My French Family Reunion

Me and my cousin Steph, who used to blog. Feel free
to go on her blog and bitch at her for not blogging
in over a year. Do it.

Towards the end of the summer, Andrew, my parents and I went up North of the province to go to my mother's family reunion. It only happens every four years, so it's exciting when it finally comes around: we get to pay tribute to the members of our family that have passed on (by choosing one person from each family branch to fight the others to the death. But we're trying to change that). We also like to celebrate all the recent weddings, births, and knocking ups, as it means our plan of world domination can expand. We do all of this celebrating by partying all day and night.

As much as I roll my eyes as Andrew's love for camo and hunting, the French-Canadians of Northern New-Brunswick are basically rednecks: predominantly white, rural, working class people with lots of bad tattoos who listen to French country music (yes, that exists), go to church and love the beer. My family has many of those characteristics and they're awesome.

Since Andrew and my French family were so similar, I thought they would get along great (most of them are bilingual, so Andrew wouldn't have to use his French to communicate. Which is good, because all he knows are "How are you?", "You're a fat cow" and some animal names). To help Andrew better integrate into my family, I decided that I should include an interesting (albeit false) fact about him whenever I  introduced him.    

 I came up with a quite a few. They include: 


This is me in my Typique hat (the mascot of
the big festival held in my mother's hometown)
and a ploye, a local dish that I FUCKING LOVE.



Hi, this is my boyfriend Andrew... he has a glass eye.

...He has an STD.

...He likes to make jokes about killing puppies.

...He has a thing for women over 70.

...He eats banana peels.

...He can't feel anything past his left knee.

...He has a pet moth.

...He once made out with a drag queen. He had no idea it was a man.

...He's wearing a wig.

...He's a eunuch.

...He memorized every Teletubbies episode.

...His aspirations include creating the biggest ball of chewed bubblegum in the world.

...He farts when he's excited.

...He wants to dye our pets' fur in camo.

He didn't appreciate my efforts at all. He still had a pretty good time without the use of my master plan, although he was most likely referred to as "the boyfriend of the crazy chick wearing a porcupine hat."

Life Update #2: Moving On Up (but Not to the East Side)

OMG HI, I'M STILL ALIVE,  I'VE JUST BEEN RIDICULOUSLY BUSY! WHY?

BECAUSE WE BOUGHT A HOUSE THIS SUMMER!

TA-DAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Yep, we are now the proud owners of a home that not only has a foundation, but also has a basement. (Woah, we're living big!) Not being able to ever truly part from Andrew's parents (who lived one kilometer away from our minihome), we just moved further down the same road. Past the point where the road stops being paved.

That's right, we've increased our Hickness by living on a shitty dirt road. Though there are plenty of reasons that sucks, I like to look for the rainbow that follows the rain. I'm fucking optimistic y'all.

Pro: Way more windows to let sunlight in.

Con: Lord knows how the hell my little car Knuckles is going to drive in the middle of a blizzard on an unplowed dirt road.

Pro: If ever I take Ecstasy, I can trip out naked in the backyard without worrying about people seing me talk to the flowers. Although I'm pretty sure that if I was on Ecstasy, I wouldn't give a crap.  

Con: I shouldn't be encouraged to take Ecstasy. I'm crazy enough as it is.

Pro: Increased chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse due to isolation.

Meet Clements, our new Palm Tree
and Liberace, the gold deer.

Con: This isolation also means that there would be no one around to save me if I was being attacked by a serial killer. Or a clown.

Pro: Our new place has an orchard with 5 apple trees. 

Con: Because of these lovely apple-buffets, we get visited more often by skunks and racoons. And as much as I feel like a Disney Princess, Andrew keeps stressing that if approached and sung to, they will attack.

Pro: Since we're surrounded by woods, Andrew is constantly out scouting and hunting. Which means he can't always be around when I try to sing to the woodland creatures. There's still a possibility of communicating with them.

So while I'm waiting for wildlife to appear in my front yard, I'm painting and unpacking boxes and getting our house ready for a House-warming Party I'm pretty sure is never going to happen cause the house is never going to be fully unpacked. But I'm really trying to fit in time to blog, I swear!

P.S. The previous owners of the house were absolutely nuts (think paranoid and immature with their use of permanent marker in our home) so I will have a few stories relating to when we first moved in.

Major Life Update: Powerpoints ARE Effective.

Remember when I sat Andrew down and gave him a full powerpoint presentation describing how two dogs are better than one? And once completed, he was like "God, they need to give you more work at the office to keep you busy." And I was like "THAT WASN'T THE POINT OF THE PRESENTATION ANDREW!" and he was all "I get it. You really want another dog. I want one too." And I was like "REALLY?!?! WE CAN GET ONE?!?!" And he said "Yes. ...But not now. In a few years maybe." And then I stomped my foot and accused him of ruining my 5-year plan?

Remember that?

WELL GUESS WHO ADOPTED A NEW FUR BABY THIS SUMMER?????

HOLY SHIT HOW CUTE IS THIS LITTLE GIRL?!

Look at that face.

Just look at it.

Her name is Sky and she's now 6 months old. She's from the Carribean island of Anguilla, which means that she's frolicked on nicer beaches than I ever have. She was rescued by Rosie, a New-Brunswicker studying on the island who saw all the stray and neglected dogs and decided to make a difference for as many pups as she can.

Sky at the Anguilla Shelter

She then started the Fly-a-Pup program, where people visiting Anguilla bring puppies back North America with them as luggage to be adopted here. Which is how little Sky, the runt of her litter, came into our lives.  

It was fate. Magical canine fate.

When Andrew finally aggreed that we could get a second dog, I quickly discovered that Andrew was only interested in pups that looked like Lucy. I think he beleived that if Lucy = good, therefore Dog-that-looks-like-Lucy = good too.

We had also decided that our next dog would be called Sky, keeping with our Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds theme.



So when Fly-a-Pup posted a picture of this little girl, a Lucy-lookalike and already named Sky, and said that she would be flying to New Brunswick at the end of April, I pretty much exploded in awe of how fucking serendipitous this was.



I met her at our local shelter, applied to adopt her the same day, had Lucy (and Andrew) meet her the next day to see that they were compatible and took her home. Although Andrew was taken aback that we were bringing her home so fast, he fell in love with that little face before he could say no.



It's ok, you can cry at the beauty that is Sky.

Of course, because she's part of our family, she's obviously crazy/weird, so rest assured there will be Sky-related pictures and videos on this blog in the future. 

P.S. When I joked that we needed to finish Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds with a third dog called Diamond, he gave me a look that suggested "Don't push your Luck"/murder. I then told him that we could skip the dog, and he could just buy me a diamond ring instead.  Bam. We both win.

P.P.S. If you're interested in donating money to Fly-a-Pup or want your own little Anguillan pup, you can reach Rosie on Facebook or Twitter @PupFly.

Instagram Quickie - Recreating-Moments-with-Nature Edition

Sometimes, I send Andrew text photos from work in which I pretend to be a deer chewing on a leaf.



*leaf-munching sound effect*

Unfortunately for Andrew, these kind of texts are pretty common. 

A POST! A POST!

Hello World!

The Gods of Creative Humor Writing are still being jerks, wagging their fingers at me, being all like "Nuh uh girlfriend, you are NOT publishing a post! You need to focus on eating Nutella straight out of the jar and taking a ridiculous amount of instagram photos of your pets".

But now I'm all "I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU ANYMORE! I'VE BEEN GIVEN A MAGICAL SPEAR OF CREATIVITY BY THE UNICORN KING OF SOCIAL MEDIA. STOP ME NOW, BITCHES!"

That's right, I'm fighting back, mothafuckas. 

Yep, looks about right.

Now that I'm back on the blogging wagon, I have some MAJOR catching up to do. Since my last post, I've had a few major changes happen in my life. (Spoiler: these changes do not include an engagement.) And rather than blurt it all out now, I think I'll divulge the updates one post at a time.

Suspense, y'all. I like to keep you coming back for more.

In the meantime, here's a mini post proving that not only is Andrew the Hick still around, he's mastered the art of dad jokes and improv.

Andrew's shirt says "I love animals... they're delicious."
Also, the ghost wearing black behind Andrew is actually me.

A few nights ago, Andrew had the glorious idea to have a cup of coffee an hour before bedtime. Giving a cup of coffee to a man with ADHD like Andrew is like giving a cup of coffee to a 5-year-old with ADHD.

The result of this combination was both of us laying in bed, him spouting off non-stop horrible jokes and me trying desperately to drown them out. What's worse, when he ran out of horrible jokes, he started to invent ones. This one was the cream of the crop:

 - What did the turtle say when he went into the sea urchin?

"Damn, you spiked...DA PUNCH!"

Seriously. That was the punch line.

So hopefully the fight against evil procrastination and writer's block continues, and another post will be up soon.

Dancing in Winter Camo Gear is Tougher than I Thought

Although Andrew sleep-talks all the time, he sometimes quietly dreams that I do horrible things to him. Upon awaking, he then decides that he's still mad at me, and refuses to talk to me until he is happier (ie. fed). I always thought he was being absolutely ridiculous, until it happened to me last night.

Me: You were a disgusting asshole jerk face in my dream, so I'm having a hard time reminding myself that it wasn't really you

Andrew: Lol what I do

Me: So much douchery. You essentially  blatantly cheated on me and didn't care and wouldn't help me with anything. I had to do an exam at the university and halfway there you saw the Spice Girls walking by and you pulled over and offered to help them instead

Andrew: Lmao

Me: And you were flirting with them right in front of me. So I had to walk all the way to the university. And I didn't know the way so I was walking in circles. And I was panicking because I was going to be late. And you kept my laptop because Baby Spice wanted it so I had nothing to take notes with.

Andrew: Lol

Me: And I got to the university and it was Hogwarts looking and I decided to try and sleep with someone to get revenge on you. But no one wanted to because I was dressed in school clothes and couldn't buy myself a drink. And then I found out that you showed Ginger Spice the video of me dancing in your camo suit. Which was the ultimate betrayal. 

The aforementioned video was made when Andrew recorded me dancing around in his giant insulated snow camo suit. He was being a grumpy toddler and I decided to cheer him up. It was a success.

After I found out he recorded my dancing, I made him promise he would never show anyone without my permission. Especially not to Ginger Spice. 

 

(I was dancing to "Moves Like Jagger", because obviously. Look at this this still. I'm an amazing dancer.)

Me: So I decided to change my Facebook status to single to make a point. But I didn't have my phone or laptop so I couldn't. It was very stressful and upsetting.

Thankfully, Andrew was able to send me cute pictures of puppies, so I couldn't stay angry at him for much longer. 

Although I will never be able to look at the Spice Girls the same. 

Whores.

Canadian Feature Friday: Making Canadian Crack - Maple Syrup Season

When writing a blog, you should only ever write about the shit you know. For instance, I can somewhat knowledgably write about hypochondria, dealing with a hick boyfriend and living with a dog that destroys everything when left alone. However, I can't write about the German language, platypuses or the pluralizing of strange words.

As of this season, I can now confidently write about harvesting maple sap and creating syrup, because of the combined facts that: 1) Andrew is continuing his family's Canadian Hick legacy by helping out at his dad's sugar camp, and 2) he now realizes that I can be put to work.

And so since this is all that is currently happening in my life, this is what you bitches get to read about.

Sidenote: I'm like the kid that pulls your ponytail because I like you. Bitches is purely a term of endearment.



For step 4, I highly recommend wasting time by playing with dogs. It makes
you feel like your heart is made of joy and marshmellows.

And so, in case you think that you can start your own maple syrup collection, here is a non-scientifically-written step-by-step.

1. Make sure you live somewhere where the temperature goes below freezing at night and above freezing in the daytime. Sap only runs in these conditions because it is a total diva.

• If you don't have those conditions, move to Canada.

2. Find a shitload of maple trees.

3. Drill a hole into the tree, insert spile and hang bucket underneath it.

 4. Wait a while.

5. Everyday, drag your ass to those trees and dump all of the sap into a manmade tank attached to a four-wheeler with tank tracks instead of wheels - cause you're a badass.

• Be prepared for aching muscles and an emergence of whiny complaints.

6.  Bring the sap tank to the camp, put sap through filters to get rid of nature (bits of bark, confused bugs, etc.)

7. Put sap in boiler and boil the fuck out of it.

Sidenote: It's actually a lot more complicated than just simply
boiling - it has to go through more filters and boil at a certain
temperature to be ready, etc. (I won't go too far into it, cause
it's boring and you don't care)

Extra step added by Andrew: Bring case of beer. Drink it all.

9. Put it in a fancy glass bottle. Or just a in can you found on the side of the road. Don't sell the dirty can. You will probably get sued.

10. Make pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and spread syrup over them like it's the only thing that keeps your heart pumping.

Lucy has no reason to be included in this post
other than the fact that she's gorgeous.

Bam! You're now a Canadian. You're welcome for the access to stronger beer.

Sometimes, I Like to Give Andrew Gentle Reminders

 

The effort put in shows how much I love him.

20 Ways to Know if You Live in a Hick Household (I Thought I was Pretty Good at Keeping an Un-Hick Home. I was Wrong.)

Holy shit, I've been gone for a year! Okay, not really, but it feels like forever since I've written a post. I'd give you all a good excuse, but the truth is that the only reason I haven't written is because I didn't feel like it. Well, that, and the fact that life's been boring as hell.

Anyways, to make up for my longer-than-usual absense, here is a longer-than-usual post. With lots of pictures for people who don't like words. Although if you don't like words, I have no idea why you come to my blog. Weirdo.

-------------------------------------------------------------

While looking for hick sterotypes, I came across this list. Though it was posted in a chat room (and so is about as credible as my knowledge of llama mating practices), I decided to see how many of these items applied to our household.

I then found out how far I've fallen down the rabbit hunting hole.

Disclaimer: We do not hunt rabbits. Except for Lucy. She's a bitch.

Without further ado, here is the list, and how we score on it.

1. "Couch that folds out into a bed. Common among whiteys in general, but in hick homes it's a staple thing..."
• Okay, if this person used the term whitey, I'm gonna go ahead and assume that they're a non-whitey. And because I've never seen, let alone heard of an African, Hispanic, Asian, Middle-Eastern or Native hick, I'm also gonna assume that this person is an outsider looking in at hicks, and can therefore give a fairly accurate portrayal of what non-hicks consider to be hick-ish.
• That being said, we don't have a futon. 
• A "Normal" household: 1, A Hick Household: 0.
• Sidenote: When we stay over at my parents' house, we have two options: the spare bedroom upstairs, which contains our old double bed and furniture, and my grand-mother's old pull-out couch from the 70's in the basement's entertainment room. Guess which one Andrew picks, every single time? Yeah, that's right: the damn 40+ year old pull-out couch.
• Sidesidenote: We've called dibs on Andrew's parent's old futon.
2. "axe"
• We don't have an axe either! Well, technically we don't have an axe because Andrew's dad has a mechanical woodsplitter..
• Normal: 1.5 Hick: 0.
3. "rifle - .306 (thirty-aught-six) for deer hunting, unless you hunt with shotgun slugs...but ****, you should really have both for the full hick experience."
• Fuck. While Andrew doesn't have a .306, he does have a rifle and seven shotguns. Yes, I'm completely serious
• Normal: 1.5 Hick: 1
• On a related note, you are welcome to join us in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Providing you have beneficial skills and resources. Like medical knowledge. Or a herd of alpacas.
• Yes, we have a zombie apocalypse plan. It never hurts to be prepared.
• Shut up.
4. "pick up truck - american-made, of course...jeeps are semi-respectable too, but not nearly as much as a pick-up."



Picture from a mudding expedition. Cause, obviously.

• Double fuck.
• Normal: 1.5 Hick: 2
5. "every type of essential camping and fishing item known to man."



Camo. On our anniversary.

• Normal: 1.5 Hick: 3
• On our first anniversary, I bought Andrew a camping grill. His response was "Wow, thanks! ...So, was I supposed to get you something too?"
• Every anniversary since then, we've celebrated by having a picnic in the back of Andrew's pick-up truck, camping grill included.
6. "barbed-wire fence marking the exact boundaries of your property line"
• A barbed-wire fence shall only appear in the event of a zombie apocalypse.
• Normal: 2.5 Hick: 3
7. "chaw/chew... and - with real old hicks - a spitoon."
• Oh God. If a spitoon ever appeared, I would leave him in 2 seconds flat.
• Normal: 3.5 Hick: 3
8. "at least one mounted taxidermy piece - preferably a deer with 8+ point antler configuration"
• Okay, so here's the thing. Before we ever moved in together, I tricked Andrew into promising to never bring any sort of stuffed animal into our future households. I have never regretted that bit of trickery.
• That being said, we do have antlers hanging on the wall in Andrew's man-cave. There's just no bone or fur attached to it.
• ....And there's going to be a coyote pelt hanging in our shed (aka, man-cave number 2).
• Normal: 3.5 Hick: 4
9. "septic tank"
• What the hell does that have to do with being a hick? That just means we live outside of town.
• Normal: 3.5 Hick: 5
10. "gas generator"
• We're saving up for one. So I'm gonna count it as one point for normalcy.
• Normal: 4.5 Hick: 5
11. "wood-panelling in every inch of your home"
• Ha!
• Normal: 5.5 Hick: 5
12. "mangy pet, usually a dog - hicks tend to drown their cats"



Our "mangy" dog. Fuck you, list-maker. She' a superstar.

• And most hicks that I know don't drown their cats, thank you very much!
• Normal: 5.5 Hick: 6
13. "smoker for fish and deer jerky"
• We don't have one. Unfortunatey, that's the type of item that will be on our wedding registry when Andrew finally puts a ring on it.
• Normal: 6.5 Hick: 6
14. "stilt-house/single-level house...but no subterranean, dug-in basement other than a coal den...and often just a trailer-home"



Well, this is getting kind of awkward...

• Normal: 6.5 Hick: 7
15. "clothes-line"
• Got that.
• Normal: 6.5 Hickness: 8
16. "road-side mailbox"
• Nope. There's so few people in our area that no one bothers to come out here to bring flyers.
• Except for the Jehovah Witnesses. You guys are determined as hell to spread the word.
• Normal: 7.5 Hickness: 8
17. "way out of tune, piece of **** spinet piano"
• This one is definitely my fault. I've always wanted a real piano, so when my childhood friend was selling his and asked if I wanted to buy it, I was all "FUCK YEAH I WANT A FUCKING PIANO!"
• Normal: 7.5 Hickness: 9
18. "beer-can collection"
• This one is definitely not my fault .
• Normal: 7.5 Hickness: 10
19. "dirtbike"
• Andrew sold his sporty four-wheeler (which is just a dirtbike with two extra wheels, cause MORE WHEELS IS SO MUCH COOLER) after he impressed me enough that I slept with him.
• So since he sold it, I'm not gonna count it. Because I'm already losing hard enough as it is.
• Normal: 7.5 Hickness: 11
20. "1/2 mesh baseball cap"
• I don't let Andrew wear those anymore. However, that doesn't mean he has million of them.
• Honestly, he has two bags full of hats in our closet, plus a bag left at his parents, plus a bunch in our mud room, plus these "favourite" hats that he leaves on the top of the couch.

The favourites.

Total Score:

Normal: 7.5

Hickness: 12

I might as well start learning to play the banjo and include camo in my attire. 

8 Things You Will Deal With While Working at a Summer Camp

FINALLY!

Let me just start by saying that I love kids. My totally unattainable goal is for Andrew and I to become become Brangelina 2.0 and adopt/give birth to a bazillion kids and have a rainbow of adorable kids. That would be the total bombizzle (word, homie). Not only would I love them and teach them to be awesome, but I would also use them as free labour on my future hobby farm (chickens, goats and horses included).

Sidenote: Unfortunately, Andrew is against a full van of children. He thinks two kids is perfect, because he grew up with one brother and his childhood was awesome (i.e., one hit the other in the head with a golf club; they were clearly the best of friends).

Me, at 16, woking hard at summer camp.

But other people's kids can sometimes bring out a different reaction out of me...

Camp Counselors, or anyone else that has to deal with someone else's kid for more than 6 hours, should be given a raise. Cause kids are nasty. After some of the events I went through during my summers running camps, it's a complete miracle that I haven't sterelized myself.

So here are some of my experiences/lessons from the 6 years that I worked with kids. If you have also worked with kids for any length of time, you totally know what I'm talking about.

• You will quickly learn that kids under the age of 10 do not understand sarcasm. At all. While in the craft room, a child once asked me if I had a bowl. I naturally replied "Of course I do! I always carry one in my back pocket in case of an emergency!" She stood there expectantly, waiting for me to pull out a giant mixing bowl out of my Mary Poppins jean pocket. Sarcasm was never again used on a child.
• And it's not just the kids: you will inevitably have that one mom that brings her kid in with an entire lunchbox of over-the-counter and prescription medication. This kid takes so many drugs in a day that they put your local stoner to shame.
• Some of you are probably like "Hey, aren't you kinda being a humongous hypocrite, you crazy hypochondriac?!", so I should point out that I don't usually take any medication like some hypochondriacs, I just constantly worry that I have some osbcure and uncurable disease. I'm a hypochondriac au naturel.
• No matter how much flat ginger ale and quiet relaxing time you give them, the chances are, you will eventually get a kid that throws up. And chances are also that it will be a projectile vomit. All over the other kids' shoes and backpacks.
• You will get a child called Jessica who demands to be called Madison Butterfly Butterfly.



"Oh God, it's like a crime scene in there!"

• You will have to wipe blood off of random surfaces, because kids either: a) panic when they get hurt and run around, dripping the stuff everywhere, b) don't notice that their arm/leg/nose is gushing blood, or c) they don't give a damn.
• As bad as cleaning off blood makes you feel, having to climb up a dark tube slide to clean it is 1000 times worse.
• You will have to chase down a misbehaving child in a bouncy structure. No matter your size, wit and strength, they will make you look like a drunk panda.
• When the kids get picked up, you'll be talking to an older father in a business suit and realize he's giving you elevator eyes and hitting on you right in front of his kids.   
• And finally, I hope this will never happen to you, ever. But maybe, just maybe, if you have any of my luck, you'll be feeding the kids their lunch when a little boy will walk up to you and whisper in your ear "I think someone pooped in the sink." And no matter how hard you pray that this kid is just an extremely creative liar, lo and behold, there is actual shit in the sink.
• Sidenote: Interviewing each and every child to ask them if they're the one who "left something in the bathroom that you shouldn't have put there" will not yeild results.
• Second Sidenote: You can use your charm and pleading to convince another staff member to clean up the crap. You will owe them big time. Big time.

Now please give me your own horrible/gross experiences working with kids that will make me feel better about mine.

This is Why We Don't Own Nice Things

After paying more than $2 on a gift bag for my niece's present, I took a picture of it to show it off to my mother. It wasn't until after I sent it that I noticed a little gnawing going on.

 

Nice, Tika. Real nice.

Thank God kids care more about what's inside the bag than the actual bag itself.

Where do you Bring a Hick for his Birthday?

There's an excellent punchline to that question, I just know it...

 

The actual answer is Montana's Cookhouse.

 

 

For all you non-Canadians (aka, 90% of you readers), Montana's is a mountain lodge-themed restaurant. Half of the menu is solely dedicated to red meat, and the "mascots" are a taxidermied moose and deer. They also serve "man mugs", which hold three cans' worth of beer in them.

 

You get to have a dead animal stare at you while you eat. In Andrew's words,
"it's just awesome/"

Yeah, you can see why he asked to celebrate there.

 

We began the night wearing paper antlers (the hick version of paper crowns). However, as soon as Andrew saw me wearing a full rack of antlers, he ripped it off my head in disgust, shouted " a doe doesn't have antlers!" and tore off the top of my antlers. He then gingerly placed the modified hick-crown back on my head and continued on as if nothing happened.



Apparently this is a deer mating ritual.... I'm flattered, I guess?

After eating a main course primaily composed of animal parts (which cost more than my appetizer, main course and dessert combined), the staff sang him a song, gave him a complimentary dessert and placed this on his head.

Behold, Andrew the Steak Sauce Stealer, the cheapest Viking in the land!

However, once he found out that there was another headgear option that better suited his fashion sense, he had his helmet replaced by this one:

Yes, because when being asked to pose while sporting a moose rack, it is
best to look pensive. A+ for that rationale, Andrew.

He spent the rest of the night proudly sporting the ginormous moose rack, whilst I attempted to finish my dessert without getting knocked unconscious every time he swiveled his head.

I actually had to duck under to be anywhere near him.

Happy Birthday Andrew!

 

 I'm sorry I didn't let you attempt to steal the moose rack helmet. (I'm not genuinely sorry. That was a stupid idea. How the hell would you have pulled it off?)

First Post of 2013: Cameras, Spiders and Bathroom Singing

HAPPY NEW YEAR YOU CRAZY FREAKS!

Hopefully you all enjoyed your holidays, unless you're Jehovah Witnesses; you guys don't get to celebrate. Sorry about that, JWs.

My vacation was fairly tame; I was sick, so spent most of it on the couch, begging Andrew to make me Lipton Noodle Soup (that magical shit beats the crap out of a cold), opening Christmas gifts with the strength and energy of a stoned lizard. and attempting (and continuously failing) to go watch Les Misérables in theaters.

The good news is, I got ridiculously jealous of Andrew's stepmother's new camera, so I went and bought my own. Yay for non-fuzzy photos!

I apologize in advance for the probable increase in pet photos. Feel free to skip them and mutter "Fuck Christine, stop with the pet shots." Feel even more free to comment "OMG YOUR PETS ARE SO CUTE AND AMAZING!"

Here are a few things that happened during the break:

• Last week, something funny happened in my dreams and I distinctly remember thinking "Man, I'm gonna have to blog about this". While still dreaming.
• I think of you guys in my sleep. You're always with me, you stalkers.
• Best event of Christmas Day: When Andrew danced what he believed to be a scottish jig on extra large bubble wrap as I played the trumpet (more commonly known as blowing my nose).

  

  Really though, what the hell does she mean?!

• When I took Andrew out on a date to our local Boston Pizza, I went to the bathroom to blow my nose (since my nose sounds like a trumpet; please refer to previous bulletpoint.) As I was about to return to our date, Adele's Set Fire to the Rain came on the bathroom radio. A minute later, a waitress walked in on me singing my heart out in front of the mirror. Unfortunately, there was no way to cover it up.
• One night, I got woken up by Andrew squirming and cringing in his sleep. After asking him what as wrong, he replied "Ugh, that's just so gross". "What's gross?" He pointed at numerous spots on the ceiling "All those fucking spiders."

How was your holidays (and for Jehovah Witnesses, how was your non-eventful end of the month?)

From our Non-Legally-Acknowldged-Family-with-Furry-Babies to Yours!!

Merry Hickmas!

 

The caption, plaid and cowboy hat were the only way Andrew was ever gonna let
this happen.

As if Cats Weren't Already Paranoid Enought Without Needing a Reason...

Every couple of days, we wake up or come home to find our artificial Christmas tree kinda bent out of shape, with a few of its ornaments laying on the ground, as if the tree just came home from a Frosh Week binge.

And since Lucy isn't allowed to stay indoors unsupervised anymore, it's gotta be the cats. My theory is strongly supported by the evidence from when I caught Sako last Sunday on the top third of the tree, attacking a bell ornament. The fact that she was also on the outside of the tree, and not in the tree, makes me assume that she just pulled a Keifer Sutherland and fucking launched herself onto the tree.

 

They also have a history of using the tree as a vacation spot, as seen in this video from last year.
 

So when Andrew bought himself a motion-detecting hunting camera (you know, the ones you strap to a tree so you can find out if a lot of deer come by so you can slaughter them for antlers and burgers), I thought we could use it for more peaceful dectective work instead.

Result: the hunting/spy camera is now propped up on my piano and doing 24 hour monitoring of our Christmas tree and surrounding area. We're gonna catch these bitches in the act.

The suspected culprit of 90% of all tree-related incidents.

The other cat who is probably too fat to climb the tree anymore.
Also, we have like four pictures of her in that exact same spot
and pose, but during different times in the night.

So far, the only suspicious action the camera has caught is the mysetrious removal of two Christmas presents from under the tree (which were all strategically placed so that the cats couldn't get to the base of the tree).



Gifts there....

Gifts gone.

Tree-watching will continue until the gun-cats are caught in the act.

Sidenote: Not gonna lie, while Andrew and I were looking through all the nighttime photos on his camera, a small part of me was scared that we were randomly going to have a dead girl in a photo, proving that minihomes can be haunted too.

Sidesidenote: I don't even watch scary movies and thoughts like these pop up in my head. Could you imagine how permanently terrified I would be if I did?

Kittens at the Vet

Here are a few photos of the kitties when I brought them to the vet for their checkup.

Sidenote: Yes, I realize that they should no longer be referred to as kittens. I don't care.

Anyways, nothing too exciting happened at the vet; the cats acted the same as they always do.

As usual, Tika doesn't really give a shit what's going on around her.

And Sako runs and hides at the first sign of anything new.

She stayed hidden behind the vet's laptop until we pried her away to do the examination. She then hid again as soon as it was over. You know, in case the vet suddenly decided to amputate her for no apparent reason.

Seriously, it's like this cat is on a permanent crack cocaine binge.

However, the most stressful part of this yearly trip is always the ride home. The cats have this cute little tradition where they shit in their crate on the way back home from the vet, just to spite me.

Every. Fucking. Time.

On this visit though, they seemed to be doing good. Until we got about two minutes away from the house. Then all at once, the car was filled with a stench. The traditional gift-of-thanks-for-checking-on-their-health stench.

Time suddenly seemed to slow down. As I gagged and frantically rolled all the windows down, the two cats stared me down from their shared crate. The look in their eyes can only be translated as "That's what happens when you take us to the vet, Bitch."

Thanks for the shit, kittens.

I Guess I Should Acknowledge That the Holiday Season is Here...



This weekend, we're attempting to take a family portrait for our annual Christmas Card. We'll either look like gorgeous models, or total trainwrecks. (We never half-ass anything, we go all the way. Except for cleaning attempts: cleaning house is always done half-ass.)

 

Anyways, I just finished decorating my giant-sized wreath (which I love), but now I'm like "Where the fuck am I going to put this ginormous wreath?" So until I find a way to hang the wreath on the side of the house without making holes in the walls, I have to hide the wreath in Andrew's Man-cave. It's got to be put away because the cats seem to have a death wish involving eating as many glitter-covered pine cones and fake holly berries (not to be confused with fake Halle Barrys) as possible. They wouldn't last a day in the wild.

 

Because they're made of plastic, and you'll die.

Sidenote: Sorry there hasn't been any posts this past week. It's like the ridiculously small amount of daylight hours has made me all blah and meh. But I think I'm over that now.

What's Been Going on in the Hick/Crazy Household this Fall.

While picking my nicest pictures of the season, I now realize how much of a crazy cat/dog lady I am. There's an entire world out there, but I apparently would rather take pictures of the same three subjects over and over and over again.

Sidenote: This is why I should never take drugs. Well, non-prescribed drugs.

Sidenote sidenote: I don't not take drugs because I take too many pictures of my pets. It's because I think I have such an addictive personality that if I did do illegal drugs, even once, I would probably automatically get addicted to it and become a paranoid crackhead living under a bridge that would yell out warnings to passing cars about the inevitable apocalypse brought on by dragons.

Sidenote³: And also because of the pets. They shouldn't have to live with an addicted mother. They'll have self-esteem and trust issues.

 Annnnnnnd tangent is done. For this post at least. Here are some photos of the season:

Can you guess what Lucy was for Halloween?
Can you guess that I enjoy photobombing?

I told Andrew that the wings were much too small for Lucy to be able to fly. He couldn't argue. Or maybe he's just given up arguing with me because it's futile.

Tika cleaning herself while half of her face is drenched, once again, for NO REASON WHATSOEVER.



The boxer dogs of my not-technically-father-in-law-because-someone-won't-put-a-ring-on-it, plus Lucy.

Cocaine?

 

She's like the Megan Fox of dogs, but with talent!

I don't have any final poignant or clever closing statement, so I'll just let you all know that Andrew, who was quietly playing Angry Birds, just called out "cornucopia!" for no reason whatsoever. I swear he doesn't have Turette's.