Crazy from the Heat: Next Time, I'll Take Two-Ply

While vacuuming, naturally I begin to think about three-ply toilet paper. Why three plies? Why do we need three layers to wipe off ... you know. That. And have you seen the Charmin commercials where Momma Bear is doing laundry and she discovers the skidmarks inside the undies and that is how she knows her baby bears need three-ply toilet paper? But then in the next frame, none of the bear children are WEARING any underwear, so what is the point of washing Baby Bear's skivvies if he doesn't really wear them? Are those underwear stolen? Are we witnessing a crime in progress? Or is Momma Bear doing her part to help with the mortgage and she's actually washing the underwear that belong to Goldilocks and her neglectful 9-to-5 parents and those undergarments really belong to the people for whom Momma Bear works, likely for a shit wage and no benes and no paid holidays? 

But -- wait -- if those ARE Baby Bear's underpants, if he doesn't really wear them and he's not good at cleaning his undercarriage, does that mean all the furniture in the house has been soiled and stained accordingly?

DO BEARS HAVE FURNITURE OR HIGH-EFFICIENCY WASHING MACHINES?

Tell me -- do you guys get this commercial in the US? Elsewhere? I can post the link to the French one if you want. Poop sounds so much cooler en Français.

As often happens when I'm vacuuming -- a mind-numbing chore I try very hard to avoid until the memory in my feet screams at me CLEAN THESE FLOORS BEFORE I REVOLT AND TAKE LEAVE OF YOUR ANKLES -- my brain, well, it short circuits a little. All that monotonous back and forth, the drawing of lines in the carpet, the watching while the other members of the household destroy those beautiful lines with their stinky, sticky feet ... Mommy likes the lines ... I vacuum the wee hallway connecting the tiny bathroom off the "master" bedroom (more like the bedroom that really wanted to be the master but had to settle for second mate or even the guy who has to mop the decks) and I see the package of Charmin that I bought because they were all out of the less expensive store brand, and I never buy three-ply because we have the worst plumbing in the world and my children still do not believe me when I say they don't need to use half a roll of toilet paper every time something other than liquid exits their bodies. (I am certified with a plunger. Like, journeyman-level certification here. The universal plumbers' alliance should just knight me, I'm that good.) 

ANYWAY, hummmmmmmm -- that's the vacuum -- it's still going, and I'm now drenched and I've got boob sweat, which is totally gross but would've been so much hotter 20 years ago when my ass was still hard enough to bounce nickels off and I didn't have all these weird hairs sprouting from -- never mind -- and I'm glad I didn't put on makeup because I'd be drinking it at this point, and it is SO EFFING HOT I want to die but not really because dying would suck, especially while vacuuming -- and it dawns on me that Charmin three-ply toilet paper is sold to us by bears who have washing machines and vacuums of their own ... and THAT is why I hate cartoons.

You're following along, aren't you. Aren't you?

I really do hate cartoons. Like, Looney Toons and Baby Looney Toons and Merrie Melodies and Hanna-Barbera and The Flintstones and Elmer Fudd (someone SHOOT him already) and that Tazmanian Devil and that obNOXious Yosemite Sam and that confounded Wile E. Coyote who never, ever gets the bird and the skin-peeling, eye-yanking, thumb-smashing terror of Scooby Doo.

Be very careful Googling this image. A picture of a poorly drawn Wile E. Coyote tattoo on some guy's very hairy ass pops up in Google Images. I cannot unsee that. The bleach just stings us, Precious.

But Jenn, you say. Cartoons were a part of our childhoods, you say. NOT MINE. They stressed me the hell out. How could Fred Flintstone possibly survive getting hit in the head that many times? And dinosaurs and people didn't LIVE in even remotely the same historical period! Duh! How could the Coyote survive the anvil on his skull and not have permanent neurological damage? He should have multiple metal plates and slurp his pureed protein-enriched dinner through a straw by now! How could Daffy Duck turn his beak around after it had been shot off by that mentally challenged man with a speech impediment and a loaded weapon? And who thought it was a good idea to give George Jetson's housekeeper artificial intelligence? I saw I, Robot. That shit scared the hell out of me. No robots in THIS house, even if they do vacuum.

Sunny says HI. (CREEPY!!!!)

Which -- of course -- leads me back to the conversation about the bears and their dirty butts. Bears probably have very dirty butts. In fact, I guarantee it. They also have very large paws, as evidenced by a blog post months ago wherein I provide photographic evidence of bear prints IN MY SNOWY YARD. Because I live in the Great White North and of course we have bears and beavers and moose and cougars and Santa SO STOP ASKING. (Okay, that is a partial falsehood. I have never seen a moose. They live farther north. Near Santa.)

I would not ordinarily buy Charmin toilet paper because their commercials stress me out, just like all those nasty little cartoons did when I was between the ages of three and eleven, after which time we got an Apple IIe on which I could write angsty poetry and cable television when MTV still played music videos about how video killed the radio star and how Madonna was still a virgin. Or wait. She wanted us to like a virgin. Or maybe she just wanted us to like her hair, which I totally did, and I totally dressed like her for Halloween one year. Nailed it.

What were we talking about?

Vacuuming. Poop. Cartoons. Stress. All of the above. My conclusion: Stop making commercials that use woodland creatures who not only don't care where they shit but who don't wear underwear EVER in their lives (although I'd pay to watch someone try to put a pair of boxer briefs on a full-grown American brown bear). Bears don't wear glasses. They don't read newspapers. They don't own HE washers or houses nicer than mine. (Way to make me feel like a winner, Charmin. Your stupid bears have nicer furniture than I do AND THEY'RE CARTOONS.) The way to this consumer mom's heart is not through an allegory of fuzzy bears with common sense and a knack for folding laundry. No. You're stressing me out. I can't buy your toilet paper anymore because BEARS DON'T DO LAUNDRY.

Honestly, if these advertisers were smart, they'd put Henry Cavill on every single package of toilet paper. End of story. Because even Superman has to wipe his butt. Right? If he needs help with that, I've been a mom and an editor for a looooooong time. I'm good with wiping butts.

Doesn't look like Superman wears undies, ladies ...

Saturday chores are only four days away. I'll let you know if any stunning revelations occur while I'm again drawing those fated lines in the few patches of carpet left in the house.

Xs and Os ...

Does a Bear Sh*t in the Woods? Not If He Can Use My Yard ...

Suffice it to say, when you move to Canada, you're in for some nature. Even city dwellers in urban Vancouver and way east over in Toronto will share their tales of urban wildlife--hawks, owls, raccoons, coyotes, and yes ... bears. I live in a suburb of Vancouver (about 35 km outside the city), close enough to make jaunts downtown not too painful but far enough away that I don't have to deal with, well, Vancouver. I'm a homebody. Too much traffic, too many people -- makes Mommy nutty. Granted, comparatively speaking, we still have an impressive population -- almost 216,000 in just the Tri-Cities area (Port Moody-Coquitlam-Port Coquitlam), enough that traffic is becoming a bigger issue every year, as is lack of infrastructure (schools, fire houses, grocery stores) and so many stupid drivers. Did I mention that I hate stupid drivers? Those, we have many.

But we live close to the woods and huge stretches of as-yet undeveloped land (sadly, I don't know how much longer I will be able to say that because of the gross greed of zealous developers). The Coquitlam River is walking distance from my house and is fed by a glacier over those mountains (I'm pointing -- just look north). Funnily enough, folks assume that because I live in the Great White North, we get tons of snow. Not true. Not around here, at least. Our weather is similar to that you'd find in Seattle or even Portland. So when it snows, it's an event. Folks forget how to drive (and get stupider than usual). Kids want to skip school to make snowmen. We sled. (Although around these parts, they call it "tobogganing." And winter hats are called "toques.") We drink cocoa and warm our hands over heat vents after a raucous snowball fight in the yard where at least one child (ahem*Kendon*ahem) will get nailed in the face by a tightly packed ball of white wintery delight.

Each year, we are typically satisfied with our assumptions that the creatures are denning in preparation for the Long Dark as the clouds are impenetrable most days. Sun? What sun? And of course, we think our walks along the river paths will be safer because the bears are finally asleep.

Or so we thought.

This morning, I looked out the bedroom window to the snowy yard below, hoping the neighbors wouldn't see my uber-frightening morning face/hair/penguin pajama ensemble, and I saw these:

First thought: "Damn, that was a big damn dog that traipsed through the yard uninvited. I hope he didn't poop."

Second thought: "Wait -- if that was a dog, then where are the dog's owner's footprints?"

Third thought: "That dog has a really bizarre walking pattern."

Best thought: "Holy shit, those are BEAR TRACKS!"

You can even see the imprint of his rather large claws in these images. Trust me when I say that these flat, full prints are about 7" long. THAT is a big bear. And he is very much not sleeping.

It's sort of dark so that I can show you the contrast of the pads of his feet and the nails.

Husband thought I was being silly. Until he too looked and saw that, though I've been known to have Random Moments of Crazy, this was not one of them. I posted a few shots on Facebook and was validated by folks who've lived here longer than I have -- indeed, these are bear tracks, made in the pristine snow just outside my bedroom window.

Good thing I've stopped sleeping with fresh cookies on my nightstand, or we could've been in real trouble. A few months ago, a bear broke into a car to get the remnants of a ginger-molasses cookie left on the passenger seat. #truth #gingermolassescookiesareyummy

The tracks lead to the neighbor's garbage cans in their carport and then disappear (the neighbors shoveled away their driveway snow like good humans are supposed to).

This probably makes me a big fat dork that I am so impressed by these bear tracks, but more than that, I'm sad for the bear that he's not yet hibernating, that he feels he needs to dig through the garbage because he doesn't yet have a full belly. Wherever he ended up last night, I hope he was warm. And I wished he would've knocked on the window so I could've seen his pretty face and given him a hug.

Okay, FINE, I know I can't hug a bear. But if we could have Fantasy Day during which we could hug all the animals who would otherwise rip our faces off with a single swipe of an outstretched paw or a chomp of the well-toothed jaw, add lion, tiger, honey badger, wolverine, and Smaug the Dragon to my list.

Happy Christmas or December 25 or Winter Solstice or whatever you celebrate, if you do. (If you follow a religion that does not celebrate a winter fest, then, um, yeah ... whatever floats your boat. Just means more marshmallows for us, so thanks.) I will be wearing fat pants and, barring any unforeseen natural disasters or acts of God, not leaving the house. Unless that bear shows up again and then I might follow him ... you know, for a hug.

Xs and Os ...

Postscript: The likely culprit here is a black bear, Ursus americanus. This photo is from Spirit Bear Lodge's website and is not at all mine. Just so you know which bear we're talking about ...

http://www.spiritbear.com/site/wildlife/black_bears.html