I woke up perky. The sun was shining; it was going to be a glorious first-day-it-hasn’t-rained-in-six-months.
I stretched, tossed on my togs and let the dogs out.
Scott says: “Yeah, we have to talk.”
“Something is weird in my bank account.”
“Weird in what way?”
“I have, like a thousand dollars more than I thought I did.”
Ding, ding, ding, went the trolley. Ring, ring went the bell; I’m going to McIntosh and Watts closing sale.
“Wait. I forgot to include the rent.”
“So how much do we have for the next two weeks?”
And then the dark clouds of doom descended on St. Laurent Blvd.
So instead of going to M&W, I went to the Beer Store to take the empties back.
Well, I made seven bucks.
I got home and saw two gigantic tupperwares filled with beer cans that aliens must have deposited in my back garden while I was taking the wine bottles back.
Well, I thought. If he wants beer, he’s gonna have to take these back tonight.
This mind-blowing episode was followed by a heart to heart with my son Nick who’s thinking of moving out again.
After breakfast and before he gets married.
I washed the floors.
Then I sat outside for the first time since we rented this new abode of ours — after the toxic oil spill on Smyth Road.
My old house was a private place where I could actually hang my boobs out of my tank top.
This place is like Trafalgar Fucking Square.
I was unmoved. I’m determined to wear skimp.
Then landlord sidled on by.
I tried unsuccessfuly to put myself together, holding a pug to shelter my massive bodice while attempting to hold a serious conversation with the guy about the pug fence.
This was not easy. The landlord looks, acts and processes like Puddy on Seinfeld. The dogs barked and barked.
Puddy finally took his leave.
I returned to my chair to spend the next two hours telling the dogs to “shut the fuck up”.
Unlike my old sheltered backyard, mine is a side yard. On St. Laurent Boulevard. Did I say that already?
If I were one of those people counters the city hires, I would have counted 965 people.
In the first hour.
I had a brilliant thought.
We could put a juke joint on the lawn and make a few hundred bucks.
But where would I will get the booze with no money?
I gave up.
I tried desperately to corral Gordie who was acting like a complete asshole. I had just picked him up when the David McGuinty sign crew came by. A couple of truly handsome specimens unveiled a sign which would cover Time Square. Or Trafalgar. To keep the analogy going.
I waved, then returned to my book, Bossypants, and the incessant barking of Gordon J. Blackstone, Assinator.
I’m thinking of moving.
Film at eleven.