a forest dweller tried to kill me

True Story _ WatermarkedThis is a (mostly) true story about a partridge with attitude, two thug moths out for a joyride joyfly and a toad that tried to kill me. I know it is (mostly) true because I lived to tell the tale. I am lucky to have survived this weekend at our beloved cabin in the woods.

This (mostly) true story is also a long story so I would suggest you make yourself some popcorn, a cuppa tea pour yourself a glass or two of wine before curling up in your favourite chair to read about my latest escapade.

I should also add that I have changed the names of the forest dwellers in this (mostly) true story in order to protect their real identities. It is an understood rule at our cabin in the woods that what happens in the bush stays in the bush unless you change the identities of those involved when retelling the story. It also helps protect me from any potential lawsuits filed by the forests dwellers for libel, pain and suffering or some other bullpoopie thingie like that. Their lawyer, Cedric C. Cougar, has a reputation for being the kind of pompous ass, throat-cut-ish brute of a lawyer that you don’t want to run up against. Once he smells blood, he won’t stop until there is nothing left of you.

The Camp _ 4 Photos _ WatermarkedNow, back to the (mostly) true story. It all started early Friday morning when Sauerkraut and I arrived at our beloved cabin in the woods. If you’ve followed this blog, then you know that our cabin in the woods is our favourite place to be. We quickly set about cleaning the cabin, unpacking our necessities and, before long, were settled in for a nice long weekend. We were ecstatic to be there.

By evening, however, I wasn’t feeling quite right. Supper wasn’t sitting all that well but I put it off to my eating our delicious steak dinner too quickly. By bedtime, my stomach was still feeling queasy but nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.

Or so I thought.

Lord thunderin’ jaysus, around 2:00 a.m., I was awakened by some raging intestinal cramping of epic proportions. Sporting only my nightgown, I made my way ran to the outdoor facility, namely, the outhouse. It was at this time I began what I like to refer to as a clandestine relationship with the outhouse which, from hereon in, will be referred to

Outhouse _ Watermarked
Ozzy Outhouse: where dreams are made and legends are born

as Ozzy. (I decided that if I was going to be rendezvousing with an outhouse in the middle of the night, I might as well name it in order to make it sound more nefarious romantic.)

While I certainly didn’t see this sort of relationship coming, once Ozzy got his grip on me there was no turning back. For the next twenty-four plus hours, I continued sneaking out to Ozzy’s and sharing my innermost secrets with him, secrets buried deep within my very intestines being. It felt good to let it all go — things that had been building up for so long — painful, pressure-filled downright stinky things. I’m sure you can relate.

For my first rendezvous with Ozzy, I wasn’t prepared. It was in the middle of the night and I was wearing only a long sleeved night gown. I had no time to consider the unusually chilly temperatures of the June night and dress accordingly. I also didn’t have time to grab a flashlight larger than the one on my iPhone.

Ozzy was patient and proved to be a thoughtful lover listener as I poured my inner most thoughts out to him. After twenty minutes of my butt heart-wrenching saga, I was nearly frozen to death. I made my way back to the cabin knowing that, after just one meeting, Ozzy would always be there for me, kind of like Imodium.

Sauerkraut, on the other hand, was oblivious to my clandestine affair. He had morphed into Fred Flintstone while I was away and was snoring the night away. It’s a miracle the blankets didn’t rise to the rafters as he exhaled and smother him as he inhaled. Yaba daba frickin’ doo.

Snoring _ midnight mating call

I managed to get a couple of hours sleep before repeating my performance just before daybreak. This time, however, I was certainly better dressed for the occasion. I was also armed with a book and reading glasses in case I was there for a long time.

Despite my intestinal discomfort, it was a rather peaceful time of day, peaceful, that is, until Percy flippin’ Partridge began flapping his wings. Sounding much like a helicopter preparing for takeoff, I couldn’t quite determine if Percy was Percy Partridge.JPGcongratulating me on a job well done or if he was trying to warn the other forest dwellers that something nasty was going on at Ozzy’s. Maybe he was trying to warn them to run for ‘dem dere’ hills. This continued with each and every visit to Ozzy’s that morning. Percy, the big motherclucker that he was, was really getting on my nerves.

On at least one occasion, I yelled at Percy. “Shut the hell up! I don’t need your kind of attitude in my life. I’m dealing with enough shit crap without taking it from you, too.”

Thankfully, my afternoon and early evening visits with Ozzy were at least uneventful. I was beginning to think that the worst was over and that I was turning the corner.

I should have known better. I think that motherclucker, Percy Partridge, flapped some sort of hex on me because at 2:15 a.m. I was back at it again. This time, however, I was better prepared with a fleece jacket, a paperback, reading glasses and a larger flash light.

Even though I had agreed to wake my Fred Flintstone doppelgänger if I needed to go out to the outhouse in the middle of the night again, I didn’t have the heart to. He hadn’t yet reached the full-on Fred Flintstone snore so I knew he was enjoying a nice peaceful sleep. There was no need for the two of us to be up as clearly there wasn’t anything he could do to help me anyway. What was he going to do, beat up Ozzy the outhouse?

I settled in to Ozzy’s welcoming embrace (there’s nothing quite like a good layer of styrofoam insulation hugging your behind in the wee hours of the morning) and began reading my book, letting nature take its course, so to speak. It was then that I was assaulted by a pair of thugs, Martin and Marvin Moth. After a few choice words and with my arms thrashing about, it wasn’t long before I sent them packing, each begging, “please don’t tell Momma Moth about this. She’ll ground us for sure. We’re not supposed to be out this late. Please, please Miss Poopyhead, don’t tell our momma.” I relented and said that I would not tell but that I had better not see them at Ozzy’s Outhouse again. I may or may not have called them cheeky little arseholes on their way out the door.

Moths in the outhouse

After I calmed down, it was back to business for me. I resumed reading, a thriller, of course, by Jeffrey Deaver. I mean, what better genre than a murder mystery to read in the middle of the night, in the middle of the bush, when I’m all by myself and where no one could hear my murderous screams, least of all Fred Flintstone, and in an outhouse owned by a dude named Ozzy? Dum-dee-dum dum dum. La la la. Nature was working itself out nicely and the book was getting sooooooo good. “Just one more page,” I told myself, “just one more page and then I’ll go back inside”.

But it’s never just one more page, is it? Hell, no. I had to push my luck and turn to the next page. Plop! I felt something land on my thigh and I knew it wasn’t toilet paper. Plop, again. And I knew it wasn’t Martin or Marvin Moth because they had flown home several pages ago.

Whats Up SexyJaysus, Mary and Joseph, what the hell was on my leg? One glimpse with the flashlight and I saw the meanest, brownest, most disrespectful baby toad that I have ever seen in my life and he’s sitting there like he owns the joint. Uh, uh, uh, I don’t think so, Timothy Toad, because this outhouse isn’t big enough for the two of us. One of us has got to go. And that one of us was me.

I sprang into action, flying out of Ozzy’s outhouse faster than a speeding bullet. The toad was airborne, my bookmark hit the dirt, the toilet paper was rolling right along with me but there was absolutely, positively no way I was going to be taken out by a murderous baby toad named Timothy. I may or may not have screamed, “You rotten son-of-a-toad” or “your mother wears army boots” or “I could have been a contender” or “A-D-R-I-A-N!” or some other stupid thing like that. When you’re running for your life, everything becomes a blur other than getting to safety so I don’t exactly remember what I screamed. Whatever it was, I am sure it was profanity laden.

Oh Shit Run

I made it inside the cabin safe and sound. After I closed and locked the door (there was no way that son-of-a-toad was getting inside to finish me off), I leaned against the door trying to catch my breath. As I came to the realization of just how close I had come to losing my life, I thanked the high heavens for sparing me. Then, I shone the flashlight to the left and saw my beloved Fred Flintstone, snoring the night away, oblivious to the fact of just how close he had come to being widowed. Boy, did he get an earful over breakfast this morning.

So, there you have it. My (mostly) true story about how a forest dweller almost killed me and how I lived to tell the tale. Ribbeting riveting, I know.

Oh, one more thing, I couldn’t find my reading glasses afterwards either. If you happen to see a partridge walking around the bush sporting a really cool pair of reading glasses, tell him that you know where he got them and that he’d better return them to his rightful owner or he could be facing a lawsuit of his own.

Imodium: 1
Murderous Baby Toad: 0

My something new: surviving my first murder attempt … on me, that is. It wasn’t me attempting to murder someone, although there were a couple of times when I felt like killing Fred for snoring. ‘It was Wilma Flintstone … in the cabin … with the pillow.’

its-not-you-its-your-snoring

Hey, have you ever faced down a murderous toad, put the run on a pair of thug moths or been applauded for a job well done by a partridge with attitude? Tell me your story. I can’t be the only one.

in this corner, weighing in at (none of your business) …. rocky!

Several months ago (okay, so it was Christmas 2015), Sauerkraut gave me this hoodie:

Notice the brand name across the chest? Stay with me. It’s important.

The only problem with the hoodie was that it was too small at the time and, being the mature adults that we are, we talked about exchanging it for a larger size. Then, reality set it. Returning it would mean driving back to the store in the big city where he bought it, over an hour’s drive away. It was winter. It was really cold. We didn’t want to lose a day driving to Ottawa. We had other things to do over the holidays. It was just a hoodie. Truth be told, we were just too friggin’ lazy to take it back.

So, into the closet it went because of someday. Someday it would fit. Someday I would lose the weight. Someday.

Fast forward to the other night. Someday had finally arrived. I had lost some weight after giving up sugary thingies since last September. I tucked the hoodie under my arm and hid in tried it on in the bathroom. If it didn’t fit, then right back into the closet that motherclucking hoodie would go. Sauerkraut would be none the wiser. If it did fit, then, winning.

Imagine my surprise when my anaconda-sized arms slithered into the hoodie’s sleeves. Miracles do happen! By this time, Sauerkraut was propped up in bed, engrossed in some article he was reading on his iPhone. I decided I was going to surprise him by modelling my mighty fine hoodie with my equally mighty fine cupcake pyjama bottoms right before his very eyes. Sexy visual, I know. Try to contain yourselves. I strutted my stuff across the bedroom floor like a Victoria Secret model killing the runway.

In my mind, I looked like this:

Model.gif

In reality, I was more like this:

model gif


Sauerkraut:
Well, look at you, rocking that hoodie.

Me: I know, right?

Sauerkraut: It looks good on you.

Me: Cute as a button is what I am. It’s still a little snug but at least I can wear it around the house now. I do have one question for you, though.

Sauerkraut:  Shoot.

Me: If I’m Rocky, does that mean you’re Bullwinkle?

Sauerkraut:

Bullwinkle WTF
W T F ?

Sauerkraut:  That. Is. Not. What. It. Means.

Me: Then, what does it mean?

Sauerkraut: It means that I am the hunter and you are the prey.

Me: I don’t think that’s what it means at all. I thinks it means exactly what I said. I’m Rocky and you’re Bullwinkle

Sauerkraut: Isn’t Bullwinkle a moose?

Me: Yes, and Rocky is a squirell. If I’m willing to be a flying squirrel, then you should be willing to be a moose. It’s called role playing, Sauerkraut. Wouldn’t you rather be known as a manly man bull moose than as a mean old hunter stalking a poor innocent squirrel, namely, me?

Sauerkraut: Isn’t Bullwinkle a bit of a dope?

Me: I’m not sure. I’ll search the Google……….. hmmmm, it says here that Bullwinkle is a dim-witted but good-natured moose.

Sauerkraut: I knew he was an idiot.

Me: But he’s a good-natured idiotYou are good-natured. See the connection?

Sauerkraut: Are you saying I’m dim-witted?

Me: Why must you always focus on the negative?

Sauerkraut: I’m not focusing on the negative. You’re saying I’m dim-witted by calling me Bullwinkle.

Me: You’re sooooo sensitive. I’m not saying that at all. You’re the one who started this.

Sauerkraut: Me? How the hell did I start this?

Me: You gave me the hoodie with the name Rocky embroidered on it, remember? If you didn’t want me to make the connection, then you shouldn’t have given me the hoodie.

Sauerkraut: For the love of God.

Me: I think you’re jealous.

Sauerkraut: Of what?

Me: That I’m a flying squirrel and you’re not.

Sauerkraut: I’m going to sleep now.

Me: Sure. Take the easy way out. You never want to face what’s really bothering you.

Sauerkraut: Do you even hear yourself?

Me: Why, yes, yes, I do. You’ve lost this one, Sauerkraut. I am Rocky, see me fly. You are Bullwinkle, good-natured for sure but really dim-witted at this particular moment.

Sauerkraut: zzzzzzzzzzzz

And, that, my friends, is how someone in this Cabbage Patch wins arguments (me) and how someone sleeps his problems away (not me).

Rocky Balboa
B-U-L-L-W-I-N-K-L-E-!!

Rocky: 1
Bullwinkle: 0

Today’s something new:  having the courage to strut my stuff like a Victoria Secret model. Eat your heart out, Heidi Klum.

the meme files

I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. As hard as I tried to stay out of my laptop’s meme file, the stress from watching the Toronto Maple Leafs’ versus the Washington Assholes Capitols playoff hockey game last night got the better of me. I needed a distraction and the meme file was sitting right there in front of me, like a beacon from a lighthouse calling me home. “Come to me, dear Linda, come to me. I’ll make you forget all about those mean old nasty Washington Assholes Capitols.”

And, right then and there, I was sucked back into the meme file.

That’s the thing about addiction, in periods of stress you get sucked back in. If only the Leafs would have won the hockey game, I wouldn’t have been sucked back in. See what I did there? I blamed the Leafs for my problem instead of taking responsibility it. Geez Louise, I need help.

Seeing as how we’re all here (you are still here, right?) I might as well share with you the memes I stumbled upon last night along with some more riveting facts about me because, you know, riveting (sarcasm intended).

Riveting Random Fact #11

Forget kindergarten. Every life lesson I have learned, I learned from being a life long fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs. Ups. Downs. Disappointment. Satisfaction. Wins. Losses. Hopes. Dreams. Cursing. Praying. Agony. Ecstasy. Meme addiction. You name it, I’ve learned it all from bleeding true blue.  ALL. THESE. FRIGGIN. YEARS.

Toronto Maple Leafs 8
This is so me. Bad language and all.

Riveting Random Fact #12

An orthodontist once told me that I would make a very good actress, not because I was being dramatic in the dental chair, but because I had such super strong facial muscles. He told me that I would be able to hold different facial expressions for long periods of time, a terrific asset for an actress. While I may not have become a world famous actress, I do act every day. At work, I can hold the “I’m really interested in your litany of complaints” look , all while I am imagining my hands around that person’s neck. True story.

hate when i gain weight
I’m still waiting to be discovered.

Riveting Random Fact #13

I have the best eyes for spotting wildlife from here to Timbuktu. Sauerkraut wants me to put this amazing gift towards a hunting licence so that I can be his official deer spotter during the annual hunt. This, of course, will never, ever happen because, well, Bambi. I mean, who can ever forget that single tear falling down Bambi’s face when the Great Prince of the Forest tells him that his mother can’t be with him anymore? I mean, really, Sauerkraut? Really?

When I see cows
The same goes for deer, sheep, alpacas, turkeys, and Canada geese because, if anything, I love diversity.

Riveting Random Fact #14

Donuts are my kryptonite. Even though I gave up sugary sweets eight months ago, nothing can bring me to my knees like looking through the glass display cabinet at Tim Horton’s. Apple fritters, chocolate dip, and old fashioned plain get me right in my achilles heel.

Jelly Filled Donut
Can you do any better?

Riveting Random Fact #15

I suck at replying to text messages, emails and Facebook messages because, you know, my mind.

Respond to texts in my head
Sorry. Not sorry.

 

Riveting Random Fact #16

I am a plant assassin. Seriously. Even though I descend from a long line of green thumbs, the gardening gene skipped me. Plants in my care always end up in plant heaven. I am a blight on the family name.

I kill plants.jpg
Something to add to my resume.

Riveting Random Fact #17

I freaking love colouring. Colouring helps keep me sane during bouts of depression, anxiety and painful MS flareups. I also colour when I am happy or when I just want to zone out (like when Sauerkraut is watching golf on the weekends). My favourite colouring book? Well, a swearing one, of course.

coloring like a boss meme2
 I am also a ‘stay inside the lines’ colouring bad ass.

Riveting Random Fact #18

I like to make lists. Whether I follow them, remember where I put them, or remember to take them with me is a whole other story. The main point is that I like to make lists.

Highlighters.jpg
It’s all about the illusion, people, all about the illusion.

Riveting Random Fact #19

I can put a positive spin on just about anything; case in point, this entire blog post. If you need to find the bright side of any situation, I’m your Pollyanna.

How to be skinny
You’re welcome.

Riveting Random Fact #20

I love puns. There’s nothing like eliciting a good groan and a eye roll from your significant other with a well played pun.

puns-puns-everywhere_o_3420217
It could end up being really ‘pun’gent.

 

That’s it, that’s all. I promise this will be my last riveting random fact, obsessive compulsive meme post because, quite frankly, I’ve run out of riveting random facts about me. I mean, I’m just not that interesting.

Besides that, I’m off to Tim Horton’s because, well, donuts.

Apple Fritter:  1
Sugar free diet:  0

Today’s something new:  I can make a post out of just about anything.


Dear Reader,

The intention of my last two posts about meme addiction is to provide a reprieve to you, my readers, from the busyness of your day. My intention is never to deliberately make fun of or make light of anyone living with addiction and/or mental illness. I know all too well the seriousness of both conditions as well as the devastation and harmful consequences that come from living with it and among it. Both alcoholism and mental illness runs rampant in my family and, to this this day, I deal with the effects of what I saw and lived with.

Writing for me, especially humorous writing, is my way of dealing with the pain of what I experienced in both my childhood and in my adulthood. Most importantly, it is my way of turning what was once a negative in my life into a positive. It is my hope that you read everything I write in this light. 

Linda

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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