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.

Hey Roberta, GTFO! Updated!

I have a family of animals residing in my wall.

At first, I thought there was just one. One lonely creature, clawing for attention and vying for love in this cold, cold world.

Actually, at first I thought it was a ghost… I guess I’ll start from the beginning.

Just over a month ago, a friend and I were telling each other stories of ‘hauntings’ we had either experienced first hand, or had heard about. While some may have been more of the “it happened to a friend of a friend of mine” variety, other stories carried more weight- well, one story in particular.  She told me that when she was growing up, around a certain time each night, a very distinct tapping sound would resound from her walls. She said it was always in the middle of the night, and it was always the same sound. The predictable patter was overlooked by other members of her family, but her sister has recently confirmed it’s still an ongoing presence in the house.

While I’m not particularly squeamish when it comes to ghosts/paranormal activity/old people acting crazy, I’m still a sucker for a good story. I will believe you, I will get goosebumps. I’ll say “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME” and then I’ll try to laugh it off.  Later, when I’m alone, your story will decide I didn’t enjoy it enough, and manifest itself in the form of sheer paranoia.

Suddenly, there are ghosts everywhere.

I know damn well that my fridge makes a weird gurgle sound that could give a frog a serious run for its money… and I know that there’s a train nearby that passes late at night and often makes the pictures on my wall shake ever so slightly.  But, regardless of aforementioned knowledge, after a good ghost story, my logic goes out the window and I have a million reasons to believe that a whole convent of dead nuns is after me…

While my friend’s story wasn’t necessarily hair-raising, it managed to leave me with enough residual uneasiness, that by the time I was lying in bed, my mind was thinking of fantastical scenarios where ghosts were going to use my body as a vessel for their mischievous wrongdoings. (WHADDUP run-on-sentence!)  It was, of course, at this point when a strange noise started resounding from within my walls.  It was subtle, and unidentifiable- just a faint tapping, one might say.  I would be lying if I said I shrugged it off and slept soundly, but eventually I did manage to slip into slumber.

In the following days, the tapping persisted. It wasn’t occurring at any sort of predictable interval, as my friend’s ghost had, but it was constant enough that it must have possessed a strong desire to remind me of its presence and taunt me accordingly. Thank you, Sir Fuckswithme, I didn’t need a full night’s rest anyway.

A few weeks ago, shit got real.

It was early on a Saturday morning, which means my head was pounding, and the impending urge to throw up the booze-soaked contents of my stomach was rising, when the sound of scratching started emitting from the wall right above my head. Jesus himself could have walked into my room at that point, and I’m not sure which would have had me more terrified.

The reality of the situation set in. I didn’t have a ghost; I had an animal- something with death claws and a thirsty for blood. The scratching continued for several minutes. I swung my maybe-still-drunk limb at the wall, causing a great thump. The animal scattered.  This process was repeated…and repeated… until finally there was silence and I fell back into my hangover comatose.

Since that morning, I’ve thankfully been reassured that this is not my imagination. Others have bared witness to the atrociousness exuding from my wall and a decision was made that my new, noisy neighbour is a squirrel. Probably. Maybe… I named her Roberta.

Roberta has been a faithful pain in the ass. She has consistently made her presence known at inconvenient times, and seems to find great pleasure in ensuring my hangover days are full of rage and distress. From the sounds of it, she’s clumsy, hyper and has grown indifferent to my wall smacking. The bitch thinks she’s outwitted me; she’s starting to act a little like Keith. (Come to think of it, they are probably part of some sort of fucked up A-Team- Wildlife Edition… and their mission is to fuck with me.)

This Saturday, I arrived home from the gym and plopped down on my bed, relieved by the promise of a movement-free hour.  Suddenly, from the wall came an unfamiliar sound. The habitual scratching had subsided and in its place was a strange cooing noise, accompanied by something scattering, and something shifting. Holy fucking mother of moses, Roberta is not alone. And Roberta may be a bird.  Quite frankly, I’m back to thinking Roberta is just a bloodthirsty, soul sucking chupacabra… we just can’t be sure.

So, I made the dreaded call to my infuriating landlord, Ballwant (Endearingly referred to as Ballsdeep- thank you, Tina.)   His lack of concern had me fuming at the ears. After reassuring him that I am not a crazy bitch, and this has, in fact, been going on long enough to warrant a shred of worry, he assured me he would call one of his goons to come and check it out… “Maybe… If there isn’t rain… or snow…”

… Your day is coming, Roberta & co, I suggest taking my notice of eviction seriously… or your happy days of wall residency is going to come to a tragic end.  Pass the word along to Keith.

***

Update: Ballsdeep called in his crew of muscle men/one lowly man to come take away my unwelcomed guests. While I was not home during their visit, they did leave a receipt behind. 

On the receipt it says: "Removal of squirrels."

The plural confirms that Roberta was not alone. I wish her and her vagrants well in their future endeavours of fuckery.

P.S. I think I saw her on my tree this morning. She was looking at me with a look that could only say "I can't wait to eat your face one day."

She's such a little bitch.

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.