Lost and Stolen Cell Phones... An App to save the day??

 Okay, in the last 4 months I have watched at least 4 people's lives stop suddenly, the moment they either lost their phone (this includes me) or their phones were stolen.

At first, I thought, " Okay that's it, I'm going back to memorizing everyone's phone number and I WILL NOT be so freaking dependent on this little wee computer that holds my life." Uh huh, this from a person who can't remember why she's in a room, but is going to memorize all clients and contact phone numbers. Realizing my ridiculousness, I have been thinking of a solution and find it in the manufacturers.

They have apps for petting an animated cat who purrs or a dog who farts, they have apps that name the song you're rocking out to when you can't place it, they have apps that tell me the cheapest gas prices in a freaking 50 km radius, and my favorite... an app that allows anyone anywhere to look at me in my backyard from space... (geeez, let's hope I'm sunning in something scanty and we'll just say punishment enough to those perpetrating eyes.)

Why the hell isn't there an app for not only finding your phone, but DISABLING IT AND RENDERING IT NO GOOD FOR TRANSFER OF OWNER when some lowlife steals it... Or better, when you lose it and the person who finds it and plans to sell it, answers your millionth call only to tell you to go fuck yourself on your own damn phone?? I'll tell you why... Phones are expensive if bought separately from a contract or plan. Like super expensive. My last blackberry torch... (which I detested by the way, in case you haven't read my rants about it)... was labelled at $749 clams. My new Android phone (that I love, mostly for its word prediction... hilarious) was $599 without a plan, but free with one; good thing I needed a plan. I even would've considered paying the average cost of $200 to cancel my service plan with my then provider, Rogers because it still would've been cheaper than buying the phone outright.

It occurs to me that, like how there won't be a cure for cancer until some other disease that makes more money comes along, there will never be an app like this because of the millions in lost revenue that it would lead to. (and yes my conspiracy theory is very alive this morning. If I'm not careful I may even convince myself that RIM, APPLE and other manufacturers actually employ some thievery specialists that go out into the world everyday with a quota of stolen phones to meet. Someone stop me.)

Kids loose mittens... let's give away new mittens but charge 500-700 for the handy connecting string. If they have their own string... they'll still have to buy a new one.

Duped again, and my only option is to rant about it here. Going to look for my phone

A little note about the Reasons to get over myself:

Reasons to get over myself: Think it's time to clarify something about these here 'Reasons...'
It's predictable for me to see that some of you have been confused, and for me to allow that, so I'll stop it now...

I thought up these reasons way back when I was feeling uncontrollably black hearted. I was a'yellin. I was a'screamin. I was a'fist waving. I was a'tazer buying. I was nothing more than a raving lunatic neanderthal. Uh huh. No joke artichoke. So given that I have the both wonderful and annoying ability to see myself from outside myself, I decided to stop it and return to my shiny, gracious, generous, nonjudgmental,  no yelling, barely any screaming and minor bird flipping, self. It was in that change, that Reasons was born. I needed to remind myself of the good stuff... It's really just a glorified and funny gratitude list... Except that 'Reasons To Get Over Myself' was a way better name. So I see my error here and decide that I should perhaps consider changing the title to something like…

Reasons to get over my blackhearted self.

OR

Reasons to stop this incredibly childish, selfish, laughable behavior...

OR

Reasons to not kill my neighbour that smokes in the hallway and to not buy that damn tazer.

OR

Reasons to stop being such a jerk.

OR maybe I'll take some suggestions...

Hope this little memo clears it up for those of you nice enough to say, "WTF?"

Today's Reason to get over myself:

by Richelle Nantais on Thursday, March 10, 2011 at 7:47am

Reasons to get over myself: I watched "1000 ways to die" last night. It's wrong, I know for me to say, but so hilarious. One guy died huffing his own bung methane... two chicks making out on a dryer caused the gasline to come disconnected and blew themselves up and the last guy put pepper spray up his hershey highway to hide it from the po-po and it went off in there and yep... he died.

I thank the powers that be for brains.

Reasons to get over myself: When I feel misunderstood and on the outs, I thank the powers that be for delusions of grandeur.

I was so the Easter Bunny

In light of the next big holiday, in my calendar, being Easter, I will write this very true story to commemorate the season of spring.

As you may have already read, my grandfather was the Santa Claus in the mall. This comes with almost no advantages, except not waiting in too much of a line up for your candy cane and Polaroid picture, and what was it? ...Oh yeah, being the Easter Bunny in the mall by means of inheritance. If papa can do it, I must have it in my blood.

And it meant $30.00 to a 14 yr old for whom money was not easy to come by.  I am left to wonder what price it would take for me to do this now, 26 yrs later.

My job was seemingly simple; walk around the mall first, waving and handing out chocolate eggs, and then retire to the Easter display, where awaited my comfy armchair, a velvet back drop, (and I freakin love velvet backdrops), the Polaroid camera with some other family member as the mall's photographer, and the fenced off cue area.
I will take the time to mention here, that the bunny costume left much to be desired. The first component of the suit was a zip up foot to neck, manufactured fur suit that in spring time, could leave the 14 yr old inside a sweaty mess, having to endure 100 degree temperatures. It also had a head that was hugely disproportionate to the body. Huge, heavy, and left to simply teeter on my shoulders. It had only two means of seeing out;  two huge eyes made of mesh, both at 45 degree angles from my own eyes. This basically means that I couldn't see anything that was directly in my path. This made for a very challenged bunny, who must be drunk because he keeps running into shit.

I was to seat children on my lap and wait for them to smile for the $5 Polaroid, give them some eggs, and shuffle them aside to make room for the next snotty, unsure, half scared half excited child.

Having no means of reference for the job I took my cues from Papa-Santa...  Ask them what kind of chocolate they like the most, if they've been extra good lately, and promise them evidence of my visit on Easter's Eve. Simple no?

What I didn't realize is that children don't actually expect the Easter Bunny to talk. And when it does talk, they emit a rather excruciating shrill, followed by tears and intense running for their lives. Funny from in the suit, but the parents didn't really appreciate the humour.

I did this crazy gig for 3 years. I am surprised to write that. On the third year though, something tragic happened.

The local school for challenged children decided it would be exciting for their students to see the Easter Bunny that Saturday afternoon. I knew my employer would be watching this endearing display, and I was fully prepared. I had my eggs at the ready, I promised myself not to talk to the children, and I was trying extra hard to just be mature, to take this gig seriously and make my papa proud. I now know that in situations where factors such as these exist, something is about to go very very wrong.

I got through about 2 of the kids lined up for that day. They're eyes openned wide and hugging me, and having a great time with chocolate smeared faces and hand prints on my fur. Then it happened...
The supervisor decided to lay a quadriplegic child across my lap. Given the visual challenges of the suit.... Someone may have wanted to tell the freaking bunny!?!

I couldn't see the child, nor did I have any idea that he was quadriplegic. In trying to blindly adjust him to better suit my lap, yep you guessed it, I dropped him on the floor, where he continued to roll 3 feet from me. Keeping in mind my 45 degree view holes, I couldn't find the kid. I was blindly patting the air with flat palms trying to locate him while the other kids cried and screamed. No number of eggs can forgive this scene. Then just when I thought it couldn't get worse... ( I now know, that it can always get worse), my teetering head rolled off my shoulders and yep, directly onto the kid, who was screaming and crying and had now been hit in the noggin with a giant bunny head.

So there I am exposed as not only not the Easter Bunny but a scared little doe eyed  GIRL teenager, with stringy sweaty hair pressed to her forehead and tears of both embarrassement and disbelief in her eyes. Understanding then that things could get worse and believing I would never recover, I dropped the head, I abandoned the kid, I threw chocolate eggs at whoever else was in the line up, and I ran. Never looking back until this very day.

I hope it's at least funny now.

being yelled at by imaginary ex-wives

Sometimes, when I hear songs, I try to make the lyrics apply to me. I don’t think I’m special on this one. And when the lyrics don’t match any of my experiences, I then ponder the musician’s experiences, but sometimes other people are boring or predictable and I’m ADD so that doesn’t last long. I then try to sing the song to myself, from some imagined stranger’s point of view. In the end, the stranger always turns into my estranged wife and the lyrics always yell at me.

So I’ve just spent the morning being yelled at by my ex, and she’s not even here. Geeez I have such a long way to go. So much work to do.

cp 24 fucked us up the ass again

cp 24 fucked us up the ass again

by Richelle Nantais on Wednesday, February 9, 2011 at 9:46pm

I am angry. I am so angry that I wrote a letter about it. Please read it and comment accordingly so that I may include your thoughts with my complaint process.

...

are you kidding me?

From:

Richelle Nantais

View Contact

To: breakingnews@cp24.com

I am appalled. It takes an extreme percieved injustice for me to bother writing about it. Therefore, I am insulted and dissappointed in the choices made by your programming to allow what I just heard on your show.

I just watched your news program and listened to George Lagogiannis try to dismiss the gay bashing from Jarvis Collegiate as 'teen angst'. I have often thought of Mr Lagogiannis' reporting as narcissistic and frivolous and therefore unworthy of concentration or concern. This item tonight however, crosses the line.

 I thought that news reporting was supposed to be objective. When he asked the bashed victim, whether or not she thought the violence was sparked by 'teen angst' I was shocked. In remaining objective, he should have also asked if the victim felt the attack was fueled by ignorance and a violent fortitude that needs to be arrested immediately. Instead he made the gay community or anyone affected by this blatant ignorance and unacceptable behavior, seem like overreactive and unrealistic folk who cry wolf. We have enough trouble and have shed enough blood, without George perpetuating the hate.

 I expect this behavior and type of irresponsible reporting to be addressed, and ergo, expect a response to this mail that I have been fueled by utter disbelief to write.

Reasons to get over myself: Okay, Nana, don't read this one....

Reasons to get over myself: Okay, Nana, don't read this one....

In my quest to be this polyamorous being, I have yet to be the harem keeper. I instead, have only managed to be one of the nameless, shrouded faced, anonymous and silent members OF the harem. First, my ego cannot take it, and 2. What number am I? and 3. If I had any foreshadowing skills at all, I would've seen this coming.

Can you picture me shrouded and silent?

Lemon drop martinis

When the world gives you lemons, make a lemon drop martini. When you don't know what to do, do the opposite of what you think you should, and make it about someone else who needs. When you fall, point at someone else, but get up while no one's looking. When you can't carry you, let the people who love you carry you for a bit, but make them dinner afterwards. I have a lot of dinners to make. Thank you everyone.

A Challenge from Me to You

Okay. so I started this blog with several intentions. The first and most important was to make you all laugh at the things that make me laugh. Someone said to me, after a rant of my own, that a true comic finds the ridiculous in the mundane. Oh my, someone just described my existence. So I decided after a few 'gentle nudges' to share my vulnerabilities aka life experiences with you all here.  I also decided to turn up the volume a little.

I am currently in a space where I can put myself on the line for the sake of vicariousness. Yep, I'm willing to do all of the stupid things we all dream of doing but don't. And all just so you'll know.

My motto: I knew but I did it anyway.

I am willing to have a fart machine behind Santa in the mall. I am willing to try to steal an electric scooter. I am willing to drink a litre of chocolate milk, everyday, for one year... just to see what freaking weirdness happens to me.

So I am going to use this blog to totally go to the edge.

If you can dream up a challenge, that's thought provoking and sincere despite the humour, please send it to me. I'll probably do it. No animals or police please... they're on to me.

Chicken Gizzards by the Elevator

I was waiting for the elevator. I saw some writing on a small piece of paper. I read it. It said, "I'm puking up chicken gizzards, trying to watch the Dukes of Hazzard. I should've eaten all my liver. I should have eaten half my salmon. Now I'm salmon fishing in the river. My hands are dry. I should've put cream on them."
This shit honestly happens to me. It's so fun.

Hmmmm

So if given the choice to put the antique china cup on the flat safe surface or the precarious slanted pointy surface, I will always choose the latter. I am trying to figure out what that says about me. My therapist calls it being adventuresome. That's why I pay her the big bucks.

Daily Reason to Get Over Myself:

The angst has turned to acceptance, the anger has turned into forgiveness, and the mashed potatoes in the fridge have turned into something really special.

Sleep Walking

So it turns out that I sleep walk. I always thought that this kind of stuff didn't really exist, but here I am and I sleep walk.

It seems to happen when I'm emotionally perplexed, physically exhausted, or going through some sort of withdrawl because I have attempted to give up one of my many vices. This week, it's espresso. Did I give it up? God no. I just ran out.

My sleep walking has a food aspect that is quite hilarious if you're not me. It appears that I like to go to the kitchen, get the most unhealthy of foods, and simply bring them back to bed. Not the nightstand, not the dresser, not anywhere but in the bed with me. I am especially fond of chocolate in these instances.

Now you have the information you need to picture and imagine my horror when I woke up one Boxing Day morning with a Turtle stuck to the side of my head. In the morning, it no longer looks like a turtle.
"Who poohed on me in the night?"
"Where is that fat rat bastard cat?"
"It smells like chocolate though. Will you smell it?"

"I'm not smelling that Richelle, you smell it."


"But I can't smell my own head?!"

"I'm not smelling that. In fact, I'm not even sure I want to stay over night anymore."


"It smells like chocolate. Honest."

Holiday request

Okay, calling all of you out there with families, and cosy living rooms and children to bake with because you definitely bake. In your houses with raked leaves and the dog peed and watered, sure we'll throw in some boughs of holly, why not. The single people have appointed me spokesperson. We are appealing to all of you with freaking knitted socks to please put your holiday baking in some wax paper after picking out an assortment of goodies. Put it in a holiday tin and deliver it immediately to your single, apartment/condo friend. No one will appreciate it more than us. No joke artichoke.

And this year, I promise not to call all of you with those noises of me enjoying your gracious gifts. I thought it was endearing. okay okay

The message that's won the "what phrase do I put in my holiday greeting card" contest..... "I'm sorry if my phone keeps calling you. It's voice activated. I'm in the mall and Santa keeps yelling Ho Ho Ho." bahahahaha. It's in the mail soon little chickens.

Sometimes my name is still Woody

I've always been in slight awe of the fearlessness with which I approach life. I recall things I've done or said with a reverent disbelief. Not like drunken night before kind of fearlessness, but genuine risk taking. Don't get me wrong, it's bitten me too. Actually it works out probably less than it doesn't, and this story is a prime example of that.

Where did I get the kahunas to do that?! I would never do that now.

You must have related moments, where afterward you kinda just shake your head at yourself? This is one of my favorites.

I was seven years old. My best friend was Jimmy, and it was summer time 1977. (Yah, yah, you did the math, bastards.)

We moved a lot in those days and we had just moved onto Grenfell Street. This new address promised a good school, new friends, and a summer full of sunny crayfish catching at the creek. I had, however, learned at my old address that there were rules for play. Girls got to play card games, have lemonade stands, dress dolls up and if they were lucky, got to steal some make-up from their mothers and adorn themselves with it.

Oh Geez! Really?! Those things are all boring and stupid.

So I came to the only conclusion that seemed possible. I would have to be a boy this time. And there it was. The best plan of all time. I would simply tell all the kids that I was a boy and then I'll be able to do all of the super fun boy things. My favorite of which was dirt bomb throwing. Ah, nothing like a good dirt bomb fight, and no respectable girl would've been caught throwing dirt bombs. Besides, how well would she do when we all know that girls throw like girls?

And so I had my problems solved. My favorite band, when I was seven, was The Bay City Rollers. Yep.

What yours too? Shut up.

And my favorite member of my favorite band was Stuart 'Woody' Wood. So what do you think happened?

Hi.

Hi.

What's your name?

Mark. What's your name?

Woody.

And there it was. From then on the kids called me Woody. If anyone made fun of it, I didn't notice, nor would I have cared. I got to jump off the bridge into the creek with the boys. I got to go crayfish catching. I got to ride a cardboard toboggan down the biggest grass hill. I got to play with Hotrod cars. I got to drum in a band. I got to tease girls and pull their hair, and push over their lemonade stands when we were bored.

It was freaking fabulous!!

And then, of course, there had to be a snafu. My mom. How dare she call me for lunch or dinner or to come in at night by my real name.

Chelle! Dinner!! Richelle?

How come your mom yells Richelle?

I don't know. Does she?

Yah, like everyday.

I don't know. But I better go see what she wants.

Bye Woody

And that's all that was needed. The seed was planted and they were on to me. I had spent almost a whole month in playland bliss, but it was all coming down around me now. I could tell the kids were distrustful. I could see and hear them whispering and looking at me. The jig was up and I knew it, but what the hell do I do about it? Ride it til you can't.

And then came the fateful day. The kids had all been talking. Boys and girls. Crap. They had secretly planned to confront me. I walked in pretty blind, but not surprised.

Woody we know you're a girl.

No I'm not. Ewwww. Girls are gross.

We know that you're a girl. Cindy's mom asked your mom, and she said you were a girl.

She's lying. She does that.

You're lying. And your name's not even Woody. Who picks Woody for a name if they had the choice of any other name?

Shut up.

And I give him a shove

The next thing I know I'm running for my life. I have 7yr old legs, but some of the other kids had 9yr old legs, so I had to get home fast. I ran for what seemed like my life, and I made it home. I couldn't believe it. I was safe! I got to the door, I could hear the herd of kids behind me, I turned the door handle. LOCKED!!!

Uh-oh, Uh-oh

I keep running, unable to get to the spare key and back to the door on time. I run and I run, but they're catching up, and they don't look tired. I run behind a building and find the worst, barest, smallest stupid pine tree to not even attempt to hide myself in. It must've looked ridiculous; me crouched, fully visible behind this 'tree'.

They'll run right past.

But they didn't run right past. They stopped dead in front of me. Enraged.

We know you're a girl!!

No I'm not!

Yes you are.

No I'm not.

And then they said something I really did not anticipate.

Pull down your pants then.

No way.

Pull down your pants or you are a girl.

Busted.

Okay, you're right.

Say it.

No.

Say it!

I'm a stupid girl.

and there it is.

Although, the outcome only further ostracized me and left me with no friends and a huge desire to move again, there are days now, as an adult, when I wish I could simply call myself Woody or Mike or Dean and have more fun and get more respect. Hence the title of this piece, "Sometimes my name is still Woody"

Brothers

My brother is one of my favorite people hands down. He's awesome and handsome, and successful. I have so many hilarious, and heart warming stories of him and I. I share one of those now.

It was summer and the 1970's. It was a time when kids could still play outside unattended, and therefore have loads o fun. We used our bicycles for everything and this sad day, we caught a hitch. His bicycle chain had bitten the dust. One look at his sad little mug, and I had to think of something. In no time, we devised a plan to overcome this small problem because

"we will not be stopped."

There was always water or a creek near us growing up. This summer we had been working diligently on building a water dam with our posse of friends. Summers were unsupervised back then. It was a gift of childhood outdoor exploration and discovery that the newer generations, especially in a big city, don’t seem to have the benefit of. Boogiemen have become a reality (and that thought makes me sad.)

Rusty, Micheal and Cory were already bound to be there, on the banks of the creek collecting debris, trash, rocks and whatever else that presented itself to complete our dam. They would be wondering where we were. We also only had the daytimes before dinner to work on it.

After dinner we played marbles in the corners of the small squares of lawn belonging to each of our city subsidized townhouses.Or we played “Hotbox”; a game that had 2 kids with baseball gloves, facing each other on each of the sewers, that acted as bases at a distance of about 50ft. Another kid “the runner,’ would position themselves on one of the sewers. The catchers would start throwing a ball back and forth, and when one of them would overthrow or undercatch, the runner would take the opportunity to run to the opposing sewer. If they made it, the runner would receive a point. If the catcher was fast at retrieving the ball and made it back in time to tag the runner, the runner would be considered ‘out’ and would now have to become a catcher. The person who had tagged them out would now have point opportunity as a runner. It was crazy fun, for the times we had to remain in the neighbourhood, within sight should one of our mothers look out the kitchen window.

The creek though was only for the daytime. Besides, teenagers sharing a fifth of gin and a joint they got from their mothers room were always at the creek at night. Who doesn't hate stupid teenagers?

I remembered some skipping rope that we had received last Easter as one of our presents. It paled in comparison to the chocolate, so it still had its packaging, although idle and in the back of the garage. It was hot pink with handles that were thicker and stripped with white. We used the 25 ft rope as our towing vessel. I tied one end to his bike just beneath the handlebars so as not to affect his steering, and the other end to my bike at the seat post. Chain Shmain. We were off.

I looked back in on Rob often to make sure he was still behind me. He appeared unsteady but still behind me none the less.

See Chelle?! I'm doin' it.

The elastic rubber rope, created a fun effect. Robbie would be dragged behind slowly and sluggishly until the rope was taut, and at that moment he would be propelled slightly by the stretched band’s strength. I used the times he was propelled to pedal slowly or not at all so I could work harder the other times.

Between our house and the creek was a small hill. Small to me now as an adult, but as a child it was significant. I started down the hill and was instantly concerned for Robbie. I had picked up enough speed to be nervous for him, and out of genuine concern and complete stupidity, I stopped, stepped down and turned to make sure he was okay. Given that he had no chain, on a one-speed bike, that also meant that he had no brakes. A small detail it seemed.

I looked back just in time to see him pile into me with a hail of yelling that was both terrified and comical. I remember his mouth fully open, eyes crazed looking straight at me as he came crashing into the rear of my bike and on from there to be thrown fully from his seat and over his chopper handlebars, into and over me to meet the pavement face first. He lost most of the skin of the left side of his face, including some of his eyebrow, to the gravel.

Crap.

The road rash and therefore constant parental attention, affection and punishment for me existed for about 2wks. The dam was also put on hold that day. Stupid brothers.

Santa & The Easter Bunny Are Real

In the walk we all take from time to time, through our memories to figure out why we are who we are, I discover that, in my memory there are some both endearing and disturbing images. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all, "My mother's the reason I'm a serial killer," on you.

But I will share a candy cane memory.

My Papa (hee...french for Grandfather), was my best friend when I was a little girl. Even though his mail carrier hat smelled of sweat when I wore it around, and he tickled me to death, I thought he was a superhero. Who could've known how close to the truth that that was?

It was Christmas time in Shwaville. The entire week my mum used the promise of a visit to Santa to parent us into being good. We tried our best to be good; my stupid brother and I, and I made my list for Santa, made my bed and even dried the dishes.

My mum would instruct, Think about what you want for Christmas, and then you'll sit on Santa's knee, and you'll tell him what you're hoping for. But he'll only listen if you've been good!

Holy crap, this is practically a lottery! I had listed my very most coveted things; a drum kit, a puppy who doesn't grow & stays a puppy, and for my real family. Yep, my real family. I was convinced that my mum had stolen me, and that my real family, who were royalty and had crazy cash and a new bike for me, were out there somewhere, looking for me to no avail. Santa had to know about this, and he must want me back where I belonged. Besides, my mum had my stupid brother.

Six sleeps and finally, Saturday came. We combed our hair and brushed our teeth and wore the clothes that made us itchy, but we didn't care. Today, was Santa day.

Off we went to the Midtown Mall where there was sure to be an awesome appearance by Santa himself.

Will there be reindeer Mum?

Probably not because they have to rest up for the big night. Christmas Eve the reindeer travel the entire world you know. Maybe they're in training?

We entered the mall all aglow. (I've always wanted to use me and 'aglow' in the same sentence.)

The lights, the wreaths, the garland, the sparkly shiny 1970's. Let's put in the scent of chocolate too, what the hell.

We walked down the longest hallway and got in the longest line up that was bordered with swooping garland with intermittent silver base bars.

I made sure to be so good. No spitting, no poking my stupid drooling baby brother in the eye, no impatient requests. Just making sure that my wish list was handy for Lap Time.

After a few of the longest minutes of all time, I felt a chill.

I heard the bells of Santa.

I heard them jingling in the near distance. Being only 6 yrs old, I couldn't see over the stupid people, but I knew it was him. My premonition was confirmed when I heard him laugh. A deep and hearty and wonderful laugh. Ho Ho Hoooooo Meeeeeeerry Chrrrrrrrristmas.

Oh my goodness, Here he comes.

Will he see me? Does he know my name? Does he think my brother is as stupid as I do? I love Santa.

I heard his boots coming my way. Underneath the shiny garland, I saw the black boots up to his knee with the bag of presents he was towing hitting against them. I saw his hand filled with full size candy canes for all of us. Not those stupid cheap little ones that break when you try to get their plastic off. I was practically peeing myself.

And then, and then

And then I saw his face. His angelic, wait, no angelic but red face. A face with a nose. A face with a nose that looked exactly like my Papa's nose. A face with eyebrows that looked just like my Papa's eyebrows. A laugh that sounded like my Papa's laugh. A belly that was as distented and as hard looking as my Papa's belly.

My head titled, my brows furrowed, my list fell from my hand.

Oh my freaking goodness, Papa IS Santa!!!

The world spun around a few times and my eyes welled with tears. I looked to the devoted elves to make some sense of this, only to be further mortified. The elves with the freaking Polaroid to snap my happy picture were my aunties. My freaking evil, gum chewing, middle school, torture your niece, aunties.

My aunts were only 6 & 7 yrs older than me and therefore involved with my childhood hazing. They were my intermittent older sisters. Their idea of fun was to have me in the stroller and push it over a curb, taking bets on which direction I would fall. Aunts who put clumps of margarine on my hand while I slept so I would stop sucking on my fingers in the night. Aunts who were SANTA'S FUCKING HELPERS??

I pinched my brother to make sure I wasn't dreaming. He cried his stupid baby I- need- something- cry. Crap. Not dreaming.

Mum. That's Papa.

She looks down at me with ha-ha written all over her face. Is it? Noooo.

Liar.

Mum, that's Papa.

He's one of Santa's helpers. Santa can't be in every mall on every Saturday. He's resting up for Christmas Eve. Tell Papa what you would've told Santa and Papa will give him the message.

Give him the message?! About the drum kit that I want to keep in Papa's garage, the non-existent puppy that stays a puppy when I know damn well that Papa hates dogs, oh and don't forget to mention to Papa about my real freaking family. Yeah, that's gonna work.

To this day, I am sure that this event is at the root of any of my neuroses.

ps I love you Papa

Ass Trouble

Okay, today's exert is rather personal but when have you known me to not be?

Tuesday of last week, I'm spending some time on the scoots driving around people watching, when I notice my ass hurts.

And for no good reason. I hadn't been on a cross country trek on the scooter, I hadn't had any strange drunk sexual encounters (that I know of), and I didn't have my favorite Ethiopian dish the day before. Hurting for no reason. Or so I thought.

When I spoke to my friend Lazlo, and said I had a proper pimple in my ass, she didn't even make fun! She didn't console my ass either.... but that sounds like another story.

On Wednesday the pain was unmistakable. If I sat with legs crossed and a slight hip tilt I could forget it momentarily. Good thing I was golfing that day, as sitting isn't usual when golfing.

After a couple of holes (no pun intended) I decide that Jacquie, my golf pal, could use the comic relief that my ass could offer, so I disclose.

Jacquie laughs and tells me that I'm in big time denial.

Dude, that's not a pimple, it's a hemorrhoid.

At that moment, life as I knew it, was over. My first freaking hemorrhoid. I was reminded of one of the first South Park episodes where Cartman gets abducted by aliens in the night and they give him an ass probe. He farts fire streaks the whole next day. Dude, the aliens gave you an anal probe!!

No they didn't. It was just a dream.

Insert fire fart.

Dude it's a hemorrhoid.

No it ain't. It was just a dream.

Buy some Preparation H. (Even the name is old and from the 1950's and they use an 'H' like a big 'C' for cancer both said in a whisper. Not even the producers of the remedy want to say hemorrhoid fully.)

Hell no. If I buy it, I'm old. If I buy it and it works, I am old and I have a hemorrhoid. No good can come of it. If I think it's a pimple, then it's a pimple. Or maybe an ingrown hair.

If you're growing hair IN your ass, you have other problems pal. It's not a pimple or an ingrown hair. Just buy some stupid Preparation H. Do you want me to buy you some?

No, I wasn't anal probed. This is just a dream.

And then it was Thursday. When I woke up I heard someone asking for more blankets and demanding that I get up to make coffee and bacon. It was the freakin hemorrhoid! Yes, hemorrhoids like bacon, (which is also a legume. Fact.)

Based on the pain involved and the fact that it didn't seem to be getting smaller, I decided I would have to take a look. The important part of this scenario is that no mirror in my place is full length. (I know, how I do get dressed without one??) This means that a chair is necessary. I also make sure the lighting is adequate.

So there I am, ass cheeks spread, bright lights, bent over on a chair, looking through my knees at my ass. Is it looking back at me?? And of course, I fall over. Naked, I land in the bathtub, ripping off the shower curtain and smarting from hitting my shin.

I hear laughing. It's coming from my ass.

It was just a dream.

The Chair

This is evidence of me and 'Newfie Kevin,' my neighbour, putting a chair together yesterday. One question, "why were we left unsupervised?'