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.


Why TLC Is Good For You

I watched some show on TLC the other night about extreme (read that as above 50) cougar (read that as horny) gals (read that as well, gals, I guess) that like to date or sleep with (molest) decades younger men. One of them got handfasted, which at first I thought was going to be a handjob, so I kept one eye on the t.v. and quickly made sure no one else was in the room. Oh shut up. You would have too, prissy.

I later found out that it’s an ancient marriage ritual from before they had marriage as we know it. As far as I can discern, some lady waves a shiv around, then ties your hand to your loved ones hand (against your will?) so you can never fucking get away. The knife part is to frighten you, because she’ll cut you if you even think about untying that knot. Really, it’s beautifully terrifying, like a real wedding is, though I think the wedding meal consists of leaves, dead grass and lake water and there’s likely some sort of bestiality involved, but it was still touching.

When he told his parents he’d married his love, who was older than his mother, the shit pretty much hit the fan. I completely see his mother’s point, as I think if my baby brought some heavily mileaged old trollop home, I’d play “let’s see who can accidentally get tripped down the stairs and land in a broken bloody heap” with her, which I’d win, of course. And even though my eyes melted a few times during the show, I learned something. I learned that no matter who you are or how fucked up you believe yourself to be, TLC finds people to put on television that make you look normal.

Watch away, my friends.

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

And So It Begins

This post might have a lot of typos and bad grammar but that’s only because I’m trying to write it while laying face down on my bed with a pillow over my head. The worst has happened. I may never be the same.

My seven-year old son has a girlfriend.

I knew it was inevitable but still. I asked him how his day was at school and he told me. Quite happily.

“It’s Lana, Mom. She told Cohen that she LOVED me!”

In my shocked mother-mind I thought,“Well, she’s a forward little thing”. But I just said “Okay.”

“Yeah. And she held my hand while we waited for the bus!” Mother-mind yelled “Whorebag!” My mouth said “What?”

“Well, she just kind of grabbed my hand, Mom. I only held it for a little while.” Mother-mind thought “What’s with this little hussy? After ONE day? Isn’t hand holding at 7 like third base?

I calmed down. Spoke rationally.

“Son, I’m not sure that’s allowed at school.” I did okay, right? “What do you think about this girl?” (That’s what you say, right? Supportive, interested, not wanting to slap some sort of chastity belt on your son? Right?)

“Well, last year, Cohen was her boyfriend and before that she liked Daniel. ” Mother-mind: “This broad sure gets around a lot, don’t she?”

“It might be okay if she and I went to the same College or University but we’ll have to see.” (Hear that? My boy is planning for his FUTURE! Take that, you grade two HARLOT!)

“Mom? I’m won’t hold her hand anymore. I promise. And you can’t tell anyone! If her brother finds out he’ll KILL me!” Mother-mind filed that piece of info away under Hmm . For later use.

“And Mom? We will never speak of this again. You must tell NO ONE.”

Apparently he doesn’t understand what a blog is. “Okay, my sweet, little, itty-bitty baby boy, my only child, my only one ever. Okay. Please don’t grow up too fast.”

He hugged me and said, “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll probably live with you when we get married anyway.”


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.


Rules of Life – Part One

Do we need to have this conversation? Really? Again? Well, alright. Here goes.

Mama Leanne’s Life Rules – Version 1,137

No 1.

One of, if not The stupidest rules I’ve ever heard is “Don’t go to bed angry.” What bollocky bullshit! Anyone in a long-term relationship or marriage has had the Stupid Fight that without warning spirals out of control into something ridiculous, inane and hurtful. We get emotional and each of us in our own way goes for the jugular.

Your toenails are like Eagle Talons! You fucking know you are leaving scars on my ankles EVERY night! It’s deliberate, I know it!

Oh yeah? Well my mom is a better COOK than you!

Gasp! Hurt tears. Plotting of untimely death of spouse…

Here’s my rule. Leave the fight. Go have a bath, hide in the office, take a walk, whatever, but Leave it. Let it lie. Sleep on it. Sleep is the great cure for nonsensical bullshit.

Note: The bed is also a great spot for passive/aggressive release. If you are still pissed off, you can steal covers, fart repeatedly and if you are in a slaughtering, mischievous mood, you may also place your obese feline friend ever so carefully across your partner’s throat. All of these work well to defuse anger. I’ve heard.

No 2.

If I work with you but barely know you otherwise, DO NOT tell me your problems. First, I probably don’t give a rat’s ass beyond the level of concern that I would give to a kleenex I just blew my nose into and second, it’s WORK, not free therapy. I don’t need to hear how your husband is an asshole, your kids are dildos and you have a hemorrhoid the size of a goat! Find a friend, get some help but as a rule, leave your fucking co-workers alone! It’s WORK! That’s why they call it that. ( And if I continue to feel your hot breath on my mid-back as you sneak up behind me to spew your dullard view of life, I will start walking around with my elbows out. You are short and if I turn fast, you’re gonna get it in the throat. Accidentally, of course.)

No. 3

There is absolutely no call ever to belch in public. Ever. There are no exceptions to this. Unless you are in a Burp Off, at which point you may be a semi-professional belcher and I might like to hear that. But otherwise, no. Just no. Same goes for a public crotch scratch. Don’t do that. (Why is your crotch so itchy anyway??? For the love of god, you’ve been going at that thing non-stop for like a minute!  I think you may need to see a doctor, Lady.) *moving back from the scratcher several feet.*


This rule goes well with No.3.

If you are going to offend someone, do it well and out loud. No point in being all namby-pamby. *shakes head at self, calls self a silly twat, wonders why self is referring to self as self, thinks self may have finally cracked up, possibly due to the overnight fart and cat smother fight self and husband had.*

No. 5

This may be the most important rule of all:

Never, never, ever, EVER go to an inexperienced waxer. Never, ever, ever. *wandering around with a bow-legged cant and a small bag of frozen peas on what is Formerly Known As The Black Hole, now known as %&*@!#&@%, singing ‘Purple Rain’ softly*

That’s it for now. If you need more, let me know. I can likely save the world with this blog. Probably.

Disclaimer: All resemblance to persons living, dead or zombified, and any similarities to any circumstances that you may think you’ve been in are purely coincidental. Probably. Except that crotch scratching one. That was totally you. Seriously, go see a doctor. Now.

I’m Back, Baby!

I believe my first words last Tuesday morning wereSWEET JESUS CHRIST IN A CANOE!!!” as I rolled off my bed and landed in a heap.

I tried to straighten up but no go. I thought “This is a new and funny feeling. Huh.” I hobbled down the hall clutching the wall, stooped and gasping like that suspected witch that lives in that creepy old house down the road. (She’s not a witch, kids. She’s just really fucking old.)

My son asked me if I was alright. Just the flu, Sweets. Right as rain later on.

By some act of sheer stubborn determination (otherwise known as stupidity), I managed to make his lunch and get him on the bus. No small feat, mind you, as when one is doubled over and stifling screams so as not to terrify your child, one tends to inadvertently bang one’s head on all manner of sharp corners in one’s kitchen.

After he was gone I decided I’d better Google, find out what this new nonsense was about. The search “Why does it feel like a cat is trying to claw it’s way out of the right side of my body” led me to some interesting fisting sites and a slew of appendicitis information. As I hadn’t been to any neighbourhood parties the night before (ahem) I went with the strong probability that my appendix was being a little bitch due to boredom and wanted out of the shitty place she was in. I think she was throwing plates in a drunken tantrum as well but I can’t be sure.

A quick call to my hubby and we were at the hospital. The nurse asked if I’d like some morphine for the pain. My response was to rub my hands together in glee, salivate a little and say “Does a bear shit in the woods?” She took that as a yes, bless her. After the 60 second interval it took for the drug to reach my brain, I looked at my hubby, gave him the gun finger and a wink and told him how fine he was looking. As we were walking to the x-ray lab (I know), I kept referring to my i.v. pole as “my little friend” in my best Scarface voice. I also told hubby that for our next anniversary, I really want one for a present. Yes. Morphine is good.

My surgeon was a lovely, amiable man. As he and his resident came to speak to me, I decided I really need to pee. I was on a bed in a hallway (yay) and swung my legs out of bed in some sort of strange, pain-filled, spread-eagle manuever that had my gown lifting up over my thighs. I’ve never seen two men scramble so fast to pull a dress down to cover a cooch. They were like fucking ninjas. Still not sure whose dignity they were trying to save but whatever. As I’ve said, morphine is good.

The surgery was laparoscopic. Three small holes, one above my navel, one on my left side and one above my pubic bone. They used a camera and two tools to remove the bitchy appendix. They were finished in 25 minutes. Wow. But (isn’t there always?) the worst part is they fill your abdominal area with air to expand everything so that they have room to work. And your job as a patient when all is said and done is to fart that wind out of you. Do you have any idea how hard that is? As humans we’re used to holding it in. I have new respect for farters, let me tell you. And no, that doesn’t give you free rein to “let `er buck” around me. No.

One week later and I’m mending, slow but sure. Although, my stitches have decided that rather than dissolve, they’re going to poke through my incisions, which is itchy as a motherfucker and will probably lead to a small infection. And scarring. Definitely scarring. The one above my pubic bone will not be tiny. I will likely never be in a bikini again. Unless, of course, I go all 70’s porn star down there and grow a full, bushy bush. Or I could possibly cover it up with something, like a hat. Do they make pubic hats? Holy jesus, we might have a million dollar idea here folks! Pubic hats. Someone get back to me on this.

*Special, heartfelt thanks to Dana and Scarlett and family for watching my boy. You have no idea what it meant for me to know he was safe and looked after. And my Mom for coming here. I love you. And yes, Mom, I did talk about my cooch.*