The Battle of the Ants

I live in a basement suite, so I get my fair share of creepy-crawlies creeping and crawling through my place. Naturally, I have patience for some more than others.

Every year in April or May, the ants come out looking for food. Every year in April or May, I make sure to remove anything resembling food from the area around my front door (that’s where they tend to come in). Every year in April or May, despite my efforts, I have a trail of ants coming through my house. Sometimes just one here or there or sometimes a mass infestation if I neglected to remove all the things resembling food in time (like my collection of empty bottles, for example).

This year, I was certain I was in good shape. I’d returned all my empties months ago, I spring-cleaned the area where my plants live, so any dirt, debris and sticky stuff was gone. So when I saw the first of the ants, I didn’t think too much of it. But one became five and then five became ten.

The battle of the ants had begun. I was thoroughly cleaning my floors, when I was bleaching them, I noticed all the ants were congregated in one area right by my front door. I vacuumed the mat in front of my door, but then minutes later saw ants crawling all over it again. I lifted up the corner was shocked at what I found.

Literally* hundreds (*not literally) of ants milling about! I began pulling out anything and everything in that area in preparation of cleaning the shit of out it all. And that’s when I found it.

Months ago (obviously), a small candy cane fell off my table unnoticed and landed amongst my reusable shopping bags; it then became the coveted food item all the ants in the neighbourhood sought. They were obviously all talking about it based on the congregation I found.

I cleaned it all up, bleached the area and it appears as though I’ve once again reigned supreme in the battle of the ants.

It’s only a matter of time until they prove me wrong once again.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Here’s my version of a Valentine’s Day post. Enjoy!

Being chronically single, there are definitely times where I really yearn to be with someone and then there are times where I’m thankful for being alone. I’m sure the same can be said for people who are in relationships as well.

For me, both of these extremes become very apparent when I’m sick. I spent the better part of this week sick at home, so it became very clear in my mind just how much (and how quickly) I can flip flop on this particular subject.

For example, when I was at home laying on the couch wishing for death, the only thing that could make it more bearable was some juice, or soup, or something. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have someone come and take care of me.

I was too sick to fend for myself. This actually happens more than I care to admit. There have been so many instances that I’ve developed a coping mechanism. I don’t like to drink juice full strength; I like to water it down. It’s easier on the stomach, if that’s not doing so great.

So I set up shop on the couch; I grab my tetrapak of juice out of the fridge, a glass and fill up a 1L container of water. I bring all the things to the couch and fill up my glass as I need. I do need to get up from time to time to refill my water, but much less than if I actually had to fill my cup up every time. In fact, if I invested in a larger measuring cup, I could reduce those trips down even further. Food for thought.

I’m still pretty much fucked if I need to get something to eat, but let’s just say, I got reserves.

On the other hand, when I’m disgustingly sick and things are coming out of places that no one needs to see, I’m fairly happy that I live alone.

But those instances are usually few and far between, besides realistically, the person I’m with better be okay with holding my hair back and cleaning up some puke when I miss the toilet. Or the bathroom altogether.

But nothing makes it hit home quite like it did the other night. I was very sick; in a lot of pain, had a pretty bad fever and a terrible cough. Plus I was covered in hives (an unrelated, yet agonizing, matter).

Even though I drugged myself up to “get a good nights’ sleep”, I still woke up constantly with scratching or coughing. Or alternating between kicking the blankets off and then scrambling to get them back on because I was shivering. And if that wasn’t enough, rolling over caused enough pain from my massive body aches (and probably hives) that I actually groaned audibly.

My first thought was that I hoped my upstairs people couldn’t hear me and/or weren’t being woken up by my agony. My next thought went to what it would actually be like if I was in a relationship; what if I was sharing my bed with someone. Times like these, I know one thing is certain.

Meh – small price to pay to have someone bring me soup, right?

ThatWhiteGirl’s a Spitey Bitch (c’mon… act shocked)

This is a story that got brought up in conversation with some work folk the other day. I thought it was a good idea to also share it on this platform. So that everyone* can know the story.

*By “everyone”, I mean, all 8 of you.

In my defense, this story took place when I was very young. So young that I don’t even remember it; it’s just a story that my family likes to remind me of. Every. Chance. They get. As such, this story is told according to how it has been told to me.

When I was very young, I lived with Mom (my mother), Granny (my maternal grandmother) and Danny (my older brother). I loved Granny more than life itself. She basically couldn’t have a waking moment alone without me following her around and being a general pest. Anywhere Granny went, I went too; anything Granny did, I wanted to do too. Naturally, she nicknamed me her shadow.

Despite the fact that Granny loved me almost as much as I loved her, there were times when I just couldn’t tag along. I hated these times probably as much as Granny longed for them.

One day, there was something Granny had to do that I couldn’t be a part of. She walked out the door with a grin on her face and I stood there scowling with my hands on my hips. You could say I was unhappy with being left at home while Granny frolicked. Or went to the doctor, but whatever, I was 3.

Shortly after Granny returned home, her and Mom noticed something.

Upon closer inspection…

Upon even closer inspection…

Eventually the “where did the shit come from” game ended and Granny made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

That’s right. I shit on my grandmother’s bed to get back at her.

Moral of the story: Don’t piss me off and leave me alone with your things.

How do you spell “relief”–part two

Here’s a series of posts I never knew was going to happen… and now that I think of it, I might even have a part three up my sleeve. For part one, go here.

I distinctly remember the last time I wet the bed.

I was about 6 or 7; far too old to be wetting the bed. I was ashamed. I was confused. And I never told anyone about the events leading up to “the incident”.

I was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the fact that my tiny 6 year old bladder was progressively filling with that last glass of juice I had before bedtime.

Very few dreams stick with you. More often than not, they slip away from you just as you open your eyes and all that’s left is the sensation of what kind of dream you had: “Well… that was a weird dream…”.

Yet, 27 years later, I still remember the dream I was having the last time I wet the bed.

For some reason, I was dreaming about The Cosby Show. The Huxtables were in bed, Mrs. Huxtable was reading a book and Cliff was being a jackass as per usual. He may or may not have been trying to get some.

The dream was a weird combination of me watching the situation unfold (like it was on TV) and being in the bed with them; as them. It was a weird combination of being both The Huxtables at the same time. It was a fucked up out of body omniscient experience.

I remember being Cliff and feeling the sweet relief as his/my bladder emptied, then as Clair, feeling the disgusting warmth spread from his side of the bed to hers/mine. She was shocked and appalled; he was relieved and not as embarrassed as he should have been. As she was screaming at him for wetting the bed, I started gaining consciousness.

My bed felt warm, yet cold, and wet; I woke up and found myself lying in my own puddle of shame. I remember getting up and going to tell my mom what happened (less The Cosby Show dream, of course) and how mad she got as she stripped the wet sheets off my bed. I stood sheepishly in the corner, my head hung downward, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It had been a couple years since my last nighttime accident; she thought I’d outgrown it as much as I had.

After that, every so often, I would have a similar dream (although not featuring The Cosby’s). Basically, I would dream that I needed to go to the bathroom and when I finally found one, that familiar relief would wash over me. I would wake up in a full-blown panic; hoping beyond hope that my bed was dry and my bladder was full. They always were, but I was always afraid that one time, they wouldn’t be.

Over time, that dream has occurred less and less, but, oddly enough, I had that dream last week. It hadn’t happened in such a long time that I had blocked out the memory completely; it’s like it never happened. But as I woke up with a slight feeling of dread, all I could think about was the time that Bill Cosby wet the bed. Never again, will I be able to look at Bill the same.

And now, neither will you.

Work Shenanigans

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have some new office-mates. They both happen to be of Asian descent. They also both happen to be jerks.

Not really.

But since they’re Asian they are more likely to eat weird shit on a day-to-day basis. I’m white and the stuff I eat is pretty… … vanilla. Definitely on a world scale, but even on a Canadian scale.

So, naturally, they’ve made it their mission to “expand my horizons”. It’s a game they love and a game I’m disliking more and more. 

The first time it happened was a couple weeks ago when Geiger brought in “Taiwan’s most popular snack food”, which was some fish/shrimp cracker-y things. I’ve had things like that previously and they’re pretty okay, so I had one.

What I didn’t realize was that this particular brand of snack food contained a dehydrated fish inside each packet.

What I also didn’t realize was that when Geiger found the fish that she would think it would be good idea to make me eat it. I also didn’t realize that The Ninja would agree. It took some prodding, in the form of both of them chanting my name, but eventually I ate the fish.

It was small so I thought it wouldn’t be bad, but it was concentrated. As I crunched through the dehydrated carcass of this little fish, my mouth was perfused with a very strong fish flavour. It was basically like eating 4 cans of tuna in one bite.

The next time was a few days later when a co-worker brought in candies from Thailand, one of which was durian flavoured. I was asked if I liked durian, I said that I had never tried it, but I’d smelled it, so that was enough for me.

That wasn’t enough for them. The Ninja went and got me a candy and then they started demanding I eat it.

Eventually I caved and put the candy in my mouth. And then promptly spit it out because it was horrible! They laughed and said that it wasn’t in my mouth long enough for it to count. They threatened to get me another one.

The conversation moved to “what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten”; Geiger won that contest by saying that she once ate pig fallopian tube. She said it wasn’t bad, it was just a skinny tube that was chewy, kind of like an elastic band.

A little while later, The Ninja said “Hey, Heather….” and when I turned around he was presenting me with an elastic band served on a napkin. He tried the chant that had worked previously.

The few days later, I heard The Ninja say “Hey Heather… you want one?” My heart filled with dread and when I turned around he was offering me a cookie… I was surprised.

I’m not sure if his predominant reaction was amused or offended.

After repeated pleas that I did not want “Make That White Girl Eat Weird Shit” to be the new game, The Ninja came up with a new game: “Make That White Girl Say Things in Cantonese Without Telling Her What The Words Mean Until She Uses Them In Really Inappropriate Ways”.

Lucky for me, I tend to use English words in really inappropriate ways so it’s never too long before I find out what they’re teaching me to say.

How do you spell “relief”? Pee!

Some people seem to have a great memory of their childhood school years. I’m not one of those people. I can’t name every teacher I had and the corresponding grade I had them. I can’t tell you what grade I learned to write cursive, or when I decided Social Studies was for chumps.

But for most years of my schooling, there’s always something that sticks out in my mind; something that I will never forget. This story is about kindergarten. As good a place to start as any.

My kindergarten classroom seemed to have it’s own bathroom… or maybe one was just really close by (see… bad memory), but what I do know for sure was that there were signs on the door to say whether or not it was occupied.

And with a quick flip!!

These bathrooms weren’t your typical school bathrooms; they were like home bathrooms: one toilet, one sink. Main difference being the locks on the doors had been removed for safety reasons (they were dealing with kindergarteners after all); thus the signage.

Despite my upbringing, I’ve always been very mindful of providing people with bathroom privacy. You might be wondering what my upbringing consisted of in order to warrant that kind of comment. We were a one bathroom family. As such, if someone was in the shower and someone else needed to pee, you went on in, did your business and made necessary small talk so that it wasn’t awkward. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been mindful of giving people their bathroom privacy.

Because of that, I was way more likely to be standing in the hallway doing the pee dance in front an empty bathroom with a stop sign on the door than anyone else in my class. Others were way more likely to walk in on you because they had no respect for the sign. And then there was the girl that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.

I have no idea what her name was, but I can remember her face like it was yesterday.

Every time I went to the bathroom, she’d walk in on me. I was always washing my hands when she did it, so it wasn’t a big deal. What was a big deal is how she dealt with the walking-ins. Most people would open the door, realize what they’ve done, apologize and back out (or freak out and slam the door shut). This girl would walk in, shut the door, drop her drawers and pull up a seat on the toilet, all the while grinning up at me while I stared at her in disbelief.

Every. Time.

The first time it happened, I thought maybe I forgot to switch the sign and that she really had to pee so when she saw that I was in there it didn’t matter, she had to go. But then I became really adamant about using the signs and still every time I started washing my hands, she’d waltz on in the door.

I started trying to pee really fast and take less time in the bathroom just so that she never “had to wait” outside while I was in there. And still, the second the tap was turned on, in she came.

I don’t know if I was the only one she did this to; I don’t know why she did it. But I’m fairly certain she’s the reason I ended up peeing my pants in class that year. But maybe that’s another story for another day.

She always does... unless she doesn't

I was with my step mom the other day, we were on our way to IKEA and she was chatting up a storm. The latest issue she has been dealing with is her side of the family never sending her pictures of people on her side of the family.

Her family lives on the other side of The Rockies so she doesn't get to see them very much. Since she left that province, her niece and nephew have both had children of their own, and she has yet to lay eyes on them.

She kept pestering her sisters for pictures of their grandchildren, but she never received them. This has caused Bev much annoyance, to the point where nearly every time I see her, she complains about still not having the pictures. Until now. So, I should stop hearing about it, right? Wrong.

Apparently, her niece was a beautiful child with dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. When Bev got wind that her niece was with child and had said child, Bev automatically started picturing her niece's child to look pretty much the same. I think that's natural; I think we all do it. But when she got the pictures, she was shocked to discover that the small child was not beautiful.

I listened to her go on and on about how beautiful her niece was and how she can't believe her grand-niece looks "like that". I listened to her go on and on about how she has no idea how the child ended up "that way", that she has no idea where "it" came from. I listened to her go on and on about how Madeline, the daughter of a friend, is so much cuter than Alison, her great-niece. I listened to her go on and on about how even my dad agrees that Madeline is cuter. I listened to her go on and on about how it's okay for her to say Alison isn't cute, because it's her side of the family, so she can say what she wants. Even though more than one person has said "Bev, that's not very nice...".

So, what's wrong with the child?

No, she does not have a physical deformity, like a second head or a third eye. She does not have an unfortunate birth mark covering her face. She does not have a cone head. She does not have buck teeth, or a giant nose. She doesn't have freakishly large ears, or unruly hair. She doesn't have a lazy eye. She doesn't have anything that would take away from her cuteness or cause the general public to look at her and think "Oh, that poor thing".

So, what's wrong with the child?

She's blonde. And fair.

Son of a bitch.

I mean, Bev has seen me. I'm not really sure what she's thinking going on and on about that to me. I'm fairly convinced that I am nearly 90% likely to yield an offspring that she'll view as "Not as cute as Madeline". Madeline being of dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin, of course. I'd have to mate with someone that has some seriously dominant genes, that has not a shred of blonde or fair in his entire genealogy, just to be sure that our offspring is not of the blonde and fair variety.

Now, I'm not good at biology/DNA/genetics, but doesn't that still leave, like, a 25% chance of the child looking like me? The poor thing.

I know this, yet, there's Bev rambling on and on about this unfortunate looking child, all the while I'm biting my tongue in order not to scream out "What do you think my child will look like, Bev? Huh? You better not say Madeline is cuter, dammit".

Rather than making a scene about the cuteness of a child that may or may not exist, or Bev being uncomfortable for the rest of our relationship, I kept quiet. It was hard, because she went on and on. From Surrey to Coquitlam. But that's okay, because I will know Bev's true opinion on the issue even if my dad manages to get her to keep her mouth shut around me and my blonde/fair child (hypothetically, of course).

How? Easy. When I show Bev something that she doesn't like, she says the same thing every time. Therefore, I know how she'll react when I show her my hideous child.

"Oh... well, that's different".

That's the point where the expletives will fire.

Time to air my dirty laundry

I may have mentioned before that my upstairs neighbours are assholes/super annoying/loud as fuck. Every time I get a new neighbour, I hope that I'll like them better than the last ones. And in some ways, I do, but then they turn around and are so annoying in other ways, ways that I never imagined.

I share the washer/dryer with the upstairs people and because of that I've taken measures to make sure that I'm not an asshole about it. I try to stick to my officially unofficial laundry days. I make sure I switch around the loads as soon as they're done. I empty the lint trap and the garbage. I clean out the sink. I wipe down the machines.

My upstairs neighbour does laundry the way I did when I was 14. She takes everything she owns and separates the loads on every horizontal surface in the laundry room. She has three loads on the go and any given time (one in the washer, one in the dryer and one on top of the dryer) plus the random loads scattered on the floor and the counter. I will walk into the laundry room, see the chaos, realize my clothes aren't that dirty and back away slowly.

I'll give her some time to get through her obvious back log of dirty clothes (sometimes a day or two, sometimes three or four depending on my schedule and how many clean pairs of underwear/socks/pants etc I have). When I go back in, however many days later, the laundry room is exactly how I last saw it. The same load of laundry is in washer, now stinky with mildew.

That's about the time I realize that my clothes are that dirty and I have no choice, but to wade through the filth in an attempt to maintain personal hygiene.

That t-shirt is so fricken bright, there's gotta be a battery pack attached.

I have a tendency to fall in love with guys with whom I have absolutely no hope of them loving me back. It's dangerous territory, but in my defense, these guys tend to be people that I've never met; I have no idea what they're actually like. I'm not sure that helps my argument... In fact, I'm fairly certain it hinders it. Hmmm... no wonder I'm single. It's heartbreaking, yet, I continue to do it. I'm probably bringing this on myself.

In my defense, again, this "love" isn't actual love... Mostly, I "heart" them and just lack the vocabulary skills necessary to express my feelings without sounding like a stalker. So, by default, I call it love, because that, (apparently) is the least stalker-ish word I know... I should probably start reading the dictionary again. Or maybe a thesaurus this time.

Guys I love and have absolutely no hope in reciprocation:

1) Guys that are dead

2) Guys that live on the other side of the world

3) Guys that are married, in a relationship, or just plain "happy" (damn them!)

4) Guys that find me repulsive

My #1 #1 (i.e. the guy I love the most that happens to be dead) is Elliott Smith. Oh, if only he was still alive... I'd stalk the hell out of him! Okay, probably not, but I do think he's a musical genius and absolutely beautiful. I really wish I'd had a chance to meet him (or at least see him from afar) while he was still on this earth. *sigh*.

My most recent #1 #2 (i.e. the guy I love the most that happens to live on the other side of the world) is Xavier Rudd... he lives in Australia. Dammit. I also think he's a genius and beautiful, although not as much as my fav... sorry Xavier.

I had an opportunity to see Xavier recently - although it didn't result in a marriage proposal, he did look in my direction at least twice! And if paying good money to see him from afar and to have him look in my general direction is what I can get, then I guess I'll take it.

My first #1 #3 (i.e. the guy I love the most that is married/happy) was Jack Johnson... I was devastated when I realized that he was married... what is that shiny thing on his left ring finger?? *gasp* *sob*

I just realized all my "loves" have been musicians... Hmmm... I must have a non-musical one...

My most recent #1 #3 is this guy that works with a friend of mine. He doesn't quite fit the criteria, because I have, in fact, met him, but it's not like I know him, so I'll still use him as an example. He's quite the specimen; if you looked up "a ten" in the dictionary, his picture would be there. I held a torch for him for awhile and was convinced that the next event we were both at would be the time he realized how amazing I am. I attended the event, so did he. He didn't profess his love for me. And then his wife and children showed up... and they looked happy. Dammit!

I don't know who is my #1 #4 is... (i.e. the guy that I love the most that finds me repulsive)... Honestly, I can't think of anyone who I was (or am) in love with that actually finds me repulsive (or, more accurately, has told me as such). It's just my go-to reason for why they don't love me back (... I must be hideous...).

Okay, I must love things other than musicians.... Well, recently, I've become an internerd (blog: case and point); I used to laugh at people like me. So it probably won't come as too much of a surprise that my most recent loves are on the internet. Like the others, I don't know them and have no idea what they are actually like.... but I do heart them regardless. I had three favorites, but two of them left me for greener pasteurs, so that leaves me with one... but he's my favorite anyway, so it works out.

He writes articles for Cracked.com (The Bucholz Discharge... awesome!). He's witty and smart and seriously funny. He's also a huge jackass, which some may consider a bad thing, myself, I find it endearing. Also, I'm a jackass, so I think we'd get along. And... according to a post of his, he's Canadian. Bonus!!! All Canadians know each other, right? Maybe all hope isn't lost.

With my luck he lives in Halifax, is married and finds me repulsive. Fucker.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations!