As you may remember we got a cat a while back and named him Billy Dee Williams. This is the story of his ailments.

When we got him from the Toronto Humane Society, his records indicated that he has some sort of constipation issues. Seems that every few weeks he gets gummed up and can’t pass his poo as naturally as other cats do. When he gets the blockage he tends to quiet down and not move much (wouldn’t you?) and he starts to walk funny.

And smell.

He does clean himself, that’s not the issue. He can barely keep up with the amount of times he goes, compared to the times he cleans.

Yesterday, Billy Dee was fully into one of these cycles. Yesterday he started to pass an anal-ripping sized ball of poo and it got caught. Mid-exit. So for a time he was walking around with a nugget hanging half way out of his ass.

This is equally hilarious as it is horrifyingly awful.

I noticed this when I decided I couldn’t stand the smell of him and decided to give him a warm washcloth bath back there. Passing over his butt I was shocked to find the turtle head, just stuck there. We were stumped as to what to do. Literally.

Eventually we got him held down, and with much protest from Billy Dee Williams, we managed to brake off a portion of the log and tried in vain to apply olive oil to his abused kitty-pucker. Some time in the night he passed the rest and is resting comfortably.

Last night, while walking back from the grocery store, SharkBoy was about 4 steps ahead of me and I was overcome to do something to his ice cream (come on, he made ME carry it home and I can’t have any of it!). I quickly ripped off the top and looked down at the pure ecru tub of sugary goodness. I must act fast! What to do? Plant my face into it a la Mrs Doubtfire? Well, close…

I stuck my face/teeth into it and dragged my upper jaw across the top and scooped out a healthy chunk. Lid back on, wipe my face, act natural. Smile!

We get back into the apartment and I put down the tub. I put away the rest of the food and innocently ask “Are you going to have some ice cream during Dexter?”

“ICE CREAM!” he shouts and pulls off the top.

He stops.

He does a double take at the gaping hole.

He goes white when he realizes the hole is actually a bite mark.

I’m dying. Using my best Team America ACTING I say “Holy shit! Those are teeth marks!!”

I think he’s going to throw up. He drops his ice cream scoop and stomps towards the door. I think he’s going to go get a gun and go Michael Douglas Falling Down on the shitty grocery store so I stop him and tell him I did it, relax.

He was actually going to go get his camera to blog about it.

Speaking of thin cheap masks…

When I lived in Brantford with my father, we occupied a huge apartment in a restored mansion that overlooked the rail yard. The original builder owned the tracks from Brantford to Hamilton and I guess he wanted to wake every day to oversee his empire every day. The massive house was surrounded by light industrial warehouses and post war-bungalows. It stood out. Especially on Halloween.

Since it was such a unique residence, all the occupants were intertwined with each others business, like a Norman Bates like 28 Barbary Lane, so when it was announced that the boozy upstairs neighbours were going to have a party and that costumes were mandatory, Dad and I pondered this for a few days.

One night shopping, Dad sees a rack of kids onsies costumes, complete with the thin plastic masks. Much like these, over on Plaid Stallions. He grabs a couple and thrusts them at me.

“Here’s our costumes!”

“They’re a bit… small.”

“That’s the fun!”

I shrug and return the Spiderman jumpsuit for something a little more gay: Wonder Woman. Dad chooses Captain America.

The night of the party, we’re forced to strip down to Y-fronts for the sake of squeezing into these sausage skins. As we hit the third stair to go up to the apartment where the party is being held, both our suits split from knee to armpit along the outer seams. Half way up, the ties for the back pop off. And so it goes. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, we’re basically hobo Superheroes with sweaty masks.

We’re two nearly naked guys in infantile costumes. We were the life of the party.

Listen up people! Lenzr has a new contest out sponsored by Kanetix insurance & mortgage rate quotes (ding!) and it is called “Ontario Tourist Attractions”

No brainer in the description of what they’re looking for: all things Ontario, all things Tourist, all things Attractive. Which excludes 90% of my Hanlan’s Point pictures (bada-cha!). However, I do know some people who have excellent camping pictures that might make the grade.

Upload your pictures to Lenzr and watch people judge you! Get a cool pic in there and you can win a cool American Express Gift Card loaded with $200. Second place is an Amex Card worth $100. Easy peasy!

Special note here: Lenzr has updated their judging system too. No more Like/Dislike, which I thought was pretty harsh. Its now a sliding scale 1 to 10, which I think is much kinder and gentler.

So get over there and share! That’s what the internet was created for!

Disclaimer: I wrote about Kanetix in the past and was paid good money for it. That’s the price you pay for having an ad-less website!

My sister used to dress me.

Not all the time, just for Halloween. I was her big Ken doll and she took great pride in her costumes for me. Granted the costumes were simple, out-of-the-closet (stop snickering) ready mades like a Pirate, or a Chef or a Cop. Nothing elaborate. But she would unquestioningly dress me up in whatever was around and whatever she thought was fun. I had no say in the matter.

One year I rebelled. I demanded that I was to be a mummy. I have no clue where I got this idea, but I do remember insisting so much that the dark clouds of tantrums were building on the horizon. My sister thought about it for a moment and then started a test run on my arm, which we ran out of cloth midway. Apparently you needed more than one twin bed sheet to cover a kid in 2″ strips head to toe. I stood firm on my decision and she turned to the only readily available supply we had in the house: toilet paper.

She started to roll somewhere inside an hour of when I was suppose to go out. Within 30 minutes she had done my arms and legs. She was smart: she made me dress in a white t-shirt and pants to shorten the long task of covering me, but it still took a long time. I’d fidget, the paper would tear, it wouldn’t stay where it should…

She never got me entirely covered. I looked more like a chubby kid with toilet paper on my head, forearms, legs.

I remember many people not knowing what I was: Genie? Accident Victim? Snow flake? Q-tip?!?

I think that was the last time she ever tried. From then on it was store bought onesies with the tongue cutting thin plastic masks. Love her dearly for trying, though!

This morning at breakfast, SharkBoy looks up from his cretons and says:

“I can honestly say I’ve never been happier with my life.”

Verklempt, people.

I’ve been thinking about mine lately and not wanting to jinx it, but yeah I too have been thinking things have been groovy.

David Sedaris wrote:

Pat was driving, and as we passed the turnoff for a shopping center she invited us to picture a four-burner stove.

“Gas or electric?” Hugh asked, and she said that it didn’t matter.

This was not a real stove but a symbolic one, used to prove a point at a management seminar she’d once attended. “One burner represents your family, one is your friends, the third is your health, and the fourth is your work.” The gist, she said, was that in order to be successful you have to cut off one of your burners. And in order to be really successful you have to cut off two.

I would say that my Career and Friends are definitely on “low”. But without any kind of remorse or regret.

Of course, the job could be better, but it wouldn’t be called a “job” or “work” or “Mind numbingly stupid shit” then, right? The state of our home is where I want it to be, except maybe a new couch that’s more conducive to snuggling AND video game playing. But these sorts of things are just that… things. I’ve always thought of personal possessions as transitive, ever since my older brother took some of my Star Wars models and shoved firecrackers into them for a school video project. I consider new purchases “goals” and not rampant consumerism or greed.

Friends? My best ones don’t live in Toronto. The people I’ve forged the deepest trust and friendship with all live vicariously through Facebook or this blog (Hi Evil Panda! How’s the stilts coming?). When SharkBoy and I got married, we experienced a bit of a paradigm shift in friends but we’re making new ones and forging ahead. Again, I see friendships the same as consumerism: something ever shifting and changing.

Married life? I’m still having a blast and there’s no sign of that ebbing away. We finish each others sentences and not in an impatient way. We’re becoming The Twins on SuperJail.

The weekend passed with little incident. Mom arrived on Friday to all the kids in Dad’s party room in his condo. It was a pleasant evening and at one point, SharkBoy and I spied Mom and Dad speaking candidly in the corner. To which we looked at each other and started to sing:

Laffs all around.

Unfortunately Mom fell ill the next day… I think I killed her with a vodka martini, and not a gin one that she usually drinks. Uhg. The next night’s dinner was amazing, but marred by Mom’s non-attendance. We went to Lola’s Commissary on Church at Charles. I highly recommend it. Fancy schmancy tapas-like shared meals

Moms Bday 2009

The title is an old Arab proverb. I’ll be singing Happy Birthday so here’s hoping it’s true.

The family from Brockvegas, The United Kingdom of England, Cowtown and Our Nations Crapital descend upon Toronto this friday to celebrate Mom’s B-day. You gotta love a woman of simple tastes, she’ll be wearing the Chanel suit but all she’s indicated for a gift is the DVD of House, Season 3.

In our family, get togethers are rare, due to the travel expanse. This will be like all the holidays rolled into a 48 hr period – compressing emotions into a pressure cooker of family fun. Expect emotions to be high. Expect someone to blurt out the family secret that we all avoid (who’s attic does it live in these days? I lost count). Expect sibling-produced complements lain like wet towels in a frat house: hap hazardously and without thought (“Are you still renting? Well! Hum! How nice!”). Expect knees to be kicked under tables.

In all seriousness, I am looking forward to this. Been too long since I’ve seen The CowTown Queen, Rhino, The Professor and Mary Ann (his beayoutiful husband). You all know who you are.