Yesterday 2.0 hollered from the basement and told me to, “Turn on the news. Hurry!” I immediately turned the television to a national news network. I watched a COVID-19 press conference for 45 minutes. Absolutely nothing new was announced.

When the update ended I met 2.0 in the kitchen.

movita: I watched the news conference but I’m not sure what you wanted me to see. Maybe I was too late?

2.0: There was a guy on there that looked like Kenny Rogers.

movita: Wait…what? You wanted me to stop what I was doing to see a guy who looked like Kenny Rogers? Not hear an update about the crisis?

2.0: Yah.

movita: But you didn’t mention the Kenny Rogers lookalike. 

2.0: No. 

movita: And you can see how I might think they were making a major announcement? Because you yelled at me frantically to turn on the news?

2.0: I guess. But I figured you’d know what I wanted you to see as soon as you turned on the news.

movita: Can you can understand why I might have been a little concerned? Frightened even? 

2.0: Maybe for second. But then happy because you’d have seen the Kenny lookalike. 

movita: But I spent 45 minutes watching a news conferenc–

2.0: You saw him though, right?

movita: Who?

2.0: Kenny Rogers.

movita: I don’t recall seeing anyone who looked like Kenny Rogers. 

2.0: Well, this has been a complete waste of time.

movita:

2.0:

movita: I think we’re going to have to lay down some new ground rules. 

.

HEY! My homeland (Nova Scotia) has just declared a state of emergency and I’m quite sure that I’m not supposed to be sitting next to my window or using my computer but I thought you might NEED me and my run-on sentences right now so here I am. The world feels upside down and 2.0 shoved his elbow in my face when I tried to kiss him the other day. These are the times we live in. I’m still out here living my best mediocre life and you’re still out there reading the crap I put on the internets so… I hope my words bring you a comfort equivalent to a well-stocked cupboard of toilet paper.

The dance studio that employs me has been shut down thanks to The Virus. Our shows have been cancelled, examinations postponed. Generally, we adhere to an unless-you’re-bleeding-from-the-eyes-the-show-must-go-on policy, so this is uncharted territory for us. Like a lot of you, we’re out of work. The dance community is made up of a lot of self-employed, hourly wage earners without benefits. I’ll be okay because 2.0 is still working and even if that changes we will be fine for a while, so I’m very grateful and I’m not even being sarcastic.

Some dance schools are launching online classes which I find rigoddamndiculous because I’ve been telling my dancers for years that you can’t learn ballet on YouTube (#jobsecurity) and the whole point of coming to class is not YOU SEEING ME but ME SEEING YOU and telling you how much something you are doing sucks. It is my greatest joy. Dance is passed body to body, like a virus. I need to be near you to spread my virus knowledge to you. So these days I’m more concerned about my eyes rolling out of my head than I am about catching COVID-19.

Related: I’m definitely going to get murdered to death by the dance community in the coming days.

In addition to crushing poverty and the probable collapse of my photography business in the coming months (#cheerful #optimistic #nothinggetsmedown), this unexpected period of unemployment means no walking through the door at 10 PM to learn that “Dorey really likes pizza sauce!” That’s what 2.0 told me last week when I got home from teaching. “She was crazy for the stuff!”

It also means that I don’t get to answer questions from my teenaged students such as, “Do you have any balloons in your bag? Like, some that you aren’t using right now?” Who the hell carries balloons around with them? (Other than a clown, obviously.)

I started stocking up on pandemic supplies a few weeks ago – a can of soup here, a box of pasta there. And I picked up some extra toilet paper long before people started hoarding the stuff. Still, though we have plenty of toilet paper for the two of us, 2.0 has been tracking the number of squares I use with each bathroom visit. “How many squares?” he’ll shout through the bathroom door. “Four? That can’t be right! Count again!” It’s a lot of pressure because sometimes I forget to count before wiping and it seems to make 2.0 very antsy.

Social distancing and isolation have afforded me some time to catch up on chores, writing and some online learning. It also means I’ve had to spend way too much time looking up internet acronyms like FTL, IMO, SMH, etc. Are people really too busy to just write actual words? How many of these people are rushing off to do emergency brain surgery? You can’t just write ‘in my opinion?’ WRITE WHAT YOU MEAN FFS.

Last night 2.0 brought me dinner in bed. I’m not sick — I was trapped under Dorey. He filled ramekins with leftover mashed potatoes and cheese and then put ’em in the oven till they were toasty, and warmed some leftover pork chops. Behold:

If you’re wondering why he cut my meat for me? I AM TOO. Am I sick and just don’t know it? Does 2.0 know something I don’t know? Has he found some of my teeth around the house?

A couple of weeks ago I slipped on our back steps and took a bit of a tumble. I didn’t hurt myself – other than my pride – and when 2.0 got home I told him about it, looking for a little sympathy.

2.0: Oh no! Are you okay?

movita: I’m fine. I didn’t hurt myself. Just a couple bounces off the ol’ ass, but I don’t feel like I hurt anything. 

2.0: Because of your extra padding?

movita: 

2.0: 

movita: What. Extra. Padding?

2.0: From your… coat?

Recently I went to the doctor and had some routine blood work done. My sister had been nagging me to get my vitamin D levels checked because hers recently tested very low and I guess she was hoping she could take someone down with her. She asked me 32,548 times to get tested so doing so seemed like the only way to get her to shut up.

The day after a lady took blood out of me, my doctor’s office called and said my doctor wanted to see me as soon as possible which is rarely a sign of affection and usually a sign of something-is-wrong-with-you. When I walked into her office she said, “Now before we discuss your blood work I’m just wondering if YOU have any questions or concerns about how you’ve been feeling?”

And I said, “No, but judging from the tone of your voice I’m guessing you THINK I should have some questions.”

Turns out I’m severely anaemic. Like, my blood is broken and my heart is ‘struggling.’ When my doctor showed me the numbers on my tests I said, “Oh, that’s not so bad,” because 94 out of 120 seemed like a decent grade but my doctor said, “Noooooo, that’s very bad,” and then gave me a look that said: it was nice knowing you. So now I’m taking pills and demanding lots of extra attention from 2.0 because I shouldn’t have to fetch my own snack food or the remote control for the foreseeable future given how ill I am.

By the way, my vitamin D levels were above average. And yes, I realize I wouldn’t have known I was dying if my sister weren’t so annoying.

Recently, when watching the commercial below, I turned to 2.0 and said, “Imagine being the guy who can now list ‘Stuck Poop’ on his resumé,” which started an argument because 2.0 refused to believe that the actor was playing the role of a trapped turd. So we rewatched it. Twice.

movita: See? That guy is poop.

2.0: No.

movita: Yes! He’s stuck. He’s CONSTIPATION. 

2.0: No!

movita: Yes. Look, both people in that commercial are in long, twisted waterslides. Those waterslides are INTESTINES.

2.0: NO! 

movita: Yes. And that guy? He’s stuck. He’s stuck in the poop shoot. But the woman? She slides right through. She’s happy poop. Weeeeeeee! 

2.0: No. No way.

movita: Wake up, man! You think that pool is accidental? Or is it a TOILET BOWL?

2.0: But… oh my God… really?

movita: Yup. 

After a few minutes, 2.0 was convinced and now when the commercial comes on 2.0 points at the man on the waterslide and yells, “Look, honey! It’s you!” Because the pills I’m taking to save my heart also cause constipation and this is my life now.

Stay healthy, friends!

Sup, homies? Happy belated New Year. Like, really belated. Where have I been? Mostly running errands, but sometimes at work or in bed watching Netflix. You know, the stuff most successful people do. So let’s get you all caught up. I think you’ll be pleased to learn that I still really like run-on sentences and 2.0 hasn’t changed a bit.

On Christmas morning I unwrapped a very posh jar of face scrub that 2.0 had tucked into my stocking. He also gave me a fancy face mask. I was impressed with his choices but having difficulty picturing him in a store selecting the items. So when I opened some age-defying night cream I finally asked, “How did you know what to get? This is way nicer than anything I’d ever buy for myself.”

2.0 shrugged and said, “I was standing in the store and a lady came up to me and asked if I needed help so I said, ‘I need a Christmas gift for a woman,’ and she told me what to buy.”

I’d like to point out that he could have called me his partner, his wife, or the love of his life, but no. He was simply shopping for a woman he might possibly run into sometime over the holidays.

The other night I came home from work and 2.0 led me directly to the microwave.

2.0: You are going to be so impressed! Look! Look how clean the microwave is!

It was indeed clean. Sparkling, even. Every nook and cranny was spotless.

movita: So… what happened?

2.0: What do you mean?

movita: Well, we’ve been together for eleven years now and you’ve never cleaned the microwave. To be honest, it has always seemed like you’ve gone to some trouble to make it extra dirty. What gives?

2.0: Well, remember that piece of quiche you left for my dinner?

movita: Uh-oh…

2.0: Yah. Did you know that if you microwave a piece of quiche on high for two minutes that it will explode? Like, it can almost catch on fire?

So I guess from now on I’ll have to leave 2.0 even more specific notes about how to stay alive when I go to work. 

On Black Friday I invested in a pile of studio lighting gear for my photography business. Do I know how to use studio lighting gear? Nope. But I’m gunna learn because – and this is huge – next year is going to be my last year of teaching. I should be wrapping up my duties as a dance teacher in May 2021 and be either a) workin’ the freelance life, or b) homeless. It feels big, but not crazy big, so I’m only a little bit skerd. That said, when I tell people I won’t be teaching they get a pathetic look on their faces and say stuff like, “But are you feeling so sad about it? Won’t you miss it sooooo much?”

I can tell from the look on their faces that they WANT me to get choked up, so I furrow my brow and say stuff like: oh yes, I’ll be very sad.

But really I’m all:

I mean, can’t a gal look forward to a new sort of work-life where she doesn’t sweat like a farm animal and worry about injuries 24/7?

Remember when I Marie Kondo-ed my closet? Well, I’m still recovering from the Great Purge of 2019 because getting rid of all the clothes that didn’t spark joy left me without any clothes at all. So this week I made efforts to continue building a joyful wardrobe and purchased a pile of pants, tops, shoes, sneakers, and a pink pleather jacket. It was pretty exhilarating.

When I was modelling my purchases for 2.0 he said, “I’m just wondering if you were supposed to get rid of everything you had before? I mean, isn’t it crazy to get rid of everything you own so you have to buy all new stuff?”

I paused to calm my insides before answering. “First off, I wasn’t wearing the stuff that was in my closet, and second off, LOOK AT ME IN THIS JACKET. ARE YOU SEEING ME? DO YOU SEE HOW ADORABLE IT IS? OR ARE YOU BLIND? LOOK. AT. ME. ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME? GOOD. SO YOU GET IT, RIGHT?”

I might have overreacted? But I don’t think so.

I want to tell you about a crazy dream I had this week. I know what you’re thinking: no one EVER wants to hear about someone else’s dreams, movita. And yet here we are. SO the dream opens with a woman curled up in a bathtub, naked, and someone is pouring hot water over her. And then ice water. And then hot water again. It’s legit traumatizing and I’m thinking: who is doing this? And why? And then I realize that I’M the one torturing the woman, and I’m shook, but it doesn’t stop dream-me from tub-torturing the woman. Then I hear myself saying, “We know about the targets! Two grocery stores and a school,” and I feel like maybe my actions are justifiable. There are a lot of innocents at schools and in shopping areas, and clearly this woman is planning an attack with a terrorist cell. And then I slam my fists against a table and yell, “JUST TELL ME WHERE THE ROLLING RECYCLING BINS ARE! THE BIG ONES WE CAN PUT A LOT OF CARDBOARD BOXES IN!”

So, yah. I guess you could say climate change has got me taking my recycling duties pretty seriously.

For about a year I’ve been thinking about moving up a size in my underwear, and I finally broke down and bought a package of new undies in the next size up. When I opened the package and held the underwear up for 2.0 we agreed that they looked really big. Like, 2.0 laughed hysterically when he saw them. But you can’t return gitch so I washed them and put them in my underwear drawer. Later that week when I was wearing a pair 2.0 loudly pointed out that they fit very well and that it was a pleasant surprise given JUST HOW HUGE THEY WERE so I spent the rest of the day trying to determine if I could dig up enough of the basement floor to bury him under it without getting caught.

Last Saturday morning 2.0 turned to me and said, “Honey, I’ve got some big plans for our morning. We both have the day off and I think we should do something special.” I was pretty excited until he continued with, “Let’s go to the new Sobeys out by Exit 3.”

Guys? 2.0 doesn’t ask for much, so dammit, I agreed to go. Is a new grocery store my idea of big fun? No, because chores do not a good date make. But sometimes you do for love. When we arrived at the store and pulled into an extra-wide parking spot 2.0 smiled and whispered, “There are hardly any cars here.” When we walked through the sliding doors he turned to me and said, “No one’s here! It’s Saturday! Look at this place!”

I let him wander the aisles at his usual pace of .0000025 miles per hour, as he gleefully ran his hands over the perfectly stocked shelves, listening to him say ridiculous stuff like, “Do we even have this at our grocery store?!” When yes, we obviously have all the same stuff at our grocery store because a lot of people need dog food and dish detergent.

We left the store with a cart full of groceries and 2.0 – a man who never engages in public displays of affection – threw his arms around me and hugged me hard in the parking lot, telling me he’d had the best time EVER. It’s the happiest I’ve seen him in years and I was glad I hadn’t murdered him after he pointed out that a massive pair of granny panties was obviously the size my ass had been requesting for a very long time.

And finally, Dorey has claimed the bathrobe my in-laws gave me for Christmas as her own. I’d ask for it back, but…

Since losing Niles, we’ve been slathering Dorey with extra attention. She has been feeling a little low these days, so I told 2.0 to say something supportive and reassuring to her. He walked to her, cupped her face in his hands and gently said, “You have a lot of fur.” Dorey looked at me as if to say: okay, I think we’re done here.

A couple of days after losing Niles I received a comic in the mail from my cousin Alana. I had forgotten how nice it is to get a note delivered in non-internet fashion. It was a perfectly timed Garfield comic and was one of the nicest parts of that week. Family: they’re the best.

Speaking of family, my mother has been arguing with my sister about the proper way to celebrate birthdays, and I had to read about 75 emails on the topic. Yesterday my mother told my sister and me to get shingles vaccines, but I told her they don’t generally recommend those to people until they hit 50 years old. This meant a few more emails had to be exchanged on the topic WHICH HONESTLY MOTHER I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO CONVINCE 2.0 TO BUY ME A NEW CAR AND INTERNET CAR SHOPPING IS VERY TIME CONSUMING. Naturally, my mother didn’t believe me and asked a nurse who was giving her an old-person vaccine later that day. The nurse confirmed that the shingles vaccine gets administered at 50+ and then my mother emailed me with this information as if I hadn’t said the exact same thing two hours earlier. So yes, I’ve started searching for nursing home options in Florida.

2.0 got me some flashing arm bands for Christmas because many of the drivers in our neighbourhood seem to be actively seeking out pedestrians with their cars. The hope is that I will be more visible, and actually now that I’m typing this I’m wondering what his true intentions were…

I’ve stopped looking for cool things on the webernets (other than cars, vaccines, and nursing homes) because my sister finds it all and then sends me the links. Case in point:

It’s March Break here, so no teaching this week. I’ve picked five recipes to bake and if 2.0 says a single thing about the grocery bill I will murder him. This is because last week he found a notebook in which he had tracked my baking for an entire year. He did this so he would have statistics to back up his arguments when he feels I’m not baking enough for him. And yes, he was kind enough to point out that I am going to have to do a lot of work this month to catch up to my 2013 stats.

The other morning – at about 5:45 am – 2.0 emerged from the en suite bathroom with two toothbrushes and said, “I’m having a bit of a block here. Which toothbrush is mine?” This is a very concerning question before the sun has come up, but I remained calm and said, “The blue one,” even though I was thinking: I need to get a new toothbrush immediately.

‘Tis the season for bugs to awaken and start moving around our house. Four spiders have emerged this week. Where were they hiding all winter? And where are the rest of their friends? Thus it is also the season for this:

The other day I texted 2.0 a picture of our car tire which seemed to be very low on air. I told him that I was worried about driving on the highway and he texted back: you should be fine. You SHOULD be fine? What is it like, I wonder? Not to worry about fiery car crashes? I was late getting home from work that night and when I walked through the door he said, “Honey! I was so worried about you! I thought maybe you’d had an accident because of the tire. I was starting to think you were laying on a road somewhere!”

“And yet,” I pointed out, “you are here in the kitchen with Dorey eating a snack and not looking for my body.”

“Well,” he said, “I was pretty hungry. And this snack didn’t prepare itself.”

This week 2.0 and I have been participating in a survey which helps to establish ratings for television shows. We have to record everything we watch, when we watch it, and how (cable, Netflix, whatever). So, when more amazing shows like Schitt’s Creek and Cardinal start appearing on your televisions next year you can send me a thank you note. Seriously. This survey has been very time consuming. You owe me.

Reading through this post I realize that it’s almost entirely about 2.0 and now I’m thinking I need to get out more.

My parents, Bill and Rosie Beaucoup, have been married for about 95 years. When you’ve been a pair for that long your names become inextricably entwined. Which is why my adorable French niece Lucy thought they were each named BillRose when she was very little. She’d turn to my mother and ask, “BillRose? May I have a glass of juice?” Or look at my father and say, “Can we go outside now, BillRose?” Pair that with her most adorable French accent and you’ve got some top notch cuteness.

My brother has created an online tracker so we can record the results of family game nights. This is a great way to settle international arguments about who won or lost which game, and when. Unfortunately, it’s also a convenient way for people to see just how often I lose. (It’s about 98.5% of the time.)

Guys? How come no one told me that CrimeCon exists? The website states:

If your idea of the perfect night involves alibis, motives, and a bottle of wine, then this is the event you’ve been waiting for.

Do you guys even care if I get to hang with Keith Morrison and Erin Moriarty? Do you? I’m not angry, I’m just… disappointed.

Now, my sister ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT ME and has been sending me murders to solve. When she hears about an interesting case — particularly the ones from Toronto or other major cities in Canada — she forwards the file so I can deduce who done it and why. I don’t want to sound braggy but I’m pretty good at predicting horrific details before they are released to the public. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why I haven’t been invited to speak at CrimeCon.

D O R E Y G L O R Y

Speaking of murder, last week I had the pleasure of listening to my neighbours Dawn and Joan discussing what might happen should they find themselves incarcerated together. More specifically, the issues arising since Dawn announced that she won’t allow Joan to join her prison gang.

In their oft-debated scenario, Dawn and Joan are doing hard time after being jointly convicted of a crime. (No, I don’t know what crime. Yes, that makes me nervous.) Dawn has made it abundantly clear that Joan won’t be allowed — under any circumstances — to run with her in the pen. In fact, Dawn plans to be extra hard on Joan so the other prisoners won’t think they know one another. Like, she’ll throw food at Joan in the cafeteria and holler yo-momma insults at her. It seems that Joan has no street smarts and would be dead weight, so Dawn has planned accordingly. I won’t lie: I admire this sort of forward thinking. Also, should prisons ever become co-ed, I’d drop 2.0 like a hot potato.

I really like this print in my parent’s dining room, so I labeled it just in case something happens to them and my sister tries to claim it first. It took my mother almost two weeks to notice the tag, so now I’m wondering how much other stuff I can claim before the labels start disappearing.

2.0 has a habit of forgetting me and/or running into me because he “didn’t see me there.” Once we were at the grocery store and I had to backtrack to the produce department for some broccoli. I asked 2.0 to grab the last items on our list and then meet me in the meat department. About two minutes later I arrived at the butcher’s counter and couldn’t find 2.0. I waited and waited. After a few minutes I started looking up and down the aisles. No 2.0. After another five minutes I made my way to the front of the store and found him in the checkout lane, paying for our groceries. I caught his eye and he looked really surprised to see me. So I mouthed WHAT THE HELL, HONEY and then he made a break for the parking lot.

He forgot me, guys. He forgot that I had been with him at the store.

So, no. I won’t be counting on him in prison.