Note: this edition of Crap has been generously sponsored by CAPS LOCK.
Bless me Internet, for I have sinned. It has been many weeks since my last blog post. I am sorry for sometimes re-watching episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine instead of writing. I firmly resolve to amend my life. Thanks be to Google.
Things have been very busy around here. Class planning, appointments, editing photos of dancers, and chores. Lots of chores. It’s like living on a farm but with only two animals and not a single piece of heavy machinery other than my Dyson vacuum. I’ve been finding it hard to find the time to write stories, but I have about 25 started. So I guess I’ve been finding it hard to FINISH stories.
ALSO: this week I signed up for NaNoWriMo. According to their website:
National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to creative writing.
On November 1, participants begin working towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 PM on November 30.
So I’ll be spending November writing a 50,000 word
novel piece of crap. And yes, that means it’s prolly gunna be quiet around here for the foreseeable future. But I’ve got lots in the works for you. I PROMISE.
A couple of years ago I taught a dance history class. During a discussion of the Romantic Era, my student Chloe raised her hand and asked what ballet classes would have been like for me when Giselle premiered. Questions like: did we do barre work in class? Did the barres look like they do now or did we hang onto ropes? What did we wear to class?
At first I just stared at her, but when she didn’t react to my death glare I had to say: I JUST TOLD YOU GISELLE PREMIERED IN 1841.
Nothing. Chloe silently returned my stare. So I had to whispershout: HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM?
Later that year, during a discussion of Swan Lake, Chloe put up her hand and asked, “Do swans make good eats? More specifically: black swans. Can you eat black swans?”
That’s when I started pretending I couldn’t see Chloe’s hand when she raised it to ask questions.
I had to get some dental work done this month — a crown on a back molar. Because of the shape of the tooth it had to be gold rather than… whatever crap they’re normally made of. I guess some people don’t like this sort of surprise because they want fancy white teeth. After the crown was placed perfectly in my mouth my dentist handed me a mirror and was all: you okay with that?
And I was all:
GOLD IS LEGIT, MOFOS.
That said, I hope no one tries to rip it out of my head. (I work in a tough neighbourhood.)
2.0 and I gave Bill Beaucoup a ladder toss set for his birthday in June. Now my parents are obsessed with the game and we have to play whenever we visit. It’s kinda like mandatory yard time in prison. On the plus side, the Beaucoups seem to really like it when I call the game by it’s proper name: testicle toss.
Speaking of the Beaucoups, a few days into their September visit with my sister in Toronto, she sent an email to say both Rosie and Bill had been washing their hair with dog shampoo. In my sister’s words:
To be clear, there are no fewer than FOUR human shampoo options in the shower.
My mother argued that there were TOO MANY options available and that a good host wouldn’t put dog shampoo in the shower. My sister argued that she thought our parents could read labels. My father argued that his hair had never been more manageable, so earthbath® natural pet care products are the real winner here.
On Monday I went for a little stroll along the line of businesses that my dance studio is nestled in. As I neared the far end of the complex I passed a woman on her phone shouting, “Well when IS he coming in to pay? Huh? No. NO. You know what, Sheila? I’m just gonna cancel his appointment because you are pure evil. PURE. EVIL.” I looked up at the sign over her head and realized it was a massage therapist speaking to a client. Now I kind of want to book an appointment to see what else goes on in there, you know?
As I walked back toward the studio I heard a mother cheerfully call to her kid, “You forgot your fucking backpack!” and then watched as she led her skipping four-year-old to dance class. Of course, it’s possible I misheard. That massage therapist really threw me.
Pet peeve: when people say addition instead of audition. They are not the same thing at all and it makes me want to throw a toilet.
I have a new nighttime face lotion, and after three weeks of use I think I look about 10 years younger. No one has said anything about it, but 2.0 did shriek one night when I emerged from the bathroom because he claimed he didn’t recognize me. I LOOKED THAT YOUNG.
This morning I went to the grocery store to buy all the foods for the upcoming long weekend. (Thanksgiving. Canadians celebrate it in October.) As I rolled up the cookie aisle I saw an elderly gentleman carefully selecting a small box of cookies to put in his otherwise empty cart. I immediately began having a 2.0 Panic Attack — my chest tightened and I could feel tears springing to my eyes. How terrible would it be if 2.0 found himself alone after I’ve been struck down by disease or — and this is more likely — murder in the prime of my life? This is where my mind always goes when I see old people by themselves. I imagine poor 2.0, lonely and heartbroken in his rumpled clothes, searching for some sort of comfort in the form of a Mr. Maple cookie.
But then I snapped out of it and started future-ghost yelling at 2.0: WHERE ARE THE VEGETABLES, HONEY? You passed right by the produce aisle to get here! And where is your belt? Your pants are falling down. No. I don’t know where it is. Hanging on the bedroom door? That’s where you usually put it…
So now I’m thinking about writing a longterm care manual for 2.0 so I can sleep at night.
And finally, a favourite reporter update:
It was not blood.
It was not scratches.
It was not a rash.
Those marks on my chin are from a chocolate chip muffin. It was delicious. And I’m a sleep-deprived slob.
(PS, shout-out to my favourite control room colleagues for not telling me I HAD CHOCOLATE ON MY FACE.)
— Brett Ruskin (@Brett_CBC) September 25, 2018