How to survive a bear spray attack

I LOVE spray painting shit. LOVE. IT. If I am reading any kind of home improvement or decorating do-it-yourself article, or like a life hack tip and it involves spray paint – shit is getting painted. TooooDaaaay.

We have more shit that has been spray painted per square foot in our house than any other house in Canada. Just ask Anders. He can tell you all about my spray painted garden gnome Oskar (I agree - garden gnomes are a train wreck in normal situations but a soon as you give them a solid coat of, in my case deep red, those fuckers are CUTE!). My greyhound Buzz (painted deep green – so fucking sassy!), my fairy-tale looking tree stump (painted white – I know when will the sassy end right?) and a bunch of other random odds and ends. 

Anyway – the one project Anders is actually supportive of is my annual spring spray painting of our deck furniture. And this is only because a) it saves him money, and b) it saves him from having to go shopping with me. 

So anyway – off I head to Home Depot to get my annual five cans of satin finish black Tremclad and wire brush/scraper. This is when I notice that the Home Depot in Campbell River doesn’t quite have the same selection of spray paint as the Home Depot on Calgary. All they have is Tremclad matte black. Who the fuck wants a deck set that looks like a chalk board? NEXT! So then I spy another brand in gloss. Oh damn – shit is about to get shiny! 

Flash forward three hours. Scraping is done, brushing complete and I am super jazzed and ready to paint.

Now, I know I am not going to be getting an invite to Mensa anytime soon, but I am also pretty sure that Anders hasn’t had to hire me a handler yet either. That all being said - damned if I can work a fucking spray can. 

I had the Tremclad all worked out. There were no bells or whistles but it was solid and together we got shit done. Then along comes fancy-ass Krylon with it’s weird spray nozzle lever thing. After checking it out and making a specific mental note that you push on the back of the lever - I turned to the freshly prepped table and sprayed my finger, shirt and neck. 

Simple right? Look at the table just
mocking me in the background.

Son of a bitch! What the fuck is wrong with this thing? Go in for a closer look, confirm the whole lever nozzle thing and then SPRAY MYSELF IN THE FACE AGAIN.

My face and shirt were worse,
but I think this gives you the jist.

That is a special kind of something right there. Third time was the charm and I did manage to get the set painted, but it got me thinking about how bad I am at spray cans.

In the early 1990s I was out for a hike with my mom and our two dogs. We decided it would be a good idea to test out how to use our bear spray so that in case the real thing happened and we stumbled across a bear, we would be ready. 

I was up first. I checked the wind direction and made sure the dogs and mom were well upwind of me. I chose a target (a big tree like 15 feet from me) and then studied the can and read the instructions. It was one of those pull the pin, then aim and pull the trigger deals – so I am thinking how can you fuck this up? Your finger only goes in a trigger one way right? 

WRONG.

I pulled that trigger and basically napalmed myself. It was this thick, red foam and it felt like I had about 1,000 angry bees twerking on my face, neck, chest and forearms. 

I screamed at my mom to run – and let me tell you - Eva did not hesitate. I think she may have been running before I even said anything as when I squinted in her direction, all I saw was her and the two dogs hauling ass down the trail towards home.  

Do you know what is stronger than a mother’s love? Fucking bear spray.

And man’s best friend? Yeah all that is fine and dandy until shit takes a hard left then apparently is it every man for his fucking self.  I didn’t see the dogs again until the next day. Assholes. 

My mom finally did stop and shout back at me something along the lines of, “You okay honey?”.

I did the zombie lurch all the home as I didn’t want to spread that shit any further and walking while holding my upper body still seemed to be the only option. 

Anyway – all this leads me to a life hack of my own which I am happy to be able to share.

If/when you are ever bear sprayed (which if you hike with me, lets be honest, that shit is probably going to happen) or pepper sprayed (which if you drink with me, may happen), you are going to think the best way to soothe the pain is to soak the burning skin in water. WRONG! Rookie move! When I got home I filled both kitchen sinks with water and put my face in and out of one side while dunking my forearms in the other side. After a while, I noticed that my chest, which wasn’t in water, was no longer burning but my face and arms still felt like I was wearing a matching hat and dinner glove set made of really pissed off bees. 

So lesson learned – when/if you get bear or pepper sprayed, you just have to fucking nut up, wash it off the best you can and wait for the pain to end. Or read the instructions on the can.

This is what high looks like

Just in case you forgot how awesome we all looked at house parties in the 90s - this is pretty much it. Us Cranbrook folks just had bigger hair and were sporting MC Hammer pants from Au Cotton. 

Poor Rusty. Bet he regrets not flossing.

The poor little bugger. He had David Caruso along with three of David's friends pulled today and is now at home recuperating. I did ask if I could take David and his friends home in a jar but the vet was not amused so unfortunately, I will not be including any bromance photos of Rusty and David. I do keep singing "because I got high" over and over again - which I think is wearing thin with the audience. I may have to switch it up.


In other news, apparently his mouth is so rotten he needs like another 13 teeth pulled on top of the four he lost today, and the eight he had pulled three years ago. So, at the end of all of this the poor bastard will be down to 17 teeth. How the hell is a dog supposed to eat with 17 random teeth dotted around their mouths? I am thinking I could be sitting on a gold mine - dog dentures. Stand by for prototype.

PJs at noon aren’t normal and other good advice

I think the kids and I are officially on Island time – or just total lazy asshole time. They are probably different but Island time sounds quaint and not like you are just a total sad sack eating cereal off the ledge your boobs create when you hunch down to watch Netflix in your PJs at 1:00 in the afternoon while your kids run around on their way to becoming totally feral.

 

Our days used to be all about action and getting things done. Alarm at 5 a.m./get up/get showered and dressed/get the kids up and ready/get to work and school/get shit done at said job and school/get in the car to get the kids/get groceries/get dinner/get the dogs out for a walk/get to various sport practices/get the kids in the shower/get some cleaning done/make lunches/get my ass to bed.

 

And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Bleecchh.

 

The first few days here, we were still pretty geared up and wired for action. We were up by 7, ready by 8 and looking for adventure and shit to do by 9. 

 

But then a funny thing happened. Aside from going to the beach daily , hitting some indoor pools here and there and doing all the local touristy type stuff, we started to notice there is kind of fuck all to do here really. And once you go to the ocean like 17 days in row, you are kind of just like, “Meeeh – I kind of feel like I have the jist of the daily action down here. I’m good. What else is there to do?”

 

So, knowing we have limited activities to fill the summer, our days have gotten a lot more chill. Like I am still in my PJs at 12:30 – p.m. (not a.m.) kind of chill. 

 

A few days ago – on garbage and recycling day - I saw the garbage truck pull away from our curb so I headed out like a responsible neighbor to bring the cans in. I should add I did this in my PJs with crazy ass bed hair. And it was early afternoon. And my PJs are not what you would call pretty. I have been known to paint in them, clean with bleach in them, shrink them in the dryer, catch them on shit and rip them – and still keep them in my nightly rotation. So picture that vision stomping up the driveway to get her garbage cans. 

 

My neighbor got to see it. And I actually waved and started to go towards her like we could strike up a conversation. Forgetting that I looked – for all intents and purposes – like an escaped mental patient. It was a pretty awkward and short conversation during which she worked really hard to not let her eyes drop below my neck.

 

The conversation did however make me rethink some of my recent life choices, and ponder on whether living basically a feral lifestyle with no awareness of time was my best option. Knowing this – I have set some new goals for myself for the week.  

1. Netflix until midnight = bad.
2. Not showering because there is a pretty good chance you did this morning, but your memory is a bit hazy as the days are blending into an endless string of Netflix and dog walking = bad.
3. PJs past 9am = bad.
4. Not shaving your legs for like 10 days in a row (and still going to the beach) = bad.
5. Eating anything while resting the plate or bowl on your boobs = bad.
6. Feeding the kids breakfast cereal for all meals = bad.
7. Smelling anything before deciding if it is okay to wear = bad.
8. Leaving your front door – unless shit is seriously on fire or someone is losing blood – in your PJs = bad. 

Stay tuned, hoping to turn back into a semi-functional human by the end of July. Headed out to by some razors and a fucking newspaper. Fingers crossed!

The tale of five houses and how I almost (accidentally) killed Rusty …again

We have been house shopping in Campbell River on and off for almost two years and we have bought exactly zero houses. Our friends have bought houses. My one friend and her partner have actually bought three properties. I should also mention that over this period, we have also been dumped by two realtors. Yeah – apparently that is a thing. Apparently we have made not one, but two realtors so frazzled and pissed off that they were like “Fuck it – you fucking Jonsson’s (pun intended) are making me so insane you can take your commission and shove it up your ass.” 

I don’t even know how it happened as I was thinking we were a pretty nice and laid back family, but that being said, most assholes I have ever met have thought they were nice people too. Man – realizing you may be an actual asshole is a jagged little pill to swallow. 

But then along came Lynda. And she hung with us through some weird shit. We had one seller come back on us with her own subject - subject to her finding a house to buy. I didn't know real estate worked that way. I thought you put your house on the market, took an agreed upon amount of money and then got the fuck out. Guess not always. And we also had some tough negotiations where I can admit I probably did act like an asshole. But damn – Lynda stayed strong and as of like 30 minutes ago, we finally bought a house. Sweet baby Jesus and all the fucking disciples. We did it Lynda! We did it! 

Possession on August 5^th – deck party on Aug 6th. At which we can try out the roulette drinking game my friend and I bought at a garage sale last weekend. Yes you read that right. My friend and I went garage saleing. You can judge me all you want but do you have a brand new, never opened roulette wheel drinking game that you got for $3? Yeah – I didn’t think so!  (I need a job.) 

Which brings me to topic number two – how I almost killed Rusty. 

Ever since I have had Rusty, (aka Reno, Rusta-Reno, Krinkles, Krinklenator, The Krinks, Stinkachino, Stinks and Fuzzbutt) one of the first question people usually ask is along the lines of what is that and my usual response is, “Yeah – good question. I am thinking dog for sure. And maybe some feral cat? A Faggle Rock maybe? Possibly some Falcor (flying dragon from NeverEnding Story). Meerkat may be an option, and I am also pretty confident there is some possum somewhere in there.”

But now – with the miracle of modern science - we will officially know in less than a week just exactly what makes up the fuzzy little weirdo.  

We ordered two of those DNA my dog kits to test both Rusty and his sidekick Nina. We went in to this super excited and thinking this was going to be like a hair, blood, urine collection super sciencey thing. Like CSI Miami style with the clear computer touch screen everywhere and Anders turning to me and dropping his shades and slamming out something super awesome and David Caruso-ish like, “All this science is making me dog tired.” 

Not so much. We opened the kit and were both like what the fuck? The kit contained a (not even glossy – like some asshole printed it off his Dell InkJet 5100 in his basement) brochure and a couple “sterile wrapped” Q-tips. And I use sterile wrapped very loosely. 

We swallowed our disappointment, turned off The Who and plowed on following the instructions to the letter. We took the Q-tips and rubbed them around on their gums and inner cheeks for 20 seconds each to grab some cells, then slipped them into the provided (paper, not even a ziploc - again – WTF!) envelope and mailed them back for testing. 


The next day when Rusty woke up I was like, “Whoa Rusty – get your shit together man – you look like hell! Your weird third frog eyelid is all stuck up on your eye and you look kind of like a dog needing to be put down due to rabies. I just read an article about a rabies riddled hitchhiking raccoon in Ontario. Don't play with me Reno - I wont hesitate to put your diseased ass down.”

Mr. Rabies. Yikes.

As the day went on – the crazy rabies eye kept getting worse. And then I noticed his face was swelling as well so I packed Mr. Rabies up and off we went to the vet.

Turns out that he has a massive root abscess infection that broke through the bone and up into his eye cavity. Next stop if not caught would have been the brain followed by Rusty croaking. Due to timing – I think my overly enthusiastic cheek swabbing while humming the CSI theme song may be to blame. The vet says it was probably a rogue kibble but my money is on the God damn Q-tip and David Caruso.

The poor bugger is now resting comfortably with a shit-tonne of pain killers racing through his veins along with some serious antibiotics. He goes in next week to have the bad tooth – nicknamed David Caruso - pulled and will hopefully be good as new. I will post a pic of Rusty and David next week.