♀

I consider myself lucky to have been brought up around men who treated me like an equal for the most part. However, I have had my fair share of judgment and struggles for trying to do man things in my personal life as well as my professional life. Apparently, if you’re a woman you can’t lift salt blocks to a truck, or sell insurance properly, or drive a standard, or farm, or put gas in my own car. If you’re so quick to judge what a female is doing and busy telling us that’s a “man’s job”, then get off your sweatpant ass and be a gentleman and lift the salt blocks, hold the door for me, give me a chance when I discuss something with you.. or better yet, just back off and keep your thoughts to yourself.

When I was young I acted more like a boy than a girl. And apparently looked the part too. I always had an extremely stylish dirty blonde mushroom cut and I continuously got the boy toys at McDonald’s (and cried to Mom about it). I still have the Aladdin plate in my house that accompanies Kristin’s Barbie plate. Proof.

I hated “puffy” shorts and girly clothes even though I was forced to wear them. I would bitch and complain the whole time and shoot dirty glares to whoever made me put the outfit on. I would choose to be outside with my Dad over anything. I got my first pair of red coveralls for my birthday one year and I couldn’t wait to go outside and play in the shop. I thought it was so cool to be filthy and full of dirt and oil because to me it made me look like I had worked hard. Reality: clearly made more of a mess and probably didn’t do one helpful thing for Dad.

I enjoy running. And after a year of annoying the hell out of the neighbours on the 2nd and 1st floor of the apartment building with the treadmill, I finally got brave enough to run outside in our neighbourhood when we lived in Regina. I enjoy running outside way more than indoors. This love was almost ruined by obnoxious losers who decided to yell and honk at me. I would get honked at on a regular basis. It made my blood boil. 1- it scares me. 2- you’ve ruined my momentum 3- it’s lame. 4- I am embarrassed for you and now myself.

I am also not impressed when someone puts the pedal to the medal and goes screeching past me. Question: has anyone ever seduced a woman by doing that?? I’ve read five serial killer books lately so if that happens again, I am automatically going to assume you’re a serial killer who is about to snatch me off the sidewalk and go off speeding down the road with me in the trunk. So go away.

I love cutting grass and as a child it was my go to hobby. It really is great therapy. Music, outdoors, and it’s just you and yourself (a killer tan that will turn into melanoma in 25+ years). For the longest time I was too light for the automatic shut off on the lawn tractor (I wish I had that problem now) so I found a big rock to keep behind me so that when I pushed down on the clutch it wouldn’t sputter to a halt. Clever hey? This has nothing to do with anything, I was just impressed by my problem solving skills.

I have been heaving furniture around since I could walk. Like not even joking. My dad brings this up all the time. Every time me and him lift something he brings up the time we moved a couch at the farm when I was three. I am not sure I was that young but probably not far off. I get super Hulk strength when I want to move something. Like loading the treadmill into the back of my Jeep alone after we got bedbugs. Usually when I am lifting something heavy I instantly get the giggles. The few times Kenton and I have moved, it always ends in a domestic because I start laughing hysterically and become week and feeble.

I have always been “Daddy’s little farmer” and wanted to help him in any way I could. Whether it was greasing up the machinery, or following him down the gravel in the Dodge when I could barley see over the steering wheel. I am sure I helped the deterioration of that truck during the process of learning how to drive standard. Driving back and fourth down the grid 20 times a day didn’t help the mile situation either. That old bird managed to creep up to 600,000 km. There isn’t much on the farm that I can’t or wont do. Except climbing up bins. I don’t like heights and I don’t like heaving my body up slippery rungs.

Once I am shown a couple of times how to do something, followed by a million questions I am good to go for the most part. There is an exception when driving the 4010 straight with the tree planter behind. Ask Shawn, he was patient with me. And didn’t kick me off or get mad at me (that he showed anyways). But I knew my tractor driving days were over that day with that planter so I was quick to demote myself to the planter and Kristin and I finished the job.. and by finish the job I mean we all got off the tractor and hand planted them.

One of my favourite past times as a teen was discing in the tractor listening to music. I could sit in a tractor all day and never tire of it. When iPods were the craze I belted out The Killers and other awesome songs until my voice went hoarse. I would use up any time off from university to go home and help Dad during seeding. I was obsessed with driving. Hence me driving the Dodge at 10 years old thinking I was literally the coolest cat in the land.

I was so obsessed that I remember cutting out a steering wheel made of cardboard and taping it to the back of the passenger seat in Shirley’s car and pretending I was driving the car. Obsessed.

I haven’t helped out on the farm much over the last few years as my family members have been home to help. And the simple fact that I need to pay my own bills. It is my passion and goal of mine to make more of a presence at the farm again and to spend time doing what I love – being outside and helping my Dad. Now that Shawn will be home I look forward to working with the family and being on the farm more.

Farming and agriculture are passions of mine. Why didn’t I go to university to study? Because I didn’t want to move to Saskatoon. I’d much rather learn by watching what goes on during the day and asking questions. I have always been proud of my agricultural background and farming is what I did most of my school projects on (elephants coming in with a hot second) when I attended school in Regina.

I know a lot of active women who participate in the farming activities. But they have many other things on their to do lists to accomplish. Generally they also partake in some kind of other work whether it be part time or full time or the farms books. Most of them cook, clean, pay the bills, manage the accounts, drive for parts, wash the dirty clothes, look after the children, drive the children to sporting events and the list goes on.

There has always been a part of me that has purposely held myself back for the simple fact that I didn’t want people to think differently of me because I wanted to do what the men did outside. I wanted to operate the heavy equipment, help fix the machines, help put the crop in physically, etc. Sure, I could have said: “fuck them I don’t care what people think” but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t care just enough that I didn’t do it. I always looked up to my Aunt Loretta because she was never intimidated to jump in their grain truck and rattle it down the gravel road to wherever the destination was.

There is documentation of centuries of women being the primary caregivers. But now, in 2018, many times there are two incomes and both man and woman contribute equally to the household. But why are some woman still the ones to pick up the slack on the historical “woman’s” duties?

Why should some women feel that because she doesn’t contribute as much as her partner (income wise) that she needs to clean, raise children and whatever else to feel accomplished? It’s almost like these tasks are the equivalent of her “rent”. If that’s the agreement, perfect. But I have had many conversations with people where they feel the need to go over and above to make sure the house is perfect, meals are cooked and kids taken care of in order to feel like they’ve “paid” their share. I am grateful that Kenton and I both share duties equally. Except cat litter. Ain’t nobody (Kenton) got time for that. Quite frankly, he is the better house keeper. I am a closet hoarder literally and figuratively.

Around Mother’s day last year I saw this advertisement going around of Facebook for the perfect gift for your mom. It said something like: “Give your mom a clean home. Our cleaning services will clean the home so your mom doesn’t have too” or something like that. Yeah – lets invite a stranger in to clean the home your mom is protective over and probably doesn’t want someone coming in to dust the hoarded cupboards.

Here’s an idea- the perfect Mother’s Day (or Father’s day – whatever the situation is) gift would be cleaning the house for them. Or a nice dinner prepared. Or having your company.

Instead of playing the blame game or feeling jealous, not worthy and competitive, we need to strive to be more humble and work together as a unit and as a culture to better the lives of everyone regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, and whatever else we can find to pick apart.

Today I celebrate all the wonderful women who have influenced me in one way or another throughout my life. Without you all, I would probably be a feral child in the hills.

Morning Rage

This morning was one of those mornings where I was doing my hair and makeup and I was actually thinking: “will this look okay in a mug shot?”. I was a raging wild animal in a cage when I woke up.

I’ve mentioned how I am not a morning person in previous posts and how I give myself little time to accomplish even the slightest tasks before work in the mornings. Today’s posts documents a particularly bad morning.

As soon as Kenton gets out of bed and starts his (annoying as fuck) morning routine – believe me, he would say my routine is annoying too when he doesn’t have to go to work until after I leave. What is a morning routine anyways? Don’t we all just stumble around like blind mice until somehow we’re out the door and in our vehicles?? Or is that just me.

The best thing in the world to me is when Kenton leaves the bed and I roll over and stretch my tree limbs across the whole bed. Its glorious. Watson has been ruining this treat for me lately. These last couple of days it has been the moment Kenton closes the door behind him. It is almost as if a little switch turns on in his brain and it’s time to pester the beast until she snaps.

By this time I have already snoozed my alarm four times, or screamed: “Hey Google, STOP THE ALARM!” – I was gifted a Google Home for Xmas incase you were wondering. And it’s great. But you have to speak clear and concise and always start with either: “Hey Google” or “Okay, Google”. It doesn’t answer to low angry mumbles, or FUCK OFF. It’s great because you don’t have to move your arms out of the blankets into the arctic temperatures to shut off your regular alarm.

Anyways, on my fifth mini nap of the morning, Watson comes and meows and makes all sorts of ruckus and pushes every button I have. This morning he tried to peel the covers out of my hands so he could get underneath. I pushed him away at least four times. Then he started meowing again. And purring like a chain saw.

I made my way half asleep over to the washroom to pee. Guess whose there all chipper and ready for a pet.. Watson. I can’t help but talk in my baby voice and give him the biggest pets ever because he is literally so cute and I can’t handle it. And he knows it. So he knows that if he survives the morning domestic and verbal abuse either of us give him, we’ll love him again in five minutes.

That is until I went out to the kitchen to slice two huge pieces of banana bread for breakfast (carb club!) and there it was. ANOTHER SUCCUCLENT DEATH BY WATSON. If he doesn’t get his way he knows exactly where to hit me where it hurts. By destroying my plants. I hate him today. He got another tongue lashing (I don’t even know why I bother) and stared at me while I aggressively stabbed a hole into the soil to put my half dead succulent back in hopes it will grow.

Anyways, that little prick does not get another post dedicated to him so I’ve got to get back on track with my morning.

Once I got upright and my Achilles tendon stopped bleeding from where Watson bit me (he hides and when I walk by, he runs as fast as he can, and pounces on the back of my leg), I put on the comfiest outfit I could find. I then stomped over to the bathroom to brush my teeth and observed my newly acquired adult acne. There is usually a new member of the patch every morning.

Next, I plopped down at my vanity and vigorously rubbed on deodorant & sprayed on too much perfume (because you don’t want to stink when you’re changing into your prison jumpsuit). Curling my eyelashes is usually good for a little more rage too. Who doesn’t like squeezing your eye lid between a clamp? I know I do. I also like putting on mascara when my eye is leaking like a faucet from crying/being squeezed by the curler.

It was then time for my rats nest hair. I slept in a braid so it was either going to be really good or really bad. And because I am not known for being the most positive cat around, I was willing to bet it was going to be bad after the morning I had. I ripped through each strand and somehow got the braid out- with only minor bald spots and one hair matt. I decided to put two new braids in. Now that I look like Heidi from the mountains, smell like a whore house & have a scowl like a witch, I’m ready for the day.

* * *

I had part of this post drafted for over a year. I am not sure why. Maybe it was because I was looking for the right “bad morning” to post it. Or maybe I was like: come on Janelle, was it that bad that you actually have to write about it?? Who knows. I just want to be a hippie. I wouldn’t need to worry about my hair because I could just have dreads. I wouldn’t have to put makeup on my adult acne because I would live in the bush where no one would see me.

Who Dat?

According to Wikipedia: “Who dat? is an English idiom originating from New Orleans.”

Also: “More recently, the phrase “Who dat?” has become a chant of team support. It is most widely used by fans of the New Orleans Saints, an American football team. The entire chant is: “Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?” “Who dat” may also be used as a noun, describing a Saints fan.

On September 11, 2017, Kenton, Dwight, Lisa and I found ourselves at US Bank Stadium in downtown Minneapolis to partake in our very first NFL game experience. And an experience it was! The Saints lost to the Vikings but despite the defeat, the day was a winner.

Clearly, I am a band wagon jumper and dressed up in yellow, black and gold to support Kenton’s love for the New Orleans Saints and because I didn’t really have much of a choice.

The NFL team I cheer for is the Detroit Lions. This started when both my brother Shawn and Kenton liked Calvin Johnson. He was a wide receiver (I didn’t even have to google that – but I did anyways not to mess up my football lingo) for the Detroit Lions and both Shawn and Kenton appreciated his skill. Every once in a while they would ask me who my favorite team was (hoping I would either say Seahawks – Shawn’s team, or Saints – Kenton’s team). I was obviously too smart for this question and decided I’d like the Lions. I still call them my team even though Johnson has retired and I literally couldn’t tell you one player on the Lions now. Whenever I go over to Aunt Shirley & Uncle Harvey’s house and the Lions are playing, Harv says: “your team is playing Janelle”. It’s literally the cutest <3.

Anyways…

We were barked at (literally) numerous times during the trip. Turns out, the barks were fellow Saints fans cheering WHO DAT?! The first time was intimidating and scary and I wasn’t sure if we were getting shot at or cheered at! A pack of people drove up in a large black SUV and literally sounded like wild dogs barking: WHO DAT WHO DAT WHO DAT at us. They also were filming us with their cell phones. I am sure the look on our faces was one of shock. A woman from New Orleans was walking towards us and noticed Kenton was wearing his Saints jersey. She said: “who dat bayyyybbbeeeeee” in the most sexual way ever. It was so intimidating and Kenton was speechless. That became the joke of the weekend and from then on we all wore our Saints gear everyday no matter where we were – safety in numbers!

All of our clothes had something with the gold fleur-de-lis on it.  We got harassed at the Mall of America by Vikings fans and stared at because we were (white) Canadians cheering for the New Orleans Saints. Now this isn’t meant to be a racist comment. At all. But seriously, we would get eyed up, then asked if we were from New Orleans and when we said no, they looked at us even more confused and then we said we were from Canada and their response was literally: “CANADA?! Canada.. really..way up there??.. Y’all are from Canada!?.. what makes you cheer for the Saints?!”. By the end of the weekend, we acquired many new friends from New Orleans and various other states who also cheered for the visiting team.

The morning of the game, we got all decked out in our Saints gear and walked to US Bank Stadium. We were only a few blocks away so it didn’t take us very long to get there. We got to the area about an hour before tailgating was supposed to get going. We met a really nice family who adopted us for the evening. They fed us, gave us drinks and told us the ins and outs. They were great hosts and showed us a great time.

I could write a whole other post about the game and how intoxicated we all were and maybe I will someday. I was going to write about the trip as a whole however, as I started writing, I knew the main focus had to be our trip down there. And seeing snap chat videos of me on the pedal bike taxis after the game are too much for anyone to handle. Now that all the grandparents have seen them I really don’t have much to hide anymore so I guess I can act outrageously everywhere I go now.

We left on a Friday and headed down to Minot, ND to jump on the Amtrak Train. We were all quite excited to partake in this new adventure because none of us had ever traveled by rail before. Before we even got out of the country we had a speeding ticket and got secondary searched at the boarder. Strike 1 and 2.

We finally got to Minot, got to the train station, unloaded our bags (I can’t even talk about the bag situation. We packed enough luggage that we could have adopted half the homeless looking people on the train and clothed them) and headed for the cars.

The train was outrageous. A gong show really. I literally was sweating buckets because we could not find a seat. Let alone four seats together. We were told to go to the back of the train to a specific car because there would be more room. So we hauled 7000 lbs of personal belongings to the back to find there was NO room. We brought a huge empty suitcase (for shopping goodies) and instantly regretted it.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Amtrak train cars, when you walk in the narrowest door ever, you are greeted by the (yuckie) bathrooms and a baggage bin where you can leave you life possessions unattended for an anyone to steal. Seriously, anyone who gets off at any of the stops can just grab and go. Good thing everyone was civilized and didn’t feel like thieving that evening.

We weren’t even on the train yet and we were all having a melt down. We got up the Barbie house sized steps, and it appears there are no seats anywhere in that car. Thanks lady, here we thought we were so smooth trying to beat everyone to the back car to get our pick of seats.

Now the circus begins. Lisa and Kenton were literally Olympic speed walking back and fourth on the train trying to find two seats together. The people on the train were not helpful at all. They were either passed out (must be nice), sprawled across BOTH seats (again – must be nice) or they were giving us the biggest bitch glares I have ever seen. Like: “if you steal my friends seat I will slash your throat” kind of looks.

Finally, Lisa and found some. She ran back to hold them while the rest of us dragged our luggage through the dimly lit train to our seats. Did I mention the seats were 3 train cars over? And here’s the real kicker: our window looked out to exactly where we were originally standing. We could have saved a couple mental breakdowns and my sweat glands by just getting on the first car in front of us.

The train started to chug along and Lisa and I decide to go and retrieve the big suit case from the train car three cars back. So we took off to get it. We were walking the opposite way the train was moving and swaying all over the place and I am sure we looked drunk out of our mind. I was hysterically laughing because of this and because I secretly wanted to cry from the outrageous events that we were happening.

We got to the original car and made the trek down the small death stairs to retrieve our useless bag. I hauled it down and stood there for a moment pondering how we were going to hike it up the stairs, wheel it through three cars, down the stairs in our car and back into the luggage compartment.

Why not just leave it and get it when you arrive you ask?? Because if it was that big of a gong show getting on the damn train to start with, how horrendous would it be to have to get off and run back to the car when everyone was trying to get off. We all know what getting off a plane is like. Everyone is standing up breathing down your back and bent in half if you’re by the window seat.

A few more hysterical laughter and swaying later, our mission was successful with only a few judgmental looks.

By this time I was freezing because I had sweat so much trying to get a seat that when I cooled off I was damp and cold. So I grabbed a sweater and went to join Dwight, Lisa and Kenton in the lounge car.

The lounge car is also the viewing car. It has a lot of windows and there are booths on one end and benches/seats on the other end so you can enjoy the ride. It was dark so the viewing part really didn’t help us but at least we could sit down and play some cards.

Side note: before everyone headed to the lounge car the train conductor decided now was a good time to check our tickets. I honestly don’t understand why they even check the tickets. Its dark, everyone is sleeping and there is no structure whatsoever. But what do I know. Anyways, we had to sit in our seats so they could check our ticket. Right before we got to our seats, this older woman came over with a mini bottle of scotch and asked Dwight to open it for her (LOL). Alcohol is prohibited on the train. This rule often has a blind eye turned towards it unless you are causing issues.

This woman, who had obviously drank two or three other mini whiskeys, was feeling pretty good and decided to tell a few outrageous stories about Winston Churchill.  I have a few direct quotes: “Winston didn’t get out of bed without a wee nip [of scotch]”, “Winston Churchill had a bad foot and scotch was the only thing that would cure it”.

I wish I was making that up. It was one of he most random things ever to witness. But it happened. She waddled back to her seat and a few hours later she was passed the fuck out with her bare foot hanging all over the place.

Okay – so back to the lounge car. We had been on the train for an hour at this point and I was impressed that I hadn’t jumped out the window yet. I would be lying if I didn’t think about walking back to the car in Minot and driving back to Canada alone.

Kenton convinced me to play cards and I was giving it a terrible attitude but I warmed up to the idea of it and had a few (well deserved prohibited beer) and played a few hands.

It was now midnight and I decided to go back to my seat and attempted to get some shut eye. I thankfully brought an eye mask so I threw that on with some tunes and tried to get some rest.

I woke up a couple times because the train had to stop at a few stations along the way. I didn’t really sleep but dozed off a few times. I probably would have had a better nap in the luggage compartment.

Fast-forward a few hours and the train was stopped. And I assumed we were at another station but we were at a standstill forever. I still had my eye mask on and I kept hearing people whisper and a walkie talkie and people walking back and fourth. To my surprise I opened my eyes to a Sherriff standing over me.

Our seats were at the very front of the car and he was standing there talking to another officer on the speaker. I was so lost and startled that I whipped around and none of my family were around.

At this point I was confused, half asleep, pissed off and scared. I turned around to look through the door way where our car met the lounge car. I didn’t see any action. So I relaxed back in my seat. Finally I heard the door buzz open at the back and there was a man was standing at the back of the car with the police. The officer flashed his light at him and I saw he was drinking out of an orange can.

Back story: we bought a case of NFL Budlights. These cans were all decorated in the team colours and I knew there was orange and red cans. My heart instantly started racing in all directions and I assumed Kenton and Dwight had something to do with this. The orange can this criminal was drinking out of was either his own orange pop or one of the NFL beers that Dwight and Kenton were drinking.

The train is full of weird people. And since it is much cheaper to train than fly, there are all walks of life on there. Including homeless people sleeping in the lounge area on the floor.

The next thing you know the man was in cuffs and being escorted off the train. I scrambled for my cell phone and called Dwight. He answered and I said what in the fuck is going on? Where are you? He said they were still in the lounge car and told me to come back there.

Turns out the man with the noble name of Otis “did something bad in Fargo”, hopped the train and was on the lamb.

I get back to my family and they began explaining their side of the story. Apparently Otis had asked to buy a beer from Dwight. He whipped out a huge wad of cash (not sure if that had anything to do with what he did in Fargo) but Dwight just offered to give him one. Otis exclaimed: “shit man, you saved the day!”. He then wound up and slammed three fingers down on the top of the can multiple times. This must make the beer taste better when you’re a criminal? I don’t know.  Otis became nervous and was sitting down at one of the benches shaking his legs and holding his head in his hands. A few short minutes later, the train conductor asked this man what his name was and as soon as he said “Otis” the conductor spoke into his speaker: “we got him”.

That is where my story comes in, watching him down his free (and probably last for a while) beer and get hauled off the train, suitcase in tow.

So as you have probably gathered, I hate the train and am not sure if I will ever go back on one again. Luckily, the trip back went a lot smoother even though we were verbally abused by an employee for taking up too many seats. Believe me, I had my attitude on and was ready to lose it and explain how horrible our trip down was and how everyone took up 80 seats for themselves when it was busy and how we didn’t have any assistance finding a seat. But instead I smiled and said, if we need to move then we will.

All in all the trip was great and we all had a blast! It was definitely an experience.

I would really like to know what happened to our friend Otis. But I am afraid that one might remain a mystery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thirst in the Night

Why is it that every once in a while you wake up and have an uncontrollable urge to drink an entire lake?

I drink water all day everyday. So I am not sure why some nights it seems like my insides have literally dried up and if I don’t get water in three seconds I’ll shrivel up and die.

Last night Kenton and I were both hit with the night thirst.

I woke up and it felt like Watson had stuffed 35 cotton balls in my mouth while I was asleep. Half asleep, I made my way out to the kitchen (in the dark) to fetch a glass or a sink full of water. At this point I could have taken the lid off the water cooler jug and chugged the whole damn thing.

I made it to the cupboard and opened it up. Out of nowhere I realized BOTH my arms were asleep. Sometimes, I sleep like an idiot and somehow both my arms got trapped under me and they fall asleep. Does this happen to anyone? One time I tried to push myself up and both arms were asleep so I fell back down because it felt like my bones were mush. Why the does that happen??? I just imagine that my arm is swinging around the edge of the bed like a piece of cooked spaghetti.

Anyways, I went to grab a plastic cup out of the cupboard and they all went barreling onto the stove top making the loudest ruckus ever. I stood in awe wondering if I somehow became paralyzed because I am not sure how I didn’t realize both my arms were asleep and I couldn’t feel the stack of glasses I was trying to retrieve.

Then, I hear a little “click” and see a glimmer of light come out of the bedroom because I have awoken/scared the fuck out of Kenton (LOL LOL).

A scared/startled/sleepy Kenton voice comes out of the room and asks: “what the fuck was that?” and comes out of the bedroom to see what the hell was happening.

Those of you don’t know, Kenton is afraid of the dark. He doesn’t understand how I can just go wandering out of the bedroom with all the lights out to get water. So of course his first reaction is to click on his light before coming to see if I was sleep walking, if we had an intruder, Watson was up to no good, or whatever the alarming crash was.

I told him how thirsty I was and then he told me he was thirsty too. Like the thirstiest he’s ever been. He went over to the cupboard and grabbed himself a glass.

Good thing my legs weren’t asleep because I managed to get myself back into bed.

I rarely ever drink water out of a glass. I always have it in one of the 35 water bottles I own. I don’t know why, I just don’t like drinking from a glass. Last night was clearly an emergency and I wasn’t able to locate a water bottle.

Now that every light in our house was on, Kenton came back to the room with his second glass of water. I was half asleep again but Kenton made me smell his water. To him it smelled like a fish aquarium (LOL). I took a whiff and sure enough it did. This is why I don’t drink out of a glass. But I just had the same water in a different cup and it didn’t. I have no idea what it was but it probably has to do with the dishwasher, Radville water and the chemicals used. Who knows.

Guess how many times I had to wake up to pee the rest of the night? So many.

The most annoying part of the alarming noise and ruckus is that I usually have a water bottle beside my bed to eliminate getting out of bed and walking into the darkness for a glass of water.

Kenton took advantage of my water bottle one night at when we lived at the apartment. I remember waking up, with the same feeling as last night, wondering if I would live another 60 seconds without water. I was so excited because I remembered I filled up my water bottle and had it beside my bed. I went to perch myself up and grab my water bottle when I realized it wasn’t there. And then I heard the noise of a person chugging water right behind me. I shot my head around to find Kenton (in the dark), slamming my water down his throat. I will never forget this. It’s like a movie in my head. I just sat in awe as he stole my water.

My water bottle has also caused other problems. One night, I was half asleep reaching out for my bottle. Instead of grabbing it, I sucker punched it across the room and panic struck as the sound of water pouring all over the floor filled the room. I darted up to grab it and knocked the lamp over. It was fucking chaos. As usual, Kenton groaned: “what the fuck was that” and my blood was boiling.

This summer Alyssa and I were sleeping in the camper after having a few drinks (understatement) and we both woke up with the hangover thirst. It was three in the morning and we couldn’t locate a bottle of water. We agreed that we’d go out into the night to find some. Lisa and Dwight’s site was across the road so we headed for the shed. We made it there alive and we broke into the shed and stole eight bottles of water. It was like finding the fountain of youth.

Needless to say, I had one of the worst sleeps of my life. You can’t even call it a sleep. I went to bed early, didn’t look at my phone and fell asleep quite quickly. It was all was adding up to a good nights rest. That all came crashing down – literally.

I hope we aren’t the only ones who are cursed with the night thirst.

 

 

Sugar Cookies.

Last night we were supposed to go to Weyburn to pickup our new treadmill. We picked out a nice fancy, upgraded one that hopefully wont stall out and dislocate our hips while using it. It even has a built in fan so I wont pass out from heat exhaustion! I am excited to get back running. I am equally excited to get back into my pants too. Apparently eating horribly and sitting on the couch binge watching Netflix doesn’t do your body any favours. Who knew.

Earlier that day:

I hate mornings. I don’t have a routine. The night before I am always so optimistic that I will jump up at 6 am and enjoy myself, maybe get in a workout, a nice breakfast, some me time. But I usually snooze the alarm 30 times. I wish I was exaggerating. Kenton wants to murder me when I do that. I’ll remember I showered the night before (thank god) which means I can hit snooze 4 more times. Five seconds later I am startled awake by that stupid chime or Watson’s meow and my blood will start boiling. At the last possible second I’ll drag my lurch body out of bed and stumble over to the washroom.

I’ve now given myself 15 minutes to dress, hate my life, brush my teeth, hate my life, cover up my newly acquired adult acne face, hate my life, put my hair in pony tail, hate my life, and then feed Watson (who chases me to his food box and bites my foot). I hate my life in the mornings.

Yesterday, I decided that I absolutely needed to take my necklace off before I left. I watched the pendant dance off the chain and land directly in the sink hole. I just stood there in awe for a second. Should I scream? Cry? Kill someone? Silence was probably the best reaction at that moment. 

After my shock, I tried to stick my finger under the plug thing to see if it got stuck there. I couldn’t feel it and I didn’t have time to keep looking. Also, my fingers are not three feet long and don’t resemble a plumbers snake so not sure what I thought I was going to accomplish by doing that anyways. So I left a note saying: “DONT USE! Dropped my necklace!” Incase Kenton decided to use the sink and wash my pendant away forever.

Back to original story: I got home and Kenton and I were talking about going to Weyburn to buy our new let’s not become a statistic and gain 450 lbs each after we get married machine. Also, to just simply get back running again – something we both enjoy and let slip over the last year.

I asked him to help me look for the pendant – which means we have to take the sink apart. Which means Kenton has to take the sink apart. Which means I’ll stand there taking snap chats of him while hysterically laughing.

Kenton asked me to bring him a pail for all the lovely goop that was about to come flowing out of the black pipe. I brought a pail along with a garbage bag and paper towel because I knew it was going to be horrendous.

WHY DOES WATER STINK LIKE POOP.

I hate it. Kenton pulled off the pipe and it instantly smelt like 45 dead animals in the bathroom. WHY. I instantly gagged and started hysterically laughing. Kenton didn’t like this one bit as he was the one “with his nose inside the pipe” LOL.

I grabbed the garbage bag to help him out but little did I know he already scooped out some horrific crud.  He said: “you dropped some shit on the floor” and I said: “where??” Kenton: “right by your foot” and pointed it out. I looked down and to my astonishment what looked like a drenched dead mouse was laying beside my foot. I screamed and started laughing hysterically again. I don’t know why I laugh when I’m grossed out or scared. It just happens.

Anyways, The pipes wouldn’t come apart so of course it snapped like a twig and now our sink is out of order. We then had a stinking bathroom, dirty bathroom, angry Kenton, laughing Janelle, curious Waston and NO pendant. It’s gone. It doesn’t make sense why it could be gone since I didn’t use the water and the pipe goes UP before it hits no mans land. I am crushed.

I made an impressive handmade rubber glove out of a grocery bag and got to work digging through garbage and sludge looking for my pendant. I can’t believe it. And those that don’t know me should know I don’t give up quickly when it comes to a task that I believe in. Just ask Alex Bjork about the time we tried repairing a tent pole. She is probably yelling at the screen right now. I was adamant we would find a solution to our problem. Just like I was sure we’d find my pendant.

But it’s gone. I am heartbroken as it is a special pendant to me.

The worst thing in the world is knowing something is gone when you literally know where you lost it.

So by the time this was all cleaned up and Kenton and I had a mini domestic (we’re good now), it was too late to go and get our treadmill. I had my pout on and decided I should bake cookies (cookies > treadmill). I asked Jaclyn Woitas for her sugar cookie recipe and went to town.

PS. I didn’t eat supper because I had just slopped through sink sludge and only had an appetites for cookies. Plus baking them took my mind off how mad I was that my pendant was gone.

I ate way too many. I limited myself to three last night. Which isn’t too bad. Except that they are monster size. Also, Kenton was watching some weird ass show about some disease where people claim to have fibers coming out of them. So I was munching on a cookie and looked up to some grotesque person plucking a fiber from their skin. WHAT? I got up from the chair and went to the kitchen because who can eat when that’s happening.

This morning during my usual whirlwind mornings, I gave myself 30 seconds for breakfast so I thought: “why not!” and packed another couple. Then for dessert at lunch I decided to have one more and instantly regretted it. I started writing this blog at lunch while eating my cookie because how could I not document this horrible evening.

OMG I literally just plucked a fuzz/hair/fiber from my mouth as I finished this last paragraph. I gagged. And now I am scared I have that fiber disease.

When got back to work after lunch I felt so horrible. I thought I was going to throw up all over my office. I had a sugar cookie headache. How pathetic. A sugar cookie headache. If I was to have a glucose test I would have been hospitalized. If I didn’t have diabetes before I probably do now. I’ve chugged water all day. Because 16 glasses of water really does something when you have 16 sugar cookies to go with it hey??

Tomorrow they’re coming to work. And they can either be thrown out, eaten, burnt, given to the cats, I don’t care but I cant eat one more or I will explode. Plus they bring bad memories: sink gunk, fibers, lost pendants and sugar headaches. If anyone is out walking by the lagoons and happens to run across my pendant, I wouldn’t mind it back.

 

Watson Part II

“You know you’re a loser when you talk about your cat at a party”.

This is what my husband said to me last weekend at a friends birthday party.

I only knew a handful of people there and I didn’t bring it up. A friend (who doesn’t like cats) mentioned how she sees my snapchats of my cat all the time. So I automatically felt like I had to justify his presence on this earth.

I told her how he’s really cute, purrs a lot, is fat, how he bites – I mean love bites. She wasn’t having any of it.

I am a loser for talking about my cat everywhere. But like who cares?! This is my second (in a row) blog about him. But he’s so easy to write about because he is such a character.

Watson is the worst, best, annoying, cutest, fattest, sneakiest, cuddly cat there is. Like you name it – he’s it.

You all got your first taste of him in my last blog that had to do with his vet appointment. That was just the start of it. It hasn’t gotten better except we haven’t spent $800 on him as he hasn’t swallowed any wedding rings lately.

He bullies me. Like actually. And he usually does it either right before I go to bed or in the morning when I am stumbling around like an ogre. He hides behind a piece of furniture and crouches down until I walk by. At exactly the right moment he runs as fast as he can, jumps up on my left calf, grabs it with both of his arms, and bites me. It literally scares the shit out of me because one of my biggest fears is being chased and grabbed. He knows I hate it because I’ll turn around to give him a licken’ and he’s gone, or hunkered down waiting for his nose tap (good one Janelle – that discipline sure seems to be working). He doesn’t do this to Shawn or Kenton. Only me. Like why. I feed you, clean your litter box, give you treats and this is how you repay me.

He is obsessed with outside. Any chance he gets he’s out there. See last blog when he snuck out at 6 am. I have been allowing myself to let him outside for a couple hours a day. So far he is pretty good at sticking close to home. The last few days he’s even come running in when I call him! Such a good boy.

Though sometimes he’s not ready to come in but I have to go back to work and he has to be inside before I leave. So I’ll literally stalk him in the yard until I can snatch him. I hate to admit this but Kenton and I found a trick that gets him in. And it requires scaring him to death. Like puffy tail scared. But it’s the only thing that works!! If you pick him up he flails around like an orangutan and your nice clothes are snagged.

So we head out and find something that’ll make a loud noise and go hard. The neighbours already think I am insane after screeching at the alley cat who beat up Phobos (oh my god – I am a loser about cats), so nothing should surprise them. So usually I am stomping around the deck, or banging the patio table, or slapping the corn broom all over the place. It does the trick! Before you know it, a grey furball with a raccoon tail is burning towards the back door and straight into his house. It makes my heart happy that his “safe place” is our home <3.

One time he came straight into the house and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The first reason was because he never would come straight in without us going to get him and the second reason is because he had brought a mouse in. Like he was showing off his kill. It was terrifying and he’s lucky the mouse was dead. I called Kenton in a panic and there was nothing he could do so I had to deal with it myself. I swept him up onto a dust pan and his little teeths were sticking out. I literally had quiver lip for him. Poor guy didn’t deserve to be murdered by Watson. He is so fast and the mice have the same colour coat as him so it’s hard to see that he’s carrying them.

The next two times he brought them into the house to show off to Kenton and Kristin.  And the last time he was showing off to Papa K. Dad was not impressed and did not care one bit. Except he was holding the mouse under his boot while I wrestled Watson inside and accidently squished to hard and it exploded all over the deck and Dad gagged. Hahahaaa. I was laughing so hard and Papa K was like: “it’s not funny sweetheart”.

Now he has an obsession with going out the front foor. This is a huge NO. Like, you have the whole back yard you don’t need the front too. Kenton has chased him down the road and had to crawl into a hole to retrieve him one time. And he also was slapping a container to scare him out of the front yard HAHA. We’re going to be labeled the crazies pretty soon. So last time he went out front, I went and honked the horn in Kenton’s truck and he bolted so fast I didn’t even seem him until I got to the back yard to let him in.

When my dad comes over he enters the house about as fast as a sloth would and doesn’t give two fucks if the cat gets out. Last week I was like: “Dad did Watson go outside?” Ken: “He mighta”. Thanks Dad. I went outside and there was Watson, thinking he was so cool that he outsmarted Ken and was laying on the patio blocks.

Jared was over the other day and he doesn’t like cats. Waston obviously knows this and likes to show off his nice cat physique by rubbing his gut on Jared’s leg. He also knows how to read people like a book and saw Jared heading to the front door. Watson took full advantage of this and went flying over there. Jared was holding the door wide open and Watson went for it. I was like: “watch the cat!” and Jared quickly closed the door and pinned Watson between the door frame. LOL – I am literally laughing out loud remembering this moment. All I could  hear was Watson’s scrambling legs as he was trying to run/dig himself out of this situation and Jared was like: “what do I do?!” HAHA. Watson backed off just enough that Jared snuck out. And probably wont come back ever again because of our misbehaved feline.

Okay, so we know he’s an escape artist and a scardy cat. But he’s also a night hawk. And I want to kill him. I wrote about this last blog but it’s not getting any better. Like at all.

Remember how I said he bullies me? Well he bullies me when I am sleeping too. He rarely bugs Kenton. Just me.

I literally cant explain how annoying it is to hear a cats back thumping your bedframe and hearing his jingling toy all over the place. My blood is boiling just thinking about it.

There was about a month where I thought he was getting better. He didn’t bug us as much and wasn’t playing with his toys on my face.

Until this week.

I was awoken by his jingling toy and leaned over the bed to take it away from him but he stayed just far enough out of my reach that I couldn’t get him (obviously I wasn’t getting out of bed). I pretended I was back asleep and he started up again. This time I swung over and scooped up his toy before he could steal it away from me. His mouse slept on the nightstand that night.

A few nights ago I woke up to him literally tugging the covers out of my grasp to get under them with me. It’s really cute. But also really frustrating and kind of creepy. Like get out of here Watson. I fought with him for the rest of the night over the covers.

Last night, he decided it was a good idea to come under the covers with me again. I woke up to him sleeping against the back of my legs. I thought that was cute and he was sleeping so good – so I thought I’d leave him there. He was being so good and not bugging anyone.

And then he clawed me.

He woke up, stretched his little arms out across my hip, and decided that my hip bone would be a good place to bring out his talons and poke me.

My eyes shot open and I grabbed him so fast and threw him on the floor. I could barley do this because he clawed the bed and was stuck like velcro. I wanted to roar and murder him on the spot but all I could muster out was: “we’re trimming your claws tonight Watson”.

Those of you who have seen me nap, which is probably a lot of people because that’ my favourite pass time and I am a master at it, know you don’t wake me up abruptly. Just ask Kenton. Let me wake up on my own or I literally turn into a demon. I don’t mean too. But I just can’t help it. I am working on being a better person when I wake up though.

Watson is really good at abruptly waking me from my sleep. And he’s lucky he’s not back at the humane society. Or making friends with the farms cats at the farm. He wouldn’t last a day out there.

I threw him back out into the living room. Had an hour of peace and then heard his stupid little claws scratching the bald spot outside our door. Once again, I am stomping over to the door to kick the shit out of him (more like coddle him and give him a treat) and he’s not there. He’s playing tricks on me. He is playing knock-knock ginger with me. I had 0 lights on but my night vision was in full force and I could see his obese body across the living room on the chair. I walked up to him and asked him to not do that (like that’s going to work). I went back to bed and left the door open because I am a loser and gave into his antics.

Needless to say, I didn’t have a good sleep last night once again.

The most annoying (and hilarious) part is Kenton literally sleeps through this. Like how? How can he honestly not hear his wife in distress over the cats behaviour?!

I hate Watson so much.

But I also love him so much more. So he gets to stay.

Watson

I can’t believe I haven’t written about our fur child, Watson. Honestly, it’s probably because I go from hating his guts to loving his guts within minutes on the daily.

February 13th, a day before Valentine’s Day, and less than 24 hours after Phobos (I miss that guy and his beautiful temperament), we chose little Watson to come home with us.

On the days leading up to Phobos’ last day with us, Kenton and I were considering getting a cat of our own.

We wanted a cat, not kitten, preferably from the Humane Society. The Weyburn Humane Society had been posting photos of the available kitties for a few weeks and I kept sending them to Kenton. This was mostly a joke but little did I know he actually wanted a kitty (more so than me if you can believe it) and he started showing me the ones that he would accept.

Little Watson was the perfect candidate. He was a good age (about a year), was a nice grey colour, had white patches and toes, and looked like the cutest thing ever in his portrait. He was slowly winning us over and we hadn’t even met him yet!

Beautiful boy Watson

Sunday at noon, Phobos went home and I had major quiver lip. I somehow made it through the rest of the day and Monday at work. Kenton called me during the day and asked: “so are we going to Weyburn after work or what?” (acting all casual like he didn’t have time for such a thing).

I was honestly a bit hesitant. Like after all these years of wanting a cat and Kenton is finally willing to go and check them out. Is this a dream??

It wasn’t. We hopped in the truck and took off towards Weyburn. We were just going to look. And decide who we liked. We weren’t really prepared. I needed to get a new litter box, toys, food, dishes, the whole nine yards for our addition. But we went anyways.

We all know that when you go to the Humane Society “just looking” you almost always come home with something. Kenton fell for that one.. hard. 😉 Just ask Papa K, he knows all to well. I swear he found different routes to never drive past the shelters if I was in the car. Especially when I almost threw a tantrum because he wouldn’t let me adopt a pregnant momma cat. She was balding. And looked terrible. But I wanted the kittens. My dad was so disgusted and made me go into the boy pen. We adopted beautiful Henry.

Anyways, we got to the Humane Society and we immediately went to see Mr. Watson. He was so cute. And his little golden eyes stared into my soul (little did I know it was the actual devil- casting a spell on us so we would bring him home). Watson was the winner and we decided to take him home. He kept sticking his little white tosies out of the cage and wanted to be cuddled. He even purred for us!

We had to fill out an application to adopt him. It was kind of intense and I was a bit intimidated. One of the questions was: “how will you deal with scratching?” The options were: scratch post, de claw, soft paws, nothing. It also asked if we had allergies to cats. Well I of course do, but that hasn’t stopped me before. So I answered no. I am a liar. I didn’t want them to flag us as bad cat parents and not let us adopt him! Besides, it’s nothing 45 boxes of Kleenex and allergy pills can’t fix. I am immune now and it doesn’t bother me.

Our first family photo. McDonalds to celebrate. Obviously. Kenton looks grumpy. He wasn’t.

We got approved and went to pick up our little prince charming. Luckily PetValu was open and we could go get the essentials. This is literally my favorite part. Spending the equivalent of three pay cheques to get your home set up for a cat. Plus a lot of unnecessary items for him. We wouldn’t want him to get bored, so we made sure he had a large selection of toys.

He is SO BAD.

MISCHEVIOUS. Stubborn. annoying. sneaky. Did I mention annoying?

But he is also so wonderful.

I don’t even know where to start. It’s ridiculous but I will start with his $800 poop.

If you would have told us that we would spend $1000 on a cat at the vet I would say you were crazy. But we did. And Watson is still here to tell the tale.

Kenton was away working and Watson started puking. Like all over the place. He would go lay on his cat hammock for an hour or two and wake up to go over to the back door and puke (thank you for not puking on the carpet). He did this for 12 hours and my anxiety set in and I made a call to the vet. They said that he needed to be assessed. Great, So I took him in. $250 later, two x-rays determined there was an obstruction. But it didn’t show up properly and they couldn’t determine what exactly it was. He needed surgery. Quoted at $1100.00 over and above the $450 we already spent to determine this.

At the Vet. Waiting so nicely to be examined.

I was on the phone with Kenton, trying to keep my stern calm face on while he was asking me 100 questions about the cost. I called Kristin with partial quiver lip and said: ” I am not paying for a surgery for a cat!” and she said: “well he’s brought you guys so much joy…” (LOL). I got back on the phone with Kenton and he was like: “well we’re not putting him down, I’ll fucking pay for it!” (LOL x2).

I was trying to keep it together and make a decision (other than to just let him out on the side of the road on the way home and let nature take its course) all while Watson was making the most ridiculous noises ever. The vet was doing his exam and pushing on his tummy and Watson was not having it.

I wish I could explain the sound. Kind of like two cats fighting that had rabies. That’s as close as I can get. Even the vet was disgusted.

I honestly hate to admit this but at one point I wanted to break his neck over the counter so he’d stop making that sound and make my decision easier (at least he wouldn’t die on the side of the road??) It sounds so mean and terrible, but you try being there while you’re cat sounds like that, with the vet feeding into your emotions and cat hair flying up your nose. Don’t tell the cat Social Services on me!

He was booked in for surgery the next morning. I wasn’t convinced he really needed it and wanted a second opinion. Dwight called a different vet and it turns out their costs are way lower even with another exam. I took him in for a second opinion and he stayed over for two nights while they monitored him. He swallowed these little balls that showed up in x-rays so they could track his system.

All was well and little Watson didn’t need surgery. But he needed to poop. And he is so stubborn and vet shy that he wouldn’t go there. If he didn’t poop we would have to take him back for further examinations.

Our poor little babe was ill so of course we were feeding into his BS. Cuddling him on the way home and feeling sorry for him. Giving him treats. Of course he could muster up the strength and appetite to sneak down a couple treats here and there. But real food was just too much. See? He owns us.

He wasn’t home five minutes and he took the biggest, grosses, smelliest poop I have ever seen.

What was the obstruction you ask? Unfortunately it is going to remain a mystery. Neither of us were going to dig through a box full of poop to find out.

I will however mention that Kenton’s silicone wedding band is no where to be found. I will also mention that Watson was obsessed with that thing and stole it off the night stand every chance he could. So I am going to assume he got carried away one night and it accidently went down the hatch.

***

His purr sounds like a freight train. Which is so cute and so fucking annoying. Especially at three in the morning when you’re trying to sleep.

Honestly, we haven’t really slept well since we got him. He sleeps all day like any other cat. And about 9:30 pm, his tail starts twitching and he starts getting himself riled up for a night filled with activities. Those activities include keeping Janelle and Kenton up and doing everything in his power so get into our room and doing anything he can to get the attention he wants.

In his natural habitat. Taking up half the bed.

He loves to carry out Cat Olympics at about 11:30 pm, where his favorite “Mouse” and “Beaver” go head to head. They usually end up under our bed and all you can hear is Waton’s back end banging against the bed frame. We’ve learned that Mouse and Beaver have to be put away at night now.

One morning, Kenton heard this weird sound and snuck out into the kitchen where he found Watson, paw deep, in the sugar bowl. He somehow got the sugar bowl onto the stove top, opened the lid, and spread the sugar over the entire stove. It was atrocious.

“Why don’t you just lock him out of your room at night?”. Oh really? That’s a solution?? I hadn’t thought of that. Just kidding, we locked him out and now we have a whole ripped out of our carpet the size of a soup bowl. I am secretly happy about this as I don’t like the carpet and I want it gone. But it doesn’t solve the issue.

We have no choice but to strangle him or leave the door open a crack to let him in. And because we love him dearly, he always gets access to the room at night. We leave it open the smallest amount but he doesn’t make any graceful entrance. He has to open the door wide enough that an elephant could fit through. I can’t believe Kenton is okay with this because of all the mysterious dark space that is exposed when the door is left open

Now the fun part (for Watson) happens. He starts his engines and begins his nightly routine. First, he gets purring loud enough that everyone on the block can hear. Then he starts pushing his head into your hands because he needs to be cuddled RIGHT NOW. This is followed by “love bites” because we aren’t giving into his nudges. These love bites make me want to slaughter him. And Kenton. Simultaneously. I HATE them. My blood instantly boils and I sumo throw him across the bed.

For the first while, Kenton slept through this. How he did is beyond me, but must be nice. He’s been waking Kenton up these last few weeks and Kenton throws him to the end of the bed, but he walks right back up. This happens like seven times until Kenton herds him out of the room.

When Kenton is working out of town and I am home alone with the critter, he is even worse. Like come one, we have a whole bed to ourselves. Do you have to be on my pillow? Biting me? I usually attempt to lock him out but he is relentless. He will literally meow and pick at the carpet until he wins. He’ll go as far as to stick his paw under the door and plays with the door stopper that makes the most horrendous sound when it’s knocked.

2 seconds away from making a racket with that stopper.

Sometimes I just pray he lays down. One night I just let him walk all over me (literally) and he finally settled down. On my chest. I sacrificed my comfort so a fucking cat could get a good rest on my chest. Kenton woke up and started laughing because I cant even imagine how ridiculous that looked.

He totally owns us. And the house. I bought him a $20 cat toy. He owns me.

The other night, he did his usual purring and kneading and nudging and biting. But he took it too far. He went as far as biting the top of my ear. My ear. My eyes shot open and my blood was boiling. I whipped around so fast, sat up and before I could grab him he was on the floor. Five seconds later he was back. This time walking all over me again. But decided to walk up my belly and walk all over my boobs. K? He’s not a big cat but he couldn’t walk around them? Or not at all? It’s hurts! But he walked on my boobs, and onto my head. Because my head isn’t a proper walking surface, he began to slip and dug his claw into the side of my head for traction.

I screeched like a barn owl and grabbed him so fast that he couldn’t get away from me. I tapped him on his nose and threw him onto the floor.

Kenton was getting ready to leave for work. Which means every light is on, he can’t find his wallet, or his keys, or his shirt, or his pants, or his life and is making the biggest ruckus ever. Obviously I was in a bad mood from the nights happenings. Before he leaves he tells me: “Watson is outside and I don’t have time to go and get him”. It’s not even 6:30 in the damn morning and my blood pressure has hit its maximum three times already.

Kenton was in the safety of his truck driving to work and I pondered for 30 seconds if I should leave him out there for the wolves or go and rescue our little baby. Of course I rolled out of bed to go and retrieve him.

I go out onto the deck and that little bastard was no where to be found. I walked around outside in my ugly pj’s once again (why am I always outside on the lawn with horrendous clothing and drool and scraggly hair.. while looking for a cat?!) Crazy cat lady is clearly meeting a whole new level.

I figured he was probably under the deck so I stomped around like Finn McCool the giant and scared the shit out of him because he was actually perched on the deck. His tail was huge and he tried scurrying away to the shed. In my morning giant voice I growled: “Don’t run away from me!” and he sulked down and let me pick him up. I wanted to kill him. But then I saw his cute little eyes and had to resist the urge to baby talk to him. I let him down gently and got him his morning breakfast. Because God forbid he be fed one minute after 8 am.

I have a lot of bad things to say about him but I love him. He’s great company, entertaining, goofy, and of course so cute. He acts great around company and I wouldn’t give him up for anything (though sometimes I threaten him by saying he’s going back to the Humane Society). I love coming home to his sleepy face and his cuddles. Even if he does give me a “love bite” or two.

Penny

Last fall Kenton called me to tell me he found a camper he wanted to buy. Initially I thought he could put his money to better use but it’s his money and if he wanted an old camper, he could do whatever he wanted.

When Kenton “finds things” and calls to tell me about it, I get worried.

Side story: The last time this happened, we were living at the apartment in Regina and he called me to tell me he found a new cheap bed. I asked where and he said in an alley while he was working (for the City of Regina). I was so confused and really didn’t know how to react. I asked him if it was leaning up against the dumpster.

A bed, in an alley, in Regina. Hmm.. sounds comfy and so clean.

He tried to tell me it was a legitimate “company” and they were wrapped in plastic.

Like plastic because there is pee stains and needles imbedded?

After some convincing he got me to go and check out this mattress. And, as usual, he right. It was a legitimate person, selling beds in a garage, in a weird part of Regina, in an alley. I didn’t ask how this person got in business. We gave them the money and got the hell out of there.

Kenton had his Ford Ranger (lowered) at the time. So we loaded up our brand new clean Queen box spring, mattress and frame in this “truck” (if you can even call it that – sorry Kenton). And took it to the apartment.

Another side story: I have been moving furniture my whole life. I must have been a professional mover in a past life or something. Dad always says: “ever since you were 3 years old you’ve been helping your daddy move furniture”. And it’s literally true.

I obtain Hulk strength or something. I remember lifting a couch when I was way to small to be lifting a couch and moving my oak bedroom furniture around my bedroom numerous times.

When we moved home, I somehow wrestled the treadmill into the back of my Jeep by myself. Don’t ask how. I just did. This past winter, I helped Kristin move (for the 100th fucking time) and had to carry stuff up the stairs. I carried the table over my head up the rickety stairs along with many other items.

Anyways, now that I am done bragging about my moving skills, long story short, we got the damn bed up three flights of stairs and lived happily ever after with our alley bed in the apartment (until the bed bug incident – see previous blog).

Back to the camper. So, when Kenton called me telling me he found  a camper in an alley, I knew it was either going to be really good or really bad. Again, he convinced me to come look at it. We showed up and I definitely thought we were going to be held captive and killed. But I put my resting bitch face on and walked to the back yard.

To my surprise, it was in great shape! It is a 1984 (?) Prowler. It doesn’t stink inside and the cushions are not ripped or dilapidated. I was pleasantly surprised. It definitely needed some sprucing up but for a couple thou it was worth it.

Our next step was getting cash out to pay for it. We drove to the scariest convenience store in Regina to take out way too much cash at one time. I am surprised we didn’t get held up like Kenton did in the Broad St. 7/11. That is another story. One that scarred my Dad for life. $40.00 worth of pop and chicken nuggets later, Kenton was safe.

We took our cash back to this man and left our new purchase there over the weekend as we were going to Saskatoon.

On Sunday, it was time to pick up our new possession. Kristin needed a ride home from Regina and we had an entire mall in our truck because we went black Friday shopping. Using up Wedding gift cards and Kristin was furnishing her new apartment.

Good thing we had the trailer. We literally had to load it up so we could fit Kristin in the truck.

So another long story short, we got the trailer home and then it was time to decide how we were going to spruce her up. She has really ugly orange accents, ugly floor, and a weird weed (not marijuana) backsplash. Dad called it corn weeds (hahah).

Once Kenton and I decide to do something we have a one track mind and literally can’t think of anything else until it’s done.

The last few weeks have consisted of planning and giving Penny (that’s her name) a facelift.

We knew the backsplash had to go and the flooring. So that’s where we started. We are slowly but surely getting there.

We were about a quarter done the kitchen backsplash when I said: “maybe we should check to make sure everything works before we put money into this thing”. DUH. Dwight came over and we hooked up the propane. She didn’t blow up and the heater worked, so far so good!

Kenton was working on the floor and I was working on the backsplash in the bathroom. I was using the saw outside and almost cut my thumb off because I got some debris in my eye and closed my eyes. Did I mention it was dark outside and I was using the saw on our front step with the front light on?  Please don’t tell my dad. He will literally abandon me as a daughter. Dwight and Kenton went to use the table saw the other night and Dad was like “carefully” when they were leaving. Safety first! is Papa K’s motto. And he’s right.

After

Now it’s time to cover the horrendous orange. And it’s everywhere. The seats, the couch, and the valances (fancy word for window/curtain box in my opinion).

I had to talk Kenton off a cliff because he was on the verge of a “we-are-in-over-our-heads meltdown”. We were waste deep in flooring, backsplash and fabric shrapnel that it was hard to   see the complete picture.

Good thing it’s a long weekend coming up! Hopefully Penny the Prowler will be in tip top shape in no time.

Happy camping!

Air Travel

If you can believe it, I don’t really enjoy flying.

Therefore I don’t really enjoy airports.

Every time I book a trip somewhere and I get that confirmation email, the anxiety sets in. I have to sit in a metal canister for however many hours that is somehow gliding through the air and STAYING there.

Security scares the shit out of me. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been through I am terrified and my palms start sweating. I act all cool and nonchalant while I  fill up the gross white bin that carries all of my personal belongings. The security person barks at me for my boarding pass and then I get to walk through the dreaded beeping machine. In the Las Vegas airport, a security person had a dog that was clearly there to sniff out drugs. It made me nervous and Kristin was like: “you don’t have drugs on you so whatever”. So I came back with: “well what if I stepped on something on the strip and the dog is going to sniff it out and I am going to be interrogated and then left behind?”. She wasn’t humouring me at all.

My very first experience at the airport was when Kristin and I travelled to Toronto in 2008. I had never been through security before and was traumatized. I made it through the beeper only to find out I was “randomly” selected to have a pat down.

Once I make it through security alive I can relax a little bit until it’s time to head to my roomy and comfortable seat on the big bird.

At this point I fumble around with my belongings and triple check that I didn’t forget my passport somewhere. It literally doesn’t matter how much I think I am organized and have everything at a convenient reach, I am still always tangled up and struggling to get my life together.

Before I even sit down I’ve easily spent half of my pay cheque at the store buying useless items like magazines, $8 bottles of water, chocolate that will melt all over my hands on the plane, headphones because I forgot mine and whatever else I can squeeze into my purse.

Now it’s time to people watch. I find the perfect chair close to my gate and get comfy(ish). I start shaking my leg nervously counting down the minutes until I have to board.

The seating arrangements always suck. If you choose the window you’re a nuisance if you have to use the death-trap washrooms. If you are stuck in the middle… well sucks to be you. And if you’re in the isle seat then you’re the one getting asked to get up and down if the others have to use the washroom. It’s just a lose – lose situation.

I always have plenty to do to occupy my time on the plane but I usually end up staring out the window wondering when we’re going down. Or I am half paying attention to the movie or show I’ve put on. I might read five sentences of the 16 books I’ve jammed in my bag and flipped through my $10 magazine before the attendants even get through the safety demonstration.

I am however fortunate that I can sometimes fall asleep. Mostly because if we crash I’d rather be disorientated and half awake then wide awake and scared. And it passes the time. The more you sleep, the faster the flight goes. Makes sense to me. However, I am an ugly sleeper. I am sure I snore, or have my mouth wide open (no wonder I get a cold literally every time I fly somewhere), and without a doubt I am drooling.

The best ever is when the Pilot comes on the speakers and says “prepare for landing” or whatever spiel they use. In a few short minutes you know your feet will be safely on the ground.

This however brings a mix of emotions for me. I am happy that I will soon be free. But I am also finding the wheels of the bird to make sure the landing gear comes out. Can you imagine? Getting through the whole flight and the landing gear doesn’t come out? I would honestly jump out the window.

One of my favourite movies of all time is Bridesmaids. The best scene is when they are on the plane. Annie is not a good flyer and Helen gives her some strong drugs with alcohol and she is out of it. She thinks she sees a Colonial woman on the wing and everything is a disaster from there. The “nervous woman on the plane” (literally what Google says when you search character list) dreamt the plane is going down and talks about how she heard a woman got sucked into the toilet of the plane (see? they are death traps!). I watch the scene at least twice before I can move on to the rest of the movie. See first image for scene.

As you can probably gather, the best method of transportation for me is driving. However, I really don’t enjoy long car rides either. I would never make it as a truck driver because I would fall asleep on the road for sure. I love my naps and I love my naps in a vehicle – obviously when someone else is driving. There are times when I get heavy eyes and have to literally roll down the window to make myself wake up. Or pull over. I hate that. So driving long periods of time is also not for me.

So my apparent options are to fly and be scared or to drive and fall asleep. Awesome.

 

Potential infestations

It is approximately three years ago since we slept our last night at 2834 Parliament Ave in Regina.

It was an ordinary week, a Thursday night to be exact. Kristin was staying over as she was headed back to Newfoundland for school.

We went to bed as per the normal. Slept like snug bugs in a rug (no pun intended), until the wee hours of the morning when out of the quite morning air came: “oh my fucking god. We have bed bugs”.

This tired faced voice came from Kenton. Miraculously the bug was the very first thing his eye went to that morning. We shot out of bed disgusted and tip toed over to the curtain where the little bug was latched on.

I was like: “are you sure that’s a bed bug?” and Kenton, being the master of searching things on Google confirmed that it indeed was a young, male bed bug.

My mind was racing. These were my anxiety years so of course I panicked. I felt like the dirtiest homeless person in the world. I got dressed, went to work and cried when I got there because as soon as I said we found a bed bug in our suite everyone looked at me like I had just pooped myself. My work was very understanding and let me leave for the day (they were probably horrified I brought the critters with me into work and wanted me the hell out of there).

The first thing we did was figure out how they could have gotten in. There was a sign in the lobby providing information about bed bugs but didn’t actually specify any suites had been infested.

TO BE CLEAR: we did not have an infestation. We had ONE and only ONE bug. We lived on the third floor and the laundry was in the basement. I am positive I brought one up doing laundry.

The second thing we did was get on the horn. Kenton called his dad, we called Orkin, I called our landlord and accidently verbally abused them. Threatened to move out instantly. They got me by saying: “you’ll only take them with you” (fuck you landlord). They told us they would schedule the bed bug patrol to come in and fumigate the suite. This had to happen three times. The preparation was outrageous. We had to:

-bundle up lose objects in bags

-dry EVERY SINGLE PEICE of fabric (even if it wasn’t allowed in the dryer) on high heat to kill any eggs or bugs. (again – we didn’t have an infestation. This was all paranoia on our part).

-move out

There was no way in hell either of us were staying there. All of a sudden our cute little apartment was the most disgusting place in the world and I couldn’t wait to get out.

Once we had our lives packed in garbage bags, we drove home to Radville and went straight to the laundry mat. We were there for hours drying and washing and folding and hating our lives.

I very clearly remember when we went to Kenton’s parents house to get clothes. Lisa (reluctantly?) said: come in! with a welcoming warm smile on her face. Kenton said: “no it’s okay, we don’t want too”. She handed us PJ’s to wear and a crate full of food for supper. This was one of the lowest moments of our lives.

We ate a delicious supper made by Lisa while wearing pajamas in the laundry mat. Once we put in a good shift there, we went home to shower. And I probably cried some more.

Side note: remember how I said Kristin was heading back to Newfoundland? Turns out her flight was cancelled and she had her suit cases at our apartment. She too had to bring them home and dry everything.

I will also add a cute little story in here. The suite at the very end of the hall is the reason we all had bed bugs. Kenton was brave enough to walk down to see what the damage was. To his disgust, there was a woman and a man who had absolutely no furniture in their suite because it was all destroyed by the bugs. They slept on a mattress wrapped in plastic in their storage room while the suite was being treated. Did I mention the woman had bed bug bites on her face?! And they had cats. What a nightmare. We laugh about it now but literally at the time I could have easily started them on fire and walked away. How horrifying. And they didn’t think to mention anything to anyone before this? How can you let something like that happen in your home and ignore it?!

The next step was finding somewhere to live while our suite was getting the three necessary treatments and we found a new place to live. I called my Aunt Louise. She was totally okay with us staying at her house. We re assured her we weren’t infested and everything we did was a precaution.

We didn’t know how long we would be homeless so we decided to talk to Kenton’s aunt too. We would go back and fourth until we figured it out. We didn’t want to be burdens to anyone.

Try texting someone and asking if you can stay at their house because your house has bed bugs. I was shaking like a leaf when I was typing out the message. Kenton didn’t want to ask so I was the brave one. If I remember correctly I believe I did try to call first but there was no answer (I was secretly relieved because I was dreading the awkward silence and “click” when the word bed bug came out of my mouth). I ended the text with a note saying I can call and explain the situation better and we can come over the next week to discuss.

We felt like the dirtiest losers in Canada. Actually, the second dirtiest. The first being the crazy couple littered in bed bug bites and no furniture.

Showing up at our aunts houses with our rubber totes full of enough clothes to get us by for a while was so humiliating. During this time I had to go to my last insurance course and kenton backed into a beemer. Fun times had by all.

When it was finally time to move into our new basement suite (March 1), we had to go back to the apartment to clean, pack and say our final good-bye’s. We got everything moved to our new place. It was then time to bring in the fabric. And by that I mean all of our bags and bags of clothing, towels, bedding, etc. into the suite. I felt like a criminal because we moved it in darkness so our new landlords wouldn’t wonder why the hell we were carrying our stuff in garbage bags instead of boxes. Can you imagine if they found out we were moving because our last place had bed bugs?! We could have ended up on the Do Not Rent list!

This bed bug fiasco has sure made Kenton and I paranoid of any unwanted little critters. And Kenton has lost his fair share of sleep over unwanted guests that can cause potential disasters.

I will mentioned we kept a keep sake from our experience at the Apartment. In a small little container in a box, we have the lonely little bed bug that caused us so much grief. He is dead by the way. Who do you think we are?? Crazy people??

Our new suite was in a basement and one night Kenton was tossing and turning because he was freaking out over a new kind of bug that seemed to be sharing our space with us.

I introduce you to a Wood Louse. Don’t ask me what it is. Remember how I mentioned Kenton is the master at Googling things?? Well he researched the heck out of these little bugs until he was convinced we had a new potential infestation. Don’t worry – he wasn’t allowing me to get my beauty sleep because he was basically sitting on my lap showing me his bright screen that was zoomed in on a wood louse. I tried to convince him that we were fine and we lived in a basement so of course we were going to have bugs.

Fast forward to this past summer and we are living in our very own home. Kristin’s friend Meaghan was visiting from Nova Scotia and had just left our house after a visit. I had found some mouse droppings in one of the drawers in our bathroom a few months earlier but I cleaned it up, disinfected and chalked it up that we had a visitor as I hadn’t seen anymore poop.

I was sooo wrong. It returned. And I was disgusted and once again felt dirty.

I went to the Co-Op and bought a mouse trap. I stuffed it with cheese and peanut butter and put it in the bathroom cupboard. No dice. The little bastard licked the peanut butter and thieved the cheese and made me look like a fool.

I wasn’t going to let this little fur ball win so I went back and bought a sticky trap. I hate these. I just want the thing to get trapped and die. I don’t want to listen to it scrounge around until someone comes to deal with it. Because I obviously wasn’t murdering it.

After Kristin and her friend left that night I heard scampering. And my heart sank. I knew I caught the little freak but unfortunately Kenton wasn’t home and Shawn is just as scared of mice as me. So we were hooped.

I finally got brave enough and told myself to go and deal with it. I marched over to the cupboard and whipped it open. THERE WERE FOUR MICE. FOUR. They were all piled up and stuck. I screamed like a banshee, slammed the door shut and went flying in to the living room. I called Kenton. No answer of course. Kenton never answers his phone. Hense why I always think he’s upside down in a ditch. I called Jared and told him I needed to talk to Kenton this instant and that they needed to come help. Anyone that knows Jared knows he obviously wasn’t going to come and help me get rid of these mice. So Kenton’s job it was.

The longest five minutes went by and Kenton came in the door. He was disgusted by my screaming and told me to calm down. He acted all tough as he walked over to “deal with the problem”. He was just as grossed out. And as much as he wouldn’t want to admit it he was just as scared as I was.

After we cleaned up the mouse shrapnel, we set another trap just to be sure.

Literally less than 5 minutes later there was another.

Janelle’s anxiety set in and I almost had a panic attack. The things running through my head at that instant was enough to almost put me over the edge. I was freaked out, felt gross, was horrified that the Mouse Man was going to have to come and park out front and everyone in Radville would know we were dirty freaks with mice in our brand new home. We obviously had an infestation and our lives were OVER.

Luckily, this was not the case. There were no more and have been no more since our initial 5. They were getting in by a small hole near our air conditioning unit but that has since been dealt with and we have been mouse free! There is still a trap in the crawl space just incase.

We now have our kitty Watson who will forever protect us from mice as he is a good little hunter. Especially when you have a pheasant feather as a decoration that must still smell like bird. But that’s another story.