And then you go home and continue to spit out gnats for literally two hours.
Still beats the treadmill.
And then you go home and continue to spit out gnats for literally two hours.
Still beats the treadmill.
Monday was a holiday in Ontario, Family Day, so I took the opportunity to visit my saucy 100-and-a-half-year-old Nana. When I got to her nursing home it was afternoon TV time, so she was sitting in a big leather recliner in the main room with some of the other residents. I pulled up a seat next to her for a catch-up chat.
A few feet away, a man was sitting in his wheelchair. I would estimate him to be about 90 years old.
He dropped his mug…
And was in a bit of a panic about it. The nurses were busy tending to someone else across the room and no one seemed to be paying attention to him, so I got up to help him out.
I was caught VERY off guard and I did not know what to do, so…
Because what do you say to that?
And then I turned away and burst out laughing.
I sat back down with the Nanners to continue our conversation. She nor anyone else had heard the nice t*ts exchange. Five minutes later…
Not this time, buddy.
Last week I was checking out my blog stats after I posted about Evan being the best ever, and I happened to notice this:
So naturally, this is what I assume is happening over at the White House.
PPS – I drew the cartoon of Obama and his advisor, but the office background is from here.
I am sure we have all seen the Facebook status game going around that asks you to post random things about yourself so your friends can all pretend to be interested. My friend Beth nominated me to do this (because I liked her list, I guess that’s how it works), but I am going to pull a Paula and post it on my blog instead. Because there are a lot of random facts about me and I would like to elaborate on them, and as Paula said, ain’t nobody got time for that on Facebook.
Beth gave me the number 8, so here are 8 random facts about me. Oh and they’re mostly about my childhood, because I think kids are hilarious and I can remember a lot of really random things about growing up.
1. When I was about four and still living in our first house in the suburbs (before we moved to the middle of nowhere) I got one of those massive boxes of crayons with every single colour and I was so excited to use them. I thought it would be nice to make pictures for all the neighbours on our street. I spent hours and hours in my room working very hard on this. Sometimes I would just colour a page out of my colouring book and then tear it out, and sometimes I would elaborately and painstakingly draw the pictures myself, but either way I made sure that no neighbours were left out.
Everyone on my street received a special picture from me. Every day. For several weeks. I drew pictures and delivered them to my neighbours.
I snuck them into their mailboxes and left them on their doorsteps. I thought I was giving them a beautiful present and they would cherish it forever. Perhaps my pictures would even make it onto their fridge.
One day our old crotchety next door neighbour Mrs. Moaner (not her actual name, just what my mom called her, and not to her face) came over and told my mom that I needed to stop drawing pictures and leaving them on her doorstep. She did not like it, and was in fact very angry about receiving the pictures. And so, that was the end of my drawings (but I found out later that the older couple who lived across the street really loved my drawings and saved every single one).
2. I had two imaginary friends, also when I was around 3 or 4, still living in the same house. One was a girl named Orion, who was a pretty normal imaginary friend, and who would play with me in our backyard. We had some great times together.
My other imaginary friend was the monster who lived in the furnace grate in the floor at the end of my bed. This sounds scary, but his name was Harry and he was a very nice monster and from what I can remember he was pretty hilarious. Harry used to tell me funny stories as I was going to sleep. I can distinctly remember having conversations with Harry so now I wonder if I just had a really good imagination, or if my house was haunted? I will never know.
Harry is not to be confused with the evil monster who lived under my bed who I OBVIOUSLY was not friends with.
3. In Grade 2 I wrote a story about a girl. I can’t remember what the actual story was about, but I do remember I had to draw pictures for it, and in one of the pictures I drew, the girl was getting ready for school. In the picture the girl was getting dressed, and I drew her from the back, finding clothes out of her dresser to wear. I decided to draw her naked. With a big butt crack. I can still picture it. It looked like this:
My mom was called in to talk to the teacher to see if I was having any issues at home. I wasn’t. I just thought it would be funny to draw someone naked. I liked to push the envelope a little bit.
4. Also in Grade 2 my mom (and possibly my teacher also, I don’t know) came up with the idea that I might be gifted. I was doing exceptionally well in writing and drawing, so the idea was not completely unwarranted. My school was having a test for students who might be gifted in the library, so I was to take it.
The test was a Scantron. So a sheet of questions, and then a separate sheet where you mark your answers.
It was the first time I had ever seen a Scantron test so I had no idea how it worked. Unfortunately I did not pay attention while they explained the instructions. When it came time to do the test, I was too embarrassed to ask how to do it because I was supposed to be gifted and I thought gifted people weren’t supposed to ask questions (and gifted people probably also paid attention). So I pretended to know what I was doing and just coloured in little circles at random and hoped for the best. I probably didn’t even put my name on there correctly.
No one ever brought up the results with me. I’ll never know if I was gifted, but I’ll just go ahead and say probably not.
5. One time in later elementary school I really, really didn’t want to go to school so I decided to fake sick. And I decided to fake sick very elaborately. I got a large bucket and just started pouring things into it from the fridge: Ketchup, mustard, milk, mayonnaise, and Cheez Whiz. I then added water and bread chunks and mixed it all together until it had a nice thick consistency. Then I showed it to my dad and said that I threw up. He agreed I must be sick and I could stay home from school. I was so impressed with myself because the contents of that bucket really and truly did smell like throw-up! It was pretty gross. (note: I was telling Evan this story and he said “So many stories from your childhood involve you pulling the wool over your dad’s eyes,” and he would not be wrong about that. The Ghost of the Indian Chief is another example of this.)
6. I used to be able to beat the original Super Mario Bros in under eight minutes, by using all the warp zones.
It was quite a party trick (when I was 8) and I was kind of a phenomenon in my neighbourhood. I was very proud of myself.
7. Speaking of video games, I REALLY love Guitar Hero and I am freakishly good at it.
I can play it on expert and get 98-100% on most of the songs (except the really crazy ones). A few years ago I won $100 in a Guitar Hero competition that I randomly stumbled across in a mall. I saw a big crowd milling about, so I walked up and entered on a whim and I ended up beating a bunch of 14 year old boys. Suckers. It was a proud moment for me.
8. I have a really awesome immune system, and I am very thankful for this. I get a minor cold maybe twice a year (if that), and it’s usually just a stuffy nose and a sore throat for a day or two. Nothing crazy. I don’t usually get headaches, I have not had the flu since the 7th grade, and I just don’t normally get sick (hence why I used to have to fake sick). I am pretty hardy. Do you know what I attribute this to? Growing up swimming in a dirty lake. Practically living in a dirty lake. I was exposed to who knows what and I’m pretty sure that’s what gave me my immune system of steel.
And that’s it, but feel free to tell me random facts about yourself!
Hey, did I ever tell you guys about the time I got trapped in a cemetery? Nope, because it was two nights ago.
I’ve been trying to keep up with the running thing lately, and one place I really enjoy running is the Mount Pleasant Cemetery. It’s beautiful, really well maintained, and there are 14km of paved trails in there. It’s a designated Natural Historic Site of Canada, and there are statues, fountains, botanical gardens, and the “forest of memories.” Some parts of it are truly stunning, and it is the final resting place of many well-known Canadians, including William Lyon Mackenzie King and the Eaton’s.
So running in there is very interesting. Nearly my entire family on my mom’s side is buried in there as well, including my grandma and her parents, and their parents.
Which was a weird coincidence that I discovered after I started running in there.
Anyway, to access the cemetery you can enter from three pedestrian entrances, or six gates connected to Yonge St, Mount Pleasant, or Bayview. To keep the hooligans out at night, these are all closed and padlocked, and the rest of the cemetery is surrounded by a tall, steel fence. With spikes.
I have run in there many times over the past year, and during the summer they usually close the gates around 9pm.
On Monday I hit up the cemetery a bit after 8pm and all was going well running-wise. Well, besides being a sweaty mess because it was insanely hot. After about half an hour I passed one of the gates on the furthest side of the cemetery from where I entered and I noticed it was locked. I thought it was weird, but I don’t ever use that gate so I thought it may have been unpopular and closed early. I kept running to the gate that I was planning on exiting from, while noting that I hadn’t seen anyone in a while and that was odd because usually the cemetery is busy with walkers/runners and cyclists. That gate too was locked. I ran to the gate I came in from. Locked. Uh oh.
This was not a good sign. As much as I love the cemetery, it was starting to get dark and I did not want to spend the night in there (um, ghosts?!). But I figured I would get out somehow. I didn’t start really worrying until I came across a young couple who told me that if all the gates were locked we were probably stuck in there.
Awesome. Around that time, an older man on a bike rode past and said he was going to go check out the main gate and report back. We (the couple and I) followed The Biker on foot, and by the time we got to the main gate (locked), he had already hopped the fence with his bike and was on the other side on the street.
The fence was steel and taller than me. I can barely do a pushup with my knees down, so pulling myself up and over it would have been an impossible task with my lack of upper body strength. However, there was a brick pillar on the main gate, and a spot for a foothold on that pillar halfway up the fence. The only problem was at that spot there were giant steel spikes (to prevent people from climbing).
The Biker on the other side of the fence pointed to the spot on the fence beside the pillar and yelled “HERE! You have to climb here!” and I didn’t see another option, so I stepped onto the pillar and began to pull myself over the fence. And here is how that went:
And then The Biker appeared in front of me.
So, I did.
I managed to not impale myself or fall on my face, and I made it down safely. I don’t even think The Biker hurt his back too badly.
This all happened on a very busy street, so by this point a few people had gathered around (one other guy actually grabbed my hands at the last second to help me down), so that was not embarrassing at all. The couple was still inside the cemetery watching the whole thing, and when they saw my awkward fence jump, they decided to turn around and find somewhere easier to climb out. Kind of wish I stayed and went with them.
So what do you say to the complete stranger whose head you just wrapped your sweaty legs around? I didn’t know.
Seemed appropriate. And then I walked home.
And that is the story of the time I got trapped in a cemetery.
So, I love cats. I have always loved cats, my family has always owned cats, and you may remember that I was catsitting for two separate kitties over the Christmas holidays. And of course I love my spry elder kitty Winnie.
Love her a lot.
But it is a little bit surprising that I love cats so much, because I had a very traumatic experience when I was quite young involving my family’s first cat, Rocky.
He liked to photobomb me.
Rocky was not exactly the friendliest kitty. I’m surprised he is letting me pick him up in the above photo because generally Rocky was not a fan of that. Sometimes he would sit near me and allow me to pet him, but if I tried to take our snuggling to the next level he would to get grumpy and make a getaway. Fair enough, I was young so sometimes I was a bit of a dick to him. It is understandable that I was not his favourite. Winnie still does not particularly like children because of how horrible my brother was to her when he was younger. Usually I let Rocky do his own thing and didn’t bother him too badly.
Unless I had a friend over and I wanted to show off.
One day when I was about three, my childhood friends Amanda and Chad were over, and Chad and I discovered how much fun it was to harass Rocky.
We chased him around the house for the entire morning. He would try to hide from us, but wherever he went, we would find him.
Rocky would jump on top of the counter thinking it was too tall for us to be able to reach him, but we would get him.
He would hide under my parents bed to get away from us, but of course we would find him.
We played this game for a couple of hours. We would find Rocky, rough him up a little bit, he would run away, we would find him again, and repeat. Rocky got progressively more annoyed. Eventually we became bored with the harass-the-cat game and went off to play by ourselves. Rocky continued hiding.
That afternoon, hours after the Rocky-harass-fest, my mom asked me if I could go down to the basement to get a can of apple juice out of the cold cellar for snack time.
No problem. I loved apple juice. I started to make my way down the stairs to the basement.
But as I was going down the stairs, I slipped.
I lost my footing and I fell the last three steps down to the basement floor, thumping very loudly the whole way.
Rocky was still hiding from us, and his hiding spot of choice was the closet under the stairs. When Rocky heard me thumping on the stairs as I was falling, he assumed I was coming to get him. But Rocky had had enough and he was not going to take it. He decided to seek revenge.
Before I could get up, Rocky leaped out of the closet and onto my face.
He scratched me, jumped off me, and ran away to hide again.
He sliced me just under my nose with his front claw, all the way to my mouth. All I remember is lying on the basement floor while my mom’s best friend held a green J Cloth to my face to try and stop the bleeding. There was massive amounts of blood. Just blood everywhere.
I had to go to the emergency room, and in the end I needed to get three stitches.
Rocky lived on to have a long and amazing cat life. But he left his legacy on my face forever.
It’s fairly faint, but it is there. Of course, this was my own fault for bothering Rocky so badly. He was really just trying to protect himself.
So the moral of this story is, don’t harass cats. They will try to claw your face off.