This Is What Is Commonly Referred To As A 'One-Two Combo'.

One:


Two:

Walking With Hazel: We Have Been Very Quiet.

Yes, we have. It's only because we are plotting, you see. We are making plans and scheming, even though most of it resembles either dancing like ballerinas to The Sword, or banging pots and pans together to chase away the ghosts (true fact), or bringing all the sticks inside from the front yard so that they stay warm at night. Still, you'll thank us when the snow demons come and you have no sticks to fight them with. 

Anyway.

Yesterday, we started off by pretending we were a band. The Little Miss made sure that Dad was playing the cymbals while Mom was playing those wooden blocks that aren't really claves nor are they guiros but something in between, and then the Little Miss banged away on her little piano in the next room. We're thinking of calling ourselves either The Bruce Springsteens or Flaming Hellish Banshee Death Knell From Hell. We already have t-shirts, but they're secret. You have to know the password.

Then Mom had to go run some errands and stuff, so we started finger painting, which meant that we got a little bit of paint on the paper, and a lot of paint on the Little Miss's belly and face and hair, as well as the table and chair and the floor, so Dad ran a bath and left the Little Miss to play in the soap bubbles and cleaned up the paint that was on the floor and table and chair and hung the paintings to dry, and when he came back the Little Miss was drinking the bathwater because it "tastes like licorice and is good for my belly."

And who can argue with that logic?

Then, once we got all dried off and we managed to wrestle some clothes onto Hazel, we went for a drive to get groceries and stuff, which meant that at every stop sign or turning lane, Dad had a 50-50 chance of either stalling the car or giving it too much gas while in first gear so that he sounds like one of those jerks who wants to impress everyone by revving his engine all the time. Dad is pretty sure that while Hazel likes it when he revs the engine, eventually someone in charge of driving etiquette is gonna show up one day and demand Dad tear up his license and wear a sign around his neck that reads 'CANNOT CONQUER STICK-SHIFT'.

Dad's still relatively new at this,and he's getting better, so back off.

So we got groceries, and then we had fries, because fries are awesome, and then we went to visit John at the Roasterie, but John wasn't there, so we just got a coffee for Dad and a juice for Hazel, and then it was very important that we walk the entire length of the next block as though we were marching, which meant that only did we have to march but with every step we had to call out 'march!', just so that everyone knew we were marching. And now Dad is tired of typing the word 'march'.

Then we went home (no stalls this time!) and had dinner, and then sat down with some popcorn and another episode of Pushing Daisies, and then it was bedtime, so we went outside to make sure we could see where the moon was, but it wasn't out front OR out back, so we said goodnight to the buildings downtown because the Little Miss said that they were stars.

And then the Little Miss woke Dad up this morning by shoving a piece of watermelon in to his face, and it turns out that while he was sleeping, she woke up, placed a chair in front of the fridge, pulled out the container of watermelon we'd cut up the night before, and proceeded to eat the whole thing, but then decided that it'd be nice to share at least one piece with Dad, which you have to admit is kinda nice. 

Now we're shaking maracas on time with that song 'Little Green Bag', but only because it's playing on the radio, not because we'd endorse anything to do with Quentin Tarentino's movies anymore, and then we're gonna go get pumpkins to carve and maybe make some Halloween decorations. 

Be good. We have many sticks and we're not afraid to use them.

Barely Legal

So, yes, I am legally allowed to drive on the streets all by myself now, and I totally understand why the majority of you swear so much. This is not to say that I didn't possess the mouth of a sailor before this, but lately it's only compounded by the fact that YOU WON'T GET OFF MY ASS, MOTHERFUCKER. I'm already going 70 in a 60 zone, and I know that the only reason you're so far up my uterus is so that you can get home in time to masturbate while watching UFC, so do us all a favour and just chill. Cool?

Also: why am I not allowed to wear my glasses when you're taking my picture for my license? It's not like I've got some Clark Kent/Superman thing going on, where I can fool the entire universe by donning a pair of spectacles...although, ya gotta admit, it'd be a great way to get out of a speeding ticket...

Anyway: this is just me saying, if you happen to be stuck behind me in traffic, all I'm asking for is a little patience, because if you honk at me after I've gone and stalled my car in the turning lane for the seventh time, I'm probably just as frustrated as you are, and I've really got no compunction against getting out of car and making an even bigger scene by kicking out your headlights or maybe just squatting on your hood and leaving a big ol' steaming coiler for ya. Because I care.

 Just sayin'.

Sorry I Been Sleepin I Totally Forgot I Was Here.

Oh hey look I have one of these 'blog' things.

A few things:

1. I hate the Globe & Mail's new format. I don't care for anyone's opinions on how actual newsprint is a dead media, or how you can get all your news from the internet faster and probably cheaper and you don't have to wade through fifty pages of Holt Renfrew Ads to find out that an editor in Toronto thinks that climate change is bad; I don't care. I like newspapers. What's more, if the method by which I receive my news hasn't displaced at least fourteen different forest creatures, well, then, I can't really enjoy my morning cup of coffee, can I?

Anyway. Point is: I used to like reading the Globe & Mail. Now it looks like a tabloid. Some of you might say that it was always a tabloid, and I might be inclined to agree with you, but the fact remains that if I'm going to visit a whore, I'd prefer my whore to be pretty, not trashy. If  I wanted to sleep with a Forest Lawn street rat in a filthy hoodie and sweatpants with the word 'princess' stenciled across the ass, I'd read the Calgary Sun.

(My apologies to any friends who are from or currently live in Forest Lawn. You have a wonderful community. I think.)

(My apologies also to anyone who reads and enjoys the Calgary Sun. I'm sorry your newspaper sucks.)

2. If you call yourself a firefighter, and then proceed to do nothing but watch as another family's home burns to the ground simply because they didn't pay your annual fee, you might want to find another occupation, because your actions have just proved that you are NOT, as you a thought, an actual FIREFIGHTER, but instead a SPECTATOR, and that the only reason you got into the job was because you thought Denis Leary was cool when he pretended to be fucked up on vodka and talking to his dead friends. You suck. 

Also: if you're the fire chief who told his crew to let the house burn, I think it's only fair that someone who lived in said house gets to punch you in the face without any legal repercussion. You suck even more than than your pretend-firefighters.

3. I need a goddamned coffee.