For High Intensity to allow us to take a picture of her being spanked by an out-of-control Brian Mulroney, a rather large bribe had to be coughed up in the form of a... large spoonful of strawberry jam. I feel bad for her on so many levels, but mostly because she thinks jam is a special treat. Actually, I don't feel too bad. She's got my mom to load her up on junk.
She came by yesterday to take her out for some special bonding time. H.I. was particularly hyper while waiting to be picked up, running through the house and singing/screeching Raffi songs at the top of her lungs. ("WILLIBY WALLIBY WOM! AN ELEPHANT SAT ON MOM! WILLIBY WALLIBY WADDY! AN ELEPHANT SAT ON DADDY!") Naturally, I was pretty thrilled to get her off my hands for a few hours, and I don't have to feel guilty thinking that way because she had a blast. Together, they saw a play and then spent the rest of the time pigging out. "Granny let me have everything I wanted, EVERYTHING," she told me when she got home, and from the sounds of it, she was right. A huge plate of Chinese food. A gigantic dish of ice-cream. A toffee apple. A large piece of cheesecake and a 500 ml carton of chocolate milk. Then when they left and my mom was attempting to get the seat belt over H.I.'s grossly extended stomach, High Intensity let out a groan and moaned, "Williby walliby wuke, I think I'm going to puke." Giving a shriek of horror, my mom dove into the driver's seat, stepped on the gas and belted it to my place in record time. She didn't stick around to chat, just handed over my bloated, swollen-bellied child and left. High Intensity lay on the couch for a while groaning, and then mean old mom forced her up and outside for a binge-burning stroll to take in the scenic sights of urban decay.
Ah Spring! Le belle printemps! But really, is there a more beautiful time of year to take a walk? Living, as we do, in the second poorest federal constituency in Canada, an innocent, gentle stroll becomes a glorious feast for the senses when April beckons around the corner. The melty, sloppy soup of filthy snow and dog shit makes our nimble feet dance a pretty spring jig as we dart anxiously from safe spot to safe spot. Cigarette butts cleverly arrange themselves into pretty patterns in the dirt-oozing sludge, and the junky litter of so many discarded meals form a poetry of their own. And the condoms! So many used condoms! Happily, the trendy colour for prophylactics this spring is a cheery, sun-kissed yellow, which certainly helps perk up the mood and highlight the natural beauty of this little chunk of urban paradise I am lucky enough to call home. My piercing shriek served to really impress upon High Intensity the gravity of not disturbing these pretty little love-bundles from their natural habitat lest we, uh, destroy them. (Thank heavenly god, she doesn't try to pick them up anymore.)
I think what really warmed my heart the most during our little walk was realizing how so many residents in my area have really taken the classic Elvis song If Everyday was Like Christmas to heart. The soggy festive decorations that adorned almost every house we passed were really a delight to see. Reindeer pawed at (dripping wet) roofs while shyly sneaking looks our way and Santas winked at us from (no longer) frosty window panes. At one point the wheels of our crappy stroller (the "good" one was stolen a few weeks back) fell off and a group of life-sized wooden carolers cheered me on as I struggled to reassemble the thing. Perhaps most poignant of all was the scene at one particularly drab house, where the word JOY, in bold red colours, had been assembled in the front yard. Only the Y was still standing, which struck me as a particularly clever thing to do. Why indeed? I thought, staring at that most philosophical of letters. It seemed to want an answer. I didn't have one. Overcome with emotion, I fell on my knees (into a puddle) and, shaking my fist at that impenetrable sky, shouted, with anguish in my voice, "What's it all about then, eh?" and, when no-one answered, added hesitantly, "Alphie??" In the distance, through the foggy recesses of my (obviously chemically imbalanced) mind I thought I could hear Elvis. He was singing... to me.
Oh why can't everyday
be like Christmas?
Why can't that feeling go on
endlessly?
For if everyday
could be just like Christmas
what a wonderful world
this would be
"Oh Elvis, you're right!" I sobbed, and racing home, dug out the Santa Claus Trophy from the donation box and stuck him into the last remaining pile of snow in our yard. All neighbourhoods have a theme. Ours is obviously, "Keeping that festive feeling going all year 'round!"
You win, Mr. IQ! You win!
6 comments:
I didn't think your neighborhood would have such an abundance of latex litter. Where exactly do you take H.I. for her walks? You might want to explore other, less colourful routes? :)
That being said, I've seen condoms and a discarded "poppers" bottle at the intersection of 2 busy streets in deep suburbia. I can't imagine how these things end up there. Well, I can imagine... but I don't want to go there.
We don’t get a lot of snow around here, but in the mega-store parking lots in the hottest part of the summer, with asphalt baking at a hundred plus degrees, drifts of turd-filled plastic diapers bloat and fume and then become part of the geography. Sometimes they are run over by a passing car and stick to the tire, then they just sort of spread out.
Ahhh, a neighborhood where people litter in their own yards, just bliss. Here in suburban New England people also espouse the X-mas all year philosophy. Dirty, dripping and half deflated blow up Santa Clauses there among the daffodils.
One question, who are these people having sex with yellow condoms in the streets? You'd think that those desperate enough to copulate amongst the dog shit would forgo the protection. At least they're getting something right.
I once worked on a waste audit for an industrial facility in Guelph. Among the garbage from the plant's cafeteria were a couple of used condoms. True story.
Only you can make a gross, disgusting walk sound like something poetic. Beautiful.
How did I miss this.
Bloglines is not reliable.
My service provider has had more down time recenty ... and always before or after work so I can't read and enjoy my favorites.,
I wish you could come walk with me. I have a jogger that has a flat tire. You would feel so at home pushing HI in that. And there is horse manure down the street where one of the last small pasture areas is left. We were annexed into the city in December - but the only difference so far is curb side recycling.
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