Category Archives: Hanging Around

17

Jul. ’11

Home Sweet Home

The men came last Monday and tore out all the pee-soaked carpets.  They were not happy campers.  They were Italian immigrants, used to the bungalow lifestyle in Woodbridge so having to walk up and down 3 flights of stairs, inhaling urine fumes, manoeuvring hunks of carpet through the most narrowest of doorways, made them scowl all day.  If my halls were arteries, they would be forced to have an angioplasty.  “These houses were built stupidly,” one of the workers said in a thick accent, ‘Why Canada have so much land and they build the houses so close together?  Make-a no sense-a!”  I had the answer to that but I just agreed, “Stupid, yeah.”  My house was built in 1934, long before the growth hormones in the cattle gave us all height and high fructose corn syrup made us wide.  People were puny back then.  They also had two frocks and one coat.  It wasn’t until the estrogen-based bi-products from the plastic industry in the 1950s which turned everyone into a gay fashionista that the teeny tiny closets in these houses seemed absurd.   Olden-days people had few needs and they didn’t complain about stairs and such. The houses were close together to keep warm.  It’s fricking freezing in Canada, duh.   But the cranky men did finish the job in one day, and the slippery engineered wood floors are a lot better than stinky carpet.  Freddy is still at camp until the end of July and will positively plotz when he sees his floor, but then probably kvetch when he sees how I disassembled his gaming systems so now the wires are a tangled nest of snakes, who knows what goes into which hole?  Although I guess 15 year old boys have an innate knowledge of where plugs go.

And speaking of displaced, now that the dog has no where plush to piss in the house, she goes outside.  Guess what?  SHE HAD BLADDER CONTROL ALL THIS TIME!  At first she was afraid of the new floor, and hid under the bed, but now she paces on it at night:  click, click, clickity, click….click…click, tap and scratch with her claws on her frito-smelling feet.  There’s always something. Like a couple of nights ago there was banging in the kitchen.  If it’s the mice (yes, mice, old timey houses have lots of rodents, learn to love them), why is Betty not barking?  One of them died a couple of weeks ago with its ass and tail hanging out from under the fridge, impaled by a raw piece of spaghetti and Betty completely ignored it.  What good is a dog, who is smaller than most cats, if she can’t catch or deter mice from raiding my kitchen?  So I got up and turned on the light and could see the garbage lid going up and down all by itself.  Relax, there are no ghosts, it’s one of those motion sensor lids that probably got out of whack, like every other appliance in the house.  When I got up close, though, the lid and the entire garbage can was crawling with hundreds of MAGGOTS!   There is nothing worse than a triple shot of horror driven adrenaline in the wee morning hours.  I screamed and hollered and Evangeline and I bagged the entire bin up in plastic while we hopped around, trying not to step on any of the bugs.  I cannot handle maggots, epecially a zillion of them crawling wildly (note to self:  do not die at home alone).   This is not the first time I’ve hosted a maggot-palooza, so I’ve been careful but I think I put one of those juiced up paper wrappers from the butcher in the clean garbage instead of the sealed green bin.  My bad.  Super gross, and now the house is full of flies, the noisy, boisterous kind that buzz near the windows.   I give up.  Party on, creatures, just keep it to a dull roar.

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24

Jun. ’11

Scratch and Sniff This

I would pay money to have my sense of smell eradicated.  I don’t care anymore about the beauteous aromas of warm chocolate chip cookies, lilacs, a freshly bathed baby, or my all time favourite: a lumber yard.   I am tired of malodorous scents wafting through my house and then becoming permanently embedded up my nostrils so that I become immune.  And blind and deaf.  But not so deaf I didn`t overhear two ladies talking, 4 aisles away at Loblaws.

Lady #1:  The woman across the street got arrested for having too many cats.  Some of them were dead!  Her house reeked!  And she had chin hairs!

Lady #2: She must have been an animal hoarder!  That’s so sad. 

Lady #1: I could see that happening to Kristin.  That dog of hers pisses on the carpets and she doesn’t notice all the fecal nuggets imbedded in that shag rug in-lay.  Although she herself is impeccably groomed. I’ve heard she’s had Botox, a Juvederm injection, and a series of photo facials.  She looks fabulous!

Lady #2:  And laser hair removal on those chin hairs!   Imagine never having to pluck them out!  But I can’t stand that dog!  Is it Betty?  It ate an entire chevre log from the coffee table.  Thank GAWD she’s not in our book club anymore!  Although she did make a mean Negroni cocktail!

Okay, I’m making this up.  But it could be true.  Betty has lived and peed and barfed and pooped on the carpet in my living room for 6 years and I have developed selective smelling.  Some areas are more pungent and damp than others.  I move around them, hopping over furniture, avoiding the living room altogether.  I know what you’re thinking:  GET YOUR DOG TRAINED but we’ve been over this a few posts ago:  We are a family of bad doggie behaviour enablers and rather than get us trained, I’ve made a decision to get rid of all the carpets and slap on some hardwood, literally and figuratively, as a part of Project Mojo Rising.  This time-flying business is ridiculous and blows you downhill pretty darn quick.  So if you don’t grab on something and forget to put lipstick on one day, you will be on The Humane Society Public Enemy List.  So yeah, home improvements this month, stay tuned for more details. 

In the meantime, I am taking care of my nephew’s dog, Riley (that white long piece of business whose butt Betty is sniffing in the photo above) for the “weekend.”  In nephew lingo, weekends start on Wednesday and end some time on Monday (‘not sure when I get up” he said).   Riley, unlike Betty, controls his bladder and sphincter in the house.  He doesn’t chew things or bark or rearrange the furniture.  He doesn’t jump on you or eat off your plate when you’re not looking.  He is mild-mannered and mellow.  If I were to have a man in my life, he would be much like Riley.  In fact, Riley has taken over the bed much to Betty’s outrage, and she has been sleeping by the door.  When Riley went to sleep last night, he had me pinned in one spot with his long snozzly snout propped on my inner thigh.  I couldn’t move without him freaking out so I just lay there, praying he change spots so I could do my usual “thrash 3 times and settle” manoevre.  But no, he stayed still.  He snored, he farted, he whimpered in his dreams.  Only when the claps of thunder hit at dawn, he tried to bury himself under my head.  Betty stoically stayed away the entire night, not a peep or a poop out of her.  And I did miss her in the bed, her tiny little paws smell like corn chips.  Sweetness.

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12

Jun. ’11

A Fearless Vampire Killer

Summer is here and check me out!  Here I am, the end of Grade 6, all youthful exuberance, not a care in the world, a pool in my backyard, popsicles in the freezer, a menstrual period a whole year away.  I had a diary back then, one that I kept hidden in a cigar box but now I have a blog that I post on the internet for everyone to see.  Here are some entries from my 12 year old self (I am sure she would be mortified):

“I stayed up and watched The Fearless Vampire Killers.  I can’t believe that Roman Polanski was married to Sharon Tate and that she is murdered in real life.  I am keeping my window shut anyway because there was a praying mantis in the hallway when I went to bed and it scary.”

“I shaved my legs but it turned out bad. I scraped my shin and it bled like crazy and mom told me I should have used soap but she says she doesn’t need to shave her legs but I think not. There are some hairs that she doesn’t see.”

“I saw Tommy at a drive-in in Cape Cod. I love Roger Daltrey but I think he is too old.  He is with a band called The Who. We also saw LeMans for the first attraction. It had Steve McQueen but I think he looks like Paul Newman. He is old but handsome, like Dick Van Dyke.”

“Fonebone and I picked blackberries all morning in the orchard and my brother made us pick him a bunch which he wolfed down in two bites and then he went golfing.  We told stories on the swing and made up one about a boy named Johnny who had a magic penis (editors note: the rest of that story is so gross that it inspired The Human Centipede). Last year we used to lie down on opposite pillows and hold our feet in the air.  But Fone had a giant plantar wart the size of her heel and blue and busting with blood that I was worried it would come back that I kept my feet on the ground and did all the swinging.  That wart was contagious and everyone got it. My brother dug his out with a pocketknife but Fone and I had to go to the hospital and Magic Tom gave her all the attention because hers was bigger and she had to be on crutches. I think Magic Tom is stupid. He wears makeup in real life.”

“My sister brought a guy home on a motorcycle.  She says he is her friend, not boyfriend but I think he loves her.  He seemed shocked when she said she was going on a trip to Europe.  He writes poetry and brought a magazine that his poem was in, called “New York Chick, Slick.”  Fone is at camp but Teeny and I each got a ride on the motorcycle.  It is a Norton.  He has a bald spot in his afro that I don’t think anyone else would notice unless the wind was blowing.  Teeny liked the ride more than I did. His poem is really good though. I`ve read it a few times and I think it was about someone he was in love with before he became a draft dodger.”

“Teeny told me that she crosses her legs and when she swings her feet she can get an orgasm. I asked her what that was and she says it is because she is a year older and has her period. She does it alot and says if you sneeze, it happens faster.  I tried but I don’t know how to fake a sneeze.”

`We got new jeans for school so we are soaking them in the pool so they fit right.  I like diving in and catching them and putting them on under water just to see how long I can hold my breath. I`m scared to go school, I can’t believe summer is almost over.”

Yes, so that was then and this is now, and I would pretty much say that nubile pre-wench taught me everything I need to know now:   Lock your doors, open your heart, be careful, keep your eyes open, swing your legs, and be aware, be very aware, because these days are fleeting.  And don’t worry about vampires because they don’t like sun.

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06

May. ’11

Never Mind The Bollocks, It’s Mother’s Day

“If your dog has weird unsightly nipples, it’s OK to throw 3 or 4 little bras on it.”   @robdelaney via Twitter
 
This is a touching little anecdote about my dog, Betty, which I think is perfect for Mother’s Day.   By the way, gentle reminder:  It’s this coming Sunday, children, so go and empty piggy banks and get ye to a flower shoppe and the chicken place.   To preface the story, Betty is our beloved pet who we call our fallen angel because she has little white tufts of fur on her back like wings that were ripped off by the body guards in Heaven.  For sure they kicked her out for urinating on the clouds and leaving little turd nuggets behind the harps and being just a general all around asshole to the other dog angels.  Here on our earthly patch of foursquare called “Chez Betty,” we adore and obsess over her.  My kids and I take turns taking her out for walks and we all hate it.  In the house she is a sweet, loving, little snuggle bunny but as soon as she walks out the door, she becomes a demonic frothing-at-the-mouth maniac.  She pulls on her leash, eats garbage, chases cats and squirrels, and barks furiously at skateboarders.  When she encounters another dog, she dive bombs for its anus, and before she barely takes a sniff, she passes judgment.  Her hackles go up, she snarls, and then pounces.  And we have to drag her away.  I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING:  GET THIS DOG TRAINED!  *sigh* This beast doesn’t need a dog whisperer, she needs a team of Navy Seals to whip her into civility.  Anyway I am beginning to think we are a family of enablers who secretly enjoy the attention she brings on us.
 
Yesterday afternoon I was walking her and we just turned around the corner of Starbucks to head up the street I could see a big giant white shepherd-style dog strolling casually towards us with her owner.  I could call it a female from that far away because she had six dangling giant pink nipples swaying  from her belly.  The dog was also off leash so this potential encounter could go anywhere.  I was excited as we approached each other.  Betty on the other hand was pretending to ignore her by sniffing some phantom chicken wing on the sidewalk.  Classic Betty, when the dog is bigger than her (most of them are) she often waits for them to pass before she attacks.  But this dog was cool as a cucumber and her owner, a cowboy, was equally cavalier.   When we got close, he nodded his head at me and tapped his hat and said “Howdy.”   His dog stopped right in front of Betty.  Betty looked up and hesitated.  Gingerly she walked up to the dog and who remained still, she seemed to be smiling.  Betty didn’t growl at her, instead she sniffed one of her dangleberry titlets with her tail wagging in circles like a helicopter!  The mother dog stood patiently as Betty licked one of  her titsicles.  I was frozen with amazement.  Maybe all Betty needs is her mommy to keep her in line!  I looked up at the Cowboy, who winked at me and said, “You got a nice set, too.”
 
Best Mother’s Day present ever.
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19

Feb. ’11

It’s a Long Weekend, Take Your Meds

The Boys of Spring are back, bring ’em on!

“This won’t last,” is what the weather whisperers have  been saying all day.  A little amuse-bouche of Spring has been served up and at the perfect time.  It’s a long weekend here in Ontario and it’s called “Family Day.”  It’s a pretty controversial holiday for a number of reasons:  Can we afford it? If I park my car in Queen Street, will I get a ticket? Is the LCBO closed? etc.  I do not know the answer to any of these questions but to the third one, I will advise:  stock up just in case.  For me, the problem is actually calling it “Family Day.”  Some of us don’t have families, and some of us who do, will not be spending any time with them.  Don’t get lost in semantics, let’s just call it “Mental Health Day.”   The day that in the middle of February we are allowed to fuck the dog (so to speak), sleep in, eat bacon, make prank phone calls, cut our own hair, and wear our pyjamas the entire day.

This is the landscape we must contend with:

It’s called a “snirt,” a dirty pile of snow.  Inside snirt mountain, is garbage from Starbucks, melting poopsicles, and the dead serial killer from “Lovely Bones.”  Of course we need a mental health day.  For a complete list of what’s closed on “Family Day”, click here, don’t worry it’s the government website.

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17

Jan. ’11

Black Swan, Hidden Owl

Two more weeks to go!  I miss you, baby

We are half way into Hooch-free January.  For me, at least, it’s been an interesting fortnight.  I’ve been having strange and vivid dreams which I probably always used to have but were diffused by a wine soaked fog.  The Beach Alliance Theatre at Queen and Kingston Road which is down the street from me, has gotten  its act together and is showing non-Disney movies for a change so I’ve been catching up on my film-going now that there is a surplus in my entertainment budget.  On the weekend I finally saw Black Swan.  I’ve been avoiding it because for some reason I had the preconceived notion that it was science fiction, a genre I hate because I can’t follow the plots.  My dreams are more cohesive than that mess from that summer with the title that’s impossible to remember and I’m dead sober.   Inception!  I had to google it.  Anyway for Black Swan, I saw a clip where Natalie Portman is sprouting feathers.  I thought it was going to be like The Fly meets Fame but it was more like Rosemary’s Baby meets My Strange Addiction.  I classify as a horror teetering on comedy.  The common elements of this hybrid genre:  mean mother, bitchy locker fights, Winona Ryder in a cameo, evil sexy man (Vincent Cassel looking less reptilian than usual, I’d hit it) lesbian sex scene, and morphing body parts.  I was too scared to laugh though but had I have been drinking I probably would have found parts of it funny indeed.  But I won’t give it away if you have seen it, although I will warn you:  Natalie Portman’s character is an obsessive compulsive skin picker and it turns out to be contagious.  I’ve been scratching my right shoulder-blade like her ever since I saw this movie.

All that scratching made my shoulder look like this.  Freaky….or I just forgot it was there:

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05

Jan. ’11

I Resolve To Compromise My Resolutions

Another New Years Resolution goes tits up

Last year my New Years Resolution was to eat more pastries, no joke, I wanted to be more European and support the French Patisserie, Zane’s, down the street.  But I failed.  I think I ate two croissants in January and a kiwi tart in September.  2011 is the Year of the Rabbit according to the Chinese calendar, although it officially starts in February, so why not become a gym bunny like every other rat on the planet?  Except I am always a gym bunny, or maybe more of a gym manatee since you can pretty much always find me in the hot tub.  On Monday when I went to the gym (Mayfair Lakeshore Racquet Club), it was so packed, all I could find was a mat to lay and watch all the newbies and bush-leaguers flailing on the equipment.  I’m just teasing with my disdain, the more the merrier.  I like fresh meat at the gym, you just never know what might come through the turnstile, hold the door!  It could be Mr. Right!  Now I’m just being a sarcastic old broad.  In fact I’m getting so old, I’m too tired to beat myself up, so yesterday I high-tailed out of the gym and went up to Evergreen Brickworks at 550 Bayview.  It’s a fantastic place, in fact I wrote about it on the Core Realty Blog which you should check out here.

Every year, without fail, I am duped into thinking:  Summer=Good, Winter=Bad.  It’s so stupid, I’m allergic to every flora and fauna out there.  Hot weather is a beauty hazard,  the heat makes my capillaries scream RED ALERT!  Then they pop.  I am too cheap and environmentally righteous to put on air conditioning and I sweat.  Then bloat in retaliation.  But in winter, everything changes.  The cold makes me tingle, the snow makes me feel warm.  Early dark days makes me want to hibernate which suits me fine.  In January, I can embrace austerity with vim and vigor.  My ancestors prowled and mated on icy fjords and survived on animal blubber, it is in my blood.  I am a winter Goddess, the outdoors is my gym.  And check out the hot dude I met on the trails of the Evergreen Brick Works:

Cody, the Shiba Inu at Evergreen Brick Works

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30

Dec. ’10

How I Spent Orgy Week

Her girth squeezed into a festive garland necklace, Betty lords over the couch during Orgy Week

It’s Orgy Week, that week celebrated by international bon vivants everywhere which begins on Boxing Day and ends on New Year`s Day.  Eat.  Drink.  Be Merry.  Two Four Seven.  Hedonism for that long with such intensity isn`t for everyone, dishes need to be done, laundry washed, the fat dog walked.  I do my best though.  Wednesday, being Hump Day during orgy week, I have been focusing on doing some Amish chores that I have been putting off for months, but as a twist, I have been doing them laying down.  I organized my cell phone contacts, in bed while watching The View.  Then I did some sewing (ie. inserting an elastic in a pair of sweat pants) while perusing my favourite celebrity websites.  Look up “debauchery” in the dictionary and find my picture knitting up a poncho on a couch with a fat dog on my lap. I drank some eggnog spiked with Appleton Estate Rum early in the week but it makes fuzz on the upper lip that I keep having to lick off so now I am chapped.  I am now drinking booze from a straw which makes it go down quicker and faster.  I am pretty much ready for a detox to retox, as they say at Body Blitz Spa.  Otherwise known as “the waters,” this is a women’s only spa modeled after bath houses in Europe and has a large salt water pool with waterfalls, sauna, steam, green tea bath, and an ice-cold plunge.  You can book extra body treatments like massages, scrubs, check out their website here.  You have the choice to be naked or wear a bathing suit.  I’ve done both.   Ironically I wear a bathing suit when I’m feeling all hot MILF-y but forget about it when I’m GWM (Great White Manatee), then I can’t be confined in the stretchiest fabric.  I am a proper water nymph, so European, I tell myself.  Body Blitz is the perfect place to go in the middle of Orgy Week, it takes the jangle out of your nerves and makes your skin soft and then you sleep like a baby, only not so innocent.

One thing about my Orgy Week that has remained a constant for 20 years is that I start it off by watching Whit Stillman’s “Metropolitan.”  In fact the term “Orgy Week” is defined here.  It’s from 1990 and a pretty obscure film but I have seen it more than 20 times and it`s my mission to help make it as popular a holiday movie as Ìt`s A Wonderful Life.  PBS used to play it on Boxing Day and then I had to find my own VHS copy and then more recently a DVD which has all the commentary.  It’s Jane Austen and Brian the Dog from Family Guy wrote a screenplay,  this is what you might get:

Happy Orgy Week To All!  Keep it real!

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28

Oct. ’10

I’m In With The In Crowd

The In Crowd on a Wednesday night, blithely unaware of who got voted off on “Survivor”

I’m a circumstantial hermit, socially speaking.  I spend the evenings with my dog and the t.v. but my day takes me all sorts of places where I see people and have conversations even.  A typical one would go like this:

Me:  Oh hi, Rhoda (random name), how’s it going?

Rhoda:  Oh great!  Went to Carlu last night for that fundraiser for cute abandoned puppies.  Didn’t you get my e-mail?

Me:  What e-mail?  No….

Rhoda:  I sent you an invite.  The food was fantastic.  All the booze you could drink.  There was a litter of Shiba Inu puppies there and celebrities, too.  John Stamos was at our table, you know he’s still single and he likes tall women.

Me:  Redonkulous!  (jokes, I would never actually say that, but I would watch Survivor, which is where that term became popular)  I want a puppy!  I love John Stamos!  and food and booze…..how come I missed this?

Well, here’s why how come:  there is an event invitation box on the right side of your Facebook page.  Now I used to get these in Notifications but you know how Facebook likes to shake things up, well I’ve been missing all sorts of things for a long time until yesterday.  I got in just in time to RSVP for POP!   a group art show at 920 Eastern Ave, which runs until October 31.  It’s open from 1-6 and I suggest you go if you’re looking to buy some art.  There were some really great pieces there by Heather Dunn, David Brown, MJ Steenberg, David Trevor, and Mary Wong.  There was a piece by Mary that actually made me gasp, it was a blue grotto…”grotto”  makes me think of the Playboy mansion and that episode of Sex and The City where Carrie and Miranda make a wrong turn, where all the bunnies are in the hot tub and Miranda says: “Look, tit soup!”  Yes, I watch too much tv, but I’m out now.  Here is what I saw last night and links to the artists’ websites below:

And here is the Blue Grotto by Mary Wong ( Christmas is coming, Santa):

And wait there is more.  A couple of hot cheese mongers from about cheese were there carving hunks and wheels of fine artisan cheeses.  And this is what I ate:

I love cheese, especially this batch and they actually sell it to Loblaws which is across the street which superhandy.  Go grocery shopping and then check out the show this week only until October 31!  910 Eastern Ave, Open daily 1-6 pm or by appointment 416-805-6740

click on the name for their websites:  Heather Dunn, David Brown, MJ Steenberg, David Trevor, and Mary Wong

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09

Oct. ’10

A Change in Weather

It’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, have you turned your heat on yet?  Me, not yet, but have been walking around in the house wearing a Snuggie.  I am thankful that the weather is fantastic and that the leaves are still on the trees so that the Chore Family next door won’t get any ideas for the long weekend, like raking while I sit on my porch and watch until the guilt sets it.  I am also thankful my sister will be making a turkey on Sunday.  Although, you know, the only way I really like a roasted turkey is when it’s sitting on the counter waiting for someone to cut it.  I like sneaking by, picking the greasy, loose, dark, bits at the bottom, and pilfering the pope’s nose while no one is watching.  Also  I am thankful that my deep fryer is broken and I won’t be compelled to host one of my disastrous Misfit Monday parties.  This is where I would deep fry a turkey and everything else I could get a hold of and invite some motley neighbours, get them liquored up, and then FIGHT!  The emotional aftermath to contend with was nothing compared to having to dispose of 16 liters of spent canola oil, and THAT little secret will stay with me until the end.  But I am sad about the deep fryer though because a deep fried turkey is a wondrous thing, even the white meat tastes dark.  Mmmm, meat….and speaking of meat, Meat on the Beach, 1860 Queen Street East is the place to go to order a turkey, or a ham.  And anything else including gourds and pumpkins because Halloween is just around the corner!        Meat on the Beach 1860 Queen Stree East

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