Friday, August 27, 2010

Suburban Limbo

Post-Its From My Mom: The Coles Notes

How To Procrastinate When There's Nothing To Do

How To Get the Most Out of Your Pajamas

How To Get the Most Out of Your Parents Liquor Supply

Yogurt! And other adventures in breakfast

10 Reasons to Stop Matching Your Socks


Oh, what’s a blogger to do when life becomes unblogworthy? 

Having left one life behind, but yet to begin a new one, I find myself waiting in bland suburban limbo without a story tell. Unless you want to hear about the afternoon I spent listening to a radio call-in show about gardening, which was about as riveting as LISTENING TO PAINT DRY, I've got nothing. (You'd think someone could let the callers in on a little something called THE INTERNET and spare the rest of us the drama of their inane questions about mulch.) 

So for today, a story courtesy of my friend Ashley: super-nanny, knitting enthusiast, and the only person I know under 60 who can make a pot roast.


Some time ago Ashley accompanied a 5-year old boy in her charge, let’s call him Connor, to Puck’s Farm, an educational farm outside of Toronto, where she had the occasion to teach him a bit about the birds and bees.

They had come to see some dairy cows, and were waiting for a demonstration of the milking process. Ashley explained that just like human babies drink milk from their mothers, baby cows drink milk from their mothers too. She went on to say that when the baby cows are finished drinking, people can drink the cow’s milk, and that’s where the milk we buy at the grocery store comes from. She pointed out the udders as the part of the cow where the milk would come out. 

Connor looked at the cow, and thought for a moment.

“Oh. So milk comes out of the cow’s penis. One, two, three, four. Four penises!” Connor exclaimed.

“No, Connor,” Ashley said patiently, “That’s not the cow’s penis. It’s the nipple. You have nipples too, you know.”

“Oh… okay…” As he contemplated this, his eyes began to widen incredulously, “… are we going to put our mouths there???”

“NO, Connor. We’re not.”


Soon I'll get back to talking about myself. Or I'll just make fun of my parents some more, which I've been trying to hold back on at least until after I move out of the house next week.

Monday, August 16, 2010

...otherwise I probably would have poisoned myself by now

I know you think your mom is crazy, but she's not. And mine is.

Take, as an example (and mind that this is just one example), the barrage of post-it notes that accosted me last Saturday morning, when the parents had left me to fend for myself while they spent the weekend at the cottage:

On the blueberries in the fridge

On the raspberries in the fridge

On the strawberries in the fridge

On the drawer in the bottom of the fridge, because sometimes the difficulty of oranges can be intimidating... or maybe because the bananas might be looking for a date...

On the bathroom counter, lest I forget to turn the fan on while I shower and cause moisture damage to the paint.

The Care and Feeding of a Loaf of Bread

On a paper bag containing peaches, so that I don't have to open mysterious parcels in order to find out what's inside, just in case its anthrax. (There was also one on the vegetable soup container that said "VEG SOUP"... but I think you get the point.)

On a rectangular foil-wrapped item that MIGHT be brownies - I haven't opened it yet; too risky.

But you know what didn't make it on to a post-it note? "If you use more than a teaspoon of detergent in the dishwasher the ENTIRE KITCHEN FLOOR WILL BE COVERED WITH WATER IN 2 MINUTES."

So, yeah. That might have been post-it worthy, Mom.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Pen Pals

Shanghai, to Dehli, to London, to Toronto.

Thirty one hours. Four airports. Five airplane meals. An entire novel. A toddler who peed on the seat next to me. Finally I landed, all head-fuzz and man-glasses, safely in my parents' suburban nest... and promptly began plotting my next path out.

The apartment hunt was on.

Lucky for me, my craigslist peruse proved to be fruitful, and after responding to a few ads I received a speedy reply from one Pastor Tenny Hagen, all the way from West Africa.

Double click to enlarge

As a service to the lazy, I will paraphrase. The Good Pastor, a missionary and a "kind and honest man," has a big swanky apartment to rent out while he's "very busy with missions and crusades" in Africa. He needs a tenant who is "neat, honest, and trustworthy" to take good care of his property while he is away. There is no one here to show the apartment, so if I will just send first month's rent and a security deposit to his wife in Kentucky, they'll send me the keys and documents by courier the next day. Easy as pie.

Well, it seemed to me that emails like this were the fun part of apartment hunting, so I decided to let ol' Tenny in on the fun too, and sent him the following reply:

Click to enlarge

He hasn't gotten back to me yet.