I bought a pair of adorable pink Keds in March which I haven’t been able to wear because it has been rainsnowing for 37 days straight. On the plus side, most warm-weather sports haven’t kicked off in our neighbourhood. I mean, is there anything more nightmarish than a ball being punted, thrown or propelled near you when you’re on a walk? It’s a bit much if you ask me.

Dorey had her first trip to the vet since we brought her home in December 2016 and she did not enjoy it one bit. She cried, panted, howled and then peed in her carrier. We all had to nap for a few hours when we got home.

Dorey is fine, by the way. The vet said she is 13.94 pounds of the prettiest cat she has ever seen. She didn’t use those actual words, but it was definitely implied.

Recently, when stopped at a red light, the woman in the SUV ahead of me jumped out of her vehicle, opened the trunk, pulled out a massive watermelon, got back in her car, placed the watermelon on the passenger side seat, and then buckled it down with a seatbelt. I’ve thought about it a lot. The watermelon seemed secure in the trunk — it was in a box. Why move it? Why move it at a red light when the pressure seems high? Please inform because it’s got me thinkin’ like a 48 Hours Mystery.

Confession: we bought pancake mix and it makes really good pancakes. Related: my mother is probably very disappointed in me.

During an email exchange about exhaustion, my sister made the mistake of telling our mother: I sleep so badly in my old age. Seems like I have jetlag three days out of every seven. I’ve tried cutting back on caffeine, exercising more, etc. The only thing that works reliably is Benadryl, but then I have a Benadryl hangover and need caffeine to wake me up…

I made the mistake of saying I feel much the same way and my mother immediately sent us this article from DrugAbuse.com — Hooked on Benadryl: It’s Much More Than a Harmless Dependency — and I laughed until I almost peed my pants.

I got my first paycheque as a freelance writer! Unfortunately, it was Mrs. Rutherford that got me the gig so the money was tainted and I used it to buy narcotics and handguns.

Speaking of the horrible Rutherfords, a couple of weeks ago I told Mrs. Rutherford that I had to renew my driver’s licence. I was going to do it on my own but then 2.0 suggested that we go together because I guess he doesn’t remember what an actual fun date is anymore. When I told Mrs. Rutherford that I rescheduled my renewal to accommodate 2.0 she heard: they revoked my licence because I’m elderly and have to retake my road test.

I would just like everyone to know that it only took 10 minutes to renew my licence because I still have full use of my everything and I didn’t have to retake my road test because I could basically ADMINISTER THE TEST. Goddammit, Rutherfords.

My sister sent me this crime update from Toronto and now I kinda wish I still lived there:

When I was living in Toronto I had to run some errands at the Eaton Centre (aka Hell on Earth) and as I tackled my to-do list I could hear a bunch of people cheering intermittently and very loudly from the level below mine. I peered over a railing and saw about 50 tourists in a courtyard cheering for a fountain. As in: a water fountain. As in: the water would shoot up into the air and the tourists would applaud and encourage the water by shouting at it.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I bet any one of those tourists would really enjoy a date at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.

Last week my sister flew in from Toronto to surprise Rosie Beaucoup for her birthday. It was a delightful 48 hours and I don’t think Haddy took a single Benadryl. #interventiondisguisedasbirthdaycelebration

My mother has taught me a lot over the years, but the piece of advice I use most often is her suggestion that the best response when a jackass says something really stupid to you is: that’s interesting. (Sorry for that awkward sentencing.) The response works brilliantly because it’s not particularly passionate or engaging so it’s hard for your typical jackass to respond or redirect. You can just say, “That’s interesting,” and then walk away. It works really well and I use it frequently.

Dramatization:

Man: You have ruined my life.
movita: That’s interesting.
Man:

End scene.

Thanks, Rosie Beaucoup. I hope you had a happy birthday!

Niles has been diagnosed with kidney disease. Apparently this is typical in geriatric cats – he’s about 16-35 years old. He’s not in a kidney failure situation so I’m hoping we’ve still got plenty of time with our little nugget. We’re planning to treat him just as we did Effie – an enjoy-your-golden-days-to-the-MAX type deal. Want to meow at 3 a.m. in the stairwell so you can hear your song echoing at peak volume? Go ahead. Wanna sleep with your disgusting litter-feet on my face all night? Sure, little buddy, no problem. Want to avenge… something? by destroying every house plant we own? Fair enough. That Christmas cactus probably had it coming.

On the plus side, Niles hasn’t reached this level of living to the max yet:

Have I ever told you how much I hate shoes that look like feet? Just thinking about them creeps me out. Keep your toes bunched up and hidden like a normal human, weirdo.

Recently our doorbell rang and I ignored it because Saturday mornings are prime recruiting time for religious people. (Jesus, Donna, take a hint.) A moment later I heard pounding on the storm door, which was then opened. THEN I HEARD SOMEONE AGGRESSIVELY TURNING AND SHAKING THE HANDLE OF OUR INTERIOR DOOR. From the window I could see that it was two little boys trying to break into our house while their parents watched from the street.

Naturally, my irascible side made an appearance. First, what’s the end game, kids? I come downstairs in my pyjamas and find you standing in my kitchen? That’s how children end up in stew. Second, what sort of parents watch as their children try to break into a home? You tell the little crappers to ring the bell and explain the protocol for unanswered requests. YOU DON’T ALLOW THEM TO BREAK INTO THE HOUSE. What the hell is wrong with people? It took me two hours to calm down. Just kidding — I haven’t calmed down yet. I sit in front of my window all day waiting for them to walk up the street so I can throw garbage at them.

I got 2.0 a new iPad for Christmas and I’m still haunted by the sounds of his attempts to set up Siri.

This spring we will be digging up our front yard to replace our sewer main. I’d be upset about it but our entire neighbourhood is in the same boat so we’ve been expecting it for a few years. Did 2.0 and our neigbourhood plumber ask me what I had done to clog the line and then get a serious case of the giggles? Yes, yes they did. #poopjokesarethebestjokes

My cousin Alana and her husband Clive gave me an “old fashioned contribution” to my writing career for Christmas. It’s a thin, stick-like instrument with a beautiful rhinestone at one end and what appears to be a core of coal at the other. It took a few days to figure out how to use it, but I think I’ve finally got the swing of things.

Our enemy, Mrs. Rutherford, texted me last week to tell me that her car had been broken into. The thief left everything in the vehicle (including cash) except the box of tampons she keeps in the console. I put that in italics because: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL? She was quick to mention that the thief left one tampon behind because — in her words — I guess they didn’t want to leave me stuck if I really did need one. Mrs. Rutherford has been a little stressed lately so I didn’t ask too many questions and pretended that everything she was telling me was perfectly normal and didn’t make me wonder what else she stores in her Nissan.

I’ve been Marie Kondo-ing everything in my life including the book I wrote during NaNoWriMo. As a result I’m turning my NaNoWriMo efforts into a neatly folded blog series! It’ll be like tuning into Days of Our Lives but without any love triangles and probably no one will get buried alive or possessed by the devil. I’m hoping to kick it off in the spring or summer so you’ll have something to read when there are no new episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine to watch.

And finally, I now have TWO Instagram accounts. One for people who like dance and one for people who like cats and would classify my blog as a lifestyle website. #youarenotwrong

Love from your most eager servant,

movita

I had big plans for this summer which included blogging, writing a volume of Ballet Explained, a collection of autofictional essays and a bestselling children’s book, becoming a skilled dance photographer, and purging our entire house. I have achieved 2.5% of this. (Okay, 1.5%.) I believe my lack of productivity has something to do with the humidity here. Nova Scotia is like an armpit in July and August.

Good news! Murder Couple is back together! I saw them walking hand-in-hand the other night. They looked very happy and Murder Dude finally cut his hair. (Thank god.) Also, last night I watched as Murder Dude passed a man walking on the other side of the street and then slowly looked back at that other guy with an expression that most definitely said: a hunter is going to stumble upon part(s) of your body seven years from now. That was some awkward sentencing there, but you catch my drift.

Related: the other day someone asked me if The Rutherfords are Murder Couple, and I was all: no, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Murder Couple is a couple that murders, not a couple that everyone wishes would… disappear.

Speaking of The Rutherfords, not so long ago one of the kid-Rutherfords gave me a detailed description of a family weekend. It centred on the usual Rutherford junk: hikes, bike rides, nature, playgrounds, sporting events. After several minutes of describing every activity I’ve never wanted to participate in, she finished with, “And then our toilets exploded.”

Naturally, I requested clarification. “Backup! What did you say?”

She slowly repeated, “OUR TOILETS EXPLODED,” like I was an idiot.

So I said, “Listen kid, that was your hook. You OPEN with ‘our toilets exploded’ and then proceed from there. Leave that nature crap out in the future.”

I feel like priorities are not being emphasized in that house.

I found this photo of Niles on my phone yesterday. We got new stair treads last year and he was decidedly unsure about them.

Since leaving my job in June, I’ve run into a number of former colleagues, usually when shuffling around a shop in spaghetti-stained leisurewear. Those colleagues always furrow their brow and say something in hushed tones like, “Are you okay? What are you going to do? You must be finding it so hard. Are you finding it just so hard?” Now, I acknowledge that I may have forsaken makeup and fashion for the summer life, but I ain’t havin’ no hard time. So I have to whisper-shout something like, “You know I resigned, right? I WANTED TO LEAVE. That’s what resigning means.”

Do people not resign any more? Is it not a thing? Also, should I be dressing up to buy bananas? What should I be wearing to the grocery store? Please inform.

I know there’s a lot of talk about the rise of hatred and general assholery in the world, but there are just as many people trying to open their minds and hearts to all sorts of humans. Take, for example, the elderly woman I ran into while doing errands the other day. We struck up a lengthy conversation in the aisle at Michael’s, and I’m pleased to say she was determined to accept my lifestyle, absolutely no questions asked.

Her: And what is your partner’s name?
Me: Derek.
Her: That’s an interesting name for a woman.
Me: Yes. Yes, it is.

Aaaaand now you know 2.0’s real name.

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I’ve been a bit MIA lately because I have a neck injury that is making it difficult to sit at the computer and live and stuff. I know what you’re thinking: didn’t I delete this blog from my reading list three months ago? YOU DIDN’T.

I fell at work the other day. (That’s not how I hurt my neck; only my self-esteem suffered.) I was trying to cover an extremely slippery spot with a mat so my dancers wouldn’t injure themselves, and then I wiped out. As I was laying on the floor, Chloe looked down at me and said, “I’ve never seen you that low before. I mean, I’ve seen you sitting and standing, but I’ve never seen you laying.”

Speaking of falling, most dancers have a few horror stories about performances-gone-wrong. My favourites usually involve costume malfunctions and nose dives. Years ago, my friend Noriko was telling a group of us about a fall she had during a very important performance. When she reached the climax of her story, we grew quiet; you could have heard a pin drop in the room. We just sat there, feeling bad for her. After what seemed like an eternity of silence my roommate PUT UP HER HAND and quietly asked, “Did it make a loud sound? You know, when you fell?” Thank god! We were all wondering. (The sound was described as a “moderately loud thud.”)

I think Murder Couple broke up. I keep seeing the male part, but not the female. There was a stabbing in my neighbourhood last week, so now I’m wondering if she got arrested. Anyway, he looks terrible and I feel bad for him. Not bad enough to let him get anywhere near me, but still. Maybe I should leave a comb and some shaving cream by the curb for him? Please advise.

I was really worried that I’d be sad about leaving my job on June 9th, but then things got really ridiculous and it seems like everyone is quitting and/or freaking out, so now I feel like this:

Of course, I’m pretty excited that I’ve started a mass evacuation because now I’ve got proof that no one wants to be anywhere if I’m not there. (I just high fived myself.)

Despite my overwhelming popularity, I’ve been feeling kinda meh lately. As in: I have no direction in my life and lack the motivation to break out a map. I don’t even have the energy to panic about the situation, which is weird for someone as anxious as I am. Rosie Beaucoup has taken to calling me a freelancer. This is because freelancer sounds better than: my unemployed middle-aged daughter. When I asked Mrs. Rutherford just what the hell I was going to freelance, she said, “You’re a freelance artist, dummy. Just do art stuff.”

Speaking of the Rutherfords, a Rutherford kid has a birthday coming up and wants me to bake the cake. After the Star Wars Disco cake of 2016, I asked Mrs. Rutherford to try to talk her kid into a theme I could understand. A couple of days later Mrs. Rutherford called.

Mrs. Rutherford: Good news, I talked her into a cat cake.

movita: Finally! A cake I can get on board with! This is going to be awesom–

Mrs. Rutherford: Wait. Don’t get excited. She doesn’t want a regular cat cake. She wants a WARRIOR cat cake.

movita: Son of a bitch.

I think I’m going to write a book this summer. A volume of Ballet Explained. And then I’ll sell it and become a hundredaire. Does the word volume make me sound douchie? Are you deleting me from your reading list? DON’T LEAVE ME.

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Murder Couple is MIA. I have noticed an unmarked white van driving around the neighbourhood, but can’t see the driver well enough to know if it’s one of them. Fingers crossed!

Speaking of horrible couples, I made a birthday cake for Mr. Rutherford on the weekend. I was feeling pretty bad about making a cake for one of my enemies, but then I almost stepped on a dead mouse in the studio the other night and Mr. Rutherford disposed of its body for me. As a result, I will pretend to think The Rutherfords are decent people for 72 hours. (Because that’s how long it will take the for the smell of decomposing rodent to fade from the studio.)

Dorey has no desire to leave her basement apartment. I’ve been trying to lure her out with food but she eats it and then scampers back down to her private quarters. Of course, 2.0 bought her a massive cat condo (now the largest and most expensive piece of furniture we own), so I can’t really blame her for hunkering down.

Recent arguments with 2.0:

• I say: hindsight is 20/20, 2.0 insists the expression should be: eyesight is 20/20
• I say: six of one, half dozen of the other, 2.0 insists the expression would be better as: six to one, half dozen to the other
• as in the past, after the time change earlier this month 2.0 asked, “But what is the REAL time?” for two goddamned days
• when to fill the car with gas
• who is loading the new dishwasher correctly
• who Niles likes best

Last night when I arrived home after teaching, 2.0 met me at the door with a frown on his face.

2.0: You put the frosting in the same container as the cat food.

movita: What? (taking off my coat) The same container? How tired was I?

2.0: No, not in the same container. The SAME container.

movita: Okay, honey? I’ve been working with teenagers all night. I’m going to need you to be a little less angst-filled. What happened? I mixed cat food into your frosting?

2.0: No. YOU PUT THE LEFTOVER ICING IN A CONTAINER THAT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE ONE YOU PUT THE CAT FOOD IN.

movita: And?

2.0: And? AND?! I almost ate it!

movita: The cat food?

2.0: YES!

movita: Did you eat the cat food? It’s okay – you can tell me.

2.0: No. But I had a big spoonful lifted up to my mouth before I realized it wasn’t frosting. I ALMOST ATE CAT FOOD!

movita: Weren’t you just complaining that we spend too much money on cat food?

2.0:

movita: I’m just saying that if you’re going to start eating cat food, we’ll have to start buying in bulk.

2.0: I feel like you aren’t taking this very seriously.

movita: Have you had dinner yet? Do you want me to make you something? Or did you fill up on Fancy Feast?

2.0:

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