping as I woke up.

“What’s the matter with you? What time is it?”

“It’s 3 am. I’m sorry.” He turned off the lights for the final time and crawled back into bed.

“No, but, like.. why did you do that?” I persisted.

“I saw something...”

“What did you see?”

“Oh. A..head,” He replied, “It didn’t make any sense.”

I laughed nervously, and tried to keep it cool. “What do you mean you saw a fucking HEAD?? Like a human head? Where?!”

He replied that he saw it in the corner on the right, which means by the door. That makes things a little bit better, since I sleep on the window side and Marty sleeps on the door side, meaning The Head will attack him first, giving me ample time to run around its body-less form. I’m not sure how this attack plays out, it’s late, ok?

He casually looks over his shoulder a couple of times, just to make sure, and then drifted off to sleep as I lay awake, wondering how he could be so cool about it. Then I realized that he wasn’t looking by the door when he was flashing the lights, or when he was looking over his shoulder; he was looking directly to my side of the room. His right. The Head is on my side of the room. He is resting easy because that rat bastard knows I’M THE DECOY. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well last night.

___

One time, I tried to get my parents to protect me from Night Time, and they chased me back to my room and laughed and laughed at me while I cried and cried. They laughed so hard, my dad went downstairs and grabbed the camera to capture the moment for the rest of my life. That’s when I started thinking, “this IS kind of funny, I guess.” and laughed along with them. I see it, a little girl comes into your room crying for monster protection but she has A MULLET, there’s teeth everywhere on her face, and she is dressed like she is about to leave for a speedwalk. How does one get past that? I know for sure I would have reacted the same way.

Anyways, recently I asked my dad for some childhood pics to put up for my upcoming nuptials, and this is what he sent:



Thanks, dad.

Hobo Love.

So, I haven't written in a really long time. Lots of things have happened since my last post: I went to St. Lucia, got engaged, started looking for a home like a Responsible Adult. All sorts of fun things. But that's not what my blog is about.

Today I am pretty sure I caught hobo AIDS. Although I'm no scientician, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's the worst kind.

Fuck! FAAAAACK!!!

On a positive note, I'm super happy I have a venue where I can freely drop the "Fuck" bomb, and make jokes about horrific diseases without fear of being reprimanded. OK, I'm a little afraid of being reprimanded, especially by that new No Face follower over there. The name says "CL", so I'm a little worried that maybe it's me and I created a profile in some late night stupor to follow myself in some scandalous attempt to boost my numbers. Don't judge me, Me.

I generally don't consider myself a very squeamish person. Back when I did the whole Volunteer In A Destitute Country So I Can Pretend I'm Better Than You But Really I Got Paid A Bit And All I Did Was Party Like A Rockstar And Travel On The Cheap, a little boy aged six gave me peanut butter jar filled with three tarantulas. For my birthday. Two of them were half-eaten corpses, and the giant one hovered around the top of the jar, hissing mad. I bit my lip and sighed. Thanks, Jorgito. I bought a terrarium and fed the angry spider live cockroaches for months. We became friends.

Today, though, I reached my limit of squeamishness.

I was standing at the parking meter, 15 minutes before my spa appointment (just so you know how classy I am, guys). While I was waiting for the meter to give me my parking ticket, a hobo bikes by, turns his head to cough in my direction, and coughs in my face. Not like... a dry cough, which I already would have been totally grossed out by, but gross, sickly, hacking cough, where a globule of spit lands ON MY MOUTH. My smiling, excited for my much needed spa day, mouth.

I basically kissed a hobo.

I know what you're thinking. Was he at least cute?

NO.

Think less along the lines of post-goatee Brad Pitt, and more along the lines of exactly what you imagine in your Joaquin Phoenix-kissing nightmares.


After we're done making out, I scream and yell, "What the Hell?? What's wrong with you!?" I rarely lose my cool in public (LIE.), but obviously this turning point in my life warrants an appropriate freak out. The worst part is (well the worst part is the spit on my mouth), the SECOND worst part is, he turns around on his bike and says something like, "Ah fuck you, bitch!", like I'M the one who wronged him!!

Hobo is long gone before I can actually do anything, although there wasn't all that much I could do. Throw my parking change at him? That goodfernnothin' Spit Bum isn't eating on my dime!!

So now I'm curled over on a busy street, carefully trying to release my own saliva through unopened lips to use the forces of gravity and wash my lips without touching them with my bare hands.

I'm wearing no makeup, old baggy jeans, and a hoodie (that I can take off easily. Stop trying to waste my hour with "clothes-removing time", RMT.) so I look kind of disgusting already, and trust me when I say that slowly spitting up on the sidewalk does not help.

I eventually get into the spa, where they do not have my appointment, and I have to cause a(nother) scene.

I should probably change the name of this blog to something more accurate, like MyLifeIsStupid.

Airport Adventures

Upon returning to Toronto from Boca Chica, I opted to stop over in Miami for a day. I love that city.

I thought I would be really smart and only pack a carry on, get there at 9 and South Beach it up til my flight at 5. I booked my flight to be there for Independence Day by accident. I left Toronto on Marty's birthday. Which I forgot about. I'm not the best at remembering things.

First of all, on my flight to Miami, I got sat with a tween who smelled like a cheese foot (don't they all? Grow up, Tweens. So disgusting!) and a girl about my age who would not stop sobbing. Where is the SUICIDE BUTTON, American Airlines??!? Like seriously, I did not purchase my copy of Savor The Moment (trade paperback, thank you very much) only to have my book-reading time disturbed by Smelly Tears over there. I had the window seat, so it was next to impossible to ascertain who was doing all the stinking.

No matter. I'll just put my trusty headphones on to drown out the crying and watch the in-flight film. They played that Tooth Fairy movie, starring "The Rock" on my way there, so whatever they throw at me can't be worse than that. WRONG!! Old Dogs. That one with John Travolta and Robin Williams. It's a long 3 hours.

Once we arrive on land, everyone with a connecting flight is directed to pick up their luggage and go through customs with it. Haha, SUCKERS! This was the whole reason I just brought a carry-on.

I have to take a moment to pause and punch myself for not bringing a camera with me.

ok.

As I smugly wave goodbye to all the assholes having to go wait for their luggage and go through additional security, I get stopped by a miniature security officer. I'm 5'3, so any man I have to look down to is hardly a man at all. He's like a G.I Joe toy!! But I know better than to treat him like one. The "Talk Back" areas in international airports is the last place I ever want to be in. Again.

The problem here is that Officer Cookie Elf speaks in whisper decibels, or maybe I'm still deaf from the flight. I don't want to lean down to listen because I feel like that would be patronizing, but I also don't want to not do what he says. What a pickle! I sort of cross my legs and hunch, pretending like I have to pee so I can hear his instructions.

He tells me I have to pick up my bags and go through customs prior to leaving the airport. Triumphantly, I tell him I don't have any bags, just my backpack, and prepare to stroll on merrily past. He stops me and tries to convince me that it's my only chance to pick up my bags, because they aren't going straight through to Toronto without me clearing them through customs first. He literally asks me to be absolutely sure I have no bags coming through. Yes sir, I am absolutely positive I didn't pack an entire suitcase, check it in at the last airport I was in, and forget about it in the last 3 hours.

On the way out the door I am pretty sure I walked through 5 meter radius fart.

Not the best airport experience.

Back from Hiatus

Hi all!

I'm back due to an overwhelming load of fanmail and requests. Well, really my friend Tamara just asked what I was doing with my blog and that's 17% of my followers. Hey, I'm a crowd pleaser.

I just got back from Dominican Republic on a short visit to Boca Chica. It's a far cry from the other times I've been to DR, which have been at high starred resorts in Punta Cana or Puerta Plata, places that have made me grimace when people mention Dominican Republic. It is low season, so Boca Chica was relatively quiet. It is riddled with more prostitution than I've ever seen, desperate beach vendors, and polluting mopeds. The few tourists there are generally European men, wearing bathing gear that immediately draws your eyes to their balls. "Come hither," the balls beckon, seductively, "look how I dance when Fernando walks."

I loved it. I love the nitty grittiness of Boca Chica, the being forced to use Spanish, and the wooden cabin-like place we stayed in.

We went on a couple of scuba diving expeditions: a wreck dive that we penetrated and it was easy to pretend you were a ghost pirate, a night dive where we saw plankton light up the black waters like a million fireflies, and finally, two cave dives.

On cave diving. I'd never done it before. I've done some swimthroughs underwater but nothing in complete darkness and nothing lasting more than 10 seconds. I'm not an overly experienced diver, maybe 20 dives or so, but have generally thought myself to be completely comfortable underwater. I've come face to face with sharks, gone 170 feet under, and completely lost my mask at 80 feet, always remaining calm.

We head out to Las Tainas caves with our French Divemaster and a guy from Denmark. I'm not very good with accents and can lose attention quickly if I don't understand. When the DM was talking about what now seems obvious as virginal beaches, I stroked my chin pensively. "Vagina bitches, you say? Sounds interesting. I'll have to look it up." (n.b., Do NOT look it up.)

Anyways, we had to lug our equipment down this treacherous stair path. I don't have any good pictures because I didn't bring my camera to DR, but this is what the entrance looked like:


It was moderately terrifying and I'm quite sure I won't be doing it again. It was extremely beautiful and crystalline, and there were interesting formations that can't be found elsewhere, but it was freezing and for the most part, I couldn't stop thinking about how we were 70 feet deep in a lake 40 feet below earth. There's no air on top of me! Some stalagtites/mites had broken, due to earthquakes, the DM said. Earthquakes. Well thanks for that reminder!! We also passed through some haloclines, which are when freshwater meets saltwater. It was like crossing through a mirror, and that is the only way I can explain it. The saltwater has a different density than the freshwater, and from one side, looks like the surface of a lake. The person in front of me disappears onto the other side, like something from a Sci-Fi movie. I can make out his flashlight but forget about any other detail. When disturbed, the effect is like mixing water with vinegar.

Okay that is all i'm going to write about today because I am going to try to make my posts shorter.

:)

In May

Taiko is sick because Boyfriend has been in Prague for the last two weeks and this dog is ultra dramatic about being left out. He's trying to get his revenge, and this involves getting ME up at all hours of the night to let him out, not eating his dinner, and groaning when I walk in the door after work. "You? Again?" He sighs loudly and walks away, shaking his enormous bobble head.

His piece de resistance this time is hidden vomit. Thrice has this love-scorned, bulimic, little ingrate surprised me with little pockets of dog barf: in a shoe, under a shopping bag, beside the toilet. What have I done to you, Taiko?? But I know that this has nothing to do with me. He knows once his best friend walks through the door I'm going to go on and on about the trials and tribulations of single parenting, and Boyfriend's chances of leaving for such an extended period of time will be slim to none in the future. Checkmate.

Last night I had to take him about once an hour, every hour. By around 1 am, after having been woken up 3 times already, I've stopped getting dressed to go outside. I leave the house in a nightgown, glasses, and dragon-breath.

Three houses down and I hear a gaggle of young women in their early twenties shriek, "OH MY GOD!! LOOK AT THAT DOG!!" They run over, in a flurry of high heels, miniskirts, and Bump-Its. I fold my arms over my chest and uncomfortably try to hide my lack of bra. I can't let go of the leash or Taiko will run like the Dickens and I can't unfold my arms or it's Nipple Town. The result is a very awkward scene where even my dog is embarrassed to be near me. He wants to go off with the cool girls. And their boyfriends. Who have just left the house and are trying to talk to me about Taiko.

Now I have to cover my boobs, handle the leash of a very excited dog, and breathe into my arm because what was once an average bout of bad breath has solidified and taken a life of its own. "A social life?" It scoffs. "Not a chance. MWAHAHAHAHAAHAH!!!!"

When I express my concerns that I am in no way prepared to be out of my house for than 2 minutes, one of the girls whispers conspiratorially, "Seriously, don't even worry about it. Your nightgown is cute!" She says this in a way that a mental ward worker would say to lure a patient back to their room. In a way that makes me want to exhale a thank you right into her face so she has to go back home to wash it. Their cabs arrive and I'm finally free.

This morning, drunk on his power of not allowing me to sleep all night, Taiko sleeps in peacefully, thinking there is no chance I will make him exercise. Well, wake the fuck up, Homeslice, we're going for eggs!

I find a cafe with a great shaded patio. Taiko secured on the sidewalk within view, breakfast ordered, I settle in with my book and coffee. In about 15 minutes, he vomits everywhere. I clean as much of it as I can and give him some water. While I go back to pay my bill and get my stuff, a couple walks by and gasps in horror at this disgusting dog, lying next to a pool of vomit. "Ewww! That's so gross!" They exclaim. They look at me and I have to decide whether or not to rush to his defense or deny any relationship to him. It's early and no one else is around.

"Oh that's disgusting!! He's basically lying in his own barf!"

Boom! JUDAS'ED!!! How ya like me now, Dawg?

*******

The time came around for me to pick Boyfriend and his buddy from the airport. It's fairly straightforward, only about 4 turns from my house and 25 minutes away. I may as well have been driving to California.

I'm horrible at driving and all that goes with it, including directions. I couldn't find the GPS, and I don't have a printer, so was therefore forced to write the Google directions down by hand. I wrote every single detail down, not leaving out the km amount (even though I have no idea how to judge a kilometre), and the time allocated to each directive.

I'm very frustrating to drive with, because I'm always second guessing where we are. On my way to the airport, if there is not a sign with a little flying airplane every 1 minute, I'm sure I'm lost. If Google says it takes 4 minutes to get from A to B, and I've been driving for 5, I turn around and try again. I'm the kind of person that gets excited when the next checkpoint actually exists, even though the world wide web indisputably said it was going to be there.

So when I reach the airport on time, without getting lost, I get misty-eyed. I feel a sense of pride, like the mothers on those movies about small-town football stars.

*************

Due to a work issue, I'm currently swamped with zero spare time. Unfortunately, this blog will have to take second stance and I'm going on hiatus til this ish gets sorted.

BYEEEEE!

On The 6

I just got back from a mini girlfriend getaway to NYC. I'm not going to write about that, because I haven't fully been able to wrap my brain around it yet. Suffice to say, it was pretty different from the last time I went to NYC. I would say it was equally fun, but I was much younger, more of a risk-taker, and the words "concierge" and "edible gold" were not yet in my vocabulary. Try "hostel" and "leftover cheapest-thing-on-the-menu Chinese food".

My buddy Nat and I went over Spring Break, to escape the suburban mundane. We got a ride from his parents to Montreal and took the train from there, that's how much money we had. We stayed at a hostel in Columbus Circle managed by a Vietnamese man named Lee. He was about 30 years old and 5'0. I want to say he was missing an arm, but I may be making that part up.

One day, after a full day of walking, we were chilling in the common room in the basement. Lee was half-baked and sucking back on a water bong. He glances up lazily in half-hearted acknowledgement.

"I don't have any more weed or I'd offer you some." He says.

"All good, man. We're cool."

He doesn't turn out to be one of those stoners that sits and slowly eats 4 pizzas one after another. He's actually pretty talkative. He reveals that he was born in Vietnam, but travelled to Cambodia on his own when he was about 10 and moved to NY from there.

In my bright-eyed innocence, I squeal with delight. Adventure! "You went to Cambodia by yourself when you were 10?! Man, I want to go to Vietnam and Cambodia; they look amazing. My parents won't even let me leave the city by myself. What fun things are there to do there? How long was the flight in between?"

Lee looks at me with an incredulous look on his face, like he's not sure if I'm kidding. "The fuck you talkin' 'bout, plane? I walked that shit, motherfucker!"

He goes on about refugee life and I feel pretty stupid at this point so I stop talking (Nat probably told me to stop talking. It doesn't sound like something I would do voluntarily). At some time around midnight, he looks over at his empty bag of pot and announces he has to get more. "I'm heading out to the Bronx. China, WhiteBoy, you wanna come?"

I'm so excited about my new gang name I can't even contain myself. The Bronx?!?

I'm not even slightly concerned that a permanently grinning Chinese girl, a 6'5 blond/blue-eyed white boy, and a Vietnamese midget with one arm won't fit in in The Bronx. I've watched enough J-Lo "vids" to feel confident in my abilities to co-mingle with the locals. Look at me! I'm on The 6, too, giiiirrrrlfriend!


YAY ME AND NAT! (That's not Lee.) (But it could be.)

Once we get off the 6, The Bronx doesn't turn out to be like the movies where the girls play double dutch and I throw my head back in a hearty laugh while ruffling the hair of innocent young hoodlums beatboxing on the corner. You lied to me, J-Lo!

It's like a movie, all right, but more like a movie where a high school drop out sells the crack rock and then does hard time for murder in the first and then bounces back to become a functioning and respectable member of society. The beginning part of that movie. A guy tries to sell me one shoe and a 5-month-old issue of YM. No thank you, sir, I already read that one. I become very conscious of my own Nikes.

"Alright, you guys are going to have to stay like 10 steps behind me," Lee says. "I'm going to go into that building for a minute. Don't move." And then, more directly to me, "Stop talking to people."

Apparently, my over-excitement and eagerness to fit in by telling everyone I meet they are amazing is cramping his style. Either that, or my ebonics aren't what they used to be.

Nat and I pretend to be interested in the architectural designs of the 'hood, while Lee heads into an apartment. True to his word, he returns quickly, makes sure we haven't created a spectacle, and ushers us to the nearest subway.

We head back to Columbus Circle. I feel proud, like I've conquered NYC by being in the Bronx for a whole of 7 minutes.

Deep Fried Sunday

You're reading it right; there's no typo there. I don't mean the delicious deep fried scoops of ice cream smothered in corn flakes and chocolate and caramel sauces with various toppings such as crushed pecans and wildly coloured sprinkles (although that would more than make my day complete).








Like seriously, U.S. of A., what is UP?











Equally horrific, I mean this past Sunday, pretty much all I ate was deep fried foods, and now it's Wednesday and I still can't feel my heart pump properly.

Boyfriend and I woke up early as per usual, and decided to get our chores out of the way immediately and head out for brunch afterwards. I hate the breakfast part of brunch. Who wants eggs when you can have a burger? Not me! What is this, salad on my plate?? Fries, my good man, I said FRIIIIIIES!!! (I hope you imagine me roaring this when I write it like that, because that's how I felt.) And the burgers at Brad's (the brunch place. For any Torontonians reading, look no further than 325 Roncesvalles.) are not just any burgers.

They come topped with charred eggplant, avocado, bacon and cheese. Okay. They don't just come like that, Inspector Gadget. You have to ask the server for it. *Guilty silence*



So that brings us to about 11:30 AM. Well, as it was a stunning day out on Sunday, practically the first nice weekend day of the year, we opt to go patio hunting, nice and early so we can get a spot. After shopping around in Kensington Market, we find ourselves a nice little place called Waterfalls, an indian tapas restaurant with a patio perfect for people watching.

A couple of friends show up and before you know it, it's eatin' time again!

POW! Onion bhaji'ed!

BAM! Chicken tikka!

CRUNCH! Caesar salad with tandoori chicken!! (Not so bad, just wanted to post so you can see I am capable of making one healthy decision).


Late afternoon rolls around and friends are not ready to pack it in. It is just beautiful out. Well, why not hit up The Foggy Dew on King St.? No reason, as far as I can see! We make our way over there and secure another great spot on a large patio. Boyfriend is hungry again. He did not partake in our extensive "snacking" at Waterfalls.

He goes back and forth for a little while and then decides on "Chicken Fried Chicken Sliders". I can't even find a good enough picture. They sort of look like this:



Except they don't come with vegetables, there are THREE of them, they come on biscuits instead of buns, and a side of chicken gravy for dipping. Boyfriend immediately tosses the biscuit off of one, puts the fried chicken on another piece of chicken, and makes himself a double decker chicken fried chicken slider. Dipped in chicken gravy.

Side note, Boyfriend has stomach of a 6-year-old girl. So after a couple of bites of his Frankenburger, he invites the rest of us to help ourselves. I politely decline. These are the same people that have seen me demolish the above. But then one of them agrees and takes a bite and starts gushing about how delicious it is!! I can't let this go on. I can't. Must..have..taste.. Must..eat... GAHHHHH!!!! (*eats all the rest of burger. dipped in chicken gravy*).

Mmmmmm... I'm hungry.