Mofo Cancer

Everywhere I turn, everyone I talk to lately has the motherfucking cancer. Yes. Let’s call it that. Motherfucking cancer.

One of my cousins, an aunt, my friend’s MIL, my Dad. (Quick aside: Dad has a squamous cell carcinoma on his ear. Needs more surgery and then we’ll know what next. Wear sunscreen!!! Please! And a hat!) If you’ve noticed, I have a scar on my right cheek where my John Boy Walton mole was. I was 25 when it started to get all cancerous on me. At that point I was pissed off, I was so used to it. But I had 3 docs tell me it would be melanoma within a few years. I count myself lucky.

My blog and twitter friend Dee-Anne Barker starts chemo tomorrow. Her blog is  http://cancercancerbo-bancer.blogspot.com.  All she asked is that I make her laugh. (She loved my Boobs and Birthdays post. It made her laugh after her mastectomy. We always find exactly what we need, don’t we?) So in honour of her, and the fact that all this MOTHERFUCKING cancer is driving me to distraction, I’m going to share with you some of my search engine terms. Again. Because I tell you, NOTHING makes me laugh harder than what people find this blog with! (I left all the errors in for you to see. My god.)

“Dee Anne Barker”

Seriously. Twice. Spelled wrong both times.

“i’m brialliant” meme

Umm, where do I start with this one? Oh yeah! Fucking SPELL CHECK!

divorce and icefishing

Looking at husband, doing the ‘I’m watching you eyeball finger point thinger.’ Please read Grounds For Divorce. Maggots. In the fridge. *finger point thinger again*

vagina dress

Okay, so. Were you looking for a dress for your vagina, or a dress that looks like a vagina? I suppose I could understand the first one, if it was a special occasion but the second? Sister, NO ONE needs to wear a dress that looks like a shmooshed ham sandwich. There is no call for that.

mouth widener porn

What? Oh…What? I….What? Oh…I…please don’t come back here. I don’t know what that is but it scares the ever-loving shit out of me!

licking armpit hair

Gross! Goddamnit! Why? Just why? Tangled armpit hair I can understand but this? Blech! No hairballs! (The Husband Doesn’t Believe)

i hit a parked car and broke their bumper/cracked front bumper while parking

*cough* Nope. Never. Don’t know what you are talking about. Move along now. (Broken Bumpers.)

joke thought person said thumb tacks tampons

I know, RIGHT!!!!!! That one kills me. Sigh. Smiling…(Just aTampon)

your duckness

That sounds so much like Your Highness or Your Holiness I feel all special. *adjusts tiara*

i have no idea what i’m doing duck/ducks don’t give a shit/i am one odd duck

Fuck yeah!!! Rock on! All things duck coming my way! And any of the above? Baby, you have shown up in the right place! Welcome. Leave your shoes on. It’s hellishly messy in here. Beer?

In Order: duck testicles/do duck penis fall off/sad animal/sad duck/sad ninja

I don’t know where to begin. If I was a duck and this was what you were thinking about my junk, yes. I would be sad. Is the ninja sad about this too?

pain from falling on ice – around labia

Oh my god, girl! You broke your vagina!!! Put a bag of frozen peas on that thing!!! Get to a doc and get a sling!!! ( And don’t ever use the word labia here again.)

meow

Meow back at ya, you crazy freak! Wait. Is this my cat again? BAD KITTY!

get off my property/stop looking at me

Dearest friend. You may have a bit of a stalker problem. Thanks for reading but you may want to call the cops now. Love, Me.

people beautiful

Always.

And my favorite: oh fuck the internet is here

Yes. I finally have a home!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Those are the ones that I hope make you laugh. They say it’s the best medicine and it sure as hell can’t hurt. And FYI, this is National Cancer Awareness Month. Buy daffodils.

(I’m thinking of you all and wishing you strength, bravery and health. If you need to talk, as ever, I’m here.)

Love your way. xxoo

Will Gratitude Give Me Less Back Pain?

In the past month, my body has been trying to kill me.

I’ve had two weeks of hormonal hell, which harkened back to the bad old days of teenage angst. It was so severe I actually phoned my yoga guru, who also happens to be my massage therapist. She suggested  that this was perhaps due to repressed memories that are linked to my depression. I told her I thought it was that my ovaries have a vendetta against me and that they were in the middle of a Coup to overrun my brain. To which she replied, “Yes. That, too.” (She’s fairly awesome.)

The full moon came and screwed things up even more. While walking to my car, I planted my left foot squarely on a patch of ice. Lefty shot out from under me impossibly fast as the rest of my body swung around and pinwheeled in what I can only imagine was a ballet-like twirl of which Mikhail Baryshnikov would be envious. And it hurt.

Immediately my back and hips went into spasm while my tailbone thoughtfully tried to find a new home somewhere near my lungs.

I  plodded on with life. Maybe bitched and moaned a bit. Well okay, I complained like hell as I wandered around and kept my family fed and watered in a semi-hunchback posture. But I did it. Because I’m a trooper. Pain? Phhhht! Fuck pain. I have me some shit to do!!!!!!!

The next day I felt better after some rest and anti-inflammatory drugs. I almost ran around the house, getting things done, only cussing occasionally. In the midst of my “This Place Is A Hell Hole” cleaning spree, I got my foot tangled in the curtains, tripped myself, did a dance which attracted the whole household’s attention and whammed my hip solidly on a table.

My ever sympathetic husband watched from his easy chair and calmly said “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I don’t hold it against him. The man is desensitized to my flailings.

Another night and more drugs. I decided that even in my pain, I am a hero, and we need groceries! I threw on my cape (otherwise known as my  robe) and stoically made it to the store. Weirdly, I saw 7 other women in the produce section doing the lean-over-the-cart-in-back-pain shuffle on that very day. We all gave each other the nostril salute, as if to reassure each other we were, in fact, good mothers, even though every step was punctuated with the words “Ow! Sonofabitch!” I felt less alone.

I arrived home and with bags in hand stepped carefully out of the car. Hmm. Not too bad. As I made my way around the front of the car, a piece of ice threw itself under my right foot and had me slip to the point I truly thought my vagina was broken. At my age, the splits with a back bend? Really not  a good idea.

The second thought that went through my mind (the first was MOTHERFUCKER!)  was that somehow, the universe was going to magically cure my back pain as I had wrenched myself in the exact opposite direction as I had the first time! Yay! Tailbone fixed! Yay! Not even close.

I put in a frantic call to my massage therapist. When I told her what had happened, she was silent for a moment before she said “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I replied “I don’t know! I’m unbalanced!” “To which she said “I’ll bet you’ve heard that before, huh?” (I sort of love her even more after that.)

I went for a massage and she got me all straightened out. She also droned on about the mind/body connection and that if we let our past and fears dictate blah, blah, blah… I stopped listening to her. The pain went away. For a few days anyway. Then I got a cold. And a cold sore.

Take a moment. Are you imagining my battered, hunchback, snotful, swollen lipped self? It’s not pretty, is it?

Around that time, I saw Dr. Andrew Weil on Dr. Oz. (Does it seem like there is a shitload of Dr.s on television these days? Are they cheaper than  actors or are they bad Dr.s? Like the accidental amputation kind?) Dr. Weil says that if you write in a gratitude journal every day for two weeks you can add something like thirty-seven years to your life expectancy or something. What ever. It’s worth a shot.

Today, I am grateful for the fact that I didn’t clothesline myself on the towel bar when I tripped as I got out of the shower.

That even after making supper and using a knife, I have all my digits.

Grateful that while unloading the dishwasher I didn’t fall into it.

Very grateful that the guy whose foot I tromped on in BestBuy didn’t punch me in the throat. (I think he kinda wanted to.)

And I am especially grateful that I didn’t rip off my baby toe when I stubbed it in the middle of the night. Even though it bled all over, to the point I actually wondered if I was peeing on my foot when I went to the toilet.

There. Gratitude journal started. It wasn’t too hard. Start small, right?

And, Dear God, please don’t let me fall down for any reason this week.

I don’t think my tailbone or my massage therapist could handle it.

Back On The Horse

Writers Block is a bitch.

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.)

New Year, New Name

This old duck is a bit pissed. By pissed I mean cranky, not pissed as in pissed, which is a Canadian farmer term for staggering drunk. I promise I’m not . *Hubby standing behind me nodding head, mouthing, yes, she is.* Well okay, I might be a bit tipsy, but nevermind.

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.

October Part One

Ready? Because this may a long one. October has been very busy. Like really busy. Like shoot myself in the head just to be unbusy busy. With events. Parties, everything from a BBQ to meet the neighbours to a fancy dress up dinner party, to our anniversary, and back to the neighbours for a Halloween party, then to Halloween itself. Just for shits and giggles, I’ve been sick this whole month. Even better, I can’t really breathe. I’ll get to that later, but there were photos promised, and stories to go with such, so I’ll start where I can. Give you a glimpse into this craziness. I may have to nap in the middle, so bear with me.

My hubby had an awards banquet at a smancy hotel on the exact day that the world decided to OCCUPY in support of the protestors on Wall St. Now if that isn’t something to make a thinking person feel uncomfortable. As we were driving into the city to stay at the lovely mansion where said dinner was, we passed the protestors. We honked in support and|I noticed how neat and orderly they all were. A good Canadian protest! Safety first, please stay on the sidewalk. You ever hear that joke “How do you get 50 Canadians out of a pool?” You say “Okay. Everybody out of the pool!” S’true. Anyway, we all dressed up, and my best guess was that there were around 300 of us being treated to $100 a plate dinner and a quick glad hand and paparazzi shot with the provincial CEO as he gave each lucky employee with 5, 10, 15, etc. years of service a lovely pin to wear on the lapel of the suit they will only wear to this function. Did I mention we all got our rooms on the company? Well, you can do the math. My hubby, who is generally reticent about social injustices (god knows he’d have to be with me as a wife. I am always tirading about something) asked our young Asian busboy if he and the others got to partake of the rest of our banquet. Fair question. A lot of food left. Young fellow said no, it gets tossed. My dear spouse about shit himself at the waste. And on Monday, when asked by one of the brass how he enjoyed it all, he made sure to mention that “it’s bullshit” that all that food was thrown away. Hubby’s idea was perhaps a soup kitchen would have been happy with it all. This is ranty, I know. It’s nice to be acknowledged for hard work, but it seems like it may be time to move away from 1980’s excess and into a more socially conscious way of rewarding employees. Just saying.

Hubby, Me, Bombshell, Bombshell's Man.

Why do I always end up with pics like these?

A week later was our sixth anniversary. I’ll tell you a short story about our wedding day, just to lighten things up.

We’d been together for a fair bit of time and had a son before we actually bothered to get married. We are pretty casual, so we wanted something small and easy. And as neither of us are particularly of a religious bent, having it in a church seemed kind of wrong. Plus, we’re flat out sinners. We’re okay with it. At any rate, I pretty much found a guy through the yellow pages who sounded like he could be the man for the job. He also took care of the licence as well so it was one stop shopping. We went to his house to meet him and he led us into his office to make arrangements. He was personable, friendly. He was going to say what we wanted. He also had on his walls innumerable certificates from the Freemasons. I’m also fairly sure he also had some guy’s finger preserved for use as a bookmark, but I may have just been a wee bit scared.

So all good, with a price tag of $50, legal and everything. He arrived at the hotel about 3 minutes before we were to marry, red-faced, slurring and reeking of booze. He told us this was his third wedding of the day, and as he paid for parking, we owed him an extra $2 bucks. Hubby and I kinda glanced at each other and with that unspoken ‘sounds about right‘ look went ahead and did the deed.

I'm trying not to giggle. You see how red his face is?

We look a little stunned. Did we just get married by a drunk Mason?

The best part? See how we are holding hands tightly behind my back? Neither of us has let go yet. I don’t think we ever will. I couldn’t have picked someone better to share this funny bumpy ride with. Happy anniversary, Honey.

Oh, holy shit! I didn’t show you the best part of my month yet!!! Remember a while back when I was worried about weaponry for the impending doomsday? Look what I got!

Mama in her rocker. GET OFF MY PROPERTY!!!

Guns from my Daddy!!! He sent out a few, but this is my favorite because it’s held together with electrical tape! It’s just so hillbilly I can’t even tell you. How the fuck do you expect it to shoot? What? Oh fine. Hubby says they were gifts to “the family“. Whatever. They are mine! Seriously though, I love this picture. Me, looking all elegant in my sweats and jewellery, with the septic tank in the background. God. So much right about this photo…

Halloween. We went to a party at my neighbors on Saturday. It was something. Every room in their house had decorations, from a jumping 2 foot spider to broom that danced by itself and a smoke machine. She told me she has 15 tubs of decorations. It was a sight to behold and I congratulate her on her spirit. Some pics.

Me and Hubby. He won a prize for best costume.

The host and I.

Smurfette. She had wine for me when I need it most. I love her.

Leaping 2 foot spider. Scared the fuck outta everyone!

Some decorations.

Hubby did this one.

Now I only have a few words of advice about partying with your neighbours. First, if they drink shooters, get ready to get to know them verrrrryyyyy well. There was a neighbour, who I don’t think gets out very much, that proposed an orgy very early in the evening. To me. And another married woman. Couple of guys. Yeah. Like that. Probably shouldn’t do that if you have to come to my house in a few days and make small talk while your kids trick or treat. Just saying.

Well I warned you I’d need a nap half way through! I need a good long eight-hour nap. I’ll try to get back tomorrow and tell you about this not breathing thing and what I’m going to do about it.  Hope you enjoyed this. And that you had a great October.

Oh and Al, gonna work on that rss thing. This blog is only 7 months old, for chrissake! I can’t be expected to get to everything…

Cheers, Folks. Have a lovely day!

Holy Crone

Son and I went out for breakfast at a fast food joint this morning.

As we were getting buckled  in the car, there came a rap-rap-rapping on the window. I looked at the bairn, he looked at me. Huh?

As I turned to look around, a 275 year old woman was pulling open my car door.

Amazing what can go through your mind in an instant. Did I hit her?!? I haven’t started the car yet! Is it Halloween? Does she want a treat? A ride? What the fuck?

Sorry to startle you, Dear. I just wanted to give you this magazine. Very good reading material! And with serious, frowny eyes, “How would you feel if you knew god was lying to you?”

Oh, uh, trying to keep a lump of egg and flour in my gorge where it belongs but wants to rise from the terror I feel from the old crones bony hand on my car door, Well…

Truthfully, I’d feel like pealing the fuck out of this parking lot because you just scared the piss out of me! I didn’t say that. Respect for elders, whatnot.

Uh…

Where are you from, Dear?

I stared at her earrings. Stained glass. Pretty. And I didn’t want to make eye contact for fear that this ancient woman’s god would see the image I held in my mind of prying her skeletal digits off my door and shrieking “Mugger! Mugger!”. Just for giggles, right?

“Um, Edson?” I just lied to one of gods messengers! Holy fuck,what am I doing? Holy fuck, did he hear that? Holy fuck!

“Really? I’m from Edson!”

Goddamnit. “Uh, well, we haven’t been there very long…”

Some quick small talk, and with a have a good day, off the old boot sprinted across the lot to her minivan. Damn, she was fast. Like a ninja.

Son said “Who was that, Mom?”

Well, honey, some people want you to know their god. Normally they come to the house and daddy talks to them, but apparently, they are under a budget crunch like the rest of us and are now using parking lots to up their quotas. It’s all a numbers game, son.

We drove toward home and stopped for a train. Curiosity got the better of this duck. Let’s just see here…

I opened the rag and on page four was a picture of the Messiah with three noses, three mouths, and one set of eyes. He looked like one of those weird side-show calf’s that dies shortly after birth but some wacko preserves it and displays it so we can all go ‘Yucky! How fucked up is that?’.

It scared me. I yelped “Jesus Christ!” To which my six-year-old replied, “Yes? What’s up?” Love that kid…

We got home and I phoned Christ, known to me as J.C. He’s gangsta now, did you know?

After being on hold for like 15 minutes, J.C. finally picked up. “Hey, Gurl!!!”

Hey. Listen those pictures of you? The one with the extra sniffers and cakeholes? That’s just so wrong!

Dude, I know right? When buddy was painting it, I said to keep it real! No use scaring the bejesus outta people! Get it? Hnyuh? Hynuh?

I hung up. When Christ thinks he’s being “funny” you may as well not even bother.

This eve, I pondered and came to a conclusion. If you want to save my soul, you need to send someone hot to do it. Someone with a french accent. Even hotter. And for god’s sake, try to make being holy look like fun. Life’s hard enough without being bossed around some scary looking guy that gives you nightmares.

Just saying.

Stubby

One of the tough parts of being an only child is the loneliness. We live in the country, and most of the kids in our subdivision are somewhere between nine and thirteen years old. My kid is six and a half. That’s a bit of an age difference, but boys can always seem to find a common play interest. Gotta bike? Cool, c’mon. Hockey stick? You’re in. Wanna see a dead gopher my Dad shot that the crows have eaten the eyeballs out of? DO I! It seems the movie ‘Stand By Me’ rings wholly true when it comes to boys. Anything gross, tricky or dangerous to the point just shy of death can bring them together regardless of age or economic standing. Just as long as you are not a cry baby. Then you suck.

The local boys have started to include my boy. He’s old enough now. And he doesn’t cry.

Great by me. But, they have to come here or be in my yard. I make them fries, give them juice. I don’t hover but am always within proximity. They are respectful, say please and thank you and clean up when they are done. I’m the mom in the ‘hood the others can trust.

My neighbour’s kid came over for a couple of hours. He’s twelve. His folks aren’t together, they work a lot, and he seems to have spent too much time with games and computers. I think he likes our family and he’s kind to my boy. He asked for some paper to play Dungeons and Dragons. I know it’s a fantasy game and I just assumed it was about dungeons and dragons. Apparently, I am stupid and do not know what those words mean.

When I went to tidy up, I found this:

What. The. Fuck?

First off, I  have to give this kid a shout out for artistic merit. This boy has one hell of an imagination, although, granted, a bit violent. Okay, really fucking violent but whatever. They were never alone and after this never will be. I don’t think he’s dangerous but I think he’s had free reign over the remote.

I want to go through this picture a bit.

First off, why is this rogue named ‘Stubby’? That’s not a scary name! Stubby’s the short guy from high school whose folks bought him a car so you’d hang out with him. He’s the guy who always had cash and beer. He’s the guy who took the leisure of an extra three years in grade ten just to get to the top of the social scene. Your parents always liked Stubby, even though they watched him.

‘Who drove you home?’ ‘Stubby.’

‘Who helped you clean the garage?’ ‘Stubby.’

‘Who drove your mom home from the bar?’ ‘Stubby.’

‘Who took your virginity?’ ‘Stubby. Oh, wait…’

Maybe Stubby does have a secret homicidal streak I’m just not aware of, but for chrissake! Look at him! He’s got a goddamn curling rock for a hat!!! That’s got to hurt. And piss a guy off.( The rock hat may explain the lack of stature. Those things are heavy!!!)

The immunity to ice? Wrong, wrong, wrong! NO ONE is immune to ice. Ice is awesome. Cools your drink, makes boo-boo’s better. If this kid thinks ice is a weapon, he needs my motherly touch more than I know.

The ‘shiv’.

I was 39 years old before I knew what a shiv was. I know, I’m sheltered. Every prison show I watched, when they talked about a shiv, I truly thought they were just saying knife wrong. I felt so sorry for the guards. I was all like, “Listen to them! They’re illiterate! They’re just making a guess at the word knife and fucking it up! So sad.” My husband finally explained it to me. I said something like, “Ohhhhhhh. I get it. Still doesn’t make sense, but I get it. Want a sandwich?”

Now I want a sandwich. I digress.

The order of the violent “talents” for this rogue ? All wrong. To be most effective, it should read like this:

1. Sap the guy. (To knock him down.)

2. Stab him. (So he doesn’t get back up.)

3. Backstab.(Only if he tries to get up.)

4. Double backstab.(Fuck me, why won’t this guy stay down HOLY JESUS! HE’S A ZOMBIE! I FUCKING KNEW IT WHEN HE WOULDN’T STAY DOWN!!!)

5. Agility.(Obviously. Jump fences, dodge cars to get away from said zombie.)

6. Thow shiv. (It can’t help you anymore. Don’t get weighed down.)

Where has common sense in kids gone?  If you are going to slaughter, do it right.

I always knew I’d find horrible things in son’s room one day, but I thought it’d be more along the lines of  garter snakes and dirty magazines. And yes, the neighbour kid needs me a lot more than I thought. He needs me to teach him what the words dungeon and dragon mean. He needs to learn it’s only okay to draw people like this only if they are going to kill zombies. He needs to learn a less angry, scary and stab-filled form of play.

To that end, today I bought a big puzzle for the boys to do. It has ducks on it. I may not be able to help him, but perhaps I’ll bore him to the point he won’t come over anymore. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I Want More Laughter For All The Ducks

Five days of yoga, some new herbal remedies and some supplements. I finally feel like myself again!!! Guess what? Today, I actually smiled. For real. It hurt like a bitch, but I couldn’t help myself.

I gathered some wisdom about myself while standing on my forearms and trying not to break wind. I’ll share what I can remember which may not be much, because both of those things required almost all of my concentration.

I forget sometimes who I am and what I like. We all do. We are so busy being so many things to so many different people and if you are like me, you do your damnedest to make each and every one happy. I’ve realized that for me it’s an absolute bullshit way to live. I’ll explain.

You may have gathered that at times my life has been a bit strange, if not difficult. I hold my tongue and let certain things slide because I’ve forced myself to learn to tolerate behaviors and speech that I find hurtful and damaging. No more. I will be as kind as I can, but I am not going to live my life harmed because I’m trying to be placid and a model of a ‘good woman’. While I can always see all sides, some things I just can’t abide. And if I continue to bite my tongue, I am going to chew a piece off and choke on that fucker. So, some boundaries are in order.

One of the other gems I took away from yoga, besides a nice under-boob rash from all the sweating (the fuck?), is that life is funny. It’s hard and mean, and my heart bleeds for my fellow man’s suffering. But there is so much funny, happy shit out there. I had the grand fortune to be surrounded by thirty sweet souls, who more likely than not feel as down as I do once in a while. And every last one of us laughed, at ourselves, each other, all in the midst of a very difficult practice. Where there is work that we choose, where there is unity, and joy, there is laughter. Just listen. See?

Whoof. I got all profound there. Scared myself. I wouldn’t want to set a precedent!

To all of you that have read and commented, I just want to tell you how grateful I am. You odd ducks in the ether have shown me that I do have a tribe. I feel less alone, knowing you are there.

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world. But then I thought, there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true,I’m here, and I’m just  as strange as you.” Frida Kahlo

I could not say it better.

John Boy Walton And My Soldier Shoulders

I feel the need to do a little clarifying. I want you all to know that I’m not thinking of anything drastic, and I’m not in a horrible state of being. I’ve been down the slope before, and always pulled myself back up. I know how to self manage. I just need to kick myself in the ass a bit. Get back to who I am. So first off, quit worrying!!!! Christ, I can hear you fussing from all the way over there! You’re  giving me a headache. And a small piece of advice: if worry did anything except cause grey hair and alcohol problems, don’t you think the world’s issues would be solved by now?

But. I thank you. I know you love me. And I have had some AMAZING support and dialogue with absolute strangers. And that is why I wrote what I did. That is why I am honest here. Because not one of us confused, lonely, sad, broken little souls is alone. Never think that. Ever. There are beautiful people out there in this world that are strangers one second, friends the next. And you folks that reached out to me? God bless you. Or Satan, whatever is your bag. Thank you. I will pay it forward.

Anyway. Day4 into a balls ass, week-long yoga intensive, from the women I took my first classes  from. Kundalini and Ashtanga. Chanting, singing, topped off with singing crystal bowls to cleanse the chakras even further. For me, it’s a no makeup, no chemical whatsoever, clean eating week. Okay, maybe I stink a bit, but hey.

So this depression deal? I can’t say when mine started. Probably in childhood. So much legacy I was handed. So much baggage that wasn’t mine. That and the fact that I was the odd duck. I didn’t look like everyone else. I had a big brown John Boy Walton mole on my cheek. Can you guess what the kids called me? Yup. You got it! First try! Kids can be sonsabitches, can’t they?

I was taught to hide very early on. Hide your feelings. Hide the truth. Hide who you are. Hide what’s going on. Hide from the pain, the embarrassment, from the wrath. Hide from God. Hide who you are. Quick! Hide!

Well.You try being 5’10”, skinny as a rail with a big mole on your face. (I always wished I was a petite blonde. Still kinda do. Anyway.) Can’t hide. Too tough. Still stand out.

I felt like everyone knew everything anyway. They most likely did. I was taught two things that stayed with me.Totally affected who I am.

Shoulders back, tits out, stomach in, chin high. Soldier posture. Soldier on. Shoulder what is thrown at you, don’t bend or sway. Buck up, Soldier!!!

Consequently, I’ve ‘pretended’ I could handle a lot of what was shoved on me. I’ve dusted myself off, when what I should have done is lay there for a while, and cry. Ask for help. But not me. I can handle it. Soldier on. 

I was also taught shame. I know shame like the back of my hand. Shame is the heaviest legacy I carry. Shame comes to me as a birthright. Handed down from both sides of my family for generations. I was born shamed.

This shame has made me rebel, and say fuck this. I do what I want.

This shame has made me hurt myself.

This shame has made me keep others away.

This shame has impaired how I love.

This shame has kept me from you.

No more. 

I have nothing to be ashamed of. I stand before everyone as I am.

My depression is not shameful. It’s a part of my life I didn’t ask for or deserve and I will KICK IT’S MOTHERFUCKING ASS!!!

You can watch. And I’ll help you do the same, if I can. I’ll hold your hand if you’ll hold mine.

The world is a pretty lovely place.

I’ll see you soon. We’ll have a laugh.

My Mouth Can Be A Problem

My shiny, clean, smoke free brain still does no better at censoring my big fat mouth. Sure, sometimes it’s funny. But sometimes I even offend myself. And I’m the one that’s said the horrifying shit!

At the grocery store a couple of days ago while in the line to pay, a handsome older gentleman leaned over to my son and asked, “Where’s your ice cream? There’s a really good kind back in that aisle.” 

 The unfiltered crap trap that is my mouth said “SHHHT! Shut up!”  I then covered my son’s ears and said “No talking to strangers! No talking to strangers!” I also looked at the sweet old-timer and said “Damn you.” He (thank you sweet jesus!) laughed and told me about mango tango hip widener flavor and I nicely chatted about how we can’t have any more fucking ice cream in the house because mommy’s having midnight snacks of it and getting under arm boob fat. We parted as friends and promised to call. He may have been a pedophile but I think he was just a  grandpa type. I probably shouldn’t have shown him my pit love handles, but anyway.

My mother likes to talk to people about, oh, anything, and on the weekend she decided it was time to buy an RV. She phoned the number and left the lady’s voicemail a 35 minute message chronicling the development of our lovely little family from the time we arrived on this continent and how we now, 150 years later, are in the market to spend some luxurious time in the woods battling bears and mosquitos. Said used RV seller must be a wee desperate as she returned the call not once, but four times.  During which time, mom (Of course!) found one she liked better and realized she didn’t even want to see the first one.

“What do I do? What do I say? She’s gonna call back! She’ll probably be tracing the call and pulling it into the yard in about five minutes!”

Let me handle this.

“Hello? Yes, I’m sorry, that was my aged demented mother who makes it a habit to try to coerce people into selling her big ticket items when she really has no money whatsoever, she’s actually been arrested for it twice already and the only way the judge would let her out was if she was heavily medicated, lived with me and stayed 300 yards away from any communication devices, including computers, because you know what? The old bitch actually figured out how to use the internet, and so we have had to lock out all websites that peddle any wares for sale, cause that’s just like porn to the old dear, and also all online christian shows because I can’t stand her arguing with ‘God’ at the top of her lungs and getting pissed that she’s getting no reply. Sorry for the trouble. We’ve given her her shot and poked her back into her chair with a really long stick because she still has her own teeth, and the stick is the safest way to move her. Again sorry for the trouble. Ooops, I have to go! The dog’s wandered too close and mom’s now trying to clean its butt and growling a little. MOM, PUT THE GODDAMN DOG DOWN! YOU ARE NOT A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE!!!”

I wish. I offered to do it but mom said no. I think she wanted to a have another conversation. But mother, if you are reading this, she better not call again or I will tell her the above.

My apologies. I just had to rub lotion on my hubby as he is setting up the pool and has a sunburn on his back that is going to be torturous by this eve. As I did so, I berated him for getting burned and finished up with “Go ahead! Get skin cancer! See if I care!” See what I mean about the mouth?

Somehow my husband has realized that I don’t mean half of what I say. Which is mostly why we are still married. It took him about a year to figure out that in my family threats of extreme physical violence are our way of showing our love for one another.

“What’s for supper?” “My boot up your ass is what’s for supper!” (Huh?)

“Come give me a hand please, before I rip your arm out of its socket and beat you with the bloody stump.” (Okay, mom.)

And my personal favorite, the ongoing threats to my fathers testicles.

“I am going to take your fathers balls off and shove them down his throat until he chokes on them!”

 “You’d better sleep with one eye open, because I know where you keep your balls!” (Again, huh?)

 And once in a blue moon, the exasperated sigh while she is cooking and holding a knife and she will tell him quietly “I could do it, you know.”( That old man can move, let me tell you!)

I suppose after reading this that I do come by it honestly. But jesusmurphy, at times I would really like my lips sewn shut. And today at my son’s school one of his mates asked me if it was true that I ‘ripped his arm off and beat him with it when he didn’t go to bed on time?'( Obviously, my kid’s got a damn big mouth. On the plus side, I may have just saved myself the trouble of sleepovers.)

The mouth overrode the brain again and I told the little kid “Yes. It’s true. He was born with eight arms and is now down to two so it’s all worked out for the best. Did you want to come for a play date?” His eyes got huge and he shook his head really quick and took off.

It’s okay. I didn’t like that kid anyway.