It's a very sad day in the Thomas home today. This morning, Blanche, our little dog, passed away. She was getting sicker all week, and last night she couldn't breathe. Blanchie had congestive heart failure, so in the ultimate display of love, my parents let her go. She was surrounded by my brother and my parents and was cradled as she left us. Blanche's loss is leaving a big hole in our lives already.
She was a spunky little dog with a boat-load of attitude. I know when I go home, we will all sit around telling Boo Boo stories for hours. Like when she used to sleep on my bed. Her tiny chin would be on my ankle while I read. If I moved an inch, she would lift her head, narrow her big brown eyes and give an exasperated sigh, as if to say "must we?" If I moved too much, she would jump off the bed, run to the door and glare expectantly at me to get out of my room. I miss her attitude already.
Blanchie was a well-loved dog. From the moment we brought her home, she was the apple of our eyes. Especially my father's. They would go for walks and drives together. When my dad was quitting smoking, he ate jellybeans. So did Blanche. He would bite half a jellybean and give the other half to her. They were buddies. They cuddled in his chair, they napped together, they ate chips together, they were friends. I wish I was home to give my father a hug. He was the brave one who brought her to the vet this morning, and he was the one who showed his love the most by letting her go.
Blanchie was a gift and she brought a gift to our family. She came into our lives at a time when we were all getting older and starting to drift apart. Blanchie brought us together. Blanchie gave us joy and laughter and gave us all a new appreciation for other living beings. The hours of mirth she gave to us will never be forgotten and our hearts will always have her... with her fuzzy neck that smelled like honey, her little paws the size of quarters, the cowlicks on her head and neck, the stripe of reddish fur down her back that stood up when she saw other dogs (how dare they?), that stripe that went white in recent years, those rheumy eyes, and her little dog smile.
Thank you, Blanche, for twelve incredible years. Thank you for the cuddles and companionship, the licks, the stories and the walks. When I walk around the neighbourhood, sadly without your leash, I will always remember how you would stop, put your little paws on my leg and yip, as if thanking me for taking you out for a walk-walk.
Broken-Heartedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tales from Melrose Place
By now, you know that I live in a shit heap. It’s cheap, it’s close to my work and Byron’s school and it’s in a hip part of town. Unfortunately, the building is 56 years old and still has most of the original fixtures...such as electrical. I am sincerely shocked that we haven’t burned to the ground yet.
The tenants in this building are, for the most part, equally shit-heapy. You know Mange, Rat Tail and The Slave. You know that Mange and Rat Tail bump uglies. Well, it turns out that The Slave has found companionship in the shit heap, too. A single mother who lives next door to me.
I met the mother a couple of months ago when there was a huge bang on the roof that shook our apartment. All the tenants on the top floor scampered out to the hall to find out what it was. The Slave was there, too, complaining that he might have to go on the roof to find out what it was. You know – his job. A woman was in the hall, holding a gurgling baby. I asked her if she was new here and she said she just moved in. She apologized for the baby and thought the bang was a neighbour banging on the wall to tell her to be quiet. I told her I didn’t know we had a new neighbour, let alone one with a baby. The child was cute enough, with this humongous shock of blonde hair in the front that sort of swooped up like a pompadour. I asked what the baby’s name was.
“Jesse James,” said the mother. But she said it like Jesse James was one name. My sister, for example, does not introduce her son as “George David”. It’s George. I imagined the child’s name to be something dumb like JesseJames Dillinger.
After all the other neighbours and The Slave left, JesseJames’ mom and I were left awkwardly in the hall. She took the opportunity to ramble to me about how JesseJames is 7 months old, and she went to the Salvation Army that day and got 25 diapers and she’s trying to stockpile diapers and diapers are expensive. I nervously agreed and tried to untangle myself from that conversation. I felt bad for her. Until the afternoon I went to get a friend at the front door. We also have no front buzzer so visitors have to call us on their cells. We’ve saved a bundle on delivery food.
I ran downstairs, only to find JesseJames and his mother on the stairwell. She held him on her hip and let out this massive sigh. I said hello and she said “laundry” and sighed again. JesseJames and his pompadour drooled. She stood in the way, so I said I have a friend waiting at the door. She sighed again, not moving. It was like she wanted sympathy from me for having to do laundry while carrying around her child. It took all my strength not to tell her it’s her own damn fault for taking a place on the top floor of a three-story walk-up with a baby and the laundry in the basement. So I just sternly told her to excuse me while I went to get my company and I snaked past her and JesseJames.
Byron was the one who found this gem out. JesseJames’ mom and The Slave are companions. He saw The Slave going into her place one afternoon, but Byron said it was obviously a social call. Blech. We hear The Slave next door in the hallway a lot. And we also hear JesseJames’ mom carousing downstairs in the hallway. JesseJames’ mom and Mange are buddies. Byron has heard JesseJames’ mom coo to the child “say hi to Auntie Tina.” It’s like Melrose Place, with neighbours sleeping with neighbours. Except without the beauty. And way more insane.
44 days. The Slave has started to show our place to potential tenants. A young girl came by on Saturday. The Slave was “upselling” the place by telling her that our place has a custom paint job (that Byron did!), original fixtures and tenants can put anything they want on the walls. Are you sold yet? The Slave also told her that management keeps up on maintenance around here and things. It took all my strength not to laugh. The unshovelled driveway and walkways? The filthy hallways? The ancient electrical? Rat Tail’s “buddies” who happen to know how to plumb? She asked me if it was warm in the winter. I said the windows will have about an inch of frost and you can’t see out them, but we had our snuggies. Byron told me to reign it in. I wanted to pull the child aside and tell her to run. Maybe she has a blog, too, and she can continue the Tales from the Tina File, or tell more stories of JesseJames’ mom. Before we leave, though, I have a few more tales of my own to tell.
Amanda Woodwardingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS
The tenants in this building are, for the most part, equally shit-heapy. You know Mange, Rat Tail and The Slave. You know that Mange and Rat Tail bump uglies. Well, it turns out that The Slave has found companionship in the shit heap, too. A single mother who lives next door to me.
I met the mother a couple of months ago when there was a huge bang on the roof that shook our apartment. All the tenants on the top floor scampered out to the hall to find out what it was. The Slave was there, too, complaining that he might have to go on the roof to find out what it was. You know – his job. A woman was in the hall, holding a gurgling baby. I asked her if she was new here and she said she just moved in. She apologized for the baby and thought the bang was a neighbour banging on the wall to tell her to be quiet. I told her I didn’t know we had a new neighbour, let alone one with a baby. The child was cute enough, with this humongous shock of blonde hair in the front that sort of swooped up like a pompadour. I asked what the baby’s name was.
“Jesse James,” said the mother. But she said it like Jesse James was one name. My sister, for example, does not introduce her son as “George David”. It’s George. I imagined the child’s name to be something dumb like JesseJames Dillinger.
After all the other neighbours and The Slave left, JesseJames’ mom and I were left awkwardly in the hall. She took the opportunity to ramble to me about how JesseJames is 7 months old, and she went to the Salvation Army that day and got 25 diapers and she’s trying to stockpile diapers and diapers are expensive. I nervously agreed and tried to untangle myself from that conversation. I felt bad for her. Until the afternoon I went to get a friend at the front door. We also have no front buzzer so visitors have to call us on their cells. We’ve saved a bundle on delivery food.
I ran downstairs, only to find JesseJames and his mother on the stairwell. She held him on her hip and let out this massive sigh. I said hello and she said “laundry” and sighed again. JesseJames and his pompadour drooled. She stood in the way, so I said I have a friend waiting at the door. She sighed again, not moving. It was like she wanted sympathy from me for having to do laundry while carrying around her child. It took all my strength not to tell her it’s her own damn fault for taking a place on the top floor of a three-story walk-up with a baby and the laundry in the basement. So I just sternly told her to excuse me while I went to get my company and I snaked past her and JesseJames.
Byron was the one who found this gem out. JesseJames’ mom and The Slave are companions. He saw The Slave going into her place one afternoon, but Byron said it was obviously a social call. Blech. We hear The Slave next door in the hallway a lot. And we also hear JesseJames’ mom carousing downstairs in the hallway. JesseJames’ mom and Mange are buddies. Byron has heard JesseJames’ mom coo to the child “say hi to Auntie Tina.” It’s like Melrose Place, with neighbours sleeping with neighbours. Except without the beauty. And way more insane.
44 days. The Slave has started to show our place to potential tenants. A young girl came by on Saturday. The Slave was “upselling” the place by telling her that our place has a custom paint job (that Byron did!), original fixtures and tenants can put anything they want on the walls. Are you sold yet? The Slave also told her that management keeps up on maintenance around here and things. It took all my strength not to laugh. The unshovelled driveway and walkways? The filthy hallways? The ancient electrical? Rat Tail’s “buddies” who happen to know how to plumb? She asked me if it was warm in the winter. I said the windows will have about an inch of frost and you can’t see out them, but we had our snuggies. Byron told me to reign it in. I wanted to pull the child aside and tell her to run. Maybe she has a blog, too, and she can continue the Tales from the Tina File, or tell more stories of JesseJames’ mom. Before we leave, though, I have a few more tales of my own to tell.
Amanda Woodwardingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Tales from the Tina Files Part 3
It was a momentous afternoon just now. Byron and I went down to the landlord, Rat Tail, to deliver our notice that we are leaving this godforsaken shitheap. His door was wide open, so I sent Byron to venture in the doorway to deliver the letter. I stayed behind and held my tongue, in case Rat Tail or the Slave tried to say something smart. Which they did.
I looked across the hall and saw that Mange had her door wide open, too. I heard yelling and hollering and "stir the pot". I looked behind me and saw inside Mange's place. The front entrance was packed with coats and shit on the floor. Not real shit, but unidentifiable crap. The bathroom was dark and filthy. And all the blinds were drawn, giving her place the cavernous look. Mange was making dinner with the door wide open. Like you would. She was hollering, the poor child was screeching and running. Who makes dinner with the door wide open? Mange Personified.
As we handed our notice, the Slave made some stupid comment to Byron about being clean-shaven. Then he was making some more stupid comments about spit-shining his head. Rat Tail came out from whatever dark corner of his place and ran his hands through his yellowing gray hair. He tried to be funny, saying he wishes he could do something with his hair. Blech.
Toodle-oo Mange and Rat Tail and the Slave. 50 more days until we can squeal out of here, never to look back. Unless we want to shock and appall people with our stories.
Suck it-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS
I looked across the hall and saw that Mange had her door wide open, too. I heard yelling and hollering and "stir the pot". I looked behind me and saw inside Mange's place. The front entrance was packed with coats and shit on the floor. Not real shit, but unidentifiable crap. The bathroom was dark and filthy. And all the blinds were drawn, giving her place the cavernous look. Mange was making dinner with the door wide open. Like you would. She was hollering, the poor child was screeching and running. Who makes dinner with the door wide open? Mange Personified.
As we handed our notice, the Slave made some stupid comment to Byron about being clean-shaven. Then he was making some more stupid comments about spit-shining his head. Rat Tail came out from whatever dark corner of his place and ran his hands through his yellowing gray hair. He tried to be funny, saying he wishes he could do something with his hair. Blech.
Toodle-oo Mange and Rat Tail and the Slave. 50 more days until we can squeal out of here, never to look back. Unless we want to shock and appall people with our stories.
Suck it-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Gangsta's Paradise
The sun was out at lunch, it was seven degrees warm and I took a walk to my bank on my lunch hour. I strolled the streets of downtown Edmonton, taking in the sights. Hoo boy, there were sights. I saw a douche in a suit with those pointy dressy elf shoes who was smoking a flavoured cigarillo. It smelled like cherries. Douche. I saw a lot of sleeveless shirts. I saw some sandals. I saw a lot of goose bumps. I also saw a girl who was wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass, bare legs and platform flip flops. The skirt was so short if she took a big stride I am pretty sure I would see her hoo-haw. Silly child, I thought to myself as I passed her and this guy she was with. He was pure, mother-f*cking gangsta. How do I know he was gangsta? The guy bobbed back and forth while talking, gesticulated a lot, and grabbed his crotch more than once. Oh. And he yelled at her: “Yo, shut the f*ck up, ho.” Very gangsta, indeed. Except this gangsta was very small. He might have been about 5'6 and maybe a buck twenty if he was naked. To me, if you’re going to be a gangsta, you need to be big and formidable. I want to look up at you in fear, not down at you as if you were a mosquito with cornrows. I want a big-ass thug – think the big black guy from Green Mile – and not some dwarf with a dirty mouth. After La Thug barked his orders to his ladyfriend, my mouth gaped open. Then I closed it quick and walked faster, sort of afraid what the wee gangsta might do if he saw my horror. Then I realized that he is so frigging puny, I could probably toss him into traffic with a toss of my hip. If a 35 year old government worker who writes speeches all day, loves her crock pot, her husband and a Wallander mystery book has a good chance at whooping your ass, then you, L'il Wayne, are no gangsta. S'up Ho-ingly Yours, xoxoSallyS
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