Please Let This Work As I Missed You (And I Don’t Sell Watches.)

Shush. Walk in here very quietly. Don’t turn on the lights. Grab that candle over there and don’t bump into anything while you’re looking around here. Whatever you do, don’t push the home button at the top because you will wake the evil purse people who took over this blog. 

What happened? Okay, well, around March, I let my Url lapse. I thought I bought that bitch once and it was mine forever. Turns out, I don’t read fine print because I’m really lazy and no. I have to buy it every year. Huh. Who knew?

Apparently, it’s a “thing” for weird, troll purse and watch and sunglass sellers (with very bad grammar) to buy lapsed urls (domain names. The www dot thinga-ma-boobers.) and put their own horse shit up on your page. Their hope is that you will be completely devastated (I was) and will buy back your domain at a hugely inflated price. Dirty trick, right? So my response to that idea was “Fuck, no!” Hence my absence.

But I may have found a way to get this all back. I may be back. I may have climbed out of the dark, sticky hole that having my blog hijacked by knock-off purse sellers left me in. And god, I hope so. I have so much to tell you! This whole ‘I-have-to-talk-to-my-family-because-I-don’t-have-a-blog-thing’ has been really sucky.

Let me know if this shows up and is readable. And quick PSA:

*Read the fine print on EVERYTHING! Don’t be an asshole like me because the internet is a cold, cutthroat place where everyone is out to screw you (except that it’s wonderful and makes me warm and fuzzy because kitten pictures!). And know this: Anyone who sells purse/watches/sunglasses/leaky prophylactics/penile enlargements or any other such nonsense is not me and comes straight from Satan’s outhouse.*

Extra quick PSA:

*Satan’s Outhouse sounds like a good name for a band, doesn’t it? Please feel free to use it.*

Now With Less Barf

January sucks like a Dyson, doesn’t it? It’s cold, dark and the Christmas bills just keep pouring in. I ended up with a stomach bug and was abed for 4 days.

In my fevered and dehydrated stupor, I thought about you guys. No, really. I wondered what you were doing, if you were safe and warm and not vomiting every half hour. Then I sort of started to hate you, just a bit, for getting on with your stupid, happy, unvomitty lives. And I felt guilty for hating you all, as I’m Canadian, and we don’t hate randomly. We might express mild disapproval for something, but hating? No. We are the sort of folks who will gently put down our beer, put up our hand in a non-aggressive manner and with a slightly furrowed brow, ask you politely to stop doing that which offends us or we may have to raise our voice somewhat.

Like a good Canadian, I decided to channel my guilt and untoward feelings.

I thought, “How can I change the world? Make this a better, less nauseous place for all of us?” And I made these.


card 2

card 3

Less barfy greeting cards! I only put a couple of them up here, but you get the idea. Click on the card and it’ll take you to the store. I hope you like them.

And if you’ve got anything you think needs to be on a card, leave me a comment and I’ll see what I can do.

Love to you all.


How To Fuck Up All Chances Of Becoming A Professional Writer

Dear Stranger,

You recently sent me an email asking if I would be interested in doing some columns for you which got me very excited as I’m completely flattered whenever anyone reads me, let alone when someone thinks my writing is worth sharing with anyone else, especially on a professional level because hey, let’s be honest, I’m no pro and if you read closely you’ll likely find spelling and grammar errors, flow problems (Ha! Flow! Sounds like my period) and realistically, most of what I talk or write about is absolute nonsensical bullshit (I should trademark that phrase) and half the time, I write these things in under 15 minutes and don’t proofread or edit, anyway, as I said, I got excited, so I reached for some chocolate because, yum, am I right, and it’s way too early in the day to drink, but of course, in this house there is never any fucking chocolate when you need it as I make it disappear down my gullet every night before bed, so I found some Doritos, which I haven’t had in 4 years as I’m getting super old (fuck) and the main ingredient in chips is salt, which raises my blood pressure and I am decidedly too stubborn to die young (I have too many people left to piss off, namely my husband, and if he thinks I’m kicking off so he can find himself a younger, hotter woman, that prick is delusional as he knows I’m nothing if not spiteful, which is why we’re both still in this marriage to begin with) and the Doritos made me even happier, salt be damned, but the old blood pressure did rise rather quickly, which made me goofy and I sent you back a nice email that I signed with “Love, Leanne”.

While I’m certain you are loveable, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with my forward and entirely uncalled for proclamation of love, I mean, come on, we don’t even know each other, and it’s true I do love a lot of people but as you are a complete stranger I thought I should clarify that “love” as I don’t want you thinking that if we ever meet in person that I’ll expect you to sleep with me or anything, not saying it wouldn’t be nice, as this is in no way a denigration of your probable sexiness and prowess, but I am married and aside from all the contempt, I do love my husband and am faithful to him, so I was thinking maybe we might just want to form a friendship and if that goes well then we’ll throw in some hand-holding and cuddling but seriously, no pressure.



p.s. If you can get me a book deal, I will love and totally sleep with you. Just so you know.

p.p.s. I feel really tall right now. Is that one of the signs of stroke?

If You Can’t Fit Into Your Pajamas, You Might Need To Lay Off The Butter

I’ve gained somewhere around 10 pounds this year, due to a combination of gluttony and not being able to do any excercise for two months after I had my appendectomy. (I stretched that two months out to six, by the by. I was feeling fragile, plus I just had an oversized baby only eight years ago so give a gal a break, right? That’s what I told anyone that made any mooing sounds as I waddled by.) Christmas didn’t help either. I subscribe to my Dutch ancestors notion that to make anything taste better, add butter. That bacon tastes off? Put some butter in the pan. That rock you’re eating could use a little something? Butter, my friend. Butter makes it better.

By Boxing Day, I couldn’t get into my new fancy pajamas, which I could totally wear out to grocery shop if I had to, they’re that nice. That’s what you do when you’ve just flat-out given up on what other people think of you. You wear your pajamas in public. It’s a blatant statement of not being able to fall any further down the rabbit hole. All that’s needed is a sign that says, “I am wearing my sleep attire out in the middle of the day. In public. I have farted all night long in these and I don’t give a damn.”

So I wrapped an old sheet around my middle like a toga and I got my flabulous self on the computer. I found a Pilates machine and I fell in love. Pilates? Short info: You do the whole workout on. your. back. No shit. You’re laying down for the whole thing! It’s like a nap! That’s just goddamn fantastic.

The machine is a series of pulleys and a movable track (the part you lay on) with a nice little headrest. My brain said “Holy fuck. That’s fucking brilliant.”( My brain swears a lot when it gets excited.) I told Hubby I had to have it and I promised to wrestle with him at least 3 times a week if I felt better about my body. ( You’d think after 10 years he’d have learned that all promises of sexual favors lead to nought but he’s nothing if not hopeful. And a little dumb.)

I wrapped my sheet neatly around my body, added a belt for security (and flair) and went and bought my Pilates machine. I hugged it and dubbed it “The Gunt Begone”.

I got on the Begone today for my first official workout. I put the disc in to follow along with the nice dvd instructor lady. I think she’s somewhere around 137 years old but her body is amazing. That’s the power of laying down while you work out, people. I followed along, kept up, until 20 minutes in when I realized I was pulling my whole body weight in a rowing circular motion, with my feet in the air with pulleys on them, swinging in circles, and that the muscles that seemed to be bearing the brunt of this movement were the ones that attach your crotch to your body and that for no reason ever would I need a bulked up crotch. Oh, and also that I was in horrible pain and hopelessly flailing while trying to untangle myself. Somehow I got a knot in the pulley cables before I managed to fall over whimpering on the floor. I think the Begone snarled and snapped at me as I crawled away.

Now I’m stiff. So, so stiff. The only cure for that will be to do it all again tomorrow. Motherfucker. But I’ll do it. In a few short months, people will compliment me on my toned body and admire my bulky crotch, I just know it.

In the meantime, The Gunt Begone is parked in the corner. I think I can hear it snickering.

If My Son Survives Having Me As A Mother, He Can Survive Anything

It’s the new year. Thank God December is over is all I have to say. It was hellishly busy for me, as for us all, and I feel like it passed in a blur.

My son has hung on to his baby teeth like grim death. There is no rhyme or reason to when he loses them and they take their sweet time coming in and when they do, they are chew corn through a fence huge. He went from having the most gorgeous smile to looking like he’s visited some hillbilly home dentist that’s removed his normal, human teeth and replaced them with something he pulled out of a dead Beaver. It’s terrible. I open his mouth, have a look and  see dollar signs gleaming in some Orthodontist’s eye. And I mutter, “Oh! So ugly. My god, look at this!” He just grins, sticks his tongue through the gap and goes off to gnaw down a tree or something.

The first week of December he lost one of his teeth at school. He excitedly came home with it in a baggie lovingly provide by his teacher. The Tooth Fairy came that night. And with no warning (looseness), two weeks later he lost another.

At that time, the Tooth Fairy was tired. She was too busy at work and home, trying to get the stupid Christmas thing together and survive. And she forgot to come.

The next morning, my son ran to his room after breakfast and pulled the tooth in its baggie out from under his pillow. He showed me with a frown. “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come.”

Shit. “Well, honey, she’s probably really busy helping Santa out with things. I think they know each other.” His frown deepened a bit. “Or, Mom, maybe the cat got her when she came! He’d do that, you know.”

The cat got a steely eyed glare and I made the mental note. Tooth Fairy: 10 p.m. tonight.

And wouldn’t you know, I forgot AGAIN! This time when he woke, there was yelling. I heard from the bedroom “What the… Mom, she didn’t COME! What is wrong with her?”

Shit,shit,shit,shit,shit. “Well, Honey, maybe the cat did get her, I don’t know! Maybe ALL the kids are losing teeth right now and she’s really backed up because she’s short-staffed!” He left for school with the angry “what is this shit” look all over his face.

The guilt? I know it well. I made the mental note again. FUCKING TOOTH FAIRY! 10 FUCKING P.M.!

At 10:05, I remembered. And half asleep, I remembered that I had no cash. I frantically searched pockets, the bottom of my purse, hubby’s jeans. Nope. Nada.

And with a EUREKA that was heard around the world, I ran out to my car and searched under the floor mats, and Voila! I found four bucks.

The next morning, he came out of his room smiling. “Look! The Tooth Fairy came! She left me these coins and look! This one’s really dirty! It smells like coffee!” Off he went to school, happy.

And the Tooth Fairy? She and the cat now have a secret. And she always keeps coins in her car, safely hidden under the mat.

I really should win some sort of parenting award, shouldn’t I?

Happy New Year, my Ducks. I hope it is your best year ever. xxoo

I’ll Likely Win A Prize For This. Or Not.

It’s time for some search engine updates. If you’ve been here before you’ll know I get some of the damnedest searches that lead folks to this humble blog. And they slay me every time. This is also the way I tend to break out of a writer’s block. And I’m blocked, Baby, let me tell you. I’ve been working on a couple of things over the past few weeks and so far I have written “The”. I feel a Pulitzer in my future, oh yes I does.


female gunt

Why did you have to google that? Tell you what, you just hustle your ass down to Wally World or any good old-fashioned Monster Truck show and you will see the gunt. The gunt is not hidden there. The gunt shows itself proudly. The gunt has no shame. And every time you see the gunt, you must utter “The Gunt Abides” for no other reason than I said so.

everyone looks at me during yoga

That’s because your boob fell out of your top. It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.

shitting in my yoga pants

Um, I take back what I just said. I think I know why they are staring at you now.

fucking bored at sixty

Mom? Is that you? Go knit something.

grannies need a shag too

MOTHER!!! Get off the computer or I’m phoning Dad! Jesus…

what does it mean when someone says you look different in a good way

Well, they’re probably being a bitch. Don’t hang out with them anymore. (Either that or it’s back to that yoga pants thing and they’re trying to be nice. Are they standing far away from you when they said it? Check for shit.)

how can i show my boobs to my neighbour casually

Hmm. That’s tricky but I’ll try to help. Try pressing them up against the window when you are cleaning. Better yet, get a couple of those swiffer floor washing pads and stick `em right on your bare hoots and rub your hoots against the glass. It’ll seem way less obvious.

jesus holds my hand

Sweet. He’ll also hold your hair back if you are vomiting after a night of drinking. He has for me, anyway. At least I think it was him. All I remember was calling “Oh Jesus!” as I retched and someone showed up. But I was drunk so I can’t be sure.

i really like your beard, can I touch it with my vagina

I don’t know who you are but you are responsible for my husband growing a beard so I can say that to him all. the. time.

sore nostril

That might be because of that fantastic beard you have and all the vagina it’s attracting. Shave. Take a week off. Or get your finger out of your nose. Either one.

And my personal favorite,


*Batting lashes, blushing, giggling coyly* Me? No. Stop it! (Come back here any time, you silver tongued devil!)

That’s it, my Ducks. Feel free to share your best search terms in the comments. And yes, I still love you.


Sex Advice For The Rest Of Us

Sex is a hot topic as of late, due in part to that book ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. I haven’t read it as I just assumed she was like me and discussing her hair. It’s some sort of erotic fiction, bondage fantasy and I’ve read that the main fellow has very big fingers, which I suppose could be an asset if you are making obscene gestures in traffic but it kind of made me shudder with revulsion. (Leanne’s Life Rule #2: Pick your gynecologist and proctologist by the size of his hands. Just trust me on this. Smaller is better.)

Now we all know I have far, far too much time on my hands and periodically I will read a so-called sex advice column, just to see if there is anything “new” I should be aware of.  Truthfully, there isn’t, although I have been frightened by some of the things I’ve read (don’t ask) and heartily entertained by others. What I’ve noticed is the lack of common sense advice for all of us old marrieds who’ve done the deed at least 7,000 times. Sure, there are the Spice It Up articles but let’s be honest. If you’ve watched the same movie twice a week for the past ten years, you know how it’s going to end. It doesn’t matter if you fast forward or skip a few parts, someone is narrowly going to escape death in the final couple of minutes.

I think perhaps what is needed are some do’s and don’ts for us middle-aged monogamists. Just reminders, shall we say.

1. Don’t yawn.

I really can’t stress this enough. I don’t care how tired or bored you are, yawning during coitus is rude and knocks your partner off their ‘A’ game. And then 11 minutes turns into 15 and that will be the longest 4 minutes of your life. If you feel a yawn coming on, pretend you are overwhelmed by passion and turn it into an operatic song. You get your yawn out and your partner thinks they’ve done something incredible because my god, she actually sang! Win-Win, people.

2. Be very careful what new toys you bring home.

You may think it’s going to be fun but if you’ve never used a ball gag and mask in your sexy time before, you might scare the living hell out of your spouse. Certain spouses may actually believe that you are about to finally kill them. Looks around, makes finger pointy gesture behind hand at the other spouse that lives here. Same rule applies for handcuffs, billy clubs and oversize dildos. Apparently. I mean, I’ve heard. *cough*

3. Think twice before you surprise your partner.

Thursday after beers with your buddies might seem like a good time to enact your secret zombie rape fantasy, but if you leap out of nowhere growling at your mate in the middle of the night when she is on her way to pee, you are likely going to get punched in the throat. There will also be a pool of urine that needs cleaning up after the tussle.

4. Remove all distractions from the bedroom.

This includes dogs (it’s best to not have extraneous panting because it just ruins everyone’s rhythm), television (watching the game and yelling “Go, you sonofabitch!” is confusing) and the internet (although twitter is funny, it’s not nice to laugh at someone else while in the act).

5. Be positive.

Saying “What the hell was that?” or “Where did all this hair come from? Feels like a bear’s ass.” isn’t good for anyone’s ego. Other words off-limits are speedy, shorty, smelly and canyon. A thumbs up and “I appreciate your work” leaves everyone feeling good about themselves. Also acceptable is a naked “touchdown” dance move. That’s just funny!

The last bit of advice I can give you is probably the most important. As you age, skin cancer can show up. Please check for moles while you’re down there. That’s called “killing two birds with one stone.” Again, Win-Win.

You. Are. Welcome.

Let me know if you need more.