Beautiful Boy

Eight years ago today, I was rebuilt.

Everything I thought I knew or believed to be true fell away to become inconsequential dust. You changed me as nothing ever could and I shed the weight of alone when I became your Mother.

rowan 3

Thank you, Rowan. For teaching me true love, what dreams really are and for awakening in me all that had long been dormant. Because of you, I am a better woman. It is an honour to be your mom.

My beautiful, brilliant boy. Every second of every day, I wish you something wonderful.

Happy Birthday.


The sick man lay on the bed, listening to the rhythmic beep that let the staff know he was still alive.

Watched the liquid drip-drip-drip into the tube that ran to the shunt in his withered hand.

“What for?” he wondered. What for?

The man at the end of his bed spoke then. (How long had he been there?)

“Let me take you” he said. His voice flat. No inflection, no emotion.

“Where?” He wasn’t sure if he’d wheezed it or blinked it. If he’d even made a sound.

The man at the end of the bed looked disinterestedly at his nails.

“If I take you into my confidence about your destination, I won’t be able to help you. You’ll just have to trust .”

Bone tired, the sick man glanced at the machines around him and nodded once.

“Good” said the man at the end of the bed as he stood and smoothed his trousers. He waved the fingers of his hand, a quick close move.

The sick man’s eyes widened. He whispered “Oh” and that was all.

The man at the end of the bed walked out of the room unnoticed as the nurse rushed in.

“Why?” he wondered. “Why do they always want to know where?”

It cut into his time. He had much work to do.

He rounded the corner, found the room he was looking for. He entered, sat on the end of the bed and waited.

This is in response to Week 24 prompt.

“between 33 and 333 words, using the 3rd definition of the word provided”

Confidence (noun)

third definition:

a) a relation of trust of intimacy

b) reliance on another’s discretion

c) support especially in a legislative body


It is ten o’clock on this lovely calm August evening. My son is abed, it’s cool and dark here in the country. The time of night I relax and review the day before slumber.

Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it?

Except for the fucking farmer who is banging away at some piece of equipment in the field by my fucking house.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am from multi-generational farm stock and I grew up in a farming community. I have wrestled sheep, milked goats (gross), talked to pigs (good listeners) and I know my way around a cow. I hate chickens. They scare the shit out of me. I had an encounter with one that I swear growled and I’ve never been the same. I know wheat from barley, oats from hay, and I can look at a crop and tell if it’s good or not. I am fluent in farm. I also speak a bit of hillbilly.

But the farmers? Crazy sumbitches.

You know I’m talking to you. If you are of farm stock, you probably have a birthday either nine months after seeding, calving or harvest. Those farmers get excited when they are working. Trust me, growing up where I did, you could not wear a skirt in planting season. Too dangerous.

If you are a farmer, you also spend a huge chunk of time looking at the sky. If you are not a farmer, for god sake don’t interrupt while sky gazing. That is not cool. He needs to understand the horizon, and having some city slicker come in and disturb this very important hour of his workday may result in him asking if you’d like to ride a ‘tame bull.’  Take heed, slicker! There is no such thing. He’s fucking with you for his amusement.

Right now, it’s baling. Not harvest. The food for the cattle? Funny thing: the stuff we eat called meat? Made by vegetarian animals. Go figure.

Anyway, the chaps around here are hell-bent. They are working. Hard. And long. I know how that sentence sounded but get your mind outta the gutter.

While they disturb my peace, I’m okay with it. I am a Canadian. A prairie girl. I understand the concept of making food. I understand that as much as this government tries to bullshit us, if the farmers have a bad year we will all have a bad year.

But really. Farmers, please. I understand the urgency but for god sake! It’s ten o’clock. Could you do it a little quieter?

No, I don’t want to ride your bull.

I am still here

I can’t write. Literally, I can’t write. I can barely fucking type as I’ve been doing yoga for the last three evenings, and I’m not sure if you know what a Turbo Dog pose is, but I’ll do my best to describe.

 Do a pushup, shoot your ass up in the air so you are on your hands and balls of your feet. Like a triangle. Got it? NOW STAY THERE!!! For five fucking minutes! Okay Turbo time. Lower your arms until they are an inch off the floor, and all the weight in your body has shifted and added six more G’s of gravity to your hands. NOW STAY THERE!!! FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES!!! Now do that for an hour. Get it? I’ve figured out that half the reason yoga is good for your mood is that you are just way too goddamned exhausted at the end to really take anything too seriously. But truly? I’m a gonna have some big guns after this week.

But so you know, I’m alive. And I am okay. I’m working it out, leaving little pieces of ennui behind on the mat.

I Need My Own Bear

The past week has been scant on this blog as I’ve had what I like to call a ‘thinky’ week. I have times like this, when I don’t really want to talk, I sure as hell don’t want to listen, and I will only participate on the periphery of life if it’s absolutely necessary. I’m thinky. Leave me alone.

I spent a good portion of this week with my hands in my garden, weeding, pondering and when I wasn’t I reread Walden by Henry David Thoreau. If you haven’t read it, do yourself a favorand do so. SOOOO worth it.  I also read many of my favorite blogs, which I actually tend to do only once a week when I make a promise to just read, and not write. These people are so brilliant and insightful, some of them fall on your ass funny I can’t help but worry I may accidentally plagiarise them just because they are so damn good. I’ll fill in my blogroll a little more, and when you have the time spend a day with them. You’ll thank me.

In the interest of probity, I also have to admit, yeah, it’s been a pms week. Now I’ve touched on this before, but really, you have no fucking idea. I’ve said I’d like to take a cab away from myself and that’s not far from the truth. I even had the pleasure of having my first couple of hot flashes in the middle of the night. I believe I am entering peri-menopause, but all that means to me is “Holy fuck, I’m only 42!!! I cannot put up with this shit for another 15 to 20 years!!! Get the fucking barbeque tongs! It’s time for a home hysterectomy!!!!!” Might work. Pretty sure hubby would help.

Now, I have thought quite long and hard (heh!) on the genetic flaws that I see in humanity. Sinuses. They clog up and cause nothing but grief. Tailbones. Those bastards HURT when you bump them, and I’ve had no need for a tail in eons. Why are they still there? And the female reproductive organs. I’m done having kids. My ovaries can dry up and fall  out. The body should just ‘know’ and make the necessary hormonal adjustments. Someone get working on this! You’ll be a billionaire super hero, I promise you. Women will likely deify you. If you need a guinea pig, here I am .

Hormonal, thinky me began to think about legacy and the karmic weight we  carry around. We all have it, and we all need to bear the weight of what is left us without our design or consent. We are supposed to be strong and turn the other cheek. Forgive. Be the bigger person. Hmmmm. My friend Minka over at has a couple of posts on that particular subject.  She got me thinking even more. And I’ve come to the conclusion, I need my own bear.

A big one. A real one. One I can keep in my yard, and in the midst of my bone aching, tooth grinding misery of  emotional shit that is my pms, I can just say ‘Excuse me, but I hate you all and you bug me. I’m going to go wrestle the bear.” I’ll call him Happy. Because that’s how I’ll feel when I’m done kicking his ass. Then I’ll come back in the house, bandage up, and cook spaghetti and clean the cat litter, all while whistling a happy tune!!!

About the forgiveness. It’s so hard sometimes. And truly doesn’t work. Some things can’t be forgiven. I’ll get more into my own personal story about that at a later time, but c’mon? Some of those people who you just can’t? Wouldn’t you like to see them go a round or two with Happy bear?

For me, it’s almost anything that ends with an -ic or -ism that I just can’t abide. Xenophobic, homophobic, racism, sexism, ageism, elitism, assholism, bitchic (someone who bitches about eveything! They annoy me .Probably forgivable, but fuck it.). Anyone who abuses kids and animals. (Kidissm, animalic?) In particular, anyone who harms in any way those that are developmentally delayed. Oh, trust me, Happy bear will be well trained for you motherfuckers! I can see him sharpening his claws now. Good boy, Happy, good boy!

In all seriousness, there is something that all of us just can’t forgive. And that can become the legacy we leave to the people we love. It’s too much, it’s too hard, that legacy is heavy. We can dwell in platitudes, try to take a dogmatic approach, what have you. Still. A friend suggested we replace the word forgive with understand. To me, that’s just condoning bad behavior. ‘Oh, I understand.’ ‘Oh good. That means I can continue to be an asshole and get away with it.’ See, not quite right.

I vote for a bear. I’ll rent him out for a small fee. You can have him anytime. He can wrestle the people who have hurt you, and they can feel the pain of what they’ve done. But as I am ‘messy’ I get to wrestle him first. I hope he’ll be okay when I’m finished.

*This isn’t really Happy bear. It’s some fake kitty like bear. Happy would  kick this bears ass. And yes, I am in wrestling mode because the picture taker did something that ended in -ic. Note hand buried deeply in pocket. Grabbing my brass knuckles.*


I lost my blogging virginity today. Yay me!!!

I had my words misconstrued, misrepresented, misunderstood. Pretty much all the mis’s anyone could have. Bound to happen, I suppose. Startling that it did. And that’s why I put off writing for so long.

I have been so reluctant to write publicly because of all the fears I’ve had. Not being good enough, not having anything to say and yes, being misunderstood. All scary shit. No one wants to put themselves out there to get smacked down or made fun of, or told you are wrong. But its going to happen. People see what they want, read into things. All of it.

That’s the beauty of us. We have the chance to see, and interpret. All my artist and musician friends, and now my writer friends (you know who you are), you are the bravest people I know. I’m honoured to have you in my life. Silly,brave fools.

I won’t stop writing. I can’t. It’s not even an option. It has been such a part of me for so long, it’s like a twin. Real me, writer me. I will evolve (God, I hope!), and hopefully get better, and deserving of your reading, and my fellows fine company.

Wish me well, or don’t. Your choice. But know that I celebrate all of you, just for doing it. 

My favorite quote:

We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Oscar Wilde



In Vain

I should be editing my about page because it’s pretty fucking lacking (I don’t know what to say about myself. *Human, Not Satan, Mostly not an asshole, but don’t cross me*? Seriously, suggestions welcome.)

I hold no particular religious affiliation but I do know that using Jesus Christ as my son’s name is just wrong.  As in “Jesus Christ, would you go to bed? Jesus Christ, who told you the cat could go in the dishwasher? Jesus Christ, the car trunk is not a good hiding place! Jesus Christ, put down that lighter!”

I know, I am awful.

I swear way too goddamn much. It’s not charming, it’s gauche. It makes me sound like a fucking redneck. I really need to do better. Fuck. Shit. Sorry.

I tried out a new face cream. Very pleasant older lady hooked me up. I saw her a week later and she asked how I liked it. I said,” I fucking love it! Look at this fucking wrinkle here, it’s almost fucking gone! I look like I’m fucking 18!” She looked like I’d slapped her, and threatened to kick her in the box. She said, “Oh. Good. Excuse me.” Walked away.


Here’s the thing. I am a clean-cut, middle class wife/motherfucker, shit, sorry, I meant mother. I drive a good car, take care of myself, and I also have very white teeth and a surprisingly good ass. I am not supposed to sound like I do. But I can’t help it.

I see these nice pretty ladies of about my age and in conversation, they say something like ‘oh darn it, or shoot’.( And I think ” Oh for fucksake, just say damn it. Or cunt, just try saying cunt! Own that word, bitch!)

See what I mean? It’s my head. My brain is foul-mouthed. A real problem. Fuckshit. Again, sorry.

I am actually a very nice person who mostly wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I am not anti-christian, or the anti christ (although I would like to have a beer with him, just to see what he has to say. And Jesus. I think he’d be a fun drunk!).

I promise to try to do better. Not here though. This is my blog, and if you can’t take it, then fuck off! Again, sorry. I actually really like you here.

I’ll try. And I promise not take the lord’s name in vain anymore. Fuckshit.



This is important to me, so it gets its own post. I started this because I had to. I reached out to a beautiful old friend whose art I’ve always loved and asked if she would design a banner for me.

And TA DA!!!

Note what lovely ducks I have a mere day or two later!!! She was excellent, she listened and got what I wanted right off the bing bang.  And as I am a technophobe, she did the insert for me with my blessing. I highly recommend Kathy Sigstad at Stringbean Design, 

I also got to have a wonderful hour and a half chat with her, too!! My good old friend. Love to you. (If I screwed up your info, feel free to hack in and correct it, Kathy, with my blessing!)