Wildlife.

Can someone please explain to Marty that when Taiko gets into a fight with a wild animal, his job is to pull him away, not roll up his sleeves and join in the fun?

Because this is the second time.

The other day, Taiko got all up into a raccoon’s face, who, in turn, destroyed his own by grabbing on and scratching the shit out of it. Instead of getting the dog, running away screaming, and denying all knowledge of the carnal event, like I did when he killed that possum, Marty steps up beside and kicks it in the face to get him off. I freaked out when I heard this, obviously because raccoons are so adorable, with their little thieving masks and generally opposable thumbs. They think they're people!

Then I realized, hold on. Fuck that shit! This raccoon scratched up my buddy's face! Whose side am I on, anyways? Certainly not HIS:


















I'll eat your BRAINS!!!!

(ok, it's still a little bit cute. You just have to imagine him wearing something sexy and dancing. Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena. ¡EEEYYYY Macarena! ¡AYEEEE!)


I know what all this 'coon and possum talk sounds like, okay? I KNOW. But I swear to God I do not live in a trailer park. I actually live in an area where people pay extra to live near wildlife! While I will camp if I absolutely have to for one night only, I am by no means a Nature Girl. I hate Nature and all it's mosquito, hot/cold, rabies-having misery. Fuck you, Wildlife.

I will admit that I have seen some awe-inspiring nature scenes, but Wildlife got me so good one time, that we are way past forgivable terms.

It has occurred to me that I start many of my ramblings with "When I was __ years old...". Like a senile old person. However, that senility is where all the magic happens. When I blow the dust off of my memories, and get to make up the parts that are not as crystal clear as they were Back In The Day, and everyone else's memories are a little foggy too, so they can't dispute any of my reporting.

Moving on.

The battle of Me And My Friend Maxime vs. Nature took place around '98, when I had just gotten a car and license, but was still a terrible driver (I say "was" to trick you into thinking I'm a good driver now. I am not. Remember that time I smashed Marty's car?) That link just takes you to two weeks ago.

On this particular day, Maxime and I were heading out, playing our favorite game, "Act out the Song". This game we made up consists of acting out every single lyric to a song. For example, back then, Pearl Jam had that terrible campfire song with all the clapping that goes "oh where, oh where could my baby be?" You know that terrible song; don't pretend like you don't know every word.

Anyways, I don't even know how to explain how we would play this lyric, other than:

oh where, oh where could my baby be?
(shrug) (shrug) (rock pretend baby)(shrug)

The Lord took her away from me.
(pray hands/close eyes) (pretend to tug of war for a baby)

She's gone to Heaven so I've got to be good
(wave goodbye sadly out the window regardless of who is outside)

so I can see my baby when I leave this world.
(pretend to spot baby outside and point excitedly) (stop car. Exit)

(clap clap - clap clap. clap clap - clap clap.)

I almost got in a car accident once when I stopped the car abruptly for this exact song. It was for the lyric, "We hadn't driven very far". Or maybe it was "the car stopped; the engine was dead." What an annoying song to be driving with me to. How would I even start explaining that to A. the other car's party, and more importantly, B. the police? HOW? "The lyric told me to do it, sir. Listen. Listen. You see?"

Anyways, surely you can see how hilarious this game can be, but I don't recommend it to anyone driving because it makes paying attention to cars, or in our case, avoiding Wildlife, extremely difficult.

I remember this much: a black and white fur ball dashing in front of the car, but instead of running past the car, it stops immediately in front, and spins rapidly around in circles as if t'were possessed by Beelzebub himself.

As we are screaming for the Lord to take us away from this terrible situation, the car slowly fills with intoxicating fumes, effectively destroying any plans we may have had that night (which more than likely at the time just involved sitting in our friend's garage, nodding our heads all cool-like to Method Man. Man, kids are boring.) The windows do nothing but allow more skunk butt fart to infiltrate my tiny car.

"Well, now what?" Maxime asks. We know we're screwed. It's social suicide to go to any event smelling like skunk butt fart.

"I don't know! Maybe we should just lay low and not see anyone. Grab a coffee or something?"

Maxime agrees and we head over to the Country Style donut place nearby.

We burst into Country Style laughing our heads off. I don't know why. It's not even funny.

Us: "Excuse me, do we smell?"

Donut Lady: "What do you mean? Smell like what?"

We're safe!

Us: "Like shit! Do we or do we not smell like shit?"

Donut Lady: "What?? I don't.. What??"

Us: "Okay, nevermind."

We relax, thinking we are good to go to our friend's garage. PAaaAAARTY!!

Donut Lady: "Okay...Actually, you girls kind of do smell like skunk. A little bit."

Us: OOHHH!! Dammit! Two fruit explosion muffins, please. And some chicken noodle soup."


Plans ruined, we sit dejectedly sipping our goods in silence, with possibly visible stink lines projecting off our bodies in cartoon-like fashion.

PEZ!

How terrifying is the very concept of PEZ?


Marty bought me a Betty Boop PEZ candy dispenser because I hadn't seen one in forever and thought they were taken off the market for obvious reasons. (Because they're terrifying.)

While PEZ candy is delicious, I can't help but wonder what kind of marketing executives thought of the concept of popping candies out of nearly decapitated toys...

(doodle-oo! doodle-oo! doodle-oo! That's the dream theme song from... emmmm... Wayne's World? OMG I'm a hundred.)

"I got it, I got it. We fill the insides of the cartoon character's bodies with candy, like a fuckin' mule, see? Then the kiddies got a toy to play wit' and a treat."

"But how are the kids supposed to extract the goods, Boss?"

"What am I, Joe? A fuckin' engineer? Ha! Fellas, get-a-load-a this guy. You better come up with something by noon, kid, or Imma break ya fuckin' head off."

...The Eureka moment must have happened right then and there in Joe (Pesci)'s brain.

GAHHH DAMMIT. OK. The problem with "research" is that, more often than not, my theories get shut down by "The Truth".

With my exceptional Googling prowess, I just found out that this handsome devil, Eduard Haus, created the idea of PEZ.


This guy. Created a candy that children had to break the head off of their beloved toy to acquire, then ingest via neck sucking. That, coupled with the fact that he's like infinity years old, automatically makes him perverted.

Who you giving side eyes too, Eduard?

Mexican Standoff

A hypothetical/daily situation between Marty and myself might go like this:

Marty: Can you get me a glass of water?
Me: Can I watch Million Dollar Listing?
Marty: That is the worst show in the history of Television.
Me (in my best Uma Thurman impression): Well, well, well, it looks like we have ourselves a Mexican standoff, then, don’t we?

But by the time I’m done my sexy sentence, Marty has already gotten his glass of water and is sitting back on the couch, watching Pawn Stars.

Marty: Do you even know what a Mexican standoff is?
Me: A tradeoff…? (I say this with a barely perceptible inflection towards the end, because I may be right, in which case, I want it to sound like I knew all along. But if it’s completely far off, I want to make it sound like I was asking so I don't look like an idiot).
Marty: (blank stare) Maybe you should look phrases up before you use them publicly.

So now, partially because I’m a little bit mad that I don’t know what’s going on with Chad/Madison/Josh on the TV, and partially because I want to use the phrase Mexican Standoff correctly for years to come (fyi, I’m Chinese, but I like to pretend I’m Latina. Has nothing to do with this story, but just for future reference, I like Latino things.), I leave the living room and hop on the Google train.

This is what Wikipedia tells me:

A Mexican standoff is a slang term defined as a stalemate or impasse.

“Stalemate”? “Impasse”? Like, what are you even talking about WikiStupidia? After numerous Mexican runarounds on the internets, I finally gather that it means an equal opportunity confrontation.


I’ve never been in one of those things. The reason for this is I change sides all the time. I'm the type of girl that would give up your name, address, and birthdate (for good measure) to avoid an unpleasant line of questioning. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, now. What do you mean, 'I have to go with you'? Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. His name is Martin Cyr..No, spelled with a C. Yep, just like that. He lives at my place and will be home in about an hour so you can get him then. Can you just give me like 15 minutes to get my stuff please? Yeah, sure I can call you when I'm out. Hey, what are friends for, right?"

I’ll give you a classic example of the old Switch Sides.

When Steph (I told you about her) and I were 15 or so, and allowed to leave school property at lunch, we used to hang out across the street on the grass lot by the gas station.

Steph, being the less timid of the two of us (if you can believe it), would ask adult strangers to please go into the gas station and buy packs of cigarettes, while I stood with her and tried to look cool, with some of our other friends.

Obviously, no respected adult in our white-picketed community would do this, but every once in a while some self-deprecating loner would walk by, eager for the attentions of pretty, young ladies.

On this particular day, we caught the attention of two portly trucker types. They can't believe our outrageous boldness, and we all have a good laugh together. We're friends!

"Sure, what kind?" The fatter of the two asks. We're in!

"Oh my God, you guys are so totally THE BEST!" We gush.

The very second our friends walk out of the gas station, and are about to hand over the goods to Steph, they are intercepted by a young, well-dressed couple.

"Stop it right there." The woman says, pulling out her police badge.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The guys are immediately pulled aside and given a stern talking to, right in the view of at least 100 sets of impressionable eyes.

Even in our young mindsets, we know whose side we have to take if we want to get out of this situation alive. We eavesdrop to the best of our ability, but basically these dudes are being charged big time.

The woman comes over and protectively coos over us as if we're the victims, and we are just soaking it all up, agreeing with everything she says and looking at our two former friends with wide-eyed innocence as if they're the stain on our otherwise perfect society.

Finally, the police/young couple/our only source of protection leaves, and we are left standing with the two guys. Instead of looking like two huge friendly teddy bear types like we had previously thought, the guys are looking like they want to sell us for meat. Not the slutty kind; the eatin' kind.

"Look," one of them says. "I know you were just scared back there, but the truth is, we're in this together. So it's only fair that we split the cost of this fine. Do you think you guys can come up with $500?"

$500?!?! That's like my whole life. The most expensive thing I own is No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom CD. CDs cost like 20 bucks back in the day.

But before I have to start even mentally selling off my prized possessions, Steph retorts, "Fuck. That. We're not paying you shit, assholes. You guys shouldn't have bought us those smokes. You heard what that cop said. That's illegal; we're only 14!"

Aaahh.. from the mouths of babes.

In March

At the end of each month, I'm going to attempt to recap the miscellaneous adventures and going-ons I had that I didn't write about for whatever reason.

First of all, I smashed our car. Well, technically I guess you could say I smashed "Marty's car". Well, why the Hell is the parking path so narrow? It's like my new apartment challenges me to fail. You win, new apartment. Big man.

Anyways, luckily for me, I was on my way to meet a very smashed Marty at Canoe, a very nice restaurant in Toronto. How can you be mad over $50 steaks and wine that the douchebag waiter says "isn't sold anywhere"? And also, you're stupid drunk?

Side note: what kind of waiter says that? "you can't get this anywhere?"

"Really?" Cat retorts, "Even if I go to Tuscany to the winery where this was made?"

"Yes. Even then I doubt it."

You're so cool, Canoe Waiter.

Anyways, the next morning, Marty is left with a hangover, a smashed car, and the inability to be mad at me, because there's nothing worse than bringing up a past argument, and we already went over this all last night.

*******

Another funny thing that happened was I made lifelong enemies with the staff at Futureshop where Marty and I bought a new tv, ps3, and God of War (see you later, Sunlight).

Look. Is it a big deal to ask for a discount if you are spending thousands of dollars in a store? Is it a big deal to then poll the floor staff on what they think the package is worth ("the ticketed price", they say), and then ask each individual staff what they could do for me (which was nothing every time) whenever my salesgirl turned around? What about when I escalated the matter to the store manager, who in a fit of desperation to get me out of the store and redeem the dignity of his staff, gave me his own discount? Is that a big deal? HM?

In any case, the next day, I realized I lost my phone and the culprit was Futureshop. I call and politely describe who I am and tell them my plight.

"Ohhh.. um.. right, right, yeah I totally remember you. Um.. hold on a second." (HOLD.) "Yeahh, we don't have your phone. Sorry." (CLICK.)

But she didn't even ask me one thing about the phone! Now, I'm not saying that they did find my phone and are doing all sorts of terrible things to rack up bills for me on it, but I'm not saying they're not, either. I guess we'll find out at the end of April.

*******

Once in a while, I like to get dressed up like a fancy lady and do something I can't afford. Most recently, it was a benefit for WaterCan, hosted by Aveda. The ladies there were on a league of their own, bidding thousands of dollars at the live auction for some guy to clean up their backyard. Cat and I are trying to be cool, Daddy-O, and this works for a good chunk of the night... until goody bag time.

"Oh.. these are for us? Why, thank you, sir. Catherine, let us make way to the ladies' room. Excuse us, please." (curtsy)

Once we get into the washroom, we're like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus all the sexin' for money. "FULL SIZE AVEDA LOTIONS??" We shriek in delight, until the toilet flushes and we curtsy on out.

On our way out, I swear to God, this happens: An older, portly gentleman tells us he is the one of the producers for Sex and the City, and our group of friends looks perfect for a new program he is developing. We're still trying to be cool, but let's be honest, the closest I am going to be to Sex in the City is that camping scene in Brüno - "Vee are sooh like ze sex in ze seety gehls!!" That's me.

We humour this Crazy Old Man (I say humour, but really I was already mentally packing for LA) for a while, as he is pitching his new show. All of a sudden, this woman comes running down the stairs. "Harold!" She shouts as she hurries toward us, "Ugh, Harold! What the hell are you doing? Are you playing Producer again?" She gives us a look that she has clearly given many a group of young women before. "I'm sorry, he does this all the time. He just wants to talk." He laughs and shrugs, like a boy who just got caught. He is no producer for Sex and the City.

Afterwards, we head of to a nearby lounge, where a well-suited Bay Street crowd frequents. We break out the camera and play what I like to call "Supermodel Documentary Hour".

The next half hour or so goes like this:

"OH. MY. GOD. You look sooooOOooo good."
"No, you look so good."
"No, like seriously? Seriously, that colour is ahmaaaazing."
"You don't even understand how beautiful that dress is on you."

(The male half of our party roll their eyes and exit bar due to embarassment.)

"Wow. Like just WOW."
"I can't even believe how beautiful we look tonight."
"Right?? Look at this picture. Just look at it. Perfection."

I should inform you that not even one girl is in the bar. Not even one. Every single man in the bar is watching at us and laughing as we take glamour shots, in "candid" poses like Gazing Wistfully at the Candle, or my personal favourite, Somebody Said Something Hilarious:



This is basically what every single one of our 800 pics looks like.


Then two of our girlfriends come to meet us at the bar. The first words they scream in greeting: "OH MY GOD!!! HOW AMAZING DO WE ALL LOOK TONIGHT??"

Highway to the DangerZone

Today I flew a plane. Like a real airplane that goes into the sky and has people in it.

My instructor, David, looks like Jude Law's less balding but more Russian killy-like younger brother. Except I couldn't pinpoint exactly who it was that he resembled, so I spent the entire briefing (which, by the way, was done with a plastic airplane toy and a map. Like.. thanks. No one is safe.) trying to figure it out. When he notices I am not paying attention, he politely stops and stares until I bring myself back. But then he goes on talk about yolks! I haven't eaten one thing today and I'm starving, so now the only thing I can concentrate on is a goat cheese/portobello omelette.

So when he stands up and asks if we are ready, my only two choices are:

1. Reveal that I'm sorry but I've already forgotten every single word that he said and look like an idiot. Is this even an option? Please.

2. Pretend like I just learned how to fly a plane by looking at a plastic toy moving around a map and risk everyone's lives.

Obviously I choose the latter, because it's just me, Marty and Jude Jr. and I don't even know that guy. Plus, I had made arrangements for someone to check on Taiko if we hadn't returned by afternoon. I'm very diligent.

Right away I know I'm in over my head when Jude says, "Okay, here is the fire extinguisher. I'll assume you both know how to use a fire extinguisher and I don't have to go over it with you?" I nod, but the minute he turns around my nod becomes a frantic negative head shake at Marty, who rolls his eyes and says it's fine. I have no idea how to use a fire extinguisher, but if Marty says it's fine than that means he'll save us if there is a fire and there's no need for me to know. LA LA LA LA LA

He asks who wants to go first and although I usually want to go first all the time and bulldoze my way to the front of the line, I beg Marty to go, thinking that maybe I can sneak some peeks and cheat my way through plane flying.

In my fantastical mishmashed cerebellum, I imagine the plane to be extremely spacious, with all of us being able to sit in the cockpit and have drinks, laughing over velocity jokes.

Apparently, I was not very thorough with my researching and this turns out to the plane:

Yeah, there will be no sneak peeking here. I can't even see one thing they're doing from the back seat! Ok, that's a lie. I'm sure I could have seen what Jude Jr. was showing Marty, but we were flying over Lake Ontario and it was so pretty that I forgot that I had to fly in 30 minutes.

Marty got to fly right by the CN Tower! Look how close he is!

When I realize that we are about to land, my sense of dread returns. Like seriously, I have to fly a plane. Imagine you had to fly a plane. That's pretty much what it was like; I'm a very normal person.

When we do land, we get to hang out on land for only 5 minutes! 5 MINUTES before I have to reboard, but this time sit in the front seat and fly this mechanical beast.

The plus side is I get to wear this amazing headset:

But it's also very distracting, because the two things I am thinking now are:

1. I must CONFESS!! That my LONELINESS!! Is killing me NOOOoooOOoooW, don't you know I still believe? That you will be here... and give me a siiiiIIiiiIign. HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!

2. That Marty and Jude can hear me breathing through the headset, so I stop breathing, taking in precious droplets of oxygen only to confirm that yes, Jude, I'm clear on how to fucking take off, okay? (But I'm not at all.) I might actually pass out from lack of air and nerves, but I can't have this stranger thinking I'm a mouth breather.

While my brain is working overtime trying to figure out how I can breathe extra quietly, this is going on in front of me:


BEEP BOP BOOP BLIP BLIP DOOP PAP DING! "Golf, Golf, Poppa, Québec - do you copy?" BEEP BEEP BAP BOOP BIP BOP BAP!





Through strategically-placed furrowed brows and knowing nods, I manage to convince Jude that I know what I'm doing through trickery. He murmurs his approval when I level off, complete my turns and complete the altitude exercises, but I can see he has his white-knuckled hands on the equipment at all times.

By the time we are ready to descend, I'm thinking about how I can casually throw up out the window we are not allowed to open without anyone noticing. I've thrown up casually numerous times before, sometimes in the middle of serious conversations. You just keep on, man, you just keep on.

Jude is trying to get me to land this MoFo and I really have not even the slightest clue as to where to start. I tell him I'm not feeling well. He asks me if I'm sure (it's hard to tell, because I look very beautiful.) He eventually lands the plane because I refuse to touch anything anymore and I'm just staring out the window in response, while our plane plummets towards the airport and we are getting dispatched repeatedly to veer to the left.

All in all, it was a fun day. Marty decided to go forward with his pilot license and I will happily ride as a passenger from now on.

The Problem with Crying

The problem with crying is that people think there's a problem with it. Crying is AWESOME! I don't do it very often, so when I get the chance, I immediately think of all the fun things I can use my tears for.

The first thing I do is lock myself in the bathroom and turn a hot shower on, because nobody in the world can see/hear what is about to happen. I try to bring some form of music in with me, but if not, I have to use my imagination. Now my bathroom has basically been transformed into a music video set, with all the smoke, bright lighting, and mirrors going on.

Voilà! I am now Lady Gaga, on the set of Bad Romance.



"I don't wanna be friends... No, I don't wanna be friends... I WANT BAD ROMANCE! I WANT BAD ROMANCE!!"



On Pretend Music Video, no makeup is required when you have Cry Face. That being said, it really only works well with Cry Face, and only for sad or very angry songs. Songs that work very well are Unbreak My Heart, You Oughta Know, Out From Under and if you are a guy (which, for your sake, I am really, really hoping you are not. Like seriously, I don't care what the magazines tell you about girls wanting to see all the sensitivity. They lie. Stop crying.), The Scientist.

Another thing that can help you pass the time while everyone feels bad for you is to bring your camera in your cry hiding ("cryding") spot with you and take hilarious pictures.

My personal favorite is what I like to call "The Hideous Bog Creature". It's very simple. You just have to make a motorboat noise with your mouth, and take a picture very quickly in the midst of it. You are about to be entertained for hours. You don't actually need to be crying, but I think it gives it that extra... Le Hidéouse, you know what I mean?

For example, take this handsome, debonair fellow.



'What a fine young gentleman', you are thinking.

and then all of a sudden...BAM!


You see? In an instant, our elegant and beauteous Bond has become a Hideous Bog Creature!! In a few short moments, this could be you! Aren't the miracles of science fascinating? It's time we used the forces of winds and gravity to our comedic advantage. It's time we took science back.

Oh my God. Marty is asking me what I'm doing with this picture that I promised to delete and definitely not post on the worldwide web for the entire planet (i.e., my three followers) to see. I'm about the get the indian sunburning of a lifetime. Gotta run!

Phrases that are stupid

1. "I wouldn't know him from Adam." Like do you mean "Adam and Eve" Adam? Cause I Googled and this is biblical Adam vs. a normal guy that might be named Adam (although there's like a one in an ultrabillion chance). I don't actually know the guy below, I just found this picture on the internets. I hope you're a good sport if you are reading this, "Normal Looking Guy".

On a side note, how funny would it be if you Googled "Normal Looking Guy" and your face popped up? Or better yet, if this was actually the best and easiest way to show your friends a picture of the guy you're dating?



How can you not know the guy you are looking for from Adam? Try harder.

And if not, then I only know one Adam, who was best friends with my ex, and still owes me $15 from a bet. So if you're talking about that Adam, I'm pretty sure I would be able to tell the difference. I don't think he's particularly good at disguise. That guy's just okay. Adam, stop being so cheap and give me back my $15.

2. "The bee's knees" or, alternatively, "The cat's pyjamas". This is used to describe something very cool, but I think it's stupid because a bee's knees must be very tiny (I didn't even know they had any!), and cats don't even wear pyjamas unless they are very cold...or..cool... OH! I get it now. Okay, the cat's pyjamas makes a bit of sense, I guess. It's still a weakly formulated analogy. (Like I still don't really get it.)

3. "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater." If anyone ever said that to me, I would punch them in the face. Who is going to throw out a perfectly good baby friend?!? They're fucking adorable. I can't wait to have a million babies for two reasons. I bet you're thinking one is "Motherhood" but that's like probably number 8 because that seems pretty hard, and I really only like to try medium hard at anything. The main reason is so I can take those douchebag photos (in black and white for extra elegance) where you're practically naked and you have to look at the camera all determined-like, as if you're thinking, "This moment right here? I was born for this moment." You know which ones I'm talking about. I'm not going to post a picture because I don't want some new mother to see that I posted a picture of her and called it a douchebag photo and come kick my ass with her newfound baby friend strength. I am not a tough girl.

The second reason is so that I can listen to Britney Spears' song that she wrote about Sean Preston, "Someday I Will Understand", on repeat, which I already do, but then I really will understand! It's a very exciting time. Oh my God, the entire video one of the aforementioned photos. In movement. Brava, Miss Britney, Brava.

Obviously, I'm not in any way ready for baby raising (I've actually been described as "dizzy". Recently. Who in the history of mankind has ever been described as "dizzy"?) but a friend couple recently announced their pregnancy and they're not so "mature". Here is an actual excerpt of a conversation I recently had with the male half.

Him: "Sup, shitballsdickface?"

Me: "Oh, hey. You wanna talk to Marty?"

Him: "Men are awesome. You are stupid."

Me: (Pause.) "Yeah. I'm just going to go get Marty for you."


Good luck, little baby friend.