Way back in November, around the time of my surgery, we opened our hearts and our home to a poor lost soul named Cassie who, at the time, was homeless in Vancouver (well, she lived in a garage but it was moldy and without heat).  Ben and I talked at length about whether we wanted to do this, I like my space and our mobile home (did I mention I’m trailer trash?) was already stretched to the limits, capacity wise.  But after a few days of careful consideration we decided that this was something we were supposed to do.  Cassie is an older lady with some serious health issues and we didn’t enjoy the thought of her sleeping in some moldy, cold garage. 

We made the arrangements to have friends drive Cassie from Vancouver to Kelowna and we rearranged the house so that she had her own sleeping area.  The day that Cassie was to arrive, we were anxious and excited.  Would she like us?  Would we like her?  Would our personalities get along?  The first meeting went rather smoothly; she seemed to like us and while she was a little “odd” looking we were quite smitten with her funny personality and easy going attitude.

We took her shopping and bought her some new clothes (including a darling pink jacket that looks quite smashing on her) and arranged for her medical issues to be taken care of by our favourite doctor.  We took her around town with us where, again, her odd looks but endearing personality made her quite popular with the locals.

Sure, she had a few odd quirks.  She coughed and spit like an old man with a bad case of emphysema, she could be stubborn, she was obsessed with food and sometimes her personality was a bit “bully-ish” but we were able to overlook those things.  We were doing a good thing!  We were helping out!

A few weeks later, I sat Ben down for a serious talk:

Me:  Honey, there’s something I need to say to you but I don’t know how to say it.

Ben:  Just go ahead and say it.

Me:  Well… it’s pretty bad and I don’t want to hurt your feelings.

Ben:  Meh, I’m pretty thick-skinned, you know that.

Me:  Are you sure?

Ben:  Positive.  Now what is it you -

Me:  You stink baby.

Ben:  I stink?

Me:  You stink.

Ben:  All the time?

Me:  Well no, not all the time

Ben:  I really haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.

Me:  Baby, you have a problem and we need to book you an appointment to see the doctor.  You cannot make that smell and be healthy.  There’s something wrong with you inside baby.  But don’t worry; I’ll stand by you no matter how badly the odor is.

Ben:  I do not have a flatulence problem.

Me:  Honey.  It’s time to stop the lies.  Last night when I was sitting beside you on the couch the smell was so, so…evil that my eyes started watering uncontrollably and I missed the final question on Jeopardy.  That smell wasn’t human.

Ben:  That smell wasn’t coming from you?  I thought it was coming from you.

Me:  Ha, ha.

Ben:  Well it wasn’t me, Cassie was sitting with us, maybe it was her.

Me:  No lady could make that smell darling.

Ben:  Dude, it wasn’t me.  It had to have been Cassie.

Me:  Really?

Ben:  Really, really.

Me:  My God.  What do we do now?

Ben:  Talk to her about it.

Me:  What?  You want me to just walk up to Cassie, that sweet old lady sharing our home, and tell her she has a flatulence problem?  Not a chance buster. 

Ben:  Then what do you propose?

Me:  I’m just going to keep a bottle of Febreeze by the couch.

Ben:  Nice.

Despite Ben’s protests, I wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t him until a few days later when it became terribly clear that the culprit was indeed, the sweet old lady Cassie.  It was a Friday night, Ben was at class and the dogs and I were sitting quietly in the living room, watching the last bit of Jeopardy.  A commercial came on and I muted the television, content to sit in the quiet with nothing but my thoughts while Cuda rested his big shaggy head on my knee.  Cassie was sitting off by herself, dozing a little as she often did in the evenings.  Suddenly, this terrifying, undeniably horrific smell reached out and smote me with the wrath of a vengeful god.  Cuda whined and bolted for the front door; I stood up retching and gagging and stared balefully at Cassie.  She looked back with a small apologetic grin and made her way to the kitchen for a drink.  Both Hannah and Cuda were whining to be let out and I plugged my nose against the terrible odour and made a mad dash for the front door.  The three of us pushed and shoved our way out the door and stayed in the freezing cold for 15 minutes, just breathing in the sweet, sweet air. 

From that moment on Cassie ceased to hide any of her rather unladylike behaviour.  Our new house guest farts, belches, snorts, snores, coughs and spits on a regular basis.  She eats loudly and messily.  She sleeps 19 hours a day.  She has skin problems and because of this, one often finds her scratching inappropriate places at inappropriate times.  Even worse - she has started to sexually harass any guests who visit our home, forcing unwanted physical contact upon them the minute their back is turned.

But what we can do?  We made a commitment to look after her and she has no place else to go.  You can’t turn an old lady out into the streets.  Besides, when she looks at you with her big sad brown eyes you can’t help but melt.  And she can be so friendly and charming when she wants to be.  

Tell me how anyone could kick this adorably odd-looking face out?  

January 16, 2007

Having been married for almost 3 years, I grow tired of being faithful.  I inform Ben that I am taking my list of celebrity boyfriends that is roughly the length of the kitchen table and narrowing it down to one in order to have the scandalous celebrity affair I've always dreamed of.  Ben seems relatively untroubled by the news.

But who to pick?  I scan the list, mentally rejecting candidates.  Brad?  Too many children.  Harrison?  Obviously much too fond of skinny women.  Alan?  He looks like an early riser to me.  Denzel?  His sensitive soul would be crushed under the weight of my sarcasm.  I begin to lose hope; obviously my chance at a celebrity relationship is doomed.  But after many hours of reflection and review, my destiny becomes clear.  He’s tall, dark and handsome.  He's Clive Owen.

Obviously we were meant to be together, I’ve seen all of his movies.  He’s tall (6’2”), I’m tall (5’10”), he has a delightful British accent; I can fake a delightful British accent.  He seems like the kind of guy who would fall for a girl with some meat on her bones plus he looks like he would be a good dancer.  I search the Internet, looking to confirm my confidence in his dancing ability.  Twenty-seven hours and 125,000 fan sites later and I’m feeling a wee bit discouraged.  Tragically not only have I not seen all of his movies but there are approximately eleventy hundred other women who all claim to be Clive Owen’s girlfriend.  They know his shoe size, his favourite brand of coffee and his parent’s first names.  

I am discouraged but not defeated.  First order of business – devise way to remove all other Clive Owen fans from the picture.  Second order of business – watch every single Clive Owen film so that I will appear witty and knowledgeable about him during our coffee date at the little café on the corner in Paris.

Ben tactfully suggests that my plot to arrange a cruise for the Clive Owen fans and then send the ship in the general direction of the Bermuda Triangle is not only a) expensive but b) highly impractical.  Curses.  

I have received Clive Owen’s personal email address thanks to his barber’s girlfriend’s, cousin’s babysitter.  I send a note off, declaring my undying affection for him and explaining my ability to fake a British accent so that I will blend in with him and his crowd.  Ask if I should start planning my trip to visit him now or if in a few months would be better.  His wife writes back, thanking me for such a nice note to Clive and ccomplimenting me on my ability to fake a British accent.  Right now doesn’t really work for them for a visit, would I like an autographed photo of Clive instead?  I email back – thanking her for the compliment and why yes, I would like an autographed photo.  Could he make it out to “My girlfriend Beth…”?

Drat.  Must now add phase 3 to the plan – find a new husband for Clive Owen’s wife.  I ask Ben how he feels about marrying someone with a British accent.  Fake British accent or real British accent he asks?  I don’t think he’s taking me seriously.