I Don't Smell Anything

Did you know that you can sneak into the Safeway warehouse at Tillicum Mall? Well, you can. It's very easy, you walk right in through the loading bay. I've been doing that lately. It's something to do. I walk in, steal a few bananas, and head up the secret stairway to the roof so I can spy on the parking lot people.


There is a man who goes to Safeway every Saturday morning at 8am to buy a shrimp ring. His name is Mr. Jacobi. He is so cute, he pulls his socks over his pants and saunters in and out of the store like he just doesn't give a fuck. Then he drives his 1974 Buick home and sits with the shrimp ring on his lap in his recliner and watches cartoons on YTV. The shrimp are still frozen and he sucks the ice off of them and then chews them each slowly. Mr. Jacobi has a dog named Poof, one of those little white ones with the goop in the eyes. He named her Poof because she showed up on the day his wife disappeared into thin air while weeding her clamflowers on the front lawn. Poof, she was gone, and Poof, there was Poof in her place, wagging her tail. You think people don't just disappear? They do. They just vanish, now you see them, now you don't. Cars go careening off bridges because the drivers disappear while changing gears. It could happen to anyone.

You know that mildew smell that festers in washing machines when you leave the clothes in for too long? Well, that's what Mr. Jacobi's wife's wig smelled like on the day she disappeared. Mr. Jacobi was really grossed out by that. He liked his wife's natural hair and like he always said, he wished she'd just leave it alone and keep it natural, even though it had thinned in patches. At least they were her hairs, not some chemical nest of fakes. The real hair, the patchy stuff, the same hair he'd tugged and buried his face in when she was young and everything around her smelled like lilacs. Before the cancer crept into her left breast in 1977, her hair had been thick and full of waves. But after the treatment it was ruined, it looked and smelled like it had been burnt, which is why she bought the wig. The last few words Mr. Jacobi said to Mrs. Jacobi before she disappeared in the front yard: "Jesus Christ, Beverly, your wig smells like the dickens." Mrs. Jacobi had touched it sheepishly and rushed over to the mirror in the foyer to fix it. "I don't smell anything, Robert, but it's looking awfully tired," she had said.

The Goddess Bunny

So what if I like to look at trashy celebrity blogs? Sometimes they yield links to magnificent things, like this.

I'm always behind the times. Everyone probably knew all about Goddess Bunny years ago. It's probably old news. You probably clicked on the link and said to yourself, "Oh... this. Pfft, I saw this in two thousand four." It's like when I finally discovered you could use toilet paper to wipe your bum instead of your fingers. I was eighteen, and I told everyone I knew and offered to demonstrate. It's going to be the same thing with Goddess Bunny. Nobody's going to be impressed at all.

David has gone out to see The Cancer Bats tonight. I wasn't excited to be staying home alone again, so I invited Jay over. I'm getting all ready for him now- stripping down to my calico undies and putting on my Ujjal Dosanjh mask. He's going to be so stoked when he walks in the door!

I can't believe I've gotten this far in life without knowing about Goddess Bunny. Just knowing Goddess Bunny exists will make things easier from here on in.

"I Used To Be Smart. Now I'm Just Stupid."

~ Quiz Kid Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), Magnolia

It is very sad indeed when the only way you can slog through your day is to remind yourself of who or what or how you used to be. It's been a few years of this now... and it's not an identity crisis, it's much shallower than that. A crisis of adjectives.

I keep assuring myself that the malevolent little troll, the one in my head who governs my self-image, is doing me a favour by pointing out the fact that I've become this frumpy mom, this asexual lump, this woman I don't recognize in the mirror, even as I squint.

I used to carry these bones around differently, in a different body. A different brain made the judgment calls that shaped my life. Now every cell is new, and each is a cell that was born into grief. My face has changed- I don't wear it the same.

Grief makes you tired. It yellows the whites of your eyes and sucks out the moisture in your skin. There is such a thing as 'grief bloat'. It's like alcoholic bloat, where the whole body swells and becomes ruddy with longing. You long for your beloved, and when they don't come back, you realize that you are just a mammal, sniffing around for food, nursing your offspring, existing but not participating in your existence, even as you wonder at the apathy of the universe.

Even insects curse the universe when their sweethearts die.

Say "Yes!" to the Universe!!!

Nope. I'd rather eat a big, fresh, wet dog turd than be agreeable about anything today. I'm cunty and sour and I want to be unapologetic about it, but that's just not me. I apologize for everything because I'm insincere.

Sour
lemon
puke
cunt

I get these tapes playing in my head when I'm in a bad mood. It's my positive mom-voice trying to be helpful.

"Take deep breaths and count backwards from one hundred."
"In through your nose, out through your mouth."
"Your outer world is a manifestation of your inner world."
"Think of five things you're grateful for."
"Can you think of some strategies to work through these feelings?"

If I could have a temper tantrum in a padded room, I think that might help. If I could smash, really smash my fist into someone's face repeatedly, that's another strategy that might help me work through these feelings. If I could pour boiling water down my throat and scald my insides, my outer world be an accurate reflection of my inner world.

I don't know. There are people fighting in the courtyard outside my house, a man shouting at a woman to shut the fuck up and the woman begging him to come back inside.

Now it sounds like someone is beating up a shopping cart.



I ate so many grapes tonight.

Biff And Grinny Get Yet Another Cat

Dear Biff and Grinny,

Fuck, I can't believe it. I can't believe you got another fucking cat. I'm sorry, but, like, how can you possibly fit another cat up there- your place is TINY!

These are your choices, but seriously, what makes you think the cats like living up there with you? There's the two of you and how many cats? Like ten? Or fifteen now? What the fuck?


Anyway, so I'm writing to you about the hole in the ceiling and I'm also writing to ask you to please stop vacuuming at two in the morning. Grinny, I know you like to drink wine and vacuum, and I know that the cats knock plants over and make a mess in the middle of the night, but can't you wait until the morning to clean it all up? Please? As for the hole in the ceiling that happened after you OD'd on your meds and broke the bathroom sink pipe with your head, Biff, I just wanted to let you know that we've placed a small microphone right below the floorboards there and we're recording all your fights so we can play them later at dinner parties. Those are some funny fights you guys have, holy shit!

Also, before I forget, Biff, could you please stop lurking around the shed in our back yard? It totally creeps us out when we see you traipsing through our yard in your bermuda shorts with no shirt on.

Remember when we first moved in here, and we thought we could be friends with you guys? You guys even gave us a little mini-barbeque as a wedding present. You came over a couple times, and that was fine, but honestly? Honestly, we didn't really like you. And we made fun of you as soon as you went upstairs. We're not assholes or anything, it was just funny.

Anyway, so please don't worry about paying for the hole in the ceiling to be fixed. Your fights are obnoxious and difficult to ignore, but since we're recording them we know it'll totally be worth it one day. So anyway, yeah. Peace out.

Sincerely and truly,

Mr. and Mrs. Philbin-Schooner (from downstairs!!!)

:) :) :)

Saggy Tits And The Implacable Id

I started writing a blog about how I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after my shower tonight to inspect the goods. David sidled up the computer and read over my shoulder.

"Don't write that." He said.

"What?"

"Don't say you look like Homer Simpson half-way through gender reassignment."

"Why not? It's my creative expression."

"No it's not."

"Please don't tell me what to write. And yes it is."

"No. It's not."

"Yes it fucking is."



I remember watching my mom get ready for work when she was a young nurse. She wore white nylons and had this way of sliding them up her legs so they made this pleasing sshhhhhhhh sound. It was the olden days, the nurses didn't wear scrubs back then but the lovely white button-up dresses with the matching caps that you only see now in porn mags. I remember her putting on the deodorant that smelled like icing sugar, the rigid camel bra.

She is little bit pregnant in this memory, too. Her belly perfectly swollen. She looks like she has a little cabbage in there. I am watching her stand in front of the mirror to button up the dress, brush her hair, put on the opal earrings her dead grandma left to her. She is looking at herself and smiling a bit, and then looking at me and saying something, something nice.

She was a beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful.

Just before my tenth birthday, my dad took me to Value Village in New Westminister to buy my first bra. I needed it. My boobs had bloomed overnight and were, I learned later, becoming a problem with my male teacher at school who felt very uncomfortable about my new breasts flopping about. He made a phone call to my mom at work. I guess I'd been doing cartwheels at recess with my shirt untucked or something, because otherwise the whole thing seems mighty creepy. Anyway, my mom had a chat with me about how it was my responsibility to take good care of my breasts now, and she promised we'd go bra-shopping and then to The Grey Mouse for tea that weekend. But somehow we ended up in Vancouver before we could do that. I don't remember why, but it was so, and at Value Village on that day just before my tenth birthday, I stood in the lingerie section with my dad, who looked at the floor all stern and anxious with his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know what size." I said.

"Just get the one you like," he said.

I found a training bra with giraffes on it, but it was too small. I wanted it anyway, I thought I could make it fit, but my dad said absolutely not, no giraffes.

I ended up with something else, I don't remember what. Something old-ladyish and scratchy. I suppose it did the job.

That night, my mom took me to see Phantom of the Opera. I wore a black dress and dangly earrings. "You look like you're eighteen!" My mom kept saying, "And that bra fits you like a glove!"

Fifteen years later, about a week before she died, one of the last things she said to me (in a morphine-induced state of delirium) was this:

"Hey Chelsea."

"Yeah?"

"You should put those tits on a stroller."

"What?"

"Get a stroller. For your tits, so you can move them around. They're big and saggy."


It's not something she would have normally said. But maybe it's something she would have thought and never said. I'll never know, because I never got to ask. When she was a new mom, she was beautiful and slim and free from the icky inconveniences of post-partum depression or dying parents.

Anyway.


I want to be my mother in 1984, putting on my slutty white nurse uniform, brushing my black hair and glancing at my little girl, sitting there in her pajamas on the bed, wide-eyed and astonished that anyone could ever be as lovely I am right now.

Man Gets Drunk, Calls Wife Beautiful

When I arrived home, there was a stack of papers on the floor in front of the door of our apartment. At first I thought that we were getting in trouble for playing music too loud, but then I noticed they were in front of everyone else's doors too.

Turns out it was a document from the strata council notifying owners that the former property management company of our complex had misappropriated tens of thousands of dollars from the strata corporation. The strata council was very upset by this. They thought it was a very bad thing, and they were right, but it didn't upset me as much as this other piece of information couched in between all the fraud hoopla. Strata fees were going up 20-30%.

David came home and I showed him the documents. All the blood drained from his face.

"Why?" he said.

"I don't know." I said.

We both knew we couldn't afford to pay $400/month for a strata fee. We were very upset about the idea of paying that amount of money- so upset, in fact, that we couldn't even talk to each other without one of us almost crying.

Later that evening, I was reading on the couch and David came into the room and said,

"You know what? You know what I want to do?"

"What."

He said he wanted to be an irresponsible drunk. He said he couldn't handle any more pressure, any more bad luck, that all he wanted to do was quit his job and drink all day.

I said, "That is a wonderful idea"

He thought I was being sarcastic, but I wasn't.

"I'm going to Safeway to buy some jam." I said.

I told him we needed the jam, because we hadn't had jam in a long time. He agreed it had been too long. "Go buy jam." He said.

I got in the car and drove to the liquor store. We had $587.00 in our account and with that I was able to buy 75 six-packs of Bowen Island Lager. A very nice man named Al helped me push the cart full of six-packs out to my car and loaded them all in my trunk for me. "Have a good night," he said. His nose was a red juice nose, and it looked like it wanted me to invite him over to share the beer, but I just said, "Thanks, you too.", got in my car and drove back home.

I only brought two six packs in from the car, one in each hand. David was laying on the floor listening to Donovan.

"Where's the jam?" he said.

Rat On A Hot Tin Roof

I was giving birth in a clawfoot tub that was perched on the roof of my mom's old house. It was the middle of the night, the sky was pink and gummy and hot, like dog's mouth.

I was pushing and pushing. It hurt.

The baby came out.

It was a rat, fully-grown and covered in birthing slime. Its teeth were long and golden.

The rat baby clawed its way up my belly and started to nurse. It was biting me, knawing at my nipples and making squeaking and clicking rat noises. There was blood and milk everywhere.

We got comfortable eventually. I looked down at my rat baby and began to fall in love.

But then came all the other rats.

There were thousands, and they all jumped into the tub, and they all wanted to nurse and they were all fighting each other. And my rat, it got lost in the fray.

Once the rats were gone, I climbed out of the tub and slid down the chimney. I went to the kitchen and ate some nuts. Santa sat down beside me and we talked about the economy.

I didn't tell him about the rat baby, I figured he must have known.

Santa just knows, know what I mean?

Please Don't Stare At My Necker Cubes

Do not marry an artist. Marry a doctor who thinks your creative aspirations are cute and charming but irrelevent to the machinations of daily life.

We compete for creative space, Dave and I. This morning, I said "I think I'll go write for half an hour." I wanted to be alone in the bedroom. I wanted my head all to myself, I wanted quiet. Sure, he said. But then he decided it was an opportune time for him to finish this song he's been working on. He's in the pushing stage of labour on this one, and the guitar is yelping and cawing and fucking beating itself against my ears like the fist of a bully.

And I shouldn't complain. Because he's good, he's really good about letting me have space. He never says, "Do you have to do that now?" or "Why don't you finish the dishes first?" or "Suck my dick, bitch, I'm agonna punchya inna face agin if ya keeps up wif-ese gall-darsh craaaaazy ideas!"


It's just that every single time I sit down to write, he pulls out the guitar.


Guitars are loud. Songs, belted out from the core of one's being, they're loud too.


Yesterday he took Ava out to the hardware store for over an hour~ I could have written then. Instead I fell asleep with the cat on my face.

He writes with his guitar in-hand, he doesn't understand the need for quietness, in fact I'm sure he would be astonished to find that I am bothered by him playing while I write in the other room. Which is why I will direct him, innocently, to this blog. Because I'm passive-aggressive that way.

You'll Never Be Beautiful, Potato Head.

"Bubbling or rattling sounds in the throat and chest may accompany breathing."
~ A Handbook for End-Of-Life Care

She opened her eyes and looked up into the left corner of the ceiling just as the last breath went. Apparently. I didn't see, because I couldn't look. My head was buried deep in Dave's armpit. We were standing at the foot of the bed and I was holding on to her left foot.


After she was gone and everyone was done crying, we went in the kitchen and drank tea.

“Who wants to help us wash her?” said the Aunts.

Who wants to help do the dishes?

Who wants to carry the groceries inside?

Who wants to set the table?


Who wants to change their dead mother’s diaper and wash her body with a sponge, you know, so she smells okay when she goes into the oven later this morning?!


Well, what would you have done?