MonkeyPants

New Couch!

Oh, I am well and truly delighted.



Here’s E and Scott, whose truck brought the new couch to my house. I am roasting beef for his reward.

Goodbye, Old Couch

Here it is, the monstrosity that is the old couch. Obviously, it has E on it, and, as you can see, we still don’t have a coffee table. What are we, eighteen? No. Just really lazy.



You may notice the couch is slipcovered. It has to be, even though the slipcover is the bane of my existence as it has to be straightened out eighty seven times a day. The upholstery is so ugly it makes me want to weep in shame and horror.



Manufactured some time in the ‘70s, this couch’s history comes to light, for me, in the 80’s in Oshawa, where it was in Toby Hughes’ frat house. I do not like to think of its existence back then. The cooties leave me shuddering.



When Toby moved to Vancouver in the early 90s to start his professional career as a saxophonist, bartender, and mayhem-causer, the couch came with him. It was at this point that E became acquainted with the couch, as they all used to sit on it for Movie Night, which featured a) no girls b) lots of beer c) bad movies d) more beer e) running out of beer and starting on whiskey and f) passing out at sunrise.



For a time, the couch was at Tim Doody’s place, probably when Toby’s girlfriend Sue was living with him, and she probably had a nicer couch than this one. But then they broke up and Toby got the couch back. I think this was around 1998.



When I moved out in 2000, Toby was moving to Toronto to liven them up out there. So Scott put the couch in the back of his truck and we took it to my new place.



It was supposed to be a stopgap. It was supposed to be until-I-get-some-money. It was supposed to be gone by now.



And tomorrow, we are borrowing Scott’s pickup to bring a new couch home, one that doesn’t have frat cooties. And then we are taking the old couch to the dump.



I feel a little bad about it. The couch hasn’t done anything to deserve my animosity. It has served us faithfully as a couch. Even after all those years of experience, it is still serviceable. But serviceable or not, it goes tomorrow!



I’m so excited!

Friday Confessions.

Could the nice weather please come back? I’m all for the watering of the plants and the living in the temperate rainforest and whatnot, but I would like to experience some summer-like weather sometime soon. Please.

Here’s a thing: I’ve been walking around with no makeup on yesterday and today. Sometimes I forget, and that’s okay. But I looked for my mascara yesterday and couldn’t find it. I think E’s brother’s girlfriend took it by accident. But I was walking around with my naked face, and after a little while, I found I just didn’t care. Hey, world, here’s my imperfect mug. Suck it up.

I was going to have coffee with a friend yesterday, one I haven’t spoken to forever. But she couldn’t make it. I was only too happy to stay in bed for an extra half-hour. Again, the rain is sapping my energy and making me think November thoughts of bowls of pasta as big as my head.

I’m thinking of dancing in a troupe piece later on in the month. If I can learn the right arm movements from the left and the right. Which is a bit iffy.

So, unpainted, sleepy and confused about my right and left. That’s me. How about you?

Empty House

E’s brother and his girlfriend have been and gone, and all my fretting and faffing were for nothing. E went out and bought an air mattress (we’d discussed it and I’d said I’d borrow one, but he interpreted that as an order to go buy one, but whatever.) The bonus is, it fit in E’s room! So I didn’t even have to give up my living room! Which was good, on account of my weird weekend hours. It would have been awkward to tiptoe past sleeping near-strangers at two AM and then lie awake until I felt tired. Overall, it was no problem.

That’s because I overlooked the obvious. They are academics, in town for an academic conference. They really only have two basic needs: Wireless and a place to sleep. All the action was up at the conference. I saw them for about three hours in total. E saw his brother for a few more hours.

So, no sweat. But I’m not advertising our fabulous guest room any time soon.

Night Driving.

So last night and tonight I’ve been out changing parking decals on the Co-op’s cars. That’s why this is so late. I’m winding down from three hours of drive, search, scrape, spray, search, stick, lockup and leave. I did nine cars tonight, which is better than seven, last night. But I thought I could do more.

Anyway, here’s what I found out: I talk to myself. A lot. And to animals. And to inanimate objects.

Here’s the script for the decal and trip log removal process:

“Okay, here’s the evil scraper.” (To myself)

“God, you’re stubborn.” (To the decal)

“Okay, now caustic spray.” (To myself)

“Eww, car bogies.” (To myself as the decal goo came off. It’s gross.)

“Trip logs, where are you?” (To the trip logs. Like they were going to say, ‘Here we are, Liz!’)

“Okay, pen, two new trip logs.” (Random counting, to myself)

“Hey, this isn’t even perforated. Those decal people are fuckers!” (To myself)

“You’re a little crooked. Jaunty. Yeah, Jaunty. That’s okay.” (To the decal)

And walking about looking for cars that were supposed to be there but weren’t? I’m talking to the animals, to the night, to the cars.

“Hello, raccoon family. I see you. No eating any cats tonight, okay?”

“Oooh, there you are, Walnut! I see you!” (Walnut Street is one of the car locations)

“Prrrrou! (I have been learning Cat language. I greeted the cat with an ‘I see you and am happy’ cat greeting) Hey kitty kitty. Be careful, there are raccoons around.”

“You’re not a Co-op car. We’re not a Mercedes kind of company.”

“Why the hell isn’t there anywhere to pee around here?”

I wonder how much I talk to myself when there are other people around. Because from what I have observed over the past couple of nights? I’m past eccentric and accelerating fast towards straitjacket turf.

Redneck John

Last night we moved my friend Sandii to her new digs, three blocks south and three blocks east of her old digs. We could have done the move on skateboards, but we don’t know enough people with skateboards, so instead her brother John came in from Chilliwack with his genuine 1986 GMC pickup truck, newly painted that day in black primer. If you get Sandii drunk she will tell you harrowing tales of growing up in the ‘Wack. I used to think she was exaggerating. Now I know she is not.

The truck stuck out like a diesel mechanic at a garden party. John needed to gun the engine to get it started, and it blew out like a fleet of Harleys driving through a corrugated tin tunnel. Seriously. It was loud.

John was clearly both nervous and a little in awe of the city, which made for some entertaining driving. At one point, he paused to admire an old Chevy, but didn’t hit the brake. We almost ended up in someone’s front yard. He also didn’t seem to get pedestrian-controlled traffic lights or not speeding up for red lights. Things are different in Chilliwack, apparently.

He also kept driving past Sandii’s new house. It is a fairly distinctive place, but I think he was too busy looking at everything to take note, bless him.

He’s safely back in the ‘Wack, now, probably regaling his buddies with stories about us weird City Folk.