Sweaty Tits and Heavy Boxes

Fact: If you make an awkward joke to your gynecologist when she’s doing her ‘business’, things will get uncomfortable.

Fact: It’s totally worth it.

*

So, it’s hot as balls in Toronto right now.  Walking around with sweaty tits and impending pit stains makes a girl feel pretty sexy, if I say so myself.  Nothing removes panties faster than tit sweat. 

Don’t quote me on that.

(Actually, I changed my mind, please do.)

There are many reasons to curse this heat, but overall it’s pretty awesome. The season of park drinking is upon us and that pretty much means that life is worth living again!  Nothing says vacation like a bottle of wine (vodka?) on a park bench surrounded by a bunch of crazy, strung out junkies. (I’m looking at you, Allan Gardens.)  Seriously though, fuck all y’all and your tropical vacation pictures on Facebook. I’m tired of looking at your stupid face on the stupid white sand beach in your stupid bikini. Befriend a junkie and lie in the sun in your underwear like the rest of us.

*

Since I’ve been bitching and moaning about moving for far too long, I figured it was worth throwing in a little bit of an update/you don’t have a motherfucking choice and you’re going to hear about my move whether you like it or not.

:)

Update 1: Uhaul vans smell like corn.
Update 2: We kicked moving’s ass, and made it our bitch.

All of our shit is now sitting in our (soon to be) apartment with a stranger while I crash at my wonderful friend’s house until Friday.  I am 89% sure that the stranger will not steal/break/pee on my stuff. I probably should have put in a special request for ‘no urine’ when dropping off our shit, but what can I say? I like to live on the edge a little.

So now I’m covered in tiny bruises and a grimy feeling that doesn’t seem to want to go away. If I left the house 2 hours earlier this morning, I probably could have been mistaken as one of the hookers that hang outside of (endearingly nicknamed) Hooker Harvey’s.  (Yes, I did just compare myself to a prostitute.)

Moving out of the apartment was a little bitter sweet. I said my silent goodbyes to Keith and Roberta and thanked them for imposing their presence upon me over the past 2 years.  Without them, I never would have known what a raccoon fetus looks like, or what it sounds like to have something living in your wall, scratching inches away from your head at 5am. 

Sorry, I don’t mean to brag.

In honour of Keith, and leaving him behind, I’ve dug up an old text conversation my good friend Ivan and I had after one of my Keith encounters.

If you don’t want to lower your IQ, you should consider skipping this all together.

Raccoon Conversations

Interpreted and reenacted by Britt & Ivan

Britt: Do u think, when raccoons communicate, they ever talk about -or even have the ability to talk about- things that have occurred in the past? 

Ivan: Like, 'Hey man! Remember that pizza crust from last Thursday? IT TASTED LIKE TITTIES.'

Britt: Yes.

Ivan: ... then no. 

Britt: Example… Keith would be all "Yesterday this crazy fucking woman yelled at me that it was time to get up and told me to get my act together."

Ivan: "I GOT SKOOLED, YO."

Britt: "Oh no way, bro. I got poked by a child carrying a stick. Pretty annoying."
Britt: "Daaaamn dude. That shit’s one of my pet peeves"

Ivan: "You should have seen this pigeon, homie. She was aaaaall up in ma grillz"

Britt: "I hope you fucked that pigeon up. They play their games. Get all risky and fly all close for no reason."

Ivan: "I found me a boob slingshot. Epic, bro"

Britt: "Do you mean a bra? Like, for boobs?"

Ivan: "Dude. Don't ruin this for me."

Britt: "Let's go sling our shit at other animals. I got beef with a squirrel."
Britt: "Also: totally ate blue cheese today by accident. You know that shit makes me allll bloated, gurl."

Ivan: "IMMA CUT THAT BITCH SQUIRREL. She stole my nuts"
Ivan: (Wink)

Britt: Aw hellz nah!

Fin.

Meet Keith: He Probably Eats Poop.

I recently posted about my raccoon problem.

While thankful the gods have not blessed me with another gift’o’fetus, I have developed a new, budding relationship with Keith, the potentially-Irish teenage raccoon of doom. He’s snarky, rude, dismissive and has clearly eaten one-too-many garbage cakes, if you know what I mean. Bitch could use some of Jose’s help. Jussayin’.

Throughout the summer, many guests of my back porch (heh heh, my back porch) were forced to scramble inside out of fear. The glowing green eyes peering from the roof were daunting, and merely the beginning.  The not-so-little shit would pop out from behind furniture and fearlessly lower himself from the roof, proving he don’t care about nobody.  

Not on my porch, Keith.

Learning quickly that raccoons will do whatever the fuck they want, I decided to make it a little bit more effort for them. Hoping this would encourage them to GTFO my property and find another poor sucker to rub their feces all over. After moving around the furniture (or ‘hide and go seek’ spots that Keith so fondly inhabits), I stacked all of the chairs atop the god-forsaken-fetus-tarp that I’ve been meaning to get rid of…

A couple of days later, I came home after work to this:

Fanfuckingtastic!

 NOT ON MY WATCH, KEITH.

You can't see his giant ass 'cuz it's hidden by the pile of chairs.
Note: Fetus-Tarp

Planning on spending some quality sun time on my porch, I quickly got myself into quite a tizzy.  Don’t stand in my way of sunshine and patio time, you rabielicious bum.

Oh! I’m sure you’re wondering why this raccoon has been deemed a “teenager”. Let me enlighten you with the conversations that transpired after discovering him relaxing surrounded by my pile’o’chairs.

Conversations with Keith

Me:  (Upon discovering raccoon) Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?

Keith: Looks up. Seemingly unalarmed by the raging human.

Me: Did you move all this stuff on your own?

Keith: Stares blankly.

Me: I know you did this. You’ve created a lot of mess here. It’s time for you to leave.

Keith: I’m just going to sit here and stare at you and make loud huffing noises until you let me go back to sleep.

Me: I don’t think so, buddy. It’s after 4pm, you need to get the fuck off my property.

Keith: HISS

Me: Goddammit, Keith.

I had to leave to go to Boot Camp, which meant I was out of the house for about two hours.  Upon my return, I checked the back porch. Guess who decided to get a bit more comfortable?

Me:  You have got to be kidding me. It’s AFTER 7 O’CLOCK!

Keith: Continues to sleep and ignores my yelling.

Me:  HEY! YOU! Under MY roof, you will follow MY rules.  No more sleeping in! No more knocking down my shit! No more hanging out on my porch!

Keith: Looks up at me and stares. Completely unaffected by all of the rules I just schooled him with.

Me: I don’t speak raccoon.  Do you speak piece-of-wood-to-the-face?

I then proceeded to swing the piece of plywood my landlord decided to leave behind on one of his many attempted home-reno projects.  Bear in mind, I was still like 2 meters away from the beast.

Ineffective.

Me: No? Do you speak pile-of-chairs-on-your-face?

Cut to me kicking some chairs around like a bloody lunatic.

Keith: Is that all you got bitch? I’m going back to fucking sleep. Come back when you grow some balls.*

*I can only assume he said that, because he then turned his head away from me and nestled it back into the fetus-tarp, returning to his deep, douchey slumber.

I yelled some more stuff about how he’s irresponsible and needs to get his act together, but at this point, he was giving me the ole’ ‘get out of my room’ silent treatment, so I gave up and went back inside.

He eventually left to eat poop or chase children, or whatever it is raccoons do. But I know he’s been back, because he ate my bananas.  But that’s a story for another day.

P.S. If you’re wondering why he’s potentially Irish, you can thank my Roommate.

She explains:

“I met this Irish guy in a bar once. His name was Keith, but he pronounced it ‘Keet’ (because he was Irish). Our conversation went like this:  What's your name? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. And so on.

Point being, I think Keith should be an Irish raccoon so I can call him Keet.”


***

Updated: I do not feed Keith. The bananas were part of a long, sordid, hungover, locked-out of the house adventure.  Another day, folks.

Don't Go On the Roof! Updated!

I have a raccoon problem.

Not in the ‘I can’t quit raccooning, guys- I’m hooked!” kind of way. But in the ‘they are taking over my life and will probably eat my cat’ kind of way.  And I don’t even have a cat.

Last spring, I had the luxury of discovering a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch. As we live on the third floor of a house, it felt a bit like a special delivery. The kind of delivery you’d expect from Satan, or Joan Rivers.

This was shocking and upsetting for two reasons.  1) I stopped eating meat 8 years ago because I had to dissect a fetal pig in high school and wanted to die the whole goddamn time. So it was pretty much like staring trauma directly in its hideous, inbred face. 2) It’s a fucking dead raccoon fetus.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation, I decided to grab the corner of the tarp that was conveniently strewn on the ground beside it, to temporarily cover it. Out of sight, out of mind, right? WRONG. Out of the tarp jumps the biggest raccoon fucker I’ve encountered to date. Probs from the pregnancy weight, but I’m going to judge her anyway. Bitch scared the living shit right out of me.  Worst thing? I was home alone. 

After a few hysterical phone calls and likely several shots, I stood for a long period of time, face pressed up against the glass door, expecting to see the unsuccessfully-covered fetus move. It didn’t… as dead things generally go…  The next day, my roommate and her heroic Irish boyfriend disposed of the body- later telling me they had had another encounter with Bitch-Jumps-Out-of-Tarps, but this time she also had a (living) baby. Hooray! More Raccoons all around! Just what Toronto needs!

A few months later, summer arrives and a fresh-faced 19 year old lad moves in downstairs. Sharing a love of booze, we instantly got along.  One night, he proposes the idea of climbing onto our roof sometime. My roommate agrees this would be a jolly good time, while my first thought was That’s where the raccoons are. They throw their fetuses from above- don’t go up there.  Trying not to sound like a total lunatic, I kept that thought inside and shrugged off the idea, hoping it wouldn’t arise again.

A couple weeks later, the following text message conversation takes place between me and my roommate:

Roommate: We’re thinking of going up on the roof tonight.

Me: Oh man, don’t! Maybe there are raccoon bodies up there!

Roommate: HA! If there are, I’m so getting them taxidermied and using them to scare you constantly.  Oh, what’s in your bed? Oh, what’s in the fridge? Oh, what’s in the oven? RACCOOOOONS.

And then I’m going to make them wear Anne Hathaway masks.*

Me:  I hate you.

 

*If you don’t get that, you should read this post.

Lesson: Don’t expect your roommate to support your irrational fear of raccoon fetuses. And also, dead raccoons are far more terrifying when you put Anne Hatahaway’s face on them.

Update: 
Roommate has provided a sample of her upcoming work.

Why yes, that IS a baby raccoon emerging from her stupid chin.