Short Story: Missing MJ

Just a short post today, to tide you over...

I'm missing my bestie, MJ, today. I have a doctor's appointment and she's always my rock for these things. I found myself scrolling through my Evernote files for something interesting today, and found a few MJ quotes that I'd written down before she moved to Toronto, so that I'd have a couple little snippets of her with me all the time. Here's a couple examples of why I miss this girl so much:

JORDAN: I don't understand how dogs panting cools them.

MJ: It's their way of sweating.

JORDAN: Yeah, but when a person sweats, the wind dries the sweat and that's what cools them.

MJ: So maybe the wind is cooling his tongue.

JORDAN: Well then why not just hang it out? Why all the panting?

MJ: Cuz it's hard work.

......

MJ [AFTER SITTING IN SILENCE WITH ME FOR NEARLY 20 MINUTES]: 

I would buy the cow. Even if I got the milk for free.

......

MJ [AT HER MOVING SALE, WHERE NO ONE STOPPED TO BUY ANYTHING]:

Why is no one buying my stuff? People always say how cool my stuff is when they come over. [SHOUTING TO ALL]: Well, now you can own a piece of the legacy! 

......

For everyone out there missing a sister, best friend, companion, etc., I feel for you. We should make a group. It would be depressing, but I'd bring brownies.

Farewell to MJ

A FAREWELL 

This morning my best friend MJ moved away.

I have no words to describe the wretched sorrow pressing down on my chest. No words to explain how happy I am for her, and how scared and sad and lonely.

MJ and I have a long, complex history. Our relationship has changed in many ways. But I can say with some certainty that in the past 8 years, we have rarely spent more than two days apart. 

MJ is one of the few people on earth who likes all of me. She has seen me joyous, jealous, murderous, and petty. She has seen me being heroic, brave, cowardly, and crazy. 

And what's maybe more amazing is that I, too, like all of her. She is delicate perfection. She is a hot mess, and a perfect 10 all that the same time. I like her always; and that can be rare for me, as I have the patience of a lobotomized beagle when it comes to the human race.

Ottawa feels more empty today, less like home. Toronto better appreciate the gift it's getting, and treat her with gentleness, neighborly love, and generosity. A very special piece of my heart is too far away for a late-night hug, or a five-minute coffee. Too far away for me to beat up anyone who messes with her. Too far away, plain and simple.

I am sending MJ all my best and brightest wishes. I hope she finds new success and new friends and new happiness; I hope she keeps going with the momentum of this courageous move. And I won't lie: I kinda hope her happy journey will bring her back this way again. 

I love you, MJ.

.

Short story: Alison has a dream

I woke up this morning to a curious email from friend and fellow blogger, Alison:

I had a dream about you this morning.  You and Brian and I were sitting at a picnic table in an evacuation camp. I was eating buttered toast cut into the shape of sea creatures (mostly squid) and zoning out while staring at a big mountain, and you two were having a whispered fight about the fact that Brian was surgically altering you in your sleep and not telling you about it.

Just thought you should know.  Check yourself for scars.

 

 Is it worrisome that this dream sounds about as I'd expect things to go between Brian and I in a post-Apocalyptic situation? Actually, that's how I picture Alison, too: still behaving all Martha Stewart with her toast even though the world's come to an end.

Mini post: lessons in house hunting

Notes from our first real day of house hunting:

Like this bathroom? Yeah, me too. It's $50,000 over our budget.

Seeing a flea jumping around on the carpet is like finding a hair in your salad: you can try to remove it and just carry on, but you will never really be able to stomach it.

The queensway (Ottawa's major highway) is very loud and apparently is following us from neighbourhood to neighbourhood. 

 

Apparently at our budget level, we'll be looking at either a charming 2-bedroom murder scene, or a 3-bedroom garden home with bonus former grow-op in the basement.

Apparently looking at houses has changed me. In one neighbourhood I said I didn't like the look of the neighbours. This was after seeing a topless guy, covered in tattoos, wearing cargo shorts and army boots walking a tough-looking dog. I had to remind myself that excepting the topless part, I usually keep my shirt on, I look quite a bit like him most days--tattoos included.

Trying to stick in your budget is pretty much impossible. Again, it's like wedding dresses: there's always something so much more beautiful, if you're only willing to pay 10% more than you could ever possibly afford.

If you want to sell your house, paint it in bright colours. I can't tell if your house is ever going to be sunshiney when you paint it burgundy and forest green.

When you think you've established what you both, as a couple, are looking for, the other one will say something absolutely the opposite right in front of the realtor. And that's what you'll argue about all the way to the next house.

Short Story: the Hepburn-Islam mashup

Katharine Hepburn makes everything look classy.
Hell, she's using a saucer in the CAR.

I have begun blogging these short stories because my BFF is moving away; an  explanation is here.   

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

It's been raining a lot in Ottawa. I've been looking for my umbrella around the house but it's just not showing up. In my teens, I never carried an umbrella because I felt they were hazardous eye-poking devices, and I hated the awkward social courtesy expected when walking with an umbrella-less friend: how I'm supposed to squeeze our heads under that tiny shelter, without poking out anyone's eye, I don't know. But now that I'm older and no longer sporting the 'Corey Hart wet look' hairstyle that was pretty much rain-proof, I'm ready for an umbrella. The risk of eyeball injury is apparently less distressing than walking around with flattened hair all day.

Nonetheless, the single dollar store umbrella we used to own seems to have wandered off (Mary Poppins, I presume, is behind it), and so this week I attempted to pull off the Katharine Hepburn in-a-convertible look: I took one of my big shawl-shaped scarves, draped it over my head, swished it around my neck, and strode out of the house. 

It worked for keeping off the rain, but as the bus stopped in front of me and I got a good look at myself, I realized I looked nothing like Ms Hepburn. With a particularly modest floor-length skirt on today, plus my also modest long rainproof coat, I looked eerily similar to the Muslim women I used to counsel in my old job. In fact, I know this is how I looked because when I got on the bus, the driver and passengers, now familiar with me after weeks of travel together, looked at me with raised eyebrows, as if to say, 'Well that was a quick change in your life journey, considering yesterday, you were wearing an outfit similar to Britney spears circa 'hit me baby one more time'.'

THE KEYPAD MOLESTATION

source

Adding to my absurdity, I got to work and one of my workplace rituals played out, as it does every morning: the keypad molestation. Every day I get to work and realize my magnetic key card is in a pocket or bag on my person, but I'm unsure of location. Our keypads are fairly sensitive, so I can usually get it to acknowledge my card through a couple layers of fabric. So instead of dropping all my bags and my coffee, I begin rubbing various pockets up against the keypad. The result is that I appear to be giving the keypad some sort of vertical lap dance, rubbing my hips, butt, and boobs up against it. Somewhere along the way, the keypad will decide I've been demeaned enough, and it will happily beep me through. But I guarantee you, this is only after several VIP's have walked by me, and maybe a tour group or two.

I'm learning to accept that the only time anyone is going to mistake me at work for a cast member of Sex In The City is if the show comes back and does an episode where Carrie converts to Islam, loses her mind, and starts rubbing herself all over walls.

Short Story: Dad learns of The Bloggess

I have begun blogging very short stories because my BFF is moving away; explanation is here. 

I started reading the new novel by Jenny Lawson (aka the Bloggess) the other day, and it's so funny that I keep telling people stories fom it. I was describing Jenny to my dad and told him about Jenny's obsession with antique taxidermied animals, and he got all riled up; apparently antique dead animals have all sorts of carcinogens going on, though I can't remember what type. He said that the museum he works at has a HazMat team handle those things, and that I should warn Jenny not to touch them anymore. I tried to explain that Jenny's dad was a taxidermist and probably knew this stuff, and also that Jenny Lawson is a big deal and I don't know her, nor do I think we're ever going to be engaged in casual chat where I can warn her about her cancer risks. But I guess it's a bit like when people ask a Canadian if they know Steve or Joe...that assumption that we all know each other, right? Apparently in my dad's eyes, all us bloggers meet up at our blogger gentleman's club and drink sherry. Anyway, Jenny, if you ARE out there somewhere, my dad thinks you're a comedic genius and would like you to watch out for your health.

My BFF leaves: the start of 'short stories'.

My bestie.

My BFF migrates, and my dog smothers me. 

 

My best friend MJ is moving away. This is a recent and relatively sudden development, at least for MJ, who usually takes eons to pick a flavor of chips at the gas station. She has good reasons for going, and I am trying hard to put on a brave face, but inside my chest is a whirling black hole of loss and anxiety. Sounds a bit extreme, I know. That's how extremely I love this person.

One of the first things that hit me was that I wasn't going to be able to tell MJ every little thought that comes to my head. The solution, of course, was right in front of me: the blog. MJ is where all my mini anecdotes usually find an audience. As you, reader, are likely stuck on a bus, in a waiting room, or at your boring desk job right now, I figure I've got a captive audience that may actually enjoy some of my random daily dealings. It's a win-win situation for all, because YOU get more blog posts, I find an outlet for my tales, and MJ doesn't have to walk around Toronto with her Bluetooth permanently on. So here's a story, just for practice.

Woman Vs Dog: dog wins. 

 

Bri and Mr Darcy.

On Wednesday night, we headed over to my parents' house for our weekly guitar lesson with my dad. We brought our fat pug, Mr Darcy, so Dad could help clip his nails. As we drove along, Darcy started his usual wailing howl of excitement, which I usually silence by reaching back behind my seat and whacking him. It sounds bad, but it's a very light tap and it's the only effective intervention because he's so stupid. It's a bit like whacking an old TV to clear the static. Anyway, this time Mr Darcy managed to find a corner of the back seat that was just too far away from my seat to reach him. For a while I waved my arm around wildly, but he wasn't threatened and continued to squeal like a grotesque furry pig with laryngitis. In desperation, I pulled the lever and leaned my seat all the way back so I could reach out and whack him, but he had a flash of brilliance and instead of ducking, he ran straight at me. Suddenly he was standing on the headrest of my seat, his hairy jelly belly on my face. I screeched and tried to pull the seat lever again, but Darcy's added weight kept it firmly down. He snuffled and licked my ears, chewed my hair, and settled into a sort of neck pillow on my seat; and that is how we continued the whole trip.

More stories to come. Then I will teach MJ about Blog Reader apps for her phone. Then it'll be like she never left. 

(Sigh.)