What I did in Saskatchewan

Within 48 hours of landing in Saskatchewan, I was back on the farm. After supper at grandmas (oh Ukranian cooking, I missed you so) my cousin looks over at me and says "So, you wanna go push over some trees with the Cat?"

To answer your first question, a "Cat" is a bulldozer.

To answer your second question, heck yes I did!



Bonus: Turn on a camera in front of these guys for five minutes and look what happens.

Scandal!

I got checked out by a man today. Again. This time it was a little more special, though, because it was a former Member of Parliament. This isn't the first time that a male MP has checked me out, but it was the most pleasant, considering the first one made me want to throw up in my own mouth.

I've said before that I notice guys checking me out because they use the same techniques that I use when checking out girls. Apparently a person's check-out-technique toolbox is determined by genetics. In any case, today I had one of my personal favourites, the "Turn and Turn" used against me.

The Turn and Turn is a simple technique for checking out someone behind you. If you know that there is a slamming hottie (or in this case, a skinny white boy (I don't know why he'd do it either)) behind you, what you do is you make a turn to the left or right, or in this case into the vintages section of the LCBO. Now, after you've done the body turn, you do a quick head turn in the same direction you just turned your body. If you turned to the left, you then turn your head to the left again (the Turn and Turn) and effectively look directly behind you and get another chance to scope out said hottie/skinny white boy behind you before you go into the vintages section to get a good bottle of French white wine, likely grown in the norhteast where they the wines have a full, strong, yet delicate taste.


Also, I have had it with Stella Artois. I mean I have had it. Setting aside the fact that Stella is a pretty tasty beer, it makes me ill every time I drink it. Even that I'd be willing to overlook, but their advertising campaign is unforgivable. See, Stella is marketing itself as a premium import, but back in Europe Stella is basically Budweiser. It's the beer you drink if you sweat a lot, wear shirts without sleeves, and get into fistfights about sports. When I go into the LCBO and see posters claiming that Stella "goes well with cheese, mussels, and chocolate," I have to take exception. What Stella goes with is soccer riots and beating your wife. Worst of all, they advertise a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot. I just spent a weekend having every single Stella Artois ad in the downtown area dutifully pointed out to me (and I'm going to get you back for that) and they are on every street corner in the market. They will not let me rest.


Also, for the last ten minutes a crazy lady has been screaming at someone in the street. I can hear it from my 9th floor window. I hate Ottawa in the summer.

Mr. Clean makes me call him Daddy

Once every four or five years (translation: whenever a girl comes over to my house) I get a tremendous urge to clean. It goes beyond a desire to clean the house - something from beyond seizes control of my body and I go on an unrelenting cleaning binge. I am no longer just a man, I am posessed by a cleaning demon. It reminds me of my mother.

Such a spirit overcame me today, and it was not pretty. I was fixing websites about three hours ago, and then I kind of blacked out. I remember bits and pieces of washing windows, and one clear moment when I inhaled a lot of bleach that temporairly brought me back to my senses. I remember being over the toilet with at least two kinds of cleaners, then I blacked out again.

The cleaning demon is fierce. Not only do I feel the need to remove every speck of dirt and grime from my house, I attempt to clean it so hard that the force of my cleaning travels backward through time and stops the dirt from ever having existed. I have actually accomplished this feat on more than one occasion. My appartment not only has to be clean, it must be spotless and sanitary, even in the places that I only ever look when the cleaning spirit has posessed me, such as under the microwave. If you've never looked underneath your microwave, don't. You're happier not knowing. In fact, don't look inside or behind your microwave either. Close your eyes, put the food in, hit buttons, and walk away. If you really want to be happy about the state of your microwave, you will learn to navigate its control panel by touch alone and never look at it again. Ideally you will forget what colour it is.