My Week 58: Hammering Serial Killers

Tuesday: Hammer Time

When I first moved into my condo last February, I almost immediately had an issue with the noise level. No, I don’t mean that I could hear someone’s TV, or their children running around, or fun party music. I mean, I had an issue with the upstairs neighbour hammering. Not “hammering”, like a metaphor for something else—actual f*cking hammering. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if the construction efforts were happening while I was at work, or making dinner. No, this hammering was taking place at 2 o’clock in the morning. The night I moved in was peaceful enough; in fact, it exceeded my expectations regarding what living in tiny, stacked houses would be like. Then came the second night. Around 11 pm, it sounded like someone was bouncing a very heavy basketball on the floor above my living room. Bouncing it once, then letting it continue on its own, as in BOUNCE, Bounce, bouncebouncebounce, if you can understand what I mean. This went on for about an hour. After an hour, I started banging on the vents—I couldn’t bang on the ceiling because it’s sprayed with that popcorn stucco, which is very sharp and will fall into your eyes if disturbed. However, because the building is SUPPOSED to be soundproof, it had little effect. Then, shortly after midnight, the hammering began. Hammering all over the place at first, then becoming localized above my bedroom. What the hell was this guy doing? Installing a floor in the middle of the night? It was insane. It would stop for brief intervals, but every time I started to doze off, the noise would begin again with renewed vigour. It was like the way the CIA tortures terrorists by playing Death Metal music non-stop. Then it occurred to me—what if it WAS a government agency, trying to determine my stamina? After all, I had just taken a government job and had sworn an oath of secrecy, as well as an oath to the Queen. Could CSIS be upstairs? By this time though, I would have given something really important, like my favourite shoes or my last bottle of wine for the Death Metal to begin. Anything but the damned hammering. Finally, at around 5 am, the noise stopped. Of course, I had to get up at 6:30, so I went in for my first official day of work feeling like a sleep-deprived prisoner.

When I went to bed that night, I wasn’t too worried, figuring that it had to be a one-off—I mean, who in their right mind spends all night, every night renovating their condo? Each unit is only around 600 square feet, so there couldn’t possibly be a single thing left to hammer. And that’s when the sawing started. Sawing. With an actual saw. Right above my bedroom. I stood in the walk-in closet, and it sounded like the person was trying to cut a hole through the floor. Then I suddenly had a terrible thought—what if my upstairs neighbour was a serial killer who was building a false wall in his condo in order to conceal the presence of his latest kidnapped victim? This may sound farfetched in retrospect, but I had just seen an episode of a crime show where a very-innocent looking record producer had done JUST THAT in his recording studio—the investigators had cleverly discovered the hidden room by looking at blueprints. The sawing finally stopped around 3 am, while I cowered in bed, praying that someone wouldn’t rappel into my closet with murderous intentions and wondering how I could get my hands on a floorplan. I was now completely fed up, so after work, I decided to talk to the night concierge. I explained what was happening but her English wasn’t very good:

Me: The person in the unit above mine is hammering in the middle of the night. It’s keeping me awake. What should I do?
 Concierge: Ammering? What is this to mean?
Me: (hammers on counter with fist) HAMMERING. Like this.
Concierge: Someone is ammering in your unit?
Me: No, in the unit upstairs! At 2 o’clock in the morning. I can’t sleep.
Concierge: Why would someone be ammering at the middle of the morning? It’s not sense.
Me: Yes, this is all pretty nonsensical. What should I do if it keeps happening?
Concierge: You call me and I go to upstairs and see what is the problem.

This sounded very promising, despite it also sounding fairly incomprehensible. Sure enough, not long after midnight, the hammering resumed. I immediately called down to the front desk, reminded the concierge about our earlier conversation, and gave her the unit number where the noise was originating from. She promised to go up and see what was going on. Unbelievably, about ten minutes later, the noise stopped completely. Blessed silence. It was like that all night, and I had my first good sleep since coming to Toronto. Over the next several weeks, there were still a lot of bizarre sounds coming from Jeffrey Dahammer upstairs, but they always stopped before 11 pm—the concierge must have reminded him about the noise bylaws. By late spring/early summer, the upstairs unit was completely silent. Then last Monday, I happened to be talking to my aunt. She asked, “Have you had any more issues with the person upstairs?”

“No,” I said. “That all seems to be in the past now.” Could I have been any more cavalier to tempt fate in such a brazen way? I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right—finally, at 1:45 am, I’d had enough. I called down to the night concierge (a different one this time, but with equally poor English skills) and explained that someone had been hammering on the floor of the unit above mine for the last two hours. “OK, no problem—I go talk to them,” he said. I had my doubts, but the noise stopped shortly after. Here’s to hoping that the renovations—or ‘victim cage’—are finally complete, knock on wood. But I have to admit, I’m burning with curiosity—what the hell is really going on up there? I’ll probably never know—and maybe it’s better that I don’t.

My Week 57: Hallowe’en Horrors!

Happy Hallowe’en!

Wednesday:

Hallowe’en is a bizarre time of year. People seem to get super-excited about it and spend inordinate amounts of time planning costumes, fixating on candy, making crafts and “fun” Hallowe’en foods—and that’s the adults. Never mind the kids who are throwing tantrums because the costume store sold the last Elsa outfit, and now they have to be Cinderella—“No one will know who I AM, Mom! It’s not fair!” It’s also the time when it becomes socially acceptable to denigrate females in any profession—“Let’s see…what do I want to be this year? Sexy Nurse, Sexy Librarian, Sexy Teacher, Sexy Doctor, Sexy Astronaut, Sexy Physicist—gosh, I JUST can’t choose!” And for men, apparently it’s holiday that lets them REALLY express their inner selves. I was on the streetcar last week, having a WONDERFUL time listening to the driver and one of his work colleagues (who was just standing next to him the whole way for some unknown reason) trash talking their “shop steward”, which I assume is like the union leader or something, because of course, there’s nothing more pleasant than listening to two grown men acting like 12 year-old girls. Then a man got on the streetcar and sat down next to me. He was probably in his late sixties, very portly, sporting a bushy, grey mustache, and carrying a plastic bag. After about 30 seconds he turned to me and said, “I’m so sad right now.” I hesitated, but what the hell, right? So I asked, “Why?”

“Well,” he said. I’m supposed to be going to a Hallowe’en party tonight, but it’s raining so hard that my costume would have been ruined, so I decided not to wear it.”

“Is it in your bag?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “But it was a great costume.”

“What were you going to be?” At this point, I figured ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’, and it was better than listening to “Chrissy” and “Madison” griping about how Frank wouldn’t drive in from Brampton at 10 o’clock at night to see how badly the streetcar system was backed up. Anyhow, I thought, judging by the looks of the man next to me, that he was going to say “Scarecrow”, or “Witch”, but it turns out he was more the “Dorothy” type.

“I was going in drag,” he announced. “I do it every year. My friends will be so disappointed. Here, let me show you what I was going to look like.” With this, he pulled out his cell phone. And if you think things were a little weird up until now, just wait. He opened up a picture of himself, standing in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in a black wig, a colourful dress, full make-up, and high heels. “Very nice,” I commented, thinking that Rupaul might have given him a passing grade. Then, as he was trying to zoom in on the wig, which he seemed to be particularly proud of, he accidentally (oh God, please let it have been accidentally) flipped to the previous picture, which was the “before” picture—that is to say, a full-length shot of him wearing nothing but a pair of bikini briefs. Then he got flustered and tried to change the picture back, but he flipped the wrong way, and before I had a chance to avert my eyes, I’m pretty sure it was the “before Before” picture—ie: BEFORE he put on the bikini briefs.

“Gosh, these phones,” he giggled, and put it back in his pocket, while I tried to recover from the shock of seeing all that portliness in its natural glory. Then he began regaling me with tales of previous Hallowe’en costumes, including his first foray into the world of drag. “I dressed as Nana Mouskouri, but everyone thought I was a hooker. I thought I looked just like her—I even blackened my mustache to match my wig.”

We spent the rest of the ride with him talking and me smiling and nodding, still unsure if I had been flashed on purpose or not. We were getting off at the same stop, and when we finally exited, he said, “It was lovely talking to you, dear. Have a Happy Hallowe’en!” and with that, he disappeared into a sketchy-looking bar.

Thursday:

A group of us were reminiscing about Hallowe’en as we’d experienced it as children. The general consensus seemed to be that we had two common experiences; first, that no matter what your costume was, it had to fit over a snowsuit. There’s a wonderful picture of my brother and I when we’re about 8 and 6 respectively. I’m wearing a snowsuit and a Frankenstein mask, and he’s wearing a snowsuit and a tiger mask. Costumes today are so much more season-appropriate. When K was little, it was fake fur animal costumes, which looked cool and were also very warm, so I was never the mom who ruined Hallowe’en by saying, “You’re not going out as a Sexy Ballerina—you’ll freeze your tutu off. Now go find your snowsuit.” My favourite Hallowe’en memory of K was the year she wanted to be a shark. Very badly. The problem was, I couldn’t find a shark costume to save my life. So I found a dolphin costume, cut out teeth from a piece of white cardboard, and stapled them to the dolphin’s mouth. She was never the wiser, but we were all hysterical at the sight of this deranged porpoise toddling up to people’s porches.

The second rule of thumb for kids of my generation, and this is, sadly, still true today, was if there was anything unwrapped or homemade in your loot bag, your mom threw it away on the grounds that someone might have put a razor blade in it. I understand that it’s statistically EXTREMELY rare that anyone has ever tried to hurt a child by putting something nasty in their candy, but it’s also statistically true that there are crazy people in this world, sometimes in your very own neighbourhood, and you’d never know it until your child is all glassy-eyed from the hash brownie they just ate.

Saturday: The Day Arrives

On Saturday, I finally started to feel a little bit excited over Hallowe’en, as the time approached for the trick or treating to start. We live in a small town, and our house is set quite a bit back from the sidewalk, so I was worried that no one would come. I got a little obsessive, but Ken was just being mean, and refused to find our Christmas floodlights, so we could shine them on the house and let the kids know we were open for business. At around 6:00, it was getting pretty dark, and we’d only had two kids. I was getting desperate. Then I heard voices going past our gate. “We have candy in here! Come to our house!” I yelled out the door. In retrospect, maybe it was a little more like “luring” than “encouraging”, but I hadn’t carved a pumpkin for nothing. (In fact, I hadn’t carved a pumpkin, but I’d used a Sharpie to draw eyes and a mouth on one, and it looked GREAT.) The voices stopped, the group of people came up our sidewalk, and I was thinking this was a super plan. Then Ken came downstairs:

Ken: Was that you yelling at people to come to our house?
Me: Maybe.
Ken: Are you going to do that all night?
Me: Well, I don’t see any FLOODLIGHTS, Ken. How else will people know we have candy?

But despite my best efforts, we still only had 14 trick or treaters, and it was like the devil sent them to taunt me.

Little Ninja: How many people have you had tonight?
Me: Oh, a few.
Ninja: MY mom had a bowl with ONE HUNDRED bags of chips in it, and they’re all gone now!
Me: Shut up, demon child. (OK, that last line was in my head. What I really said is, Gosh, that’s a lot! Have a happy Hallowe’en.)

My favourite moment of the night: a little brother/firefighter and sister/princess came to the door. I gave him a KitKat and a sucker. I gave her an Aero bar and some rockets. As they were about to leave, she turned back:

Princess: Um…can I have what you gave him?
Me: Oh, you want a KitKat too? Sure.
Princess: (whispers) And the other…?
Me: The sucker? Of course, sweetie. Here you go.
Their mom (mortified): Sorry…
Me: No worries—I have a LOT of candy.

Most random occurrence: 3 kids and their parents came to the door around 7:15. The kids yelled Trick or Treat, then they held out their hands. I said, “Oh, don’t you have bags?”

“No,” said one of the dads. “Just give them the candy and they can put it in their pockets.”

Then Hallowe’en was over for another year. And I know this for sure, because I was in a store this morning, and they already had their full Christmas inventory on display.

 

My Week 56 – My Crazy Cruise On The Norwegian Star

The Cruise

As you may or may not be aware (if you read my blog regularly then you WILL know this), I just got back from a cruise. I’d never been on a cruise before, and last week, I wrote a bit about the two things I was most excited about: my butler, and swimming with my own dolphin. I was worried that my expectations might have been too high, but I was wrong on both counts. My butler was an awesome guy, and although he wasn’t called Johnson, he WAS named Cristopher (the lack of the “h” made him even more sophisticated). He was always dressed in a tuxedo outfit minus the topcoat, but his outfit seemed very bespoke, which is one of my new favourite words, the other being “iguana” for reasons which I will explain later. The best thing about Cristopher was that he looked, talked, and acted like a young George Takei, so every time he came in the room, it was like hanging out with Mr. Sulu. Only instead of navigating a starship, he called me “Miss Suzanne” and made hot chocolate for me. He also referred to the dock workers as “stevedores”, which is what they actually are, but I’ve never heard anyone call them that aside from me, so I felt like we were kindred, “butler-and-lady” spirits. Then there was my dolphin, also, unfortunately, NOT named Johnson. Her name was Atlas, because apparently Mexicans are unfamiliar with the genders of the Greek gods, but she was amazing. When she offered me her fins and torpedoed across the lagoon, I hung on for dear life, but laughed like a lunatic the whole way. I have nothing snarky or sarcastic to say about Atlas because she was gorgeous and obviously smarter than me. And DEFINITELY smarter than this guy:

Man (with thick southern drawl): So when I get to swim around with that fish, will someone take a picture of it?
 Mexican Trainer: Sir, she’s not a fish, she’s a mammal. But yes, we have a photographer.
Man: That’s good. I want to show everyone at home that I actually did this thing.

Other Highlights of the Trip

1) Kasi, our Mayan tour guide: Kasi spoke English with an American accent, but she also spoke fluent Spanish and Mayan, having been raised in Chacchoben by an American father, Mexican mother, and Mayan grandmother. She treated the seven of us like we were her class and she was our teacher—she even had a little whiteboard so that she could draw us pictures to illustrate her points.

Kasi: OK, you guys. People think the Mayans just disappeared or were abducted by aliens, but that’s not true. Does anyone know what REALLY happened to the Mayans? Anyone?
 Me: They were all killed…?
Kasi: No, but good try! If I told you it had something to do with chewing gum, the “chiclata”, what would you say? Anyone?…
The chewing gum story is true, but very complicated, so you all can look it up–but it’s true. Thanks, Adams Gum Company, for destroying the Mayan civilization. 

2) Iguanas: When I was initially told that it was going to cost me $10 US to gain entry to an “iguana sanctuary”, my first thought was “Why the f*ck would I pay to see iguanas?” OK, it’s technically not a sanctuary, and they’re not technically “rescue” iguanas, but they were still extremely cool. I never knew that a) iguanas could be the size of small dogs and that b) they also act quite a lot like dogs. We were given leaves to feed them with, and as soon as they saw us with food, they all came galloping over, staring at us with their excited little iguana eyes, mobbing us and following us around like puppies. You could pet them, and they snuggled into your hand. I texted Ken that I wanted my own iguana, since I don’t have a lagoon for my own dolphin, and he replied “Do you think an iguana would like Toronto?” which seems to me a pretty passive-aggressive way of vetoing my desire for an iguana puppy. The only downside to an iguana is that they like to climb up high and then poop, but I think it would be a fun party game for our friends—we could call it “Look Out Below!” and have prizes for anyone who managed to avoid getting shat on. I think vigilance is the key when it comes to iguanas.

3) Francisco’s No Name Restaurant: On Roatan, which is off the coast of Honduras, we toured the island with a local taxi driver named Franciso. He drove us all over the place, and when we asked about authentic Roatan cuisine and where we could go for lunch, he said, “Don’t worry—I know a place.” This initially sounded a little sketchy, but you have to trust, so we arrived at a building where there were maybe four tables under an awning. He told us what to order, and I was initially somewhat worried, but then I realized that he was going to eat too, and I figured that if the food was good enough for him, then I could feel relatively assured that I wouldn’t be getting food poisoning. Sure enough, the lunch (rice, beans, stewed beef, fried plantains, hot sauce–was delicious. When I asked him what the restaurant was called, he said, “It doesn’t have a name—it’s just a place we go. The owner and I grew up together. It’s much better than the restaurants the cruise ships recommend.” And he was right. Trust.

Of course, there are some weird things about being on cruise ship. First of all, the demographic is a TINY bit older than me. The average age of the passengers was about 75, and an overwhelming majority of them were seasoned cruisers who woke up at the crack of dawn, snagged the best lounge chairs, and stayed there all day unless it was time to hobble to the buffet and eat. Or play trivia. Seriously, there is nothing more hardcore and badass than senior citizens playing trivia for keychains and mugs. They would google answers, argue with the cruise director, and refuse to give part marks for ANYTHING, those f*ckers. But aside from the restaurant dash and the trivia frenzy, they were mostly completely immobile. On the first day, my dad and I went into the “disco lounge” to discover about 60 people just sitting there, staring into space. The silence was absolute. I turned to my dad and said, “This is exactly what I imagined the waiting room for DEATH to look like.” Then we both laughed really loudly but no one noticed, because their hearing aids were all turned off.

I also realized that there are people on cruise ships that you never want to be—you know the people I mean. They are sometimes referred to as “That Guy” or “That Woman”, and after a particular dancing misadventure in the disco lounge one late night, I resolved to never again be “the middle-aged woman who drinks a bit then thinks she can dance like she did when she was a teenager”. I also made a vow to never be any of the following people:

The Guy Who Gets Drunk and Falls Asleep at the Edge of the Pool – After the first day of all-you-can-swallow alcohol consumption, I discovered that it could be very easy to become THAT guy. I actually saw him on the second last day of the cruise, beer bottle precariously perched on the edge of the deck, sprawled out unconscious like a homeless person on a Toronto subway grate. Not a pretty picture, and one I was happy to avoid.

The Woman Whose Ass is Hanging Out of Her String Bikini – Seriously, can you NOT feel the draft? My ass crack is perfectly capable of differentiating between fresh air and the safety of my skirt-ini.

The Person Who is Late Coming Back From an Excursion, Forcing the Ship to Stay in Port and Causing the Passengers to Stand at the Handrails and Boo – I was almost that person after the dolphin swim, when I and my lovely sister-in-law discovered we had come all the way back with the key to our storage locker, which meant her photo ID was still with the dolphin people. After a mad dash in a taxi, we made it back just in time. No boos for us, because we may be forgetful, but we are f*cking efficient.

Bisexual Sexy Dancer – This is the person in every disco who has had a little too much to drink and suddenly becomes open to ANYONE, and will jiggle up to men and women alike, trying to “get me some”. This person is second only to INCESTUOUS Sexy Dancer, the elderly man who has choreographed several pre-set dance sequences which must be performed to either disco or mamba music with women young enough to be his daughters, both of whom hang around with him like he’s their sugar daddy. Only he’s too cheap to buy their drinks. Why, ladies—why?

The Cougar Who Thinks the Male Dancers in the Review Show Are SOOOO Hot – They’re all gay. Yes, even Dmitri. And yes, it’s heartbreaking.

Overall, it was a great experience. Thanks, Mom and Dad, John and Orchid, Cameron and Enayat. If only Ken and K had been there, it would have been perfect. And if either the butler or the dolphin had ACTUALLY been named Johnson, I would never have come home.

 

Sucky Real Estate, I Get A Butler

Thursday: Real Estate deals are stressful and sucky

A few weeks ago, Ken and I decided to sell our cottage. We bought it 6 years ago, after seeing it on the internet. It wasn’t my dream home, but it was super cheap, it was in a great little town close to some of our other family members, and we figured it wouldn’t take much to make it a cozy haven. I remember saying to Ken, “All this place really needs is some redecorating and laminate flooring.” Apparently, I had been watching too many “flipping” shows on HGTV, because holy sh*t, was I ever wrong. We had a home inspection, and found out that the electrical system had been put together by a 5 year-old. There was an electrical box on the wall right above where the bed would go, which looked on the outside like it had been disconnected, but was full of cut, LIVE wires. None of the outlets were grounded, and there were exposed wires everywhere, some held together with scotch tape. Our contractor said it was a miracle that the place hadn’t already burned down. We wanted to back out of the deal then, but the owners dropped the price enough that we could afford the rewiring. Once they moved out though, the real fun started, as we realized their abundance of junky old furniture, knickknacks, and Jesus paintings were covering up a lot of problems. Apparently, the previous owners were into home repairs like alcoholics are into sparkling water, and everything was done in the cheapest, sloppiest, absurdist way possible. My favourite was taking off wallpaper and discovering holes in walls that had been patched with Band aids. Or pulling up carpeting to discover 2 inches of sand underneath. And the place wasn’t THAT close to any beach—they were just slovenly housekeepers. Or maybe they couldn’t use a vacuum because the wiring kept shorting out. I had to clean the oven with Easy-Off—no, it f*cking wasn’t. There was so much build-up in there, and I got so much slime and grease on my hands that I literally almost threw up. There was the soaking wet subfloor under the sink in the kitchen which we pulled up and replaced, the toilet leaning against the bathroom wall (the bathroom was joisted with two by fours, so we had the whole thing pulled up and done to code), the doorways that had been wallpapered over, the painted masking tape disguising gaps between molding and walls, Kleenex stuffed into cracks to stop drafts—the list goes on. It took us almost a year to turn the place from a disgusting stinkbox into something habitable. Ironically, when we bought the place, the wife created a garden plan on graph paper, letting us know about all the unique and rare plants she had—we needed the plan because everything was hidden in crabgrass and weeds. Over the years, we kept on improving the place with the help of our intrepid contractor, Dale, who despite his construction prowess and our 6-year relationship, continues to call me by things other than my actual name, and just calls me names that sound similar, or start with the same consonant. But after 6 years, and a hell of a lot of hard work, the place really is a dream home.

We love our cottage, but the fact is, with me working in Toronto all week and only coming home for weekends, we’re hardly ever getting up there anymore. It’s not too far from our house, but K hates it because it has no wifi, which means she can’t play Counterhalo or League of Duty, or whatever crazy games she and her friends run around with daggers and machine guns in. So generally, she refuses to go, which means I have to choose between seeing my only child (between rounds of her killing animated characters) and having a peaceful getaway. That sounds like a no-brainer, am I right? At any rate, after a long discussion, we decided to put the cottage on the market. This is where the craziness began. After just over a month, or two weeks ago, we got word from our agent that an offer was coming in. “That’s so great!” I said to Ken, “So long as it’s not something ridiculous, like 20 grand below our asking price or something.” Well guess what? It WAS 20 grand below our asking price. And not only that, the woman wanted couches, beds, other miscellaneous furniture, all the outdoor furniture, everything in the sheds, and more, right down to personal items like a picnic basket, our Keurig, and the LINENS ON THE BEDS! Who the hell wants someone else’s old sheets as part of a house deal? I was like “forget that sh*t”, but our agent suggested we take out anything we wanted to keep, and send it back with a higher price. So we took practically everything out, and counter-offered with something a little more reasonable. Eventually, we all settled at a price we could live with, throwing in a couch and a couple of bed frames. AND the linens. She was adamant. Apparently, flannel sheets are a deal-breaker to some people. So Ken and I, with the help of my aunt, started the annoying process of packing stuff into boxes. We’d just nicely gotten the ENTIRE kitchen packed up and brought home when our agent called me to say the deal was off. According to the buyer’s agent, the house was falling down. The foundation was crumbling and the wooden frame under the floor was rotting. F*cking news to me. I was like, “Says who? Did she crawl under the place herself, or is there some more legitimate source for this information? What am I supposed to tell people? ‘Yeah, the place is about to collapse—an eighty-year-old real estate agent told me so.” (Well, she looks eighty on her business card). Our agent was also shocked but said we would have to sign the termination of the agreement, and I was like, “Hell no. Not until I see some actual proof that I’m about to fall through the floor.” This was where things started to get fun and sketchy as they refused to tell us who did the inspection, or provide any kind of report. We’re still embroiled in this sh*t right now. They’ve finally copped to having an inspection, but are demanding that we pay half the cost before they’ll show it to us. So I did what any reasonable person would do—I called Dale. Mainly because he’s the only person I know who will crawl around in a 3 foot high space underneath a cottage that may or may not be on the verge of collapse. And after this, he can call me ANYTHING he wants.

Saturday: I get ready to cruise

So right now, despite all the real estate stress, I’m SUPER excited because I’m going on my first cruise. I’ve been so excited, in fact, that I didn’t even really pay attention to where I’m going. After having several people say, “Where does the cruise go?” and me saying, “Wow, I’m not really sure,” I made my dad write it down for me so I wouldn’t look like a complete idiot. This is my parents’ gift to me for reaching a “milestone” birthday—as some people might say, I am now a woman of “a certain age”, and it’s not the awesomely fun age where you get to finally drink, buy lottery tickets, play bingo, or watch porn. So yeah, an “older” milestone than all of that. Still, I’m young enough to appreciate how cool this cruise is going to be, even if Ken and K can’t come. It’s just me, my parents, my brother, his wife, their son, and her dad. I think Ken feels a little left out, but it’s not my fault that he “can’t get time off work” or whatever. K said she couldn’t miss 5 days of school because missing math would kill her, and I’m hoping it’s because she doesn’t want to fall behind, not because she loves math so much. Because let’s be honest—if you love math so much that you would miss a cruise to a tropical island…enough said. Anyway, there are two main things that I’m the most excited about, aside from the “all you can drink” alcohol package:

1) I just found out today that our suite comes with its own butler. This is the best thing EVER. Ken wasn’t particularly impressed but K totally got it.

K: His name will be Johnson.
Me: Yes! And he’ll wear a tuxedo. Even at 3 o’clock in the morning.
K: And he’ll have an English accent.
Me: Absolutely. The only thing better than my English butler Johnson would be if he was a monkey butler.

I’m probably overthinking it, and my expectations will most likely be dashed when it turns out that my English butler Johnson is a guy in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt named “Jimmy”, who will recommend Budweiser and pretzels instead of champagne cocktails and caviar. Still, a girl can dream.

2) I get to swim with dolphins. This has been a lifelong dream of mine, ever since I almost failed grade 9 science and realized that I was NOT destined to be a marine biologist. Instead, I learned how to analyze poetry, which is almost the same thing. But without the dolphins. (As a side note, it’s still really easy to get into an English program. They ask two questions—1) Do you have the money for tuition? 2) Are you breathing? The second question is just a formality. If you have the tuition, breathing isn’t really a requirement.) I never thought that I would be able to come face to bottlenose with a dolphin, but it looks like that’s going to happen. I even had to buy “biodegradable” sunscreen, so it wouldn’t harm the dolphins. It was expensive, but it’s money well-spent. And if my butler isn’t up to snuff, I can always call my dolphin “Johnson”.

My Week 54: Back on the Train Gang, Conversations

Friday: Back on the train gang

Recently, I started taking the train to Toronto on Sundays and back home on Fridays. This has saved me an intense amount of stress from trying to figure out how to beat a rush hour that starts at noon. The trouble with the 401 is that it’s a great highway when no one else is on it. I can make it door to door in less than an hour and a half if the roads are clear. But that NEVER happens. There’s always a slowdown, for a variety of incomprehensible reasons. Here is my list of top ten favourite circumstances which might cause traffic on the 401 to come to a complete halt:

10) It’s raining.
9) It’s windy.
8) Is that a running shoe? Slow down!!
7) Look, an airplane. Coooool.
6) There’s an accident on the OTHER side of the road.
5) What a weird-looking bird…
4) That guy is changing his tire. What do we do?
3) Are those cloud shadows on the road, or is the beginning of the alien invasion?
2) A bus is on fire.
1) (And this is absolutely true). Radio announcer: Be careful out there today, folks. That sun is really shining brightly!

While a couple of these are legitimate—like a burning bus, or slowing down to avoid hitting someone at the side of the road, the rest are stupid. If people would just drive like normal humans instead of trying to break the landspeed record, none of the other things on the list would a) come as a shock and b) force traffic to a standstill. So, yes, I started taking the train, which is a much more civilized and safer way to travel, albeit not without its own quirks. For example, VIA has a policy that you have to present your boarding pass BEFORE you board at some stations, but not others. At Union Station, you have to have it scanned before you can get on the train. At unstaffed stations, like the one I arrive at, you can get on the train and a conductor will scan it at some point during the trip. If you take a chance and sneak onto the train without paying, there’s a pretty hefty fine. It never occurred to me that anyone would actually TRY this, but on Friday, here’s what happened: I was standing in line, getting ready to board. I’d been standing there for a while, and contemplating the nonsensical nature of me and all the other hundred people standing there, because we all have assigned seating, yet as soon as one person lines up, the rest of us panic and follow like sheep. And then we stand there for half an hour. Waiting. And talking about why we’re standing in line. I said to the woman behind me, “Why are we lined up?” and she said, “I don’t know. I just saw everyone else doing it, and figured I should too.” Anyway, I was standing there like the follower that I apparently am, lacking in free will and all that sh*t, when I noticed a man out of the corner of my eye. I was close to one of the columns that holds up the roof, and pretty close to the front of the line, and he had sauntered over very casually and was now standing against the column with his wheelie bag, looking all innocent. But I knew what he was up to. “Bastard!” I thought to myself. “He’s going to try and cut in. I haven’t been waiting here for almost 40 minutes so this guy can jump the queue. At least not in FRONT of me. I don’t care if he cuts in behind me. Someone else can deal with that.” So, you see, I was equally enraged AND mercenary. Then, the line started to move, and sure enough, the odious little jerk slid in right behind me. Everyone noticed, but we were all too polite, being Canadian and everything, to tell him off. But as we were getting close to the escalator and the conductor, he kept trying to pass me. So I did what any red-blooded Canadian would do—I swung MY wheelie bag out wide to slow him down, forcing him to stay behind me. But this is where things got interesting and supremely karmic. I showed my boarding pass, and got on the escalator with him hot on my heels. Then I heard a voice—“Sir! Sir! I need to scan your boarding pass!” I turned, and a conductor was climbing up the escalator towards us. The man announced, “You did already,” but the conductor was adamant. “No, I didn’t. Let me see it now, please.” At this point, the butt-er reluctantly held out a very crumpled boarding pass. “Sir,” the conductor said with a hint of anger in his voice, “you don’t have a ticket for this train. You’ll have to come with me.” The man protested, but had no choice. As he scurried back down the escalator, I shook my fist in triumph, and actually said out loud, “HAHA! I knew it!!”, much to the delight of the couple ahead of me, who had also noticed that he was up to something. We all smiled knowingly at each other with the smugness of those who had legitimately purchased tickets.

Then there are the “regulars”. Seriously, it’s like Cheers, when Norm walks into the bar. “Hey, Norm”, everyone yells, and all the non-regulars are confused, and a little jealous that they aren’t part of the gang. The first time I took the train, this happened to me. I was sitting near a group of the regulars, and it was like homecoming weekend. The conductor was supremely pleased to see them, and they were all laughing and high-fiving and sh*t. Then she asked if there was anyone who was unfamiliar with train safety procedures, because I guess it’s a requirement of the job, and they were all like “Haha, safety requirements! Right, Ellen!! HAHA.” But you know me, and my need to figure out the worst case scenario, so I was like, “Excuse me. I am unfamiliar with the safety procedures and I would like to hear more about it.” So she started telling me about what to do in case of an emergency, but the gang kept interrupting her, and she would giggle and be like “Oh, you guys!” until finally I said very sternly, “I’d actually appreciate being able to hear what you have to say.” At which point, she realized that maybe she needed to stop being flirty and do her job. So she explained to me that in case of an emergency, there was a little green hammer located next to the rear window, and that I would have to hit one corner of the window with the hammer, then hit another corner to get it to break out of the frame, then use a cushion from one of the seats to push the glass out. How is this even a PLAN, VIA Rail? The train derails, and I’m tossing bodies out of the way, looking for a seat cushion to push out the window with? The window I broke with a LITTLE GREEN HAMMER?! I have the exact same plan at home in case of fire, but it doesn’t involve pillows as much as me shattering things like The Hulk using a much bigger Thor-like hammer (there’s your random Avengers reference for the week), and not caring so much about glass cuts than SAVING MY FAMILY.  Then she was like, “Don’t worry—it’ll never happen. It’s just a precaution.” Oh really, conductor lady?! It’s called a ‘worst case scenario’ for a reason. From now on, I’m bringing my own damn hammer.

But you meet all kinds on the train. There’s the girl who walks down the aisle on her cell phone, loudly alerting all of us to her weekend party plans and spends the next hour calling friend after friend to let them know she’s “on the train but can’t wait to get smashed at Kyle’s house later”, the drunk Blue Jays fans who yell out the names of all the stops, the business men and women whose companies are too cheap to spring for anything more than “economy class”…. Me, I don’t care where I sit, as long as it’s quiet, I can have a glass of wine (hell yeah—they serve wine on the train, which is why I referred to it earlier as a civilized way to travel), read my book, and think my thoughts. This, however, did NOT happen on Friday. I was seated behind a woman and her 6 year-old daughter, who was quite possibly the most obnoxious child I’ve come across. Mainly because the mother seemed to have no idea that children can actually be taught, through patient care and a lot of work, to NOT be f*cking obnoxious. Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE kids, I really do. I have a charming and well-behaved one of my own, and I’ve been successfully working with kids of all ages for over 30 years, so I have a pretty good idea of how to deal with them. The first sign of trouble came about 20 seconds into boarding, when “Cathy” began yelling, “SING SING LALA SING LALALA” over and over again. And to clarify—she wasn’t actually singing—she was yelling the words Sing and LaLa. Finally, the mother admonished her with “Shhhhhh.” “NO!!” came the reply, with a continuation of the racket, until Mom distracted her with the menu. Things went downhill from there. “I want THIS and THIS and THIS!”

Mom: You can only have one thing. You have to choose.
Cathy: NO!! I WANT EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING!
Mom: You can’t have everything. Only one. Which one do you want?
Cathy: I WANT EVERYTHING. I’m going to kick this seat until you get me EVERYTHING! (kick kick kick kick)
Conductor: Can I get you anything?
Mom: Yes, I’ll take this and this and this….

Good work, lady.

Halfway through the trip, I finally had to put my headphones on and drown out Cathy with loud music after this particular conversation:

Cathy: What does ‘technically’ mean? Mommy, what does ‘technically’ mean? MOMMY! Don’t you know? Are you stupid? Mommy, what does ‘technically’ mean? MOMMY!!

You know, I get that people are tired, and it’s really easy to let kids get away with a little cheekiness at the end of a long day, but kicking seats and calling names are a certain sign that little Cathy is going to have BIG trouble if she thinks the rest of the world is going to treat her like Mommy does. She’ll be the one trying to cut into a line, and she’ll be shocked when people like me won’t let her. That’s karma, Cathy.

But I have met some really great people on the train. There’s the kid who’s in Pre-Law at U of T, but who would give it all up to be a rock star with his band–he was visiting his girlfriend at Western and had never taken the train before so we helped each other figure out where the subway was in relation to the train station…The girl who finished a Security course and did a practicum at a northern men’s penitentiary, which taught her that she really didn’t want to be a prison guard and was now working with a pharmaceutical company…The Kinesiology student whose 8 year-old sister lives with her and goes to school in Toronto all week, then goes to London on the weekends to stay with “relatives”–she’s 18 years old but pretty much a surrogate mother, and a very good one at that, judging by the way she cares for little Hailey…The man who’s an accountant by day, but races short track with his classic car on the weekends down in Windsor in a full firesuit and helmet–his brother is his pit crew…the list goes on, and for every annoying Cathy, there are three different people with fascinating stories and lives that you can glimpse into for a brief moment, and realize that the world can be a pretty decent place if you let it. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Best elevator conversation of the week:

Guy in Elevator: Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Carol Burnett?
Me: Uh, thanks—it must be the haircut.
Guy: Kids today have no appreciation for Carol Burnett. The other night I was at a bar and I was being hit on by someone a LOT younger than me. So I said to him, “Sorry, honey—I’m Carol Burnett and you’re Lady Gaga. It will NEVER work.”

Worst elevator conversation of the week:

Guy in Elevator: Ungghh—I could sure use a big cup of coffee!
Me: Um…ok.
Guy: Wow! Look at all your rings! I really like the big one you have on!!
Me: I got that one in Spain—oh look, here’s my floor. Bye.

Best conversations with street people this week:

Me: I’m going into Loblaws. Can I get you anything?
Homeless Guy: Can I get some smoked oysters?
Me: Uh….ok…
Homeless Guy: And a Coke? Thanks.

Me: I’m going into Loblaws. Can I get you anything? Maybe some juice?
Dan: Oh…could I have a jar of Cheez Whiz? I love Cheez Whiz but I can never afford to buy it.
Me: Sure thing.
Dan: Thanks, dear.

My Week 53: A Clash of Chairs, I Go To the Toronto Circus

Monday: I bring home a new chair and it causes problems.

On Monday, I had to take my recycling down to the big garbage room, which I never mind, because it’s also sometimes a treasure trove of other peoples’ discarded furniture. I had just finished putting my cardboard in the dumpster (which is tricky because I’m a bit of a germaphobe and I have to do this while not actually TOUCHING the dumpster), when I heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. I peeked around the corner of the dumpster, and there he was—a bit shabby, but with unmistakable possibilities. And by his accent, he was obviously French Provincial.

French Chair: Why, ‘allo there, ma cherie. You are looking fine this evening.
Me: (blushing): Who, me?
French Chair: But of course. I was ‘oping, cherie, that you might be able to help me.
Me: What can I do for you?
French Chair: Zee truth is, I am terribly lonely down in this smelly garbage room. Please take me home with you.

I had to consider this carefully. I already had a couple of chairs, one of whom was extremely obnoxious. But still, this fellow WAS rather charming, and I knew that, with a fresh coat of paint, he would be a real keeper. So I took him up to my condo and put him in the corner of the bedroom. He was really grateful and promised not to stare at me while I was sleeping. But then the problems started.

Obnoxious Chair: Excuse me! Who the hell is THAT?!
Me: What? It’s a chair. What’s wrong?
OC: Where did you find him? At the dump?
Me: Actually, downstairs in the big garbage room. He’s French.
OC: I don’t care if he’s the KING of f*ing France—he’s a vagrant! It was bad enough when you brought home that derelict loveseat–
Loveseat: SCREW YOU, OC!
Me: Everyone just calm down. You know, OC, I’d think you’d be a little more understanding, all things considered.
OC: What do you mean, “all things considered”?
Me: I mean I bought you at an auction, so you don’t really have the right to be so smug.
OC (sputtering): Smug? SMUG?! I was in ‘NAM! You don’t know what I’ve seen!
Me: You weren’t “in ‘Nam”–stop telling people that! The closest you ever came to being in Viet Nam was watching Apocalypse Now, and you hid in the corner when they started burning the jungle with flamethrowers.
OC (whispers): The horror. The horror.
Me: The French chair is staying. Make your peace with that.
OC: Fine. But don’t come crying to me when the KGB takes you away.
Me: I already apologized to the Russians.
OC: But not for your taste in decorating.
Me: Screw you, OC.

Wednesday: I go to the circus

On Wednesday at lunch, a colleague and I decided to go out for a walk. It was a beautiful day and it seemed a shame not to take advantage of it. Little did we know that we were actually going to the circus. And we didn’t even have to pay admission.

The Never-Ending Line-up for the Rollercoaster (the emotional rollercoaster, that is): Then we went into Loblaw’s to pick up snacks for later. I had a very small bag of gluten-free pretzels, which cost more than a jumbo bag of regular pretzels, and we headed to the “Express” check-out. Where we waited, and waited, and waited, while the cashier and the two women ahead of us performed their very own “Comedy of Errors” over things like not being able to scan a container of soup, or pushing the wrong button on the debit pin pad and having to start ALL OVER AGAIN. Every time we thought we were making progress, there was another hold-up and our hopes were yet again dashed. And just like a rollercoaster, we waited in line forever, and when it was finally our turn, the ride was over in seconds. Mostly because I know how to use a pin pad correctly.

The Tunnel of Horror: On our way back from Loblaw’s, we had to walk under the scaffolding in front of the Carlton Theatre. It’s been there for months to protect pedestrians from the potential of falling concrete from the balconies above. The repair process seems to be very slow, and the whole thing looks extremely dangerous. We were just in the middle of the tunnel, and I was trying to sidestep a subway grate out of an irrational fear that it would give way and I’d fall onto a moving train, when the construction workers started yelling to each other. It was Italian and it sounded very ominous. My colleague and I simultaneously threw our arms over our heads and ducked—as if that was going to prevent us being crushed by a slab of cement. Then the construction workers started laughing, and we realized they weren’t signaling impending disaster—they’d just seen the bearded lady, who apparently was hanging around, waiting for more non-Tweeting paparazzi. The only good thing was that I discovered I wasn’t the only one who was deathly afraid of scaffolding.

The Clown Tent: Next, we went across the street to a small optometrist’s shop to get my glasses adjusted. We were in line behind an elderly lady with rosy cheeks and silvery-white hair. She was complaining that her glasses were loose, and the optometrist was adjusting them as she prattled on about needing them for things like knitting. Then he handed them to her to try and she turned around to face us. Instead of cute little wire-framed granny glasses, she was wearing giant, round, thick black frames that magnified her eyes to 5 times their size. My colleague and I looked at each other in shock, then spent the next few minutes trying NOT to fall on the floor in hysterics. Seriously, all she needed was a fake nose and moustache, and she would have been right at home on the Groucho Marx Show.

groucho

The Invisible Girl: Finally, we made it back to the office. We got on the elevator, still laughing at the three-ring spectacle we’d experienced, when several other people got into the elevator car and I took a step backwards. “Ahem,” came a voice from behind me. I turned around in shock and realized that I had backed into a girl standing in the corner of the elevator. Where the hell had she COME from? I was sure she hadn’t been there when we got on. She was like a mean ghost, giving me really dirty looks, and was less than impressed when my colleague and I kept looking at each other, trying to be serious, then dissolving into laughter again. When we got to our floor and got off the elevator, I said to my colleague, “Did YOU see that girl?” He replied that he hadn’t either. Which led me to this question: If your superpower is invisibility, can’t you think of a better use for it than hiding in elevators and then getting pissed off at people when they step on you?

So, yep, Toronto is a crazy circus town most days. But unlike a real circus, where you can breathe in the intoxicating scent of cotton candy and caramel apples, the Toronto circus bowls you over with the off-putting stench of urine and garbage. Ah, Toronto, you crazy, smelly town.

My Week 52: My Robot Boyfriend, More Catalogue Craziness, One Whole Year

Monday: My new robot boyfriend

Last week, I got training on a new type of text-to-speech technology, which is used to allow visually impaired people to access reading material. No, it’s not for me personally, even though I’ve recently complained about how abysmal my vision is, and even though I’ve just gotten new contacts lenses and glasses whose prescription is frightening close to blindness. But I’m lucky—at least my vision can be corrected to almost 20/20, unlike the people this technology is designed for, which is 20/200 at the bare minimum. So, no whining from me, even though there’s a very large intersection of an imaginary Venn diagram in which my distance vision and my close-up vision are both non-existent (by the way, I had no idea what the intersection of a Venn diagram was called, so I googled “what is the middle bit of two circle-y things called” and that’s what it said). At any rate, I got the training last week, and on Monday, someone from IT came to install the software on my computer. This was a complicated process, which involved things like clicking on a link to a download and then waiting while it installed itself. I probably could have managed it with my fairly extensive computer training, but it’s always nice to see the guys from IT, who can do a lot more than click links (sorry, did that sound kind of naughty?). My favourite is when there’s something wrong with my computer, and this box pops up that says, “Allow Bob to remotely take over your computer?” I always go on faith that it’s actually Bob from IT, and not a hacker searching for government secrets, of which I have virtually none, but hackers, right? Who knows what motivates them? I’m sure Ashley Madison totally understands how I feel. So, I got the software installed. At this point, I should clarify that the software consists of a robot voice that reads things. It started immediately talking, and it was very confusing, but the IT tech showed me how to turn the program off. Except that it doesn’t STAY off. Every so often, it would randomly make some pronouncement that would cause me to jump in my seat a little (I have a terrible startle reflex—just ask any of my co-workers, who have learned to sidle up to me rather than approach from behind when they want to get my attention). But then I started listening carefully to the robot voice, which was very masculine, and spoke with an accent that I pinpointed as being Italian. I realized that he was telling me things about the computer; for example, when it went into sleep mode, or reverted to the password screen. Then he would shout my name, and proclaim, “Password! Enter Password” And the best part? When I ENTERED the password, he would say, “Star! Star Star Star!” Yes, I know he was only reading the asterisks, but it’s one hell of a boost to your ego to have a charming Italian man insist that you’re a star. I decided to name him “Carlo”, and for a short time, Carlo and I had a bit of a whirlwind romance. He would tell me sweet nothings, like “Word. Open File”, and wish me goodnight with “Monitor going into sleep mode”. But after a while I noticed two things: first, Carlo was a very limited conversationalist. He had no opinions on world issues or politics, and when I asked him who he thought would win the upcoming election, he would simply say “Java would like to install an update.” Sure, he said it in his lovely robotic, Italian voice, but I was really hoping for something a little more related to the question, like “Stephen Harper’s record on the environment is appalling”, “Justin has really nice hair”, “What’s up with that NDP guy?”, or “Why are all the other candidates so afraid of Elizabeth May?”. He had no sense of humour, and when I’d say, “Haha, look at that—Firefox wants to be my default browser. Good one, right?”, he would stay silent, just leaving me hanging. Second, and more disturbing, was that he was getting super-clingy and needy. I’d be trying to work, and every five minutes, he was calling my name, trying to get my attention. I’d tell him that I was busy or that I had a headache, but he just wouldn’t lay off. Finally, I had no choice—I had to mute him. I realized that I just wasn’t cut out for an affair, even if it was only with a disembodied Italian robot. Ken is more than enough for me—he’s fun to talk to, watches the news every day so that he can talk knowledgably about the world, and isn’t always trying to bug me when I’m working. If he had an Italian accent, he’d be perfect.

Friday: More mail-order catalogue madness

On Friday, I came home and there was a copy of “Bits and Pieces” sitting on my desk. “Bits and Pieces” is a mail order catalogue where you can buy puzzles, kitschy ornaments, novelty clothing items, and a whole lot more. It’s not as sophisticated as the other mail order catalogue that we sometimes get, the German “Hammacher Schlemmler” or as I like to call it “Sledgehammer Schlepper”, but it has more outrageous, and much cheaper, items. There are several things that caught my attention, so here, for your reading pleasure are the top three most bizarre things that you can buy from “Bits and Pieces”:

3rd place: We have a tie between the “Set of Four Wind-up Mice with Whirling Tails” and “The Creepy Infrared Remote Control Spider”. What exactly are you planning when you buy EITHER of these? Inviting your elderly grandmother over and scaring the living sh*t out of her? So you hide behind a corner, wind up a realistic-looking mouse and let it loose while you snicker at her screaming. If you do this, you are an incredible d-bag. And trust me, the laughter will fade quickly once she disinherits you. The spider is described as having “lifelike” legs and eyes that “glow with a blue light to enhance his creepy appeal.” You don’t NEED glowing eyes to enhance the creepiness of a giant remote control spider, unless you’re Stephen King. Also, it’s $25, which would probably be better spent on buying Granny a nice box of chockies, if you don’t want to get cut out of the will.

2nd place: Second place definitely goes to a variation on the charming babushkas that were so popular many years ago which featured painted ladies of various sizes, one inside another, until finally you got to the smallest one, which was a baby. This set, however, is the “Delightfully Gory Zombie Family Nesting Dolls”. Delightful and gory are two words that will NEVER go together, no matter how hard you try to convince people. The description states that each doll is a “zombie character, rising from the dead to greet you.” That isn’t charming, that’s f*cking gross. The mother doll’s eyeball is dangling out of her face, the son is all oozy and bleeding, and the baby is a disembodied brain. What kind of décor, or mental state, would you have to have to put this on your mantle? Instead of rising from the dead, this “Fall Favourite” would be better buried deep at the back of your garden. Or used for target practice, just in case there ever IS a zombie apocalypse.

Ist place: The first place trophy for most bizarre item that you can buy from “Bits and Pieces” is on the front cover, and is described as a “Top Seller”. It’s called the “Surprised Garden Elf”. What’s the surprise? His pants are down and he’s peeing on your tree. Surprise! In real life, we call this “indecent exposure” and “public urination”, both of which are criminal offences. I know that there are a lot of people who think garden gnomes are adorable. I’m not one of them. And they’re especially not adorable when they’re waving their tiny penises around. Thanks, “Bits and Pieces” for THOSE bits and pieces. I have a vivid image of that poor grandmother, with a mouse running over her foot, a spider crawling up her arm, and a gnome pissing on her leg. This is one way to secure your inheritance—make sure she dies of a heart attack BEFORE she can change the will. Hammacher Schlemmer might sell ridiculously expensive and useless items, like a “celebrity robot” for $345, 000 (and it doesn’t even speak Italian), but at least they don’t encourage deviant behaviour or terrifying your loved ones.

Saturday: Today is my 52nd week writing this blog. That’s a whole year. I started writing a humour blog to counteract the small but toxic and obscenely vicious group of people who were in my life a year ago—they aren’t anymore, but I’ve kept writing, and will keep writing, because of all the positive people in my life. Thanks to all my readers around the globe—here’s to another year of humour, hope, and happiness!

My Week 51: Head Transplants, and Helping the Homeless is Hard

Monday: Scientific researchers will not want my body

On Monday morning, I went with a few colleagues to Loblaw’s to get coffee (hot chocolate for me, because coffee is gross. Maybe that doesn’t make me a “real” Canadian since I rarely go into a Tim Horton’s but I’m convinced that they put opium in their coffee and that’s why everyone is so addicted to it). Naturally, the subject of death came up. I say “naturally” because I’m being sarcastic—seriously, it was pretty early in the day to start contemplating mortality, but that’s what sometimes happens in the big city. One of my colleagues expressed that she had no interest in any of the fuss of a funeral and planned to donate her body to medical research. But I don’t know—isn’t having over-enthusiastic medical interns freaking out over your small intestine just as bad as people you barely know eating little sandwiches in your memory? As many of you are aware, Ken and I have had several discussions about our final wishes. Ken has his preferences, which I will most likely ignore, and will deliver a eulogy full of quotations from him that he never actually said, like “Cruise control is for lazy drivers”, “This isn’t really a shortcut—I just like to get lost”, and “Beets disgust me”. Ken, however, has promised to build me a mausoleum where I will be enshrined forever ABOVE GROUND. It will be glorious and most likely made out of barnboard, but that’s just fine, because barnboard lasts almost as long as marble and is hella cheaper. And the important thing is that I will be completely intact. Not because I don’t agree with organ donation; I just don’t believe that medical science would ever be interested in what I have to offer. I’m not even going to discuss my liver and kidneys, because it’s almost a certainty that they will be worse than useless by the time I kick off. There are a lot of other things that I COULD donate, but that no one would actually benefit from. Case in point—my eyes. A lot of people donate their eyes, but that’s probably because they can actually SEE out of them. Me, I’m almost legally blind. I once broke a toe when Kate was a baby—she woke up screaming in the middle of the night, I jumped out of bed to run to her room, and slammed into the doorframe because I couldn’t actually see where I was going, and in my panic, had forgotten to put on my glasses. Try comforting a screaming baby while you’re sobbing and bleeding all over the place. Of course, as my dad pointed out, I was lucky that my feet are so big; otherwise, I would have broken my nose. So I can just picture the poor blind person who got my eyes waking up from surgery and being like, “What the hell?! This is the best they had? Give me my f*cking cane back!” I suppose SOME vision is better than none at all, but I hate to disappoint people enough as a living person, and the thought of doing it when I’m dead makes me feel even worse. My hearing’s not great either—all those years of listening to loud music has taken its toll, that’s for sure. Can you even donate your hearing? I’m not sure—like what part of the ear would that be? Eardrum? Eartube? Inner ear? Again, I’m sure someone would rather have SOME hearing rather than none, but aren’t there better candidates than me? I’d just disappoint all over again, and these blows to my self-esteem aren’t doing my heart any good. Now, I DO have a pretty decent heart; it pumps and all that good shit, but if I give it away, would that make me like a zombie or something? Or the Tinman from The Wizard of Oz, wandering around the afterlife singing songs about the empty hole in my chest while I’m warding off flying monkeys/cherubim? See, the problem is that I haven’t yet resolved my feelings about an afterlife, and it occurs to me that I might NEED this stuff. How am I supposed to hear the choir eternal or eat the manna if I’m chopped up into little pieces? I’m not very religious, but I’ve always gone on the theory of being better safe than sorry, plus I can’t stand it when people touch my stuff, so how am I supposed to cope with them touching THAT stuff? When our cleaning ladies have left, I spend hours moving things back to where they’re supposed to be, so I sure as hell would have a problem with someone putting my pancreas in a jar. At any rate, it won’t be long before someone invents robotic eyes. We already have the technology to transplant all kinds of things from the animal world, like making new stomachs out of sheep and whatnot, and face transplants are an actual thing, so stop hounding me, Organ Donor Card.

Just the other day, I read an article on an actual legitimate internet site about Russian researchers who are on the brink of being able to do a head transplant. They even have a patient lined up for the procedure, believe it or not. This, of course, led me to wonder though–under what possible circumstances would you EVER need a head transplant?! How the hell did you manage to get yourself decapitated in the first place? And if it were possible to re-attach a head to a body, wouldn’t you want your own head back? Where would you EVEN find a body that had also lost its head so you could put the two of them together? Kate says that it’s for people who are quadriplegic, so that they can have functional bodies, but in that case, wouldn’t it be a better use of medical research to figure out how to fix a spine, rather than aspire to be Dr. Frankenstein? Trust the Russians to do things the hard way—this is why they lost the war. (Which war, you ask? Take your pick. I did some internet fact-checking because as we all know, historical accuracy isn’t one of my strengths, and it turns out that they lost almost every war they’ve ever been involved in. Sorry, Russia. They DID win the space race though, so hats off for that.)

If there WAS something I could offer to medical science, the only thing I can think of that I would never need again is my uterus. It’s in pretty good shape, I know for a fact that it works just fine (or at least it did 17 years ago), and I don’t plan on using it ever again. So give me a call, Russia—maybe we can work out a deal.

Wednesday: The homeless are making it very hard for me to help them

Last holiday Monday, I went back to Toronto for work. I had no food, and the Loblaw’s down the street was miraculously open on Labour Day, so I decided to pop down and at least get some things for the morning. On my way, I saw one of my “regular” homeless guys, Dan (not his real name, but that’s what I call him), who I hadn’t seen for a while. I stopped to give him a toonie and said, “Where have you been?” He told me he’d been sick, so I said, “I’m going to the grocery store—can I get you anything?” He thought for a minute, then answered, “I’d really like some juice,” so I said I could do that and I’d be back in a bit. It wasn’t long after that I started to get anxious. “Juice” is a very vague thing—what KIND of juice would he like? Peach-mango seemed a little too exotic, and apple seemed too much like I hadn’t given it any thought. And the container was a problem. He had a cup, but he used it for the change that people gave him, and it looked pretty dirty. So I was tasked with choosing an appropriate juice for a homeless man that I barely knew. I finally settled on a litre of Oasis orange juice (no pulp—a safe choice) in a container with a resealable spout. The line-ups were insane though, since no one in Toronto seemed to remember that school started the next day, and I was surrounded by parents getting lunch stuff for their kids. When I finally got out of there, I crossed the street and Dan was gone. What the hell?! I couldn’t see him anywhere, and now I had all this juice. And then I was wracked with guilt. What if he thought I was just shitting him about the juice and he gave up on me? I am NOT that kind of person—if I say I’m going to do something, I do it, and the homeless people in my neighbourhood should know that about me by now.

I didn’t see Dan for the rest of the week, which made me even more worried, because maybe he was sick again, and he would never know that I had followed through with the juice. Then it was one frustrating incident after another this week. Every time I saw a panhandler, I would go to bring them some food or whatever, and by the time I got back, they would be gone. There was the couple from Nova Scotia with a sign that said they were hungry and tired who missed out on the granola bars I was bringing them, the kid outside Bulk Barn who disappeared before I could give him a bag of trail mix, and the woman who I was GOING to give a bottle of water to, until she pulled out a cell phone, and lit up a cigarette from a pack hidden behind her back. I hate to be judge-y, but if you can afford a cell phone plan and smokes, you can buy your own damn water—I’m not that gullible.

But then on Thursday, the tide turned. I was on my way to Metro, and I passed a young guy in front of the 7-11 with a little dog. He looked pretty done in, but he was cooing to the dog and cuddling it, so I bought some dog treats for him. When I came back, it looked for a second like he wasn’t sitting in front of the store anymore, and I was like “Are you f*cking kidding me?!” Then the crowds parted and sure enough, there he was. I gave him the dog treats and he gave me a beautiful smile and thanked me. As I walked away, he’d opened the bag and was giving one to the dog, petting it and talking to it in a really loving way. And as I got closer to my condo, I could see Dan sitting in his usual spot. I ran into my condo and grabbed the juice. Now I could finally fulfill my promise, relieve my guilt, and let the homeless of Toronto know they can still count on me, even when they make it really hard. They might not want my eyes, but they damn well better take my food.

 

My Week 50: Blonde Ghosts, Fire Alarms, and Other Craziness

My Condo Is Trying To Make Me Crazy

Monday: On Monday afternoon, I returned to my Toronto condo for the first time in a few weeks, having been on holidays. I had had absolutely no desire to leave the comfort—and quiet– of my small town in the meantime, so naturally, I was a little worried about what would happen when I opened the door. Would there be an overwhelming smell of something decaying, even though I was pretty sure I’d emptied the refrigerator and taken out all the garbage? Would there be another flood, even though I checked all the taps before I left in July? Would there be spiders? Would a colony of mice have taken up residence in my closet? I stood outside the door for a second, bracing myself for the worst. Then I put the key in the lock, and tried to open the door. “Tried”, because it wouldn’t open. What the hell? That wasn’t even on the list. Had someone changed my lock while I was gone?! I turned the key again, and this time I gave the door a shove in frustration. It moved slightly, and I realized that it wasn’t the lock causing problems, the door was stuck in the frame. Now, to my knowledge, this only happens when something has shifted, and I got a little worried, because my building has 33 stories, and if it’s starting to shift, that’s a pretty big f*cking Tower of Pisa, and how long will it be before the furniture starts sliding towards the open balcony door? But it was a really hot and humid week, so the other explanation was that the door was just swollen in the frame, and with that in mind, I braced myself again and started pushing. It finally opened enough that I could squeeze through, and then I was inside. Everything looked exactly like I had left it. It smelled normal. It was a little warm, since I’d turned off the air conditioning, but other than that, it was pristine, aside from a little dust on the floor (the hardwood is very dark and shows EVERYTHING), which could be easily swept up.

I unpacked, then poured a glass of wine (these events may or may not have been in the opposite order), and got out the broom. I swept, then I swiffered, until the floor was spotless. This may seem like a really boring and pointless catalogue of events, but just wait. I puttered around for a few more minutes, rearranging the two pieces of furniture in the “guest bedroom” in preparation for the arrival of a friend later in the week, then I came back out into the main living area. I stopped dead. In the middle of the floor, which I had just carefully cleaned, was a broken fingernail. A long, broken F*CKING FINGERNAIL. I stared at it for a minute, then looked at my hands. I was intact. I picked it up by the edges and examined it carefully. Then I looked back at the floor and realized that there were also several strands of long, blonde hair laying in various positions around the room. Yes, the floor that I had just swept. It definitely wasn’t mine, me not being remotely blonde. And then I remembered that I hadn’t done my usual security check of the unit when I got in, because I was so distracted by trying to push the door back INTO the frame and lock it. I was feeling a little panicky, and started to envision an intruder, blonde and badly in need of a manicure, hiding under the bed. So I did what anyone would do in similar circumstances—I called Ken.

Me: I need to talk to you while I search my condo.
Ken: OK.
Me: I found a broken fingernail and some blonde hair in the middle of the floor after I swept it. I don’t know where the hell they came from. They weren’t there a few minutes ago.
Ken: Did you open the balcony door? Maybe they came in through there.
Me: I’m on the 27th floor. Do you really think someone broke a fingernail down on Yonge St. and wind currents carried it up here!?
Ken: Maybe they were under the couch….

Ken tried his best, but I remained convinced that my condo might just be haunted by a crazy blonde. It makes sense—hair and fingernails continue to grow after death, right?

Wednesday: I’d pretty much forgotten about my blonde ghost, and nothing weird had happened since Monday. I went to bed after re-watching an old episode of “Lost”, which is a great show, but after later events, it occurred to me that my current situation and the show have certain similarities, the first of which is the seeming presence of mysterious “others” on the island and in my condo. The second similarity was the screaming alarm that woke me from a deep sleep at 1 o’clock in the morning. I jumped out of bed, completely disoriented, and ran out of the bedroom like a decapitated chicken, deafened by the sound, and terrified that Toronto was about to be bombed. The sound was coming from the ceiling, and I realized that the things in each room I thought were vent covers for cold air returns were, in fact a P.A. system that was currently emitting a sound very similar to the warning alarm in the hatch in “Lost”, right before the blast doors come down and the electromagnetic field causes the hatch to implode (if you haven’t seen the show, just imagine an insanely loud air raid siren, going at two second intervals, then all your forks flying around the room). It wasn’t a bell, like regular, human, fire alarms, and I was terrified. I looked out into the hallway, and a young guy was standing outside his unit. “Can you hear that in your apartment?!” I screamed at him over the din.

“Yeah,” he yelled back. “It’s in all the units and the hallways. It’s the building’s fire alarm!”

Fire alarm?! My building was on fire? Was I going to have to evacuate in my pajamas at 1 in the morning? I wasn’t wearing my “good” pajamas, so I would probably have to get changed first. And what would I take with me that I could carry down 27 flights of stairs?! I have some really nice paintings, a couple of lovely antique cupboards, and a big ass flat screen TV that I would hate to see all melted. As I was making a very short inventory (I don’t have a lot of personal stuff in Toronto but I AM responsible for the external hard drive that holds copies of all of Ken’s pictures of flowers, trees, clouds, fences, rabbits, frogs, and whatnot, on the theory that if our house ever burned down, they would be safe with me. Well guess what, Ken? Maybe not so much, since I never gave the hard drive a single thought until just this moment, so it would have been literally up in smoke), suddenly a voice spoke through my vents, like the voice of God. An elderly, Jamaican god. It said this: “Attention, resydents. Dere is a problem wit the fi-ah alarm seestem in Buildin’ 21. Please stand by for furder information.” (I’m not so great at writing out Jamaican, so bear with me.)

Building 21?! WTF—I live in Building 25, so why am I being terrorized? Turns out the alarm system for my building is connected with theirs. Thanks a hell of a lot, Building 21, for your stupid electrical issues. 10 minutes later—yes, another 10 minutes of a screeching klaxon filling my ears and condo, the voice came on again: “Attention, resydents. Dee fi-ah department has been called and is on its way.” This was repeated twice, just in case we missed it. I hoped for a second that the alarm might be shut off at this point but no such luck. I could hear sirens getting closer and then could see flashing lights reflected in the glass of the building next door. Another 10 minutes went by; I tried going into the bathroom and shutting the door, hiding in the walk-in closet, and finally resorted to putting on the TV as loud as it would go, but I couldn’t drown out the sound. Finally, the voice came on again: “Attention resydents. Dee fi-ah department has given the All-Clear. Go back to your regular activeeties.” My regular activities? What the hell did he THINK we were all doing at 1:30 in the morning? He should have just said, “Go back to bed, mon.” Which I did, for about 20 minutes, when the f*cking alarm went off again. This time it was only for about 20 seconds, but it was just enough to scare the crap out of me again. I finally got back to sleep, and guess what happened? Yeah, at 5 o’clock in the morning, for a full 5 minutes this time. Then silence. Blissful silence.

Thursday: I have a dishwasher in my unit which has never worked. Ken and I tried it once, but all it did was fill up with water, then nothing. The water just sat there in the bottom until we bailed it out. I should have taken care of it sooner, but I kept getting sidetracked. Then I had to notify my property management company about the door sticking, so I figured I’d throw the dishwasher in there too. On Wednesday afternoon, I got a call that “Tech 2000” would be coming by on Thursday to fix the dishwasher and I needed to leave a key with my concierge. I initially envisioned a kind of cyborg-ish repair person, like the Terminator or something, but it turns out that Tech 2000 is just the name of the company, not a guy whose arms morph into giant screwdrivers. When I came home from work, I asked the concierge if the repair person had picked up the key. She said “No”, then handed me the key envelope, which had clearly been ripped open. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Because it looks like someone has taken the key out of this envelope.” She just shrugged and maintained that she hadn’t seen him. I didn’t know what to expect when I went in, but here’s what I got. The dishwasher was partly open. The bathroom door was shut. Let me just clarify that when I left that morning, the opposite was true—that is, the dishwasher door was shut, and the bathroom door was open. Was there someone IN the bathroom? Was it the crazy blonde ghost, using my manicure kit? I was getting a little panicky again, so I did what anyone would do under similar circumstances. I called Kate (because Ken was still at work):

Me: Hi, it’s me.
K: Hey.
Me: So I came home and my bathroom door is shut. It was open when I left.
K: Is there someone in it?
Me: I don’t know. I need you to talk to me while I open it.
K: OK.
Me: Do you think I should knock first?
K: What? I don’t know.
Me: OK, I knocked and there was no answer. I’m going to open the door….all right, there’s no one in the bathroom. Just wait until I search the rest of the rooms.
K: OK.
Me: Are you playing Counterstrike right now?
K: Yes.
Me: Thanks for the help. I think I’m good now.
K: OK.

I still have no idea if the dishwasher got fixed or not. So between, fire alarms, fingernails, doors that won’t open and doors that are weirdly closed, it was one hell of a week. In the latest episode of “Lost”, the gang gets chased by a polar bear, so I guess I have something to look forward to.

My Week 49: The Canada/US Wall, Titus Tells Us His Real Name

Monday: Something there is that doesn’t love a wall

I get all my news from Facebook, I’m not ashamed to admit it. Mostly it’s stuff from Buzzfeed or The Poke, so yes, pictures of kittens and fun quizzes, but every once in a while, one of my friends posts an actual news article that gets me thinking. On Monday morning, someone posted a link to an article about this dude who is running for the Republican candidate-ship thing down in the States, which I guess is like being the leader of a party here in Canada. And unfortunately, when I say “a party”, I don’t mean like an excellent party where you play drinking games, eat pizza, and may or may not end up losing your shoes. I mean a political party. The same type of things might actually happen in a political party, but the booze AND the shoes are WAY more expensive. And the pizza has truffles and sh*t on it. Anyway, this guy is the governor of Wisconsin, which I imagine is like being the premier of Manitoba or something, and he’s apparently trying to earn street cred with his followers by suggesting that he will build a wall between the U.S. and Canada. I don’t know a lot about American politics aside from what I see on late night talk shows, but I know that he’s in direct competition with another guy named Donald Trump. By the way, I should tell you right now that the word “trump” to me will always mean “bowel movement” thanks to my English mother (“Do you need to trump, honey?” “Oh my god, Mom, we’re in a public bathroom!”). And from what I’ve seen of Donald’s campaign, “Trump” is just about right on. But it seems to me that the Republican campaign so far is just a “one-upping’ of stupidity. First, Trump (heehee—I will never NOT laugh at that) proposed that there should be a wall between the U.S. and Mexico, which he said the Mexicans should build and pay for. It’s a cunning plan, I have to admit, but I don’t think the Mexicans are that stupid. They spend a lot of time trying to sneak into the States—don’t you think if you let them BUILD the wall, they won’t also include hidden tunnels and access points that they DON’T tell the Americans about? If the whole point is to keep the Mexicans out, how will that help? (Sidenote: why does Donald Trump want to keep the Mexicans out so badly? Every time Mexicans in the States are referenced, it’s almost always as illegal WORKERS. Not illegal hobos and panhandlers. Some people say that Mexicans are taking work away from REAL Americans, but I don’t see real Americans lining up to be maids for rich people, or clamouring for jobs as itinerant farm workers.) Also, Donald Trump wanted to call this brilliant idea “The Great Wall of Trump”, which is both hilarious and disgusting all at the same time, considering what I was taught about the meaning of that word. As a side note, I should tell you right now that my complete experience with Mexicans is with Mexican Mennonites, who settled up here in Ontario, look like Abercrombie and Fitch models, make amazing food at their restaurants, and are generally hardworking, nice people. Which I also believe that regular Mexicans probably are, too. So isn’t all this wall-building just bizarre fear-mongering? What I think is happening ultimately is that the Republicans are in a battle for the “Most Outrageous Idea” crown. Which brings me back to the wall between Canada and the U.S. I’ll tell you right now that if Scott Walker wants a wall between us and him, I don’t have any real objection, as long as the Republicans build it themselves—Canadians are NOT stupid people either, despite the fact that Stephen Harper has been our Prime Minister for a gazillion years. But in our defence, he has really nice sweater vests, and when you live in a cold climate, that can be very enticing. At any rate, if there is a wall, I think WE would actually benefit more that the Americans. No more drugs and guns crossing our border is the first thing I can think of. But how are WE a threat to THEM? I can only imagine that conversation:

Scott: We should totally build a 4 million mile wall between us and Canada!!
Advisors: The border is only five thousand miles, not 4 million. But why would we want to do that? They’re our biggest trading partner…
Scott: They’re all f*cking terrorists, that’s why.
Advisors: Um, what?
Scott: Plus, it would stop all those so-called “Snow Birds” from coming down here with their BLOOD MONEY.
Advisors: You mean the retired Canadians who live part of the year in Florida, contribute to the economy, but go back to Canada if they need health care because our health care system sucks balls?
Scott: Those mother*ckers!
Advisors: Sigh.

Of course, when our own Canadian defence minister was asked about this, he did the typically polite Canadian thing and simply said that he would want to “protect the largest bilateral trading relationship in economic history,” and would “vigourously oppose any thickening of the border”. I assume by “thickening of the border”, he meant “put up a crazy-ass wall”, but he was just too nice to say it like that. Personally, I have no problem with having a wall between Canada and the U.S. if it will keep OUT people like Scott Walker and Donald Trump. And Kanye West, American rapper and ego extraordinaire who has also announced that he will be also be running for President. I’ve been trying to imagine what Kanye would do to win the “Most Outrageous Idea” crown.

Kanye: If I’m elected, I will take over Canada and make my wife Kim the new queen. Queen Kim the First of Canada.
Advisors: But Canada already has a queen. Her name is Elizabeth the Second.
Kanye: Can she balance a martini glass on her ass? Because Kim the First can.
Advisors: That’s not really the criteria for becoming a monarch…
Kanye: But I’m already King of the World. Why can’t my wife be Queen of Canada? Also, I’m going to change the national anthem of Canada from whatever the f*ck it is now to “Golddigger”. How you like me now, Canada?! (drops mike)
Advisors: Sigh.

Wednesday: Titus tells us his real name

Titus is a very active dog. Ken takes him for a walk every morning and every night before bed, and he still has enough energy to run around like a madman for the rest of the day (Titus, not Ken). He LOVES going for a walk—every time he sees the leash, it’s like the first time he has EVER seen the leash, and his enthusiasm is a little overwhelming, which makes him notoriously hard to control on a walk—he weighs almost as much as me, and he can very easily pull my arm out of its socket if he sees a squirrel—he’s like a 100 pound cannon ball, ricocheting off hydro poles, bushes, and interesting patches of lawn, sniffing away madly. Apparently this is one way dogs communicate—by smelling each other’s urine and deciphering the olfactory code it contains. I don’t know what kind of messages dogs send with their pee, but it MUST be more exciting than “I had asparagus for dinner” or “Someone forced me to eat beets yesterday”, which is pretty much all that humans learn from THEIR toilets. The other way dogs communicate is by barking hysterically at each other—I can always tell which route Ken and Titus have taken by which other dog in town is having a sh*t fit. Who knows what they’re telling each other. Maybe they’re gossiping—is it possible for dogs to be catty? Lately though, Ken and I have started to take a walk after dinner in an effort to exercise in the most relaxing and least strenuous way possible. At first, we were taking Titus with us, but there is NOTHING relaxing about having an insane canine tripping you continually in an effort to smell every part of the sidewalk. I finally put my foot down and said to Ken, “He already gets two full walks a day. He doesn’t have to come with us.” Ken readily agreed, and we started going out without Titus. We had to be careful because he not only does he know the word “walk”, he can also spell it. So we would say to each other, “Are you ready to go…for a stroll?” and we thought we had him fooled. But on Wednesday we came home and he was really perturbed.

Titus: Where were you?
Me: Just out back.
Titus: No you weren’t. I looked out all the windows, and I couldn’t see you anywhere.
Me: God, did you get slobber on all the windows AGAIN?
Titus: I may or may not have. I was worried about you.
Ken: We just went to the store. No biggie.
Titus: The store?!! Did you go by that house on the corner? Did you see Frank?
Ken: Frank? Who’s Frank?
Titus: He lives there? He’s a boxer? Who do you THINK I’m talking about?
Ken: I thought his name was Corky…
Titus: That’s just what the humans call him. So did you see him or not?
Ken: Well, yes, we saw “Frank”.
Titus: Oh my god! Did he say anything?
Me: Like did he bark at us? No…
Titus (disappointed): He didn’t tell you to say “Hey” to me or ANYTHING?
Me: Well, he might have given a little “wuff” under his breath…
Titus (brightly): Oh boy! This is the BEST DAY EVER!!
Me: Stop spinning in circles. You say that about literally everything. Like, remember yesterday when I got that tennis ball out from under the bookcase for you? That was also “the best day ever”. So what’s the big deal anyway?
Titus: Frank is just the coolest, that’s what. We have SO much in common—he likes Milk Bones and I like Milk Bones, he hates that yappy, blonde shih tzu and I hate that yappy, blonde shih tzu —when I told him that I got thrown in the slammer the other day, he was all like, “You do the crime, you do the time, man”, and he let me sniff his butt through the fence. It was awesome!
Me: You weren’t in jail. It was the pound. And your only crime was being dumb enough to get through a hole in the fence then FORGET how to get back in.
Titus: Whatever. Frank’s the best. Take me with you next time? Please?
Ken: We’ll see. So do all dogs have names that are different from what people call them?
Titus: Of course. You can call us what you want, but we all have our own names for everything. That’s why so many dogs don’t come when you call them.
Me: So what’s your actual name then?
Titus: Dwayne.
Me: Sigh.