The busyness of living has worn me thin like tissue. I’ve wanted to run, fly, somehow, leave it behind.

No. There is too much here, in this life. There is so much that makes my heart skip a beat. So much that makes me want to stand still and listen. Watch. So much that makes me want to be here. With you. All of you.

I can do this. So can you.

Sometimes all we have to do in this life is show up, be present, and allow the magic to unfold. ~ Unknown.

p.s. Thank you, Jenny, for sending me this beautiful dress. www.thebloggess.com. If you know the story of the Red Dress, you will know it has to travel. Please email me at lgmoffat@gmail.com. I’m in western Canada and hope to get this going here.

Love to you.

Oh, sister. I share your pain. This past week has been as bad as any since I started, which is 31 years ago next month. Did you read that? 31 fucking years ago!!!!!!

The inner workings of my ovaries and uterus have caused great grief since I was 12. I’m not just talking about personal grief. Oh no. That would be too easy. It is grief that has blanketed all who are in my life with confusion and fear. I have even had co-workers and bosses mark on their calendars when the insanity and stupidity of my pms would be arriving.

“Shit! What’s the date? Oh, christ. She’s messy!” Yes folks, I even taught them my shorthand for pms. It’s messy. I’m messy. Emotionally and physically. Don’t look at me!!! Waaaahhhh…

It’s been so bad that I have had people in my life walk up to me a week before my period starts and hand me a new box of Pamparin, with the words “I know you don’t know when your cycle starts, Leanne, but I do. Your gonna need this in 2 days. Oh and go buy yourself some pads.”

Shit. you. not.

(As a quick aside, guys? You know the whole Brazilian wax thinga-ma-boober going on down there? Not for esthetic purposes. It’s because no matter how careful you are as a woman wearing a sanitary necessity, you will inevitably get a couple of pubes ripped out by sticky tape. And that fucking hurts.)(I can hear several million women on the cotton pony now, yelping “Sonofabitch! ImagettinaBraziliantomorrow!)

This time around has been incredibly horrendous. I feel like I’ve been attacked by a Period Ninja. Kidney punch – KEEYAH!!!! Tailbone kick – HYAAH!!!! Speed bag boobs -HUMBANAHUMBANAHUMABANA!!!!!

Now, last spring I got sick. of. it. And like a good little girl, I trotted myself of to the health food store and got on some stuff recommended to me by my dear friend Karen of www.karensomethingorother.com. I believe ‘effortless periods’ was one of the phrases on the bottle. Sounded good, as I am really lazy. I took those and some other stuff and the universe and god smiled on my crippled hormonal bitch self and all was good. Until a month ago. When I ran out. And the stupid sales girl in the stupid health store said stupidly “Oh this is just as good. It actually will help you detox ‘bad’ hormones.” Bad hormones? Huh. They really educate you fucking people don’t they?

Anyhoo, I took the stuff. For 3 weeks. And after last week and 3 ninja cramp days, today I got pissed off.

Like a crack whore in withdrawal, I went back to that store, looking for “the good stuff”. There was me, pale, shaking, sweating, with a migraine flirting at my temples and my gunt bloated up 2 sizes, looking for relief. As I read the bottles, a lady sidled up next to me. We silently read the bottles and then I saw what the missing ingredient was. “Green tea! Look this one has green tea extract! This one doesn’t. That’s why this shit doesn’t fucking work! Just like everything else in my life, get me?”

She didn’t even smile sympathetically. She just sort of nodded and moved away. Maybe I was loud. Probably. I certainly got through the checkout quickly.

Then I went shopping. Which I should NEVER do when I’m messy. I buy the most ridiculous things right before my period and a few days later when the fog has lifted, I find myself wondering why I bought red skin-tight jeans with red tassels running down the side. Yet today, I found the exact perfect thing.

Yes. Today, yes.

Small issue. My 7-year-old is reading phonetically. He stared at this for a long time, sounding out the cuss word. Later on he said, “I feel like she’s watching me. No matter where I move, her eyes follow me.”

They do, son. They do.

Last week, I had the start of my Red Dress Moment, and I had several thousand people visit my humble little place here. Quite frankly, it scared the shit out of me! All of a sudden, I felt like everyone was looking at me. And all I wanted to do was turtle.

It’s not that I don’t feel oh-so-honoured. (Thank you, Jenny!) I do. I’m glad you stopped by. (Oh hey, to whoever accidentally lit this place on fire? You can’t smoke in here!) But I’ve put this pressure on myself to do right by everyone watching and reading me. Which is ridiculous.

I am just me. This blog is a lot of satire, just to make you laugh. Because I love that feeling, making someone laugh. It breaks the tension, eases people. And if you have gas, a big hearty guffaw covers the sound of a big banging fart. (Yes, feel free. Break wind around me. Everyone else fucking does.) This is also my place to be very serious. With the only hope that maybe I can touch someone’s heart, just a little. You will definitely know the difference. I categorize things as Ducky (fun, good) and Not Ducky (shit that bothers me, or means something). Which also leads me to my blog name. (See the segue there? My god, I’m brilliant!)

I chose One Odd Duck because that’s how I’ve always felt. Different. Not quite the same as everyone else. But I’ve realized that this duck? Maybe not so odd. Methinks there are a ton of folks who think and go through all the same things I do. And that makes me feel less alone. Less odd. A bit more Ducky. So I thank you for reading me. For being here. Cheering me on.

A friend of mine tagged me in a meme today. Erin at www.myweeklyjoy.com. (Actually, I’ve been tagged in a couple of others that I’ll get to this week as well. Wink.) I thunk to myself  ”Self, what better way to start writing again?” So anxiety be damned! I’m back on the horse! (And off the wagon!) YeeHaw!

This meme is called Eleven Things.

First off, 11 Random Things About Me.

1. Wait. My left foot is super itchy. Okay, better.

2. I sometimes have trouble focusing.

3. I wear a robe as a sweater at home. If you are a really good friend of mine, I will wear it to your house. And you will start feeling comfortable enough to start wearing yours in front of me.

4. I’ve become a much better friend as I get older. I fuss over my friends. To the point where I have heard the words “For Chrissake, will you quit it! My bowels are fine!” I guess I really value them. If you are my friend, I will show up at your house with a gun and a spade, no questions asked.

5. My heritage is Scottish and Dutch. That means I really like to drink, but I don’t want to pay for it!

6. My kid is the best thing that ever happened to me. I look forward to every day because of him. He keeps me here, in this life, when my anxiety and depression are so overwhelming that I just want to go. He knows how much he means to me. He also knows that it is not his fault.

7. I almost brought a Bum home today. Well, I don’t know if he was a Bum, but he asked me for money for a loaf of bread and he looked dirty and tired. Was about 50 years old or so. I seriously thought about it because I hate seeing anyone or thing down on their luck. Then the little voice in my head said “You have a child. What if he is a pedophile?” And I hate that we as a society have to think that way. I didn’t bring him home. But I did give him money.

8. I just want everyone to be happy and safe. I know that’s not possible, but it’s what I wish.

9. I worked in health care for years, in all different areas. I was good at it, but I burnt out and started to hate it. I thinks it’s important to know that about yourself and quit when you need to.

10. I would marry my husband all over again. He is my mate. He surprises me all the time. He “accidentally” throws things at me. Like every time we fish, he’ll take an ugly slimy thing off the line to throw back, and it will come flying at my face. I think it’s deliberate. He says not. Sometimes I want to kill him, but I think that’s par for the course.

11. I’m a book-a-holic. I own too many books. I’m very learned on a wide variety of shit that doesn’t matter.

Okay! So, now comes the part where I respond to 11 questions Erin laid out.

(This is long! I’m tired. You probably are too. Go have a nap and come back later. I’ll wait.)

*whistling* *picking nails* I wonder if I can Yodel? *yodeling*

Hey! You’re back! Did you know I could yodel?

1. What’s the last song that made you want to dance? Metallica-Whiskey In A Jar.

2.  Favorite shoes you ever had? In my punk days, I had a pair of kitten heeled zip up boots that were ankle height and had three skull buckles to fasten the across the top of my foot. I bought them second-hand for cheap. I loved them. My mother threw them out 15 years ago. I am still mad.

3. What movie most resembles your life? Hmm. A tie between Steel Magnolias and Fight Club.

4. What is your passion in life? This. Several other things. I’d like to get good at them all.

5. What’s the first thing you would buy for yourself if you won millions of dollars. Perky boobs. Then I’d build a beautiful retirement home for disabled people with the best staff on the face of the planet. Then some Botox.

6. Favorite person in the world? My son. Then the Dalai Lama. I’d like to give that crazy old man a hug.

7.  Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty. I loves me some good snoozing. If napping was a sport, I’d go for the gold.

8. Favorite outdoor activity? I like doing yoga outside on my grass. It makes me feel like a kid because I get a great upside down perspective on the horizon. And I get to lay down at the end. Maybe have a nap.

9. Person who shaped your life the most? Pema Chodron. Dorothy Parker. Cher. Mostly Cher. This is hard, Erin!

10. What does your dream house look like? Exactly the one I have now. As long as the same people are in it.

11. What is your perfect date night? Date night? Wha- Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!! What is that? (Actually, me and hubby are going to a Full Frontal Nerdity expo in April. Date night? Date weekend! Hello! Did I mention the whole cast of Star Trek: Next Generation will be there? I’m taking Will Wheaton cookies and Flonase. His sinuses are bad. And I’d like to bake for him. Does anyone know if he has a peanut allergy? I don’t want to kill him.)

So, now it’s my turn to make up 11 questions to be answered.

1. If you could turn water into wine, would you share with your friends? And what’s your address?

2. If you had to be on a deserted island for an extended period with just your spouse, would you consider eating him/her?

3. Do you own a cat? (If not, I’ve got one for you.)

4. Are you ready for the zombie apocalypse?

5. Can you explain why my neighbour’s horses and dogs end up finding my yard to crap in? I’d really like to know.

6. Where were you on the 17th of November at 11:32 p.m? (Your wife wanted me to ask you.)

7. Why is my left foot so itchy?

8. Disco or Death Metal?

9. If Gretzky and Jesus were playing street hockey, who do you think would stop for a beer first?

10. What makes you snort laugh?

11. If I invited you for drinks and target practice this weekend, would you come?

Wow! That was hard. I feel a bit like a cop.

The rules for this meme are that I have to go tag 11 bloggers to do the same. I will, but I’ll just warn you all – you will not see me coming. I move like the wind and I fit in small closets so you won’t be able to get away. To anyone else that wants to respond to these, have at it! Comments are open for everybody and I’d love to see how you answer!

Well, I think I’m getting over my anxiety. Thanks Erin. (You should go read her. She’s pretty sweet.)

So tricky sometimes.

I’ve been feeling so awful lately. About myself. January. Winter. Life.

Chug/groan,chug/groan,chug/groan. Hear it? Sounds like the noise anti-lock brakes make on an icy road. To me, it’s the sound of my depression creeping up. I can hear it. Doing everything I can to keep it at bay. But the snapping of its jaws, its hot breath, I feel it on the back of my neck.

Doing everything I can.

Today? Well, I have this blog hero. An inspiration. Someone that without her even knowing kept me from slipping into the abyss for the last couple of years. Jenny over at www.TheBloggess.com. She has made me laugh, cry, feel good about life when there isn’t much else that can do it.

She has her battles. But she gets very creative about her sorrow. A while ago, she did this. www.thebloggess.com/2010/05/the-traveling-red-dress

How awesome is that? Then she did this: www.thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-traveling-red-dress-revisited

The Traveling Red Dress took on a life of its own. It started traveling around the U.S., touching women, making them feel pretty and special. What an idea.

Today, in the midst of  my gloom I started to look for a dress. A cheap lovely dress. I know a few women that could use it, just to forget real life for one day. To be a princess, a prom queen for one day. To leave it all behind and just be glamorous. I couldn’t find one that wasn’t horribly overpriced or too small. I started to get down, but then, this happened. http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Traveling-Red-Dress/150889871693313

I ‘won’ it! I won the red dress!!!!! I get to share this magic!!!! I burst into tears. But, I tell you, this Canadian Red Dress will be matched with one I will purchase on my own. Because I want women out there to feel alive and special and lovely and silly and fun and happy. Just like I’ll get to be for a couple of days. How I feel is indescribable. It may seem strange, but there is power and love in an unknown sisterhood. There is magic in this.

Thank you Jenny, for starting this all. Thank you for making me laugh, keeping me going. You really have no idea what you mean. Some things can’t ever be paid back. But they can be paid forward.

Yes, there will be photos. Yes, the dress will go forward. Yes.

With a little bit more magic in it.

A while back, I wrote about my Uncle Brad. http://onlyoddduck.wordpress.com/Brad If you’ll remember, he has cognitive impairments, autistic symptoms, hearing loss, and now is going blind. I saw him briefly at Christmas. This is his story, in honour of him. This is also a cautionary tale and a call to arms for anyone with a loved one who may be differently- abled.

My grandmother did the best she could for Brad. There wasn’t the knowledge and expertise that there is now, 30 years ago. She moved off of her beloved farm into the city, just to get Brad a bit more help. As I’ve said before, he never was given a concrete or specific diagnosis. I recall once, when he was in his teens, a diagnosis of “Emotionally Disturbed”. To me that smacks of Autism, yet also makes no sense. Like I said, we’ve learned a lot.

He lived with his mom, went to school until the age of 21. He had a job at a recycling depot. He was functional. He wasn’t “one of them”. I think my grandma’s mortification possibly prevented him from getting more assistance and training in life skills. But I don’t begrudge her anything. She did the best she could with the knowledge she had at the time. Plus, he could be so “normal”. He was just Brad.

Then she died. He was 33. He’d never lived on his own and had only ever had his family for support. What now?

He tried to live on his own with my mom and dad for support. I’d help when I could, but I lived in another city an hour and a half away. I remember, he would obsessively clean the house after work. It was as if he thought if the house was clean, he’d be seen as capable and could stay there. Yet he’d wash a dish and turn the faucet on all the way to hot, so hard, he would have to phone my folks to drive over and turn it off. Once I found him trying to clean something off of a table top with a screwdriver. Brad also couldn’t sleep through the night. His OCD would have him getting up at all hours, to check that the door was locked.

It finally came to a point that he needed to live in a group home, for his own safety. The town where he lives found him a spot in a new supported living group home. The operator of this home had no qualifications or training, however she had a daughter who was schizophrenic. Apparently this qualified her to get money from the government and have 4 extra disabled folks living in her house. Now, here’s the interesting thing.

Did you know that if you have a mentally disabled person living in your house, you get less money than if you have a mentally ill person living in your house? Yeah, me either.

Brad has always told himself jokes. He’s always talked a bit under his breath to himself. It’s part of who he is. I tell myself jokes all the time. I talk to myself all the time. But because of this woman’s ‘expertise’ in mental illness, she decided to convince a psychiatrist that Brad was delusional and having auditory and visual hallucinations. That he was potentially dangerous. Just like that, he went from being disabled to being a mental health patient.

And his group home operator? She got herself an extra $700 dollars a month. He was put on pills. Lots of them. In the psychiatric industry, we call them chemical restraints.

He was drugged when I’d go to pick him up. To the point of bladder and bowel control problems. He was dirty. His clothes were filthy. As I was working in mental health at the time, I about lost my mind. He moved. As fast as we could do it. As an aside, that lady? She ran her home unimpeded until she left town several years later.

In the last 10 years, Brad hasn’t been unmedicated. I believe he is still under the psychiatric umbrella. He now lives in a group home that is very well staffed, clean and comfortable. He’s well liked and well looked after. He is a different man than a decade ago, but for all intents and purposes, he is happy. He still tells himself jokes. But the people who care for him make him speak up so that they can hear.

The point of all this? When I saw him at christmas, I realized that he is aging far more rapidly than you and I. He will need more care than can be provided to him, sooner rather than later. All that is available where he lives are regular long-term care facilities. I’ve worked in them. It will be absolutely the wrong place for him. Trust me when I say the chemical restraints will just get tighter. A drugged, bedridden patient is much easier to care for than one like Brad.

My folks are aging. He lived with them as long as he could. They haven’t the stamina to have him back. Their health should be their priority. Rightly so.

It falls to me. To that end, a couple of years ago I started phoning around to see what steps I needed to take. I was told by a lovely lady who has made this her life’s work that it was going to be an uphill and unhappy battle. As she put it, “In this country, one province does not want another province’s retarded people”. She told me that I would probably not be able to get funding for him here and that to the powers that be, it was my problem, not theirs. She also told me to never move him into my home, because I would never be able to get him out. Meaning, if this government knew he was here, they would move at a snail’s pace to keep him here. Not their problem, right?

I’m not sure what will happen in the future. My husband and I have discussed it. We both understand that having my Brad rotting in an old folks home 5 hours away would be unthinkable. My mother knows it, too. She also knows that when she passes, I will be his voice.

Here’s my voice. We must remember that above all, anyone with a disability or disorder is not less human than we are. They are to be accorded the same dignity and treatment without question. We must realize that family, who are most often advocates for those that can’t speak for themselves, will pass on. As a human society, we must protect these folks in their age, as we would want to be protected. We must demand that there are facilities for the aged that are specifically designed for people who are mentally disabled. Psychiatric hospitals are not the answer.

I’m so tired of knowing of people who’ve slipped through the cracks. I’m so tired of worrying. I’m tired of people being labelled as nothing. He is my loved one. He is my Brad. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s here. Just like your loved ones.

We need to get our governments in this game. Before it’s too late.

“I am different, not less.” Temple Grandin

You know, if you say it enough times, it stops making sense.

I don’t particularly care about my age. It’s one year closer to death. Big deal.

I have a few wrinkles, more grey hair than I ever did. So what? I’ve earned every one of them. I’m all for passing the beauty torch on to the younglings that can handle the pressure. I did my turn.

But my boobs! My god, my boobs.

Now, I’ve never been a well endowed girl, and as I was a tomboy, they just got in the way. Alas, I’ve gained some weight in the past couple of years. Consequently, I’ve developed what my mother delicately refers to as a “rack”. And those things are just a pain in the ass.

Here’s my issue. Every birthday, I swear they drop an inch. It’s like they hate getting older and are moving south. Like retirees. Except south is towards my belt.

Fuck.

Last year at christmas, my mom and I were cuddled on the couch. She’s a rubber. You know the ones? They can’t just sit, they have to rub some part of you until the skin wears away and there is a bloody gaping hole where they’ve left the mark of their affection. The dogs like it. I don’t.

So she’s rubbing my arm, and I told her to stop. She asked me why. I said, “Mom, you’re kind of rubbing my nipple”. She jolted, howled with laughter and said “Jesus! Why is it by your elbow?”

Oh mom. I wish I knew.

A few weeks before christmas, our lovely neighbours called us at about 6 p.m. and said “We’re in our pajamas. And drinking. Come for pajama drinks.” Excuse me, but how badass is it to have folks in your life you feel so comfortable with that you can have drinks in your pajamas? PAJAMA DRINKS,PEOPLE!!!! Actually, it sounds a wee bit kinky, but these weren’t our orgy neighbours so we felt safe.

About half way through the evening, my friend Dee gave me a friendly stomach tickle. (Wait. This does sound kinky.) Anyway, it was one of those mom-love-ya grabs us mommies do, but sadly I had to tell her that what she’d thought was my side was actually my boob. I flustered the poor woman for a bit until I explained that now when I sit down, the girls tend to hover oh so gently to rest on my lap. An honest mistake.

Fuck.

I just don’t know why they’ve decided to become long and tubular. I thought that only happened to National Geographic tribal naked women. I’ve been so misled.

I’m already losing my navel behind them. “Where’s my navel? Oh wait, it’s right here, behind my boob. Duh.” What’s next, tucking them into my socks?

I’ve thought about getting them pierced. Not for any reason other than to slip a chain through one, lace around my neck and attach it to the other piercing. Kind of like a poor mans breast lift.  Might work.

But this is my advice to all the younglings. Don’t pierce your boobs! Don’t ever add weight to something thats going to sag naturally anyway.

As for me. It might just be time to buy a really good bra I can wear all the time. Do they come in tubular sizes?

This is how my day started.

Like healthy crack.

I’d had a grand few days of insomnia the week before. As anyone who suffers from it knows, after day 3, you start to function at base level. Left foot, then right foot. Breath into lungs, breath out of lungs. I take a prescription sleeping pill, but had run out with a few days until my dr.’s appointment. So, in all my stuporific wisdom, the night before the party, I took a Seroquel. 

Now, I feel a bit of back story is needed. I’ve worked in mental health for quite a period of time. I have witnessed the effects of Seroquel on the human body. When it was prescribed as a sleep aid, I thought ”Well that’s bullshit” and threw it in to the back corner of my drug cabinet. (So you’re clear, it’s an anti-psychotic, also used for bi-polar disorder, and it’s one of those badass drugs that I used to have to give to my schizophrenic patients. When the voices in their poor heads were telling them to do stuff that you wouldn’t normally do.) I don’t know why I even kept the bottle, as I had no intention of ever using it. But my poor sleepy wee brain said “Just take the fricking thing!” I did.

Wow. That is so not a fun high. You sleep, but not a real sleep. More of a” tread water around sleep” sleep. Drugged. Oh so yucky. The next day, the day of the party, I felt like I was wearing lead boots and had the worst case of cotten mouth this side of a Hookah pipe. But that energy booster mix? Totally works. (You alll know what you are getting for christmas. Not hookahs. No.)

Party on. I’d invited 5 of the bairn’s school chums as last birthday, I made the mistake of having seventeen of the little hellions sweet children there. Once was enough. These kids are country kids in a small town school, and out of twenty six Grade Oners, twenty of them have known each other and gone to school together for 3 years already. How awesome is that? They are like cousins. And because they are country kids who know all the moms, they are polite and comfortable to be around. Some highlights.

If you need them to shut their yell holes for a wee bit, just make them wear their hats like unicorns for a minute. It doesn't work, but it changes the acoustics a little.Don't ask me why he wore his Superman robe all day. He is 7. He has no fashion sense.

Crowded around to be first to give a present. Because they are so thrilled with their choices. Too cute.

These homemade cards are just the best thing. I'm saving them. So sweet.

This kid is only six but I am certain he is FBI. He carries a piece and goes on unexpected trips for days on end and won't tell his folks a thing about it.

There were many gun battles, lots of screaming and running. At one point, I found four of them playing dead. I called to hubby and said “We’ve had casualties! Get the truck, we’ll load the bodies and dump them in the field!” At which point, they all came back to life and I shrieked ”AHHHH!!! ZOMBIES!!!!!!”, which was, of course, the perfect thing to say. Because that started a whole new game were they tried to kill me. (Um, Hello? What 6yr old doesn’t love a zombie mother?)

 

All in all, a great success. I was worried, I’ll admit. Earlier in the day, I called on the gods of twitter (I’m @3snaps) and prayed there would be no vomiting.  The gods heard me, and no one left their cake on the floor! Yay!!!!!

 

I hope I made at least one childhood dream come true. For my sweet boy. My only. My seven-year old.

 

  

I have to tell you what’s happened. I was about to register my domain name and I found a gazillion blogs named One Odd Duck. I know! *Offended ruffling of feathers.* Which is actually okay, because there is room for many odd ducks in this world. But one in particular stood out.

It’s written by a person who is so totally different from me that it is almost unbelievable. This is a person who I believe has only one arm and has a diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome. Who also identifies as a strongly religious person. Now, I have two arms, no Asperger’s that I’m aware of, and I’m pretty sure Jesus would be the funniest drunk at the party. Plus, I curse. And swear. And threaten violence. Fuckshit! Sorry.

So I got to thinking. Maybe I should change my blog name. So that no one that attempts to find me reads this other persons blog and thinks “Well, this isn’t funny at all…” or worse, someone from their life finds my cussy blog and thinks their friend has dropped their cookie basket. (I don’t even know what that means.)

To that end, the First (and last) RE-NAME THIS BLOG contest!!!!!!

YAY! YIPPEE!!!! Whistles and confetti!!!!

silence. *cough*

Well, I can tell you are all excited. And are probably thinking “Dumbass. She should have checked that shit beforehand.” I know, I know. But I isn’t the sharpest pencil crayon in the case sometimes!

I’ve been thinking of a few names, and to tell you the truth, I am absolutely flummoxed. But you, dear readers, are some of the cleverest people I know. So I thought I’d turn to you. Also because I know you will make me laugh and laugh with your comments and suggestions. So please, have at it. The winner will of course, get the bestest prize ever!!!! A New Cat!!! (Seriously, I have too many. Male or female, your pick. If you want more than one, I can probably find you one that’s pregnant.) Think how happy your kiddies will be! Aunty Leanne is the best! Yay! (No, really. I’ll ship it to you. FedEx.)

Give it to me, dear duckies. I thank you.

DISCLAIMER:

Before you all go shitting yourselves, I have absolutely nothing against people who are missing limbs. I grew up in a farming community where there were ten men to every acre that had lost something in an auger accident. I told you before how excited farmers get! I also have nothing against farmers, or religious folks for that matter. I have many of those in my family. Farmers. And maybe a christian or two, I’m not sure. But anyway. I also live by a big Army base. Lots of those guys lost a something while peacekeeping. I honor them. And thank them. So no, I’m not only for farmers losing limbs. I’m not prejudiced like that. Or christians. This is all coming out so wrong. Oh, fuck it.

SECOND DISCLAIMER: I have worked in special education and health care for the past ten or more years. Everyone I have met that has Asperger’s Syndrome is smarter than me. And probably you. Enough said.

THIRD DISCLAIMER: No, you cannot exchange the cat you win for an equal monetary value. Do I look like Costco? Jeebus…

FOURTH DISCLAIMER: I am serious about number two.

I want to say thank you for reading me in the past year. It’s funny, but I wished for a tribe, some people to talk to, to share with and I started this blog, and well, I got it. You have all been amazing and supportive. And when I think I’m out of words and I should shut this down, one of you little ducks sends me a message or a comment that lets me know I’m still doing a wee bit right.

So you get a love letter. A bag of wishes that I hope for all of you and the world this year.

I hope you all win the lottery. And I hope you remember me when you do.

I hope you all have full bellies. I don’t want anyone to worry about where their next meal is coming from.

I hope you all have warm,cozy beds to crawl into whenever you feel like it. Because what is better than that?

I hope you have loved ones. Well, I know you do. I hope they are well, too.

I hope you keep your job. Shit is kinda scary out there.

I hope it gets better. It may seem like it won’t but hang on. It will.

If you haven’t found your one true love, I hope you do.

I hope you get the chance to do whatever it is you love doing. And that time stands still when you are.

I hope you never feel alone. Because you are not. (I don’t mean that to sound like a psychotic episode, though it kinda seems like it.) So…

I wish you all good mental health.

I hope someone learns to tame owls so we can all have one. Cause, really, how badass would it be to have your own owl?

I hope there are no zombie or werewolf attacks. If there are, get to my place, because I am soooo ready!

Most of all, I wish you the best year you could ever have. May all your dreams come true.

And thank you for being here. You make it better. Really.

Love, Me *hugging you all through the internet*

Until I went to the fridge. I saw this as I grabbed milk and kinda thought,’ Well that’s funny. Why are these there?‘ Huh.

These are fake,right? Dear god, tell me these aren't real...

And then I went back to said fridge and grabbed one of these and read the package. And saw the wiggle.

Yup. Real. And alive. And very wiggly.

OH HOLY CHRIST!!!!!!!!!

Me: What the fuck is this? Why are there maggots in my fridge?

Hubby: Well, they have to be kept cold.

Me: In the fridge???? I spend half my fucking life trying to keep maggots out of there!!!

Hubby, sighing: They’re not maggots if they’re bait. Duh…

Ummm, yes. Yes, they are. But you gotta admire his attempt at logic.

If you’ll excuse me, I must go bleach my fridge.

And beat my husband about the face and neck area.