It’s Tortilla Time

I feel compelled to write an obligatory post dedicated my wondrous nation, even if it is two days late.

I don’t think I could have had a better upbringing anywhere else.

I took the following pictures in Alberta when I went out west five years ago. Talk about breathtaking.

No matter where life may take me, I’ll always know where I’m from and I’ll be proud. Perhaps these videos can voice my pride in a less eloquent, more kick ass manner.

Happy (belated) Birthday, Canada. If it weren’t for my rigid diet I would have celebrated by eating poutine on the chesterfield whilst wearing a toque.

It was amazing. Really.

I’ve spent the last couple of days in the city-that-shall-not-be-named, and am eternally thankful to be home at last.

The most awkward yet amazing thing happened during this visit, and I will take the liberty to enlighten you all. My father had to drop off a couple of forms at his office, and I went along with him for the ride. We had had a huge row the night before, and tension was still very much at hand. The fight was instigated when I mentioned what a bitch she-who-shall-not-be-named was, and how her very presence is enough to make people want to strangle a mountain ox. I also mentioned their significant difference in age in a fit of pure rage. My father had made me that livid.

Anyway, as we entered the office, a receptionist began speaking to my father. They held a brief conversation and the focus soon turned to me.
‘Hello,’ the receptionist said, ‘now you must be she-who-shall-not-be-named.’
The room fell silent. I did not know whether to laugh or be insulted. My father broke the awkward silence and sheepishly said, ‘this is not my wife. This is my eldest daughter.’
A look of bona fide mortification overcame the receptionist’s face, realising the grave mistake that she had just made.
‘Oh.. well… um… You look exactly like your mother,’ she then managed to cough up, visibly embarrassed. I took this as an insult. I look nothing like she-who-shall-not-be-named and I am certainly not her daughter.
‘She is NOT my mother,’ I countered, probably with more surliness than what was necessary.

The receptionist must now not only think that he’s a craddle robbing pervert who married a woman half his age, but also a whoremonger who has reproduced with several partners.

An awkward silence then blanketed the room again. My father decided that it was time for us to leave.

We didn’t talk for some time.

And this is why our relationship is strained.

I am sure that if Sally possessed the ability to speak she would sound like Stacey London from TLC’s What Not to Wear. I am unsure of exactly why I think this, but I always have. Is it normal to ponder what your dogs’ voices would sound like? Because I certainly do it all the time.

My brother is so scared of the woman who plays Molly in Coronation Street. Like absolutely terrified. He says that her eyes are petrifying and that she is the woman that he will see in hell. I don’t see what the big deal is. Sure, her eyes are a little bright, but nothing to piss your pants about. I find it amusing that this woman is capable of scaring a 6′8 300 lb. football player.

Yesterday was a trying day to say the least.

After a day out with Tameaka, we returned home to find our next door neighbour demolishing our fences in a fit of drunken rage. He routinely drinks himself into oblivion. ‘Um, Angelo, why are you tearing down our fence?’ Tameaka innocently asked, only to be told to SHUT UP about a million times, amongst other profanities in unintelligible English.

Tameaka alerted her father, who too was told to SHUT UP and told that he could fix the fence himself. ‘But Angelo, I don’t want to fix the fence. I would prefer it if the fence were to stay up,’ he said politely.
‘I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR FENCE!!!!’ was Angelo’s intelligent response. And apparently he was right!

As we watched our drunk, corpulent neighbour rip down our fences bordering his yard, his wife came out shrieking HE’S DRUNK HE’S DRUNK! She too took a seat on the sidelines, knowing that she could not prevent further ravage from taking place. Angelo yelled violently as the annihilation continued. Tameaka’s fence is currently supported solely by a shrub of sorts. My fence is still fairly new, and managed to weather the storm with minimal damage.

Following that interesting occurrence, I ventured to the hospital for my nightly visit with my Nana. She has been in the hospital for a miserable couple of months now. She is depressed. She isn’t the same.

We have recently been granted permission to take my Nana home for an hour or two during the evenings. Nana is always eager to escape from the God-foresaken hole that is the hospital, so is very keen on returning home during these visits. Last night I went up to retrieve her from her room, as my mum idled the car. She wasn’t in her room. Her bed and the bathroom were both empty. Instinctively, I checked the lounge on her floor. There was no sign of my Nana. I returned to my Nana’s room and asked her roommate if she knew the whereabouts of my grandmother. She had no idea.

I then approached the nursing staff at the nursing station, figuring that maybe my Nana was undergoing a test or something. They FREAKED OUT and a massive search was then launched for my lost 87 year old Nana.

We searched the main floor, thinking that she may be waiting for us there. This was not the case. Nurses communicated using walkie-talkies of a sort and ran around in a fluster. After all, LILLIAN MARY WAS MISSING.

Noticing the apparent concern displayed by the nursing staff and I, a passerby informed us that she saw a confused old woman wandering around the tenth floor. I immediately knew that BY GOD THAT WAS MY GRANDMOTHER.

By the time my Nana was eventually found, she stood surrounded by the staff in a state of bona fide oblivion. She was so frazzled that she didn’t even recognise me at first, which kind of sucked.

 I took over 1400 pictures at Woofstock this weekend. Here are a couple.

See Seamus.

See Seamus sit.

See Seamus run with a ball.

See Seamus tug a stick.

See Seamus… I don’t even know what the hell to call this.

I’ve realised that photographing Seamus isn’t as much fun as photographing Sally. He just doesn’t take it seriously at all.

How un-ladylike. Jesus.

Yesterday I made a very interesting discovery.

Allow me to give you some background on the issue. Our cats are free-fed because they’re nibblers; I’m convinced that they enjoy consuming their food in a private atmosphere. This is alright, I am able to sympathise and cater to their exorbitant demands. Our dogs are fed at specific meal times because if I allowed kibble to sit idle in their food bowls… well it wouldn’t sit idle at all.

Anyway, back to the feline variety. I know that their food gets eaten because every time I pass their food bowl it’s empty. In fact, I am always baffled by how quickly and how much these cats consume. Not only do they eat fast, they always seem hungry. I remember thinking to myself that we go through cat food faster than we go through dog food, which is absurd.

Then yesterday I ventured into the basement and caught Seamus filling his face with CAT KIBBLE. Not to mention that he isn’t even allowed in the basement. AND HERE I AM WONDERING HOW HE GOT SO FAT. When I saw him with his nose submerged in the cat bowl, part of my soul was relived. MY CATS AREN’T GLUTTONOUS CREATURES AFTER ALL. My rat bastard dog on the other hand…