Martin, boyfriend/best friend/general partner in crime, signed me up for a flying lesson. Next Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, you might hear a banshee shrieking through the heavens, as my Cessna (that's pilot talk for "small plane") spirals out of control over downtown Toronto.
I can't drive a car very well. I can't even run very fast, or I trip over my own feet. I have literally been in about six car accidents, all my fault but one. The only thing I do worse than take lead on transportation is let someone else do something fun while I wait. Even if it's something that might make me actually shit my pants, I'm pretty much going to be the most annoying, sulky person in the world if you do something fun and I don't.
Marty is totally bad-ass. I know him from high school, but I was a junior back in the day and he was a senior, and a boy three years older than you in high school may as well be your grendpeppy. He came to my high school for final year, with his bleached blonde spiky hair on a shiny new skateboard (prerequisite if you want to survive as a boy in late 90's high school) and slightly grungy plaid. He lived across the street from my best friend, Steph, whose garage was The Place to hang out when we were 14. We had hit The Jackpot. He smoked cigarettes AND drove a beat up Golf... in red, ladies.
I'm just going to take a quick second to tell you about Steph so you can grasp the kind of kids that we were. Both of us were Baby Geniuses and would correct teachers all the time if they made grammatical, spelling, or general historical errors. But we wanted to be awesome and did whatever it took, which in high school, means pretending to not be Baby Geniuses. It meant that whenever we walked to the principal's office for whatever reason, like dropping off the attendance sheet, we would hang our heads down low to look like we were about to get suspended. Or better yet, if we were called to the principal's office (over the entire school intercom!) we would roll our eyes and say "again?!" when really, my mom just wanted to let me know that she just checked the juice boxes and they had expired. OKAY, MOM! GAWD!!! Moving on.
Knowing him now, I feel terrible for Young Martin. He'll do anything for people, even if it makes him look like a total douchebag, which we did (obviously). I would walk the ten minutes over to Steph's house every morning, so we could coerce him to drive us to school together, even though taking the bus would have taken me less than 10 minutes. Strength in numbers! Being far too nice, Young Martin would relent after only making a few excuses (we would need at least 10 before we would even consider stopping our dual "Aw, come on..." harmonization).
Back then, I didn't give a shit. We would get to school and girls would ask us things like, "what's the new guy like?" and we could casually toss our hair back and say," Oh, Martin? He's cool." (Long, dramatic pause to show reluctance about divulging a secret. Lower voice to whisper.) "He's from Germany, you know, so he's just adjusting, meeting cool people. Poor guy, must be hard to leave all your friends like that."
He's not even from Germany!!! He was from like two hours away. But it's not like they were getting rides to school from him so they would never know what was what. Anyways, the year came and left with no major developments, and eventually, Steph and I got into witchcraft (No. Just no. I'm not ready.) and Marty graduated and moved out East.
Fast forward to a number of years later.
In short, I befriended the very friends Marty had back in high school, he moves back, I think his ears are cute, we go out a couple of times, I move indefinitely to Nicaragua, we miss, he shows up in Nicaragua when my indefinite plan becomes a definitely not happening plan, we hang out a bit there, we hitchhike across Costa Rica, the weather sucks, we come back to Ottawa, move to Toronto due to boredom and now here we are. There's a lot more romance and adventure in our relationship but I'll leave it at that. <3
Another cool thing that happened over the weekend was my amazing friend Cat got these passes to a high end makeup convention and got me an entirely new makeup collection. All MAC, thank you very much. Now, when she told me she was going, I put in my order for some beautiful, neutral, societally-acceptable colours. Makeup is extremely exciting to me; the higher end, the moreso. When she gets back with literally thousands of dollars of makeup, we lose our minds together. The fact that they are the discontinued colours, and all in bright pink, greens and reds makes no difference, although it would have been a bit nice to know before I threw out my entire makeup collection in anticipation. I went to Costco on Sunday in complete Clown Whore get-up and didn't even care because I was such a fancy lady with all my new MAC makeup. Like seriously, green liquid liner to pick up bulk paper towels.
Cat is one of Those Girls. Tall, blonde, becomes friends with everybody and gets you the best every single thing. These are the best kind of girls to align yourself with. She is but one of the best friends I have in the Those Girls category.
The first is Lisa. When Lisa met up with me in Amsterdam back in the day, the first thing she said to me, having not seen me for a very long time, was "Dude, what the fuck happened to your face?" I had broken out in a terrible, terrible (MON DIEU, QUE TERRIBLE!!) rash all over my face and nowhere else. It meant she would have to work extra hard, which isn't that hard when you are 6 feet tall and always look like you just stepped off a Parisian runway.
But the real testing starts when I lose my contacts (I lose everything) and I have to wear coke bottle glasses for the duration of our adventure.
And then my sandals snap and I'm stuck limping behind her long and graceful gazelle-like strides like some science experiment gone horrifically wrong. Just picture it, it's awful.
T'were I alone, my experience in Europe would have consisted of a lot of sitting around in hostels, pretending to be interested in futbal and scheming up ways to trick people into hanging out with me. Instead, we got guest list into every club, all sorts of freebies, and I had the best trip ever. Thanks, Lisa <3
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I am not a tough girl.
Today, on my way home from work, an enormous whale of a woman nearly knocked me into the subway tracks and destroyed my life. Well, there was no train coming, but you get the idea. I give her this look like, "Excuse my beautiful beauty!?" She looks back but just keeps on walking, like it was my fault I couldn't dodge out of her way fast enough as she bulldozed past the entire walking area. Like I'm the asshole here. Like I forced her mother to mate with an ogre.
This is so unfair! On public transport, I say please and thank you, I give up my seat to old people, and I turn down my ipod to whisper level so no one is disturbed by Lauryn Hill's beautiful rendition of Joyful, Joyful from Sister Act. 2.
And YET. Yet, all the crazy bag ladies, the Googley-eyed, and the ne'er-do-gooders of Toronto seem to gravitate towards me, and always on public transport.
Anyways, I'm embarassed to report that nothing happened past giving Turkey Sub The Look. And let's be honest, it was only to the back of her head. I wish I said something, and in my mind, she got the verbal beatdown of a lifetime, but in real life? Not so much.
I am not a tough girl.
I can attribute my lack of toughness to two historic events that shape who I am today: a complete and utter wuss. Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage... (That's me pulling you to the early 90's.)
When I was about 11, my parents went away, leaving my 15 year old sister, Olivia, in charge of me and my then 7 year old brother. Obviously, she throws a massive party in true Kid n' Play fashion. All the boys are wearing high tops and wildly coloured baggy jeans, and the girls are clad in black, have drawn on their beautiful eyebrows/lip outlines. The smell of hairspray, cigarettes, and Love's Baby Soft is rampant.
I'm allowed to hang out. I'm in Heaven. My brother, unfortunately, is told to stay in the walk in closet in my parents' room for the night. I know that nowadays, this sounds like abuse, but this was the 90's, man. Everybody was rolling down the streets smoking indo, sippin' on gin and juice. Well, not, like everybody; not, like, me. I just sat there and marvelled at my newfound grown-uppityness.
All of a sudden, Hell breaks loose. I don't know why, but for some reason, every single person has to leave the house. There's, like, a fight outside or something. Olivia and her bff, we'll call her Carrie (because that's her name), both the types to not take shit, divide and conquer, my sister emptying the main floor and her friend clearing out the basement. Where I am. I am freaking out, but obviously this has shaped out to be the best day of my life.
I'm following Carrie around because she picks up a BAT, like she's about to throw down some crazy, and I'm petrified. What happens next, when I reminisce now, must absolutely go down as The Most Embarrassing Moment of Carrie's life. She is screaming and threatening fully grown teenage boys in my basement. With a bat. I'm standing beside her in my best Tough Girl impression, and I throw in a "You got that?! Party's OVER, ok? OK?" as if I'm going to do anything about it. I'm 11, my glasses cover 90% of my face, my outfit consists of spandex bedazzlement, and everything I know about Tough Girls I learned from Brenda Walsh. I had purple and green elastics on my braces and a rainbow coloured retainer.
Everyone eventually leaves, but even in my preadolescence, I know as soon as the words leave my mouth that I am a massive Tough Girl failure, and I have to repress this memory (which I have until now).
(Cue Venga Boys)
I'm 16. I'm coming home from ELECTRIC CIRCUS. 'Nuff said? Okay, for those of you not in the know, Electric Circus was a live dance show hosted by MuchMusic from the late 80's to early 2000. A common outfit for a male "EC" dancer might be a blue top hat, no shirt (just yellow glitter), and oversized fleece pants in hot pink.
This is real picture of my friend back in the EC days, although I didn't know her then. I only post this because, for one, I can't find any of myself, and two, as someone who has an exclusively holt renfrew wardrobe now, she is completely unrecognizable. She's wearing a tablecloth here.
On this night, I opted for a more demure look: pigtails (?!), bellbottomed jeans that I made myself by cutting up two perfectly good pairs and sewing them into ONE, and a red sequinned top. Eeyeah. Moving on.
So I get on the bus, and I see this girl who used to go to my high school, Shelley Collins (whose name has only slightly been altered for protective purposes). She was the type that got up in the middle of geography class, hyperventilating, and no one knew why. Geography is not that difficult, Shelley. It's France, it's there, it's not going anywhere. After years of unwarranted hyperventilation and cruel high school torment, Shelley transfers to another high school and no one sees her for years. Until now.
She's beautiful! Shelley is like a character right out of a straight to DVD movie produced by magnanimous forces Aaron Spelling and Jackie Collins combined. Her face is tearstain-free and she's dressed in typical, suburban fare. Not like me. I smile at her in acknowledgement (we weren't friends) and keep walking to the back of the bus. Because I'm so awesome.
About 10 minutes on this bus ride goes by before Shelley comes by and sits beside me, with a smile like she wants to be friends. Now, while she may appear to be sane at that moment, there's no fucking way I'm going to become friends with a potential hyperventilator. Sorry, reasonless hyperventilators of the world.
Anyways, as necessary niceties are exchanged, I can see that this is no ordinary social call, and Shelley's eyes have a bit of the crazy and she's talking really fast about high schools. Oh my god. She wants to fight me. Fight. Me. She thinks I was one of the people that made her crazy, but this is not me!! I took Calculus in high school; I was always friendly with both The Amazing and The Terrible!
I stop the niceties and ask if she is okay, because it is so obvious that something is not that I'm just getting creeped out. She takes a deep breath and says this: "I'm going to beat up your brother."
?!?!??!?!
WHAT?? My brother at the time is 12! He listens to Savage Garden and plays Pretend Butterflies with me when we're bored (I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.) On a side note, I may have slightly miscalculated the activities and dates/ages. Pretend Butterflies is just a game where we tie blankets around our necks like Superman, but instead of playing a socially acceptable game like Pretend Superheroes, we opt to become butterflies. It's weird. I know this now. We may have been 4 and 8 though when we did that, which seems much more appropriate that 12 and 16, so let's go with that. (But it's not true.)
Back to Shelley. After I breathe a sigh of relief that no one can hear but my own blackened selfish heart because I realize that my face is safe for now, I work on convincing her to not beat up my preteen brother. I FAIL. I'm still not even sure why she wanted to, but by the time my stop came and I had to cut her off to go home, she was still dead set on me passing the message that she was coming for him and to watch out.
So yeah, Will, if you see Shelley Collins, watch out. She's going to beat you up. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you for almost 15 years, but she's coming for you, okay?
**********
So now you can clearly see how these near death experiences have scarred me for life. You are probably thinking one of two things:
1. If I stopped dressing like such a dickhead, maybe these things wouldn't happen to me.
2. Why does my brother seem to have a passing role in the events in such a weird way? Being locked in a closet and threatened by a paper bag inhaler??
Well, as for my dress code, these brushes with death still happen to me when I'm wearing my normal clothes, which nowadays do not involve bedazzlement or multiple sewing-togethers.
And for the record, my brother turned out totally normal.
He's nocturnal and about to go on a tour of South East Asia with his punk band Germ Attak. One time, he got locked in the catacombs underneath Paris for 8 hours straight in the pitch dark. That's totally normal, right? Yeah, yeah, it's cool.
This is so unfair! On public transport, I say please and thank you, I give up my seat to old people, and I turn down my ipod to whisper level so no one is disturbed by Lauryn Hill's beautiful rendition of Joyful, Joyful from Sister Act. 2.
And YET. Yet, all the crazy bag ladies, the Googley-eyed, and the ne'er-do-gooders of Toronto seem to gravitate towards me, and always on public transport.
Anyways, I'm embarassed to report that nothing happened past giving Turkey Sub The Look. And let's be honest, it was only to the back of her head. I wish I said something, and in my mind, she got the verbal beatdown of a lifetime, but in real life? Not so much.
I am not a tough girl.
I can attribute my lack of toughness to two historic events that shape who I am today: a complete and utter wuss. Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage... (That's me pulling you to the early 90's.)
When I was about 11, my parents went away, leaving my 15 year old sister, Olivia, in charge of me and my then 7 year old brother. Obviously, she throws a massive party in true Kid n' Play fashion. All the boys are wearing high tops and wildly coloured baggy jeans, and the girls are clad in black, have drawn on their beautiful eyebrows/lip outlines. The smell of hairspray, cigarettes, and Love's Baby Soft is rampant.
I'm allowed to hang out. I'm in Heaven. My brother, unfortunately, is told to stay in the walk in closet in my parents' room for the night. I know that nowadays, this sounds like abuse, but this was the 90's, man. Everybody was rolling down the streets smoking indo, sippin' on gin and juice. Well, not, like everybody; not, like, me. I just sat there and marvelled at my newfound grown-uppityness.
All of a sudden, Hell breaks loose. I don't know why, but for some reason, every single person has to leave the house. There's, like, a fight outside or something. Olivia and her bff, we'll call her Carrie (because that's her name), both the types to not take shit, divide and conquer, my sister emptying the main floor and her friend clearing out the basement. Where I am. I am freaking out, but obviously this has shaped out to be the best day of my life.
I'm following Carrie around because she picks up a BAT, like she's about to throw down some crazy, and I'm petrified. What happens next, when I reminisce now, must absolutely go down as The Most Embarrassing Moment of Carrie's life. She is screaming and threatening fully grown teenage boys in my basement. With a bat. I'm standing beside her in my best Tough Girl impression, and I throw in a "You got that?! Party's OVER, ok? OK?" as if I'm going to do anything about it. I'm 11, my glasses cover 90% of my face, my outfit consists of spandex bedazzlement, and everything I know about Tough Girls I learned from Brenda Walsh. I had purple and green elastics on my braces and a rainbow coloured retainer.
Everyone eventually leaves, but even in my preadolescence, I know as soon as the words leave my mouth that I am a massive Tough Girl failure, and I have to repress this memory (which I have until now).
(Cue Venga Boys)
I'm 16. I'm coming home from ELECTRIC CIRCUS. 'Nuff said? Okay, for those of you not in the know, Electric Circus was a live dance show hosted by MuchMusic from the late 80's to early 2000. A common outfit for a male "EC" dancer might be a blue top hat, no shirt (just yellow glitter), and oversized fleece pants in hot pink.
This is real picture of my friend back in the EC days, although I didn't know her then. I only post this because, for one, I can't find any of myself, and two, as someone who has an exclusively holt renfrew wardrobe now, she is completely unrecognizable. She's wearing a tablecloth here.
On this night, I opted for a more demure look: pigtails (?!), bellbottomed jeans that I made myself by cutting up two perfectly good pairs and sewing them into ONE, and a red sequinned top. Eeyeah. Moving on.
So I get on the bus, and I see this girl who used to go to my high school, Shelley Collins (whose name has only slightly been altered for protective purposes). She was the type that got up in the middle of geography class, hyperventilating, and no one knew why. Geography is not that difficult, Shelley. It's France, it's there, it's not going anywhere. After years of unwarranted hyperventilation and cruel high school torment, Shelley transfers to another high school and no one sees her for years. Until now.
She's beautiful! Shelley is like a character right out of a straight to DVD movie produced by magnanimous forces Aaron Spelling and Jackie Collins combined. Her face is tearstain-free and she's dressed in typical, suburban fare. Not like me. I smile at her in acknowledgement (we weren't friends) and keep walking to the back of the bus. Because I'm so awesome.
About 10 minutes on this bus ride goes by before Shelley comes by and sits beside me, with a smile like she wants to be friends. Now, while she may appear to be sane at that moment, there's no fucking way I'm going to become friends with a potential hyperventilator. Sorry, reasonless hyperventilators of the world.
Anyways, as necessary niceties are exchanged, I can see that this is no ordinary social call, and Shelley's eyes have a bit of the crazy and she's talking really fast about high schools. Oh my god. She wants to fight me. Fight. Me. She thinks I was one of the people that made her crazy, but this is not me!! I took Calculus in high school; I was always friendly with both The Amazing and The Terrible!
I stop the niceties and ask if she is okay, because it is so obvious that something is not that I'm just getting creeped out. She takes a deep breath and says this: "I'm going to beat up your brother."
?!?!??!?!
WHAT?? My brother at the time is 12! He listens to Savage Garden and plays Pretend Butterflies with me when we're bored (I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.) On a side note, I may have slightly miscalculated the activities and dates/ages. Pretend Butterflies is just a game where we tie blankets around our necks like Superman, but instead of playing a socially acceptable game like Pretend Superheroes, we opt to become butterflies. It's weird. I know this now. We may have been 4 and 8 though when we did that, which seems much more appropriate that 12 and 16, so let's go with that. (But it's not true.)
Back to Shelley. After I breathe a sigh of relief that no one can hear but my own blackened selfish heart because I realize that my face is safe for now, I work on convincing her to not beat up my preteen brother. I FAIL. I'm still not even sure why she wanted to, but by the time my stop came and I had to cut her off to go home, she was still dead set on me passing the message that she was coming for him and to watch out.
So yeah, Will, if you see Shelley Collins, watch out. She's going to beat you up. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you for almost 15 years, but she's coming for you, okay?
**********
So now you can clearly see how these near death experiences have scarred me for life. You are probably thinking one of two things:
1. If I stopped dressing like such a dickhead, maybe these things wouldn't happen to me.
2. Why does my brother seem to have a passing role in the events in such a weird way? Being locked in a closet and threatened by a paper bag inhaler??
Well, as for my dress code, these brushes with death still happen to me when I'm wearing my normal clothes, which nowadays do not involve bedazzlement or multiple sewing-togethers.
And for the record, my brother turned out totally normal.
He's nocturnal and about to go on a tour of South East Asia with his punk band Germ Attak. One time, he got locked in the catacombs underneath Paris for 8 hours straight in the pitch dark. That's totally normal, right? Yeah, yeah, it's cool.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
First Post!!
So I've been staring at this blank screen for about 45 minutes. I'm trying to impress you with my creative mind flow but I don't really have anything specific to write about these days. My time of shoving microscopic but very absorbant towels and a Swiss Army knife (both of which I've never used in my life... Thanks for the tips, Internets.) into backpacks measured by litres are over. For *why* backpacks are measured in litres doesn't make any sense to me. Who's bringing freely poured juice on their travels?
So here's an intro to me as a person rather than events going on in my life.
These are my parents posing in a glamour shot with a live 8 lb. king crab minutes before eating it.
When I was younger, instead of having an imaginary friend, I had an imaginary camera crew. Every time my parents would put a plate of cold jellyfish, thousand year old eggs, or the part of cow's stomach that kind of sort of looks like seafood (but you know in your heart it's not) in front of me, I would open my eyes wide, raise my eyebrows and slowly turn my head to the left, also known as Camera One, for a direct face shot of my horror. This is long before the days of The Office, or even Home Alone.
I still catch myself doing this sometimes. Trust, you do NOT want your boss catching you making Macauley Culkin faces to your monitor. The rest of the day gets very embarassing.
The funniest part about it is that they would try to convince me to eat these things by telling me the prices of them. For what reason would an in-depth analysis of B.C. abalone stocks peak the interest of a 6 year old child?
This is my dog, Taiko.
Taiko is more like a roommate who doesn't pay rent or clean up after himself, and always eats all the cheese. However, you get invited to all the good parties because he's so cute and everyone wants him around, so you put up with him.
Taiko is a very mild-mannered roommate who spends 90% of his time sleeping or stretching. You'd think that you could let him off his leash and play a nice game of "Let's stop here and sleep/stretch together" but this is not the case. He is a terrible walker. The minute his leash is off, Taiko runs like The Dickens and you're stuck chasing him in your heels as fast as you can, with tears freezing on your face, and asking strangers to please throw themselves down on the street in front of your barreling wolflike dog to stop him for you. Like a crazy person.
On that note, what does "run like The Dickens" even mean? The only Dickens I've ever heard of is Charles Dickens (and since when does anyone call him The Dickens?) and no matter how I try to picture it, no sense can be made. That being said, I have no idea what Charles Dickens looks like, so for all I know, he looks extremely fast.
Okay I just Googled it (my thirst for knowledge is vast, you see) and I only think he looks medium fast. Judge for yourself. I could outrun you, The Dickens.
Anyways, the other day I was walking Taiko at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM, when about 20 feet in front of me is a large grey furry thing. It kind of looks like a rat, but cat sized. Taiko looks pretty mellow, so once it scurries under a car and out of my sight, I proceed. Bad idea. Taiko lunges his face under the car, pulls out a grey furry thing and starts shaking it and slammimg its head into the concrete. I am screaming, like at the top of my lungs, and the sun hasn't even risen yet. When I finally yank him away, the furry thing is lying motionless on the sidewalk and I speedwalk away from the scene of the crime. I know it sounds bad, but what can you do??
On my way back, I'm walking on the other side of the sidewalk and I see a woman about my age crouched over looking at the furry thing.
Because I've caught my breath by now (and I won the Drama Guild Award back in high school for my acting finesse), I casually ask, "what's that?"
The woman looks like she is about to cry. "It's the possum I see every day on my way to the gym."
A POSSUM!?! What am I, living in the Green Forest??
"Oh my god!" I exclaim. "That's awful!" Meanwhile, I am holding Taiko behind me because, as he is the most expressive dog I've ever seen, she will see immediately that he is laughing hysterically at my antics. He did not win the Drama Guild Award back in high school.
At this point, I notice Crazy Woman standing by her door, with her arms folded, looking at me like "Cynthia, you are so fuckin' retarded." probably because it happened right outside her house and she saw the whole thing. She doesn't actually say anything though, to my relief, and just looks like she hates me (obviously I will take her hatred over her blowing my cover and effectively destroying any chance I have of making a new friend. Can you imagine? "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT 'THAT'S AWFUL'?? YOU KILLED IT NOT EVEN 10 MINUTES AGO!! I SAW YOU!" I would die.)
Then I realize she's not looking at me like that because she's in the know. She's looking at me like that because last week I screamed at her and her two small children to jump in front of my rabid looking, unleashed dog and catch him for me.
So here's an intro to me as a person rather than events going on in my life.
These are my parents posing in a glamour shot with a live 8 lb. king crab minutes before eating it.
When I was younger, instead of having an imaginary friend, I had an imaginary camera crew. Every time my parents would put a plate of cold jellyfish, thousand year old eggs, or the part of cow's stomach that kind of sort of looks like seafood (but you know in your heart it's not) in front of me, I would open my eyes wide, raise my eyebrows and slowly turn my head to the left, also known as Camera One, for a direct face shot of my horror. This is long before the days of The Office, or even Home Alone. I still catch myself doing this sometimes. Trust, you do NOT want your boss catching you making Macauley Culkin faces to your monitor. The rest of the day gets very embarassing.
The funniest part about it is that they would try to convince me to eat these things by telling me the prices of them. For what reason would an in-depth analysis of B.C. abalone stocks peak the interest of a 6 year old child?
This is my dog, Taiko.
Taiko is more like a roommate who doesn't pay rent or clean up after himself, and always eats all the cheese. However, you get invited to all the good parties because he's so cute and everyone wants him around, so you put up with him.
Taiko is a very mild-mannered roommate who spends 90% of his time sleeping or stretching. You'd think that you could let him off his leash and play a nice game of "Let's stop here and sleep/stretch together" but this is not the case. He is a terrible walker. The minute his leash is off, Taiko runs like The Dickens and you're stuck chasing him in your heels as fast as you can, with tears freezing on your face, and asking strangers to please throw themselves down on the street in front of your barreling wolflike dog to stop him for you. Like a crazy person.
On that note, what does "run like The Dickens" even mean? The only Dickens I've ever heard of is Charles Dickens (and since when does anyone call him The Dickens?) and no matter how I try to picture it, no sense can be made. That being said, I have no idea what Charles Dickens looks like, so for all I know, he looks extremely fast.
Okay I just Googled it (my thirst for knowledge is vast, you see) and I only think he looks medium fast. Judge for yourself. I could outrun you, The Dickens.
Anyways, the other day I was walking Taiko at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM, when about 20 feet in front of me is a large grey furry thing. It kind of looks like a rat, but cat sized. Taiko looks pretty mellow, so once it scurries under a car and out of my sight, I proceed. Bad idea. Taiko lunges his face under the car, pulls out a grey furry thing and starts shaking it and slammimg its head into the concrete. I am screaming, like at the top of my lungs, and the sun hasn't even risen yet. When I finally yank him away, the furry thing is lying motionless on the sidewalk and I speedwalk away from the scene of the crime. I know it sounds bad, but what can you do??
On my way back, I'm walking on the other side of the sidewalk and I see a woman about my age crouched over looking at the furry thing.
Because I've caught my breath by now (and I won the Drama Guild Award back in high school for my acting finesse), I casually ask, "what's that?"
The woman looks like she is about to cry. "It's the possum I see every day on my way to the gym."
A POSSUM!?! What am I, living in the Green Forest??
"Oh my god!" I exclaim. "That's awful!" Meanwhile, I am holding Taiko behind me because, as he is the most expressive dog I've ever seen, she will see immediately that he is laughing hysterically at my antics. He did not win the Drama Guild Award back in high school.
At this point, I notice Crazy Woman standing by her door, with her arms folded, looking at me like "Cynthia, you are so fuckin' retarded." probably because it happened right outside her house and she saw the whole thing. She doesn't actually say anything though, to my relief, and just looks like she hates me (obviously I will take her hatred over her blowing my cover and effectively destroying any chance I have of making a new friend. Can you imagine? "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT 'THAT'S AWFUL'?? YOU KILLED IT NOT EVEN 10 MINUTES AGO!! I SAW YOU!" I would die.)
Then I realize she's not looking at me like that because she's in the know. She's looking at me like that because last week I screamed at her and her two small children to jump in front of my rabid looking, unleashed dog and catch him for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
