28 July, 2010

all about my bum

following my analcentric post of some time ago, i received a very worried sounding facebook message from my friend j, with the killer title "your bum." she wanted my phone number in order to talk to me. presumably about my bum.

today she called to arrange her arrival chez les monkeys tomorrow. near the end of the conversation j made it perfectly clear that we would be talking about my bum. the girl is clearly worried. about my bum. she even (jokingly?) asked if she could see it. i told her i didn't think our friendship could survive that. i hope that's that.

so in case anyone else out there is staying awake nights worrying about the state of my bum, let me tell you that as of yet, i know nothing. the reason that i know nothing is that i have been far too busy to thrice poop on a pie plate, dab in the fecal matter and paint fetching swatches on a cardboard card specifically designed for such matters before taking it down to a local lab wherein the staff will joyfully test it for blood which could, conceivably, be a sign of colorectal cancer and imminent death.

am i procrastinating? yes. don't i fear being one of those people who are told, "if only you'd been diagnosed a week earlier your chances of survival would be double"? fuck yes. so why am i not poop painting pronto? because, I SAID, i'm busy. ok? we're in and out of the house, traipsing all over the picturesque countryside, either visiting or hosting*, driving or sailing or kayaking, looking at totems and orcas and foreign musicians who play the zither, none of which is conducive to creative collecting of fecal matter samples. and it's probably just the old hemorrhoids acting up anyhow, so there.

besides, they tell me that i must abstain from red meat for three days prior to the start of fecal art week, and after having been vegetarian for almost a decade, i am now apparently unable to go a week without accidentally ingesting some kind of lightly roasted herb-scented wildebeest.

and now you know and wish you didn't. you can thank j.

*it would be rude to paint with one's poop in a toilet other than one's own. it would be equally awkward with guests around to march into one's own bathroom wearing latex gloves and clutching a painting stick.

27 July, 2010

oh my gosh!

having just come back from another lovely mini vacation, this one featuring vast numbers of northern europeans and americans (apparently the gorgeous inside passage just doesn't interest most canadians, which is tragic), i am throwing this out into the universe and hope that someone, somewhere answers one of the most burning questions of my existence:

why in the hell don't americans EVER say "oh my god," substituting, instead the mealy-mouthed "oh my gosh" which makes them sound like a bunch of 4-year-olds at bible camp? why? and why are canadians now picking up this disturbing trend?

come on, people, be brave, say it along with me: oh. my. GOD. it's not that hard. this isn't the old testament, YHWH isn't about to materialise out of thin air and burn you to a crisp for uttering his name, mainly because, newsflash! he doesn't exist!

everybody better?

19 July, 2010

being moi

inspired by this and this, i decided to do a little moi-meme, a mini-meme, or, unless someone wants to take it up, a mono-meme.

things i wish i liked but don't:

staying up late, for whatever reason. sorry, by 9 pm, i get tired, cranky, and, if you're making me stay up because it's supposed to be "fun," resentful. there are occasional exceptions, but only naturally occurring ones, i.e. a bunch of friends sitting around, chatting, and god! look at the time!

playing sports, especially ones involving balls."tennis? come on! it'll be fun!" no. it will not be fun. there will not be one iota of fun. i will run around fearing the ball and hating you. does that sound like fun? i didn't think so.

going to late concerts. i don't care if it's the resurrection of michael jackson himself, if the band starts at midnight, i will not be a happy camper and most of your questions about my wellbeing are likely to be answered with a short, snappy "FUCK. OFF. I. WANT. TO. GO. HOME." (this happened on multiple occasions in chicago, and other places where well meaning friends thought they'd "show me a good time.")

climbing big tall vertical mountains. if my lungs are likely to be oozing out of my arse then i am most definitely not interested. if you think i am a pussy, fuck you. i walked a marathon and a half, how about you? i can walk for 10h on semi-level ground, but if you think i will climb up that damn piece of rock just to see things from another perspective, you've got a long lonely climb ahead of you. i'll be over here, having a drink.

skiing. been there, done that. cons: expensive, cold, 50% frozen boredom, 50% sheer terror, plus the most uncomfortable shoes ever devised outside of the spanish inquisition; pros: can't think of any. it took me years to realise i hate skiing, and a further few to come to the mind-boggling realisation that as an adult i didn't have to do it anymore. duh.

organised activities. bridal shower shenanigans, tours, posed photographs and the like, bring out my inner hermit. i want to rub shit in my hair, stick a bone in it, and go sit on a (flattish) mountain and give everybody the finger while grunting quietly to my self.

volunteering for committees. i would love to be the kind of person who does, alas, i am not and never will be. if you're looking for a sucker to run your event, i will stare at my shoelaces until you have found him, and never ever meet your gaze. i come by this honestly, from both sides of the parental gene pool. my maternal grandfather was a notable exception but i got nothing from him except for a very pretty green satin bathrobe.

backpacking through the world. increasingly i am realising that while i am crazy curious about many places, you will not see me walking down the highway with matted hair and a filthy backpack covered in flags. i will go here and there, and i will daydream about going further and more often. this will not happen because deep down inside i know it wouldn't work.

cleaning the house. i do it, but i don't like it. and since we are currently running in for the time it takes to put in a day or two of work, do a load of laundry and pack and run off again, i have a brilliant excuse. after this particular upcoming trip* however, we have a guest and a dinner party, so i think i shall have to gird my loins and shave the fur sprouting from the chair legs as well as culling the dust bunny population.

classical music. i can listen to it live or in small quantities, but i cannot have the radio on classical music for more than half an hour or so before i go twitchy. exceptions: some modern minimalists and grieg. and of course, chopin. but don't put any brass or marching music on, and put that wagner away before i kick you.

raisins. it would make my life as the daughter/niece/daughter-in-law of polish women who bake infinitely easier. but i gag, and i cannot do a thing about it.

things i wish i didn't like but do:

drinking wine. i like it. a lot. sometimes more, sometimes less but for the most part, yes please.

eating good food in large quantities. i wish i was daintier and all, but i despise watching people push food around on their plates, leave large piles of it unfinished, and say dumb things like "oh, i couldn't possibly eat another bite." oh really? i could.

swearing. i like it. i think that the judicious use of the word "fuck" adds a certain piquancy to language, and you can't convince me otherwise. i am not a fan of using it in place of an actual vocabulary, but seeing as i do indeed have one, i think it can be allowed.


so, tell me a bit about yourselves, my little poultries. who are you and who do you wish you were? tell me everything and we can work on embracing our true selves, warts, raisins and all.

*i know, i know, i never even told you about the last one, but you know how much i hate talking about real shit on this here thing!

15 July, 2010

still here


i'm still here. busily doing summery things, like camping and not getting eaten by cetaceans, visiting, traveling, working and volunteering. the reason i am not writing, however, is that i am in the throes of a particularly insidious and leering case of pms that is making me feel fat, ugly, old, idiotic and unpalatable, and i'd really rather (for once) not inflict that on you.

worry not, little poultries, i shall be back soon and as sunny and positive as ever..um,...yes, that's it.

11 July, 2010

cheeky meals with friends

this weekend, while enjoying a wildly overpriced luncheon on a patio in telegraph cove with our co-campers, b and l:

b (looking around at the marina, boats, eagles overhead and sun finally making its way though the haze): it's so nice to have lunch al fresco.

l: what? OH! oh, you mean you're not wearing underwear?!

needless to say, general laughter ensued (until the bill came).

more cetacean tales to follow. (spoiler: nobody got eaten.)

06 July, 2010

oh lord, let the poo slinging begin!

hi. yes i realise it's july. and i haven't written anything. it's been busy over at the monkey household, what with mr. monkey's lovely sister dropping by on canada day and staying until monday. we dragged the poor exhausted girl tither and yon, and then back again, awaking her at ungodly hours (if i can't sleep, fuck all y'all!) and driving to the most picturesque bits of the island we could find, all to make her feel like her life in edmonton is a miserable sham of an existence. i think it worked.

other than that, it looks like summer has finally come to (awakening in some groggy drunken haze on a strange couch, make-up all over its face, lacking several essential undergarments, no doubt) and is making us HOT. god, it feels so good to be hot again. in fact, it feels so good that you can watch me here, on the couch, inside, typing away like a spastic moron because the sun hurts my mole-like eyes. but i'll be out there again in a jiffy.

thursday morning will find us on our way to a camping trip to telegraph cove, where large numbers of orcas congregate, doubtlessly harassing hapless passers-by with rude comments about their size. apparently this is bc's prime whale watching spot, and you can even kayak with the beasties. this fills me with the same type of giddy excitement as rock climbing and skiing black diamond runs - think nausea and uncontrollable weeping. just consider it for a minute: would you want a 9 tonne critter with the word "killer" in its official title swimming under your unprotected butt? yeah, me neither. i'll let you know how it went, ok?