Bitches be stealin’ my clothes!

I like for the ladies to be built pretty much like I am, about my height, about my frame. I also like when girls are into fashion and style. Put these two things together and you wind up with the opportunity to double your wardrobe just by dating! Sounds great, right? Lesbian!

How can this possibly be a negative?

Because every single person who I have ever lent an item of clothing to, has looked better in that that item of clothing than I did!!! Every single time! This is okay if the person I’ve lent something to is going out with a group that I’m not a part of, but if they go out with people I know, then I can never wear that item with those people again! Sounds paranoid? Well fuck you.

The problem of course, is boobs. So long as the item fits, boobs make everything better: sweaters, blazers, blouses, even skirts and pants somehow. And everybody I know has bigger boobs than I do, which means they instantly look better in everything of mine that fits them. I could of course simply refrain from being with women who have bigger boobs than me, except, well, that sounds really depressing.

The Princess will have to do for me – his boobs may be bigger than mine, but he never wears my clothes. At least not in public.

Who would kill the spiders? There’s a time and place to be a dainty little girl, and that time is when there’s a spider in the house. Would the house just fill up with crawly things? Would we eventually just have to move? I’m not talking about flies or ants, I’m not an invalid, I can take care of those. I mean the bugs with all the legs that scramble across the floor faster than I can panic. Those are meant for boys to deal with.

Would that be considered as one of the household chores that get divvied up? I’ll take out the garbage, and you’ll kill all the bugs. I’ll do the laundry, you’re in charge of managing the crawly situation. Maybe a coin toss? Rock paper scissors? I’m willing to get close enough to cover them with bowls and cups, and I suppose the vacuum is a good disposal method. Except eventually someone has to change the vacuum bag, which by the time it needs changing could be teeming with maybe not so dead bugs. Teeming!

They may not have boobs, but boys kill bugs.

Sometimes boys have boobs.

It’s better when they don’t.

I grew up with my parents and my older sister in a small suburb. We lived within walking distance of a school so it is no surprise that there were a lot of children in our neighbourhood. On the straight stretch of the street I grew up on there are maybe 50 houses. As far as I can remember there were about 25 kids about my age (5 years older or younger) who lived there for a long while. I was aware of but wasn’t friends with everyone, spending most of my time with the girl across from us, but my parents were friends with a few other families on the street.

I’m 34 now and haven’t kept track of most of the people I went to school with, and even less so with the people who I shared a straight stretch of neighbourhood with. But of the people I know of: one family has a son a couple years older than me who died of cancer – I don’t know what type. They have a daughter who is maybe 5 years older than me who has either diabetes or an immune condition. The family who lived right next door to us has a daughter my age who died of cancer about a decade ago – Hodgekins I think, and a son a couple years older than me who was just diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. Ulcerative Colitis is the auto immune disease that I was diagnosed with in 2007.

That seems like a lot of kids on the same street with serious diseases.

I’m going to put a list together of everyone else who grew up there, send a few emails, make a few calls, and see how far this thing goes. I have to admit, this freaks me out a bit.

I woke up nervous and antsy, after having dreamed of a Romney/Ryan win and a subsequent dystopian future. I usually recall between 2 and 3 dreams each night, and every dream I remember having has been in full colour, this one was the first in black, white and shades in between. Obviously I support Obama. This shouldn’t surprise anyone; I’m Canadian, Canadians right across the board support Obama.

I peeked in at the pseudo news throughout the day, useless, and finally just kept reruns of the Golden Girls going in the background. The Princess of course turned the bobblehead chatter on as soon as he came home, he brought pizza with him, I was too nervous to cook! The numbers started coming in, too early to be meaningful so I wandered away – too much anxiety for little ol’ me.

I texted with my sister and friends in Canadian, all of us on edge. Americans don’t realise the impact of their elections on their neighbours and the world at large. Canadian’s in particular feel the results and future implications almost as keenly as Americans.

It started to look good, but would Romney concede? Would there be recounts? Would it end in a timely manner? Could I actually breathe again? And then he did, and there wouldn’t, and it did, and I did! And wow! We won!!!

And isn’t that the funny thing? Texts and emails started arriving, not just from Americans, but from my Canadian cohorts, from a friend in Paris, and others speckled across the globe: “We won!”

Last year The Princess and I were in Paris during hurricane Irene. By the time we returned a few days had already passed, the refrigerator had already gone rotten, the items in the freezer were already unfrozen though ice cold, and the downed trees in our driveway had already been moved. The power had been out for days and it took a few more days before it returned. The first night was probably the worst because we had been on an airplane for 7 hours, then in a car for 2 and were eagerly awaiting a long shower and a good poop. Instead I spent an hour emptying out the refrigerator and BBQing steaks. Still, not the worst thing to return to. The house had only minor damage, our neighbours moved our outdoor breakables, and one of our friends had hurried over before the storm, presciently moving the cars from their usual parking spot – the trees that came down would have crushed them both had they not been moved. The first dark nights were fun and romantic – candles, banding together, and just when we were getting annoyed with the whole situation the power was back.

Hurricane Sandy was different. We were here to tune in to the ongoing warnings, the Franenstorm! chatter, the panic. We were around to pick up the phone when the city robocalled with an evacuation notice – we’re near but not in the mandatory evacuation area. We were here to consider our distance from the water and be reassured that we weren’t at risk from it, then wander around the house and determine which trees might fall and what part of the house would be endangered. All seemed well, so we filled up the bathtubs (we have well water which requires an electric pump), charged our phones and laptops and back up batteries, brought everything we could indoors and battened down the rest.

Around noon on Monday we went for a walk down the street from us, down being the operative word.

Beautiful stream?

Or flooded road?

Remember, these were taken before the storm officially even touched down.