Tag Archives: best friend

Paragraph # 26: Why I Love My Best Friend.

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According to Facebook, today is Friends Day.

In celebration of this holiday that is probably made up, I have compiled a list of twenty-six things I love about my best friend.

 

  1. She is one of the only people left on the planet who still sends actual letters in the actual mail.

  2. She takes epic chin selfies.

  3. I’m pretty sure that if you asked her who her best friend was she would say her dogs and I’m okay with that because her “pets” have never written her a lovely list. So there, dogs.

  4. She drinks maple whisky out of a glass with a skull on it while knitting and watching musicals on TV. She’s the perfect mix of a party girl and your eighty-five year old Grandma.

  5. Her hair gets disgustingly greasy if she doesn’t wash it everyday. Seeing her in all her oily glory makes me feel better about my own appearance.

  6. She swears like a sailor.

  7. She’s so tiny that she can still wear kids sized clothes and sometimes the teachers at her school confuse her for a student. (FYI she teaches at an elementary school.)

  8. She’s going to name her future child Ming Ling because I said so.

  9. When I ask her what I should write about, her standard answer is, “ME! AND MY DOGS!”

  10. We can go from talking about serious life issues to farts in a single sentence.

  11. She holds my hand in public.

  12. Being a vegetarian, she really appreciates it when I text her pictures of meat.

  13. Her first impression of me when we met was that I was a “weirdo”. My first impression of her was that she was “loud”. We both still feel the same way, eighteen years later.

  14. A demolition derby, learning to surf in Costa Rica and acting in a Japanese play are all examples of her random adventures.

  15. She has special seatbelts for her dogs in her car.

  16. She’s a huge fan of recycling, composting, biodegradable household products, the environment, animals and reusable containers. If she hadn’t become a teacher she probably would have become David Suzuki.

  17. Two things that fill her with rage are shovelling her driveway and being stuck behind slow walkers.

  18. She has several friends who happen to be llamas. None of them are her BEST friend…just throwing that out there.

  19. Her eyebrows always reveal her true feelings.

  20. She sing talks CONSTANTLY.

  21. She has a special skirt that she wears when she goes running.

  22. She gets sassy when she drinks.

  23. Her ideal food is dill pickle chips.

  24. Her musical tastes are on point with those of a thirteen year old girl.

  25. Her childhood home strongly resembled a Hobbit Hole.

  26. She uses kindness as the driving force in her life because she’s a nauseatingly good person.

 

Happy Friends Day everyone and thanks for reading.

Now go tell your best friend that they rock and I’ll see you tomorrow!

NFred.

 

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Not A Dog Person

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Almost every day, my youngest son asks me if we can get a dog.

My answer is always the same. “I got you a baby sister instead.” 

I am not a dog person. Not even remotely.

I’m not sure why I don’t like dogs. I’ve never had a traumatizing incident with a canine. In fact, I grew up with dogs. My childhood dogs were fine, but I was never overly attached to them. Perhaps it’s because I have a cold, black heart? Or maybe it’s for the following reasons…

1. Dogs smell. Their breath is all hot and beefy. I hate when dogs lick me. Their meaty mouth slobber gets everywhere and it lingers long after I’ve washed the affected area thoroughly with soap and water. And don’t even get me started on wet dog smell. I classify wet dog smell as being in the same league as these offensive odors; wormy smell that is overwhelming when it rains, burning plastic containers in my dishwasher, Thurso Quebec and old dirty dish rags. If I had a dog, I would follow the golden Gremlin rule of NEVER getting it wet.

2. Dogs are total pervs. They always go straight for your crotch. Big dogs, small dogs, old dogs, puppies, they’re all obsessed with sniffing your privates. How awkward is it when you’re like meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time and their beloved family dog won’t stop rooting around in your business? And dogs love to hump. THEY LOVE IT. There is nothing worse than having your leg violated by a horny hound. 

3. Dogs are like toddlers that never grow up. Not only do you have to feed them and bathe them, you also have to make arrangements for someone to look after your dog if you’re going away. Dogs have zero independence. They depend on their human to walk them and brush them and pick up their poop. They literally can’t do anything on their own. And what do humans get in return for taking such excellent care of their canine companions? Dog hair all over their clothes, astronomical vet bills and the joy of using plastic bags to pick up their shit.

I don’t want to say that I hate all dogs. That wouldn’t be fair. I do actually like one dog. He belongs to my best friend. His name is Bui. He’s a male dog who has never once humped me or sniffed my privates. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him bark. He’s very civilized and doesn’t seem overly needy. The reason why Bui is such a nice dog is because he is actually part cat. I whole heartily believe that Bui’s parents were engaged in a very taboo relationship.

You see, Bui’s father was a blue collar, working class dog named Ralph. He worked long hours at the local steel mill. Francesca was the beautiful feline companion of the steel mill’s owner. She was fluffy and white and she fell hard for Ralph from the moment their eyes met. They began a torrid and highly secret affair. What began as something purely physical soon turned into a deep love.

One winter night, the lovers where discovered canoodling by the mill owner. In a fit of rage, the owner banished Ralph from his steel mill and banned Francesca from ever seeing him again. Francesca went into a deep depression for several weeks until she learned that she was pregnant with Ralph’s baby. When she mustered up enough courage, she escaped from the mill owner’s home. She ran quickly into the night, only stopping once she was outside Ralph’s door. He had only taken her to his small apartment once, saying that he was embarrassed to bring such a classy cat to his crummy bachelor pad. She softly knocked at the door. When Ralph appeared he couldn’t believe his eyes.He swooped her up in his arms and they hugged and cried and laughed. Knowing that the canines and felines of their town would not be excepting of their interspecies relationship, Ralph and Francesca fled to the most remote corner of the forest. They lived a simple life full of love and joy. Their happiness was amplified by the birth of their baby boy, Bui. 

When Bui became a teenager, his insatiable curiosity to see the world overwhelmed him. His parents reluctantly let him leave the forest. Bui went on many grand adventures before settling down with my best friend in a small town in Eastern Ontario. 

The moral of this story is that if all dogs were raised partly by cats, I would like them more.

Also, if there were such a thing as a non smelly, non pervy, independent dog that could clean up its own poop, I MIGHT consider getting one as a pet…

MAYBE.

Actually, no. I just thought about it. 

I’m still not a dog person.

 

 

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Fatigued Friday

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You know when you’re so tired that your eyes burn? And you feel like someone plucked out your brain and replaced it with Styrofoam? And you just want to crawl into a hole and cry? This, along with being abnormally sweaty, is how I’ve felt all day.

I wish I could say that my condition is due to being out all night at an amazing party with rich and famous people. Sadly, it was my almost two year old daughter that decided to include me in her solo party girl antics for the better part of last night. She got just under three hours of sleep and is all ridiculously bubbly and precious today. That girl can par-tayyyy. I don’t even want to think about what shenanigans she’ll get into when she’s a teenager…

My late night rager with my daughter has gotten me all nostalgic for the carefree, alcohol soaked nights of my youth.

Actually, I should use the term “nights” loosely…

Tonight, I’d like to share another one of my favourite losing stories that I have ever entered in a writing contest.

If you’re a fan of drinking, hockey and shenaniganizing, then I think you’ll enjoy this non-fiction anecdote. And if you don’t like those things, read my story anyways because I used the word foodstuffs.

Bonne nuit.

The Heckler

 One of the best days of my life started with a craft fair and ended with my best friend heckling the captain of the Ottawa Senators.

 Sallie and I have known each other for well over a decade. She is a world traveller, a teacher and a magnificent knitter. Sadly, Sallie is vertically challenged. Standing at only four-foot-ten, she compensates for her lack of height with an abundance of personality. She makes her presence known and is not one to shy away from voicing her opinion. She’s also witty, sassy and all around awesome.

 For one magical year and a half, Sallie ignored her itchy feet and made Ottawa her home. Sunday was our day of the week. We dubbed it Skiddy Sunday because just like Mary’s little lamb, everywhere we went, beer seemed to follow. If we went for a walk downtown, we’d end up in a pub. If we went shopping, we’d break for lunch, and beer. We even mastered the art of knitting and drinking simultaneously.

 The most legendary of Skiddy Sundays began in a rather sophisticated manner. A craft sale was being held at Landsdown Park. Being crafty nerds, Sallie and I eagerly attended. The best part of the sale was the free sampling of various foodstuffs. Unfortunately, there was nothing available at the venue to wash down the tasty treats. Luckily for us, Bank Street was lined with pubs.

 Two pitchers of beer later, Sallie and I rolled out of an Irish pub with full bellies and light heads. It was early spring and a perfect afternoon for a stroll in the Glebe. We giddily held hands and perused shops. We even stopped in at a yarn store and asked the elderly proprietor several knitting questions. I’ve since wondered if she knew of our inebriation.

 We continued on our walk, chatting and giggling as drunk best friends do. Bank Street was a sea of red, black and white. The Ottawa Senators had made the Stanley Cup Playoffs that year and the city was engrossed in complete hockey madness. I’m not a hockey fan myself, but I’m married to one. My husband was constantly hijacking our TV to watch his beloved Sens. Some hockey knowledge must have seeped into my noggin during those endless televised games because I instantly recognized Daniel Alfredsson as he walked past Sallie and I. He was wearing shorts and pushing a child in a stroller. His shaggy red hair flowed in the breeze. In my drunken state, I called out to him, “you’re doing a great job”! He turned and smiled. I giggled like a school girl with a crush and grabbed Sallie excitedly.

 “Who was that?” she asked. Sallie was probably the only person living in Ottawa who didn’t know that he was the captain of the Senators. When I divulged this information, she stopped, turned around and without hesitation yelled, “GO LEAFS GO” as loud as her little frame would allow. Sallie has done many things to shock me during our friendship; extreme haircuts, random piercings, sudden plans to travel to far away countries. To say that I was shocked by her hurling an insult at someone whom she has never met, would be an understatement. Sallie is a person with no enemies. To know her is to love her. She’s kind and smiley and gentle and compassionate. She’s a vegetarian, for crying out loud! It was completely bewildering behaviour. You think you know someone inside and out, and then they heckle a professional hockey player and blow all your preconceived notions about them to bits.

 I’m not sure if Daniel Alfredsson heard Sallie’s harsh words, but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Being a life long Ottawa resident, I knew how passionate hockey folk could get about their hatred of the Toronto Maple Leafs. I feared that Sallie’s loose lips would garner us some negative attention. My alcohol muddled brain made me certain that some random Senators hockey fan was going to beat us up. My fight or flight instincts kicked in as I grabbed Sallie’s hand and forced her to start running. Up Bank Street we went, running wildly. We must have looked like total maniacs. Finally feeling confident that we were out of harm’s way, we stopped. We slowly caught our breath and then we laughed. We laughed so hard that our insides ached. It was the kind of laughter that is impossible to control. The kind that makes your eyes water and your nose run. I believe I snorted several times. When we finally spoke, our conversation went something like this;

Me – What the hell were you thinking?

Sallie – I don’t know!

Me – I can’t believe you just did that! You’re a total jerk!

Sallie – I am? It wasn’t that bad, was it?

Me – Umm…yes ! You just insulted Daniel Alfredsson. What did he ever do to you?

We stood in silence for a moment and then we laughed all over again.

 Some might think that I would have been angry at Sallie for her actions that day. Nothing could be farther from the truth! I admired her moxie, even if it was alcohol induced. She momentarily got swept up in hockey fever and heckled someone famous. Someone who was probably more than twice her size. No big deal. I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed of my best friend. I was ecstatic to discover another trait in Sallie that further emphasized her awesomeness. And the fact that I’m willing to defend her behaviour is a testament to our friendship. I will always have her back, even when she makes terrible, drunken decisions.

 Sadly, Skiddy Sundays are long gone. Sallie and I may not live in the same city anymore, but our friendship is as solid as ever. Since that epic Sunday, Sallie and I have enjoyed both craft fairs and beer, just not on the same day. Daniel Alfredsson is still the captain of the Ottawa Senators and my husband still hogs the TV on game nights. I can’t help but feel awkward whenever I catch a glimpse of Mr. Alfredsson on the tube. I get a small twinge of guilt and feel like maybe he hates my best friend.

 Maybe Sallie does have one enemy after all.

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