Family Vacation (Now With More Snakes)

I have so many posts I have to write but due to absolutely craptastic internet connection and rampant depression I’m behind. To catch you up on my summer, I’ll use three words:It sucked shit.

I took forever to heal from my appendix surgery, as my stupid body is getting old and cranky about such things as being cut open. I remember the days I could fall down a flight of stairs or get in a knife fight and be up and around in a week. (Only one of those is true, surprisingly.) So I mostly laid around and gained weight. I also had to put my old dog down and that was terrible. And I ended up with bronchitis. The end.

Kidding. But yes, I have been battling an epic case of depression. To the point I just felt like giving up, laying my head down and letting it all go on without me. But that’s not who I am. The anger sets in and I get furiously busy being furious at my mood. Then I start making lists. Lists of what I’m afraid of, what’s holding me back, why I never let this depressed me win out. What I would say to myself if I had the chance to step out of my head and give myself one hell of a good talking to. It goes something like this:

Smarten the fuck up! Life is for the living! You have a child! Get on with it! Look at this place! Clean it up! It could be so much worse! You could live near snakes!

Snakes? My primal fear. I will repeat my feeling on snakes for you. Ahem.

The only good snake is a snake that eats another snake, feels guilty about it and then commits Hara Kiri.~Leanne Moffat (Yes.You may quote me.)

I decided we needed to salvage some of the summer, get away from our grief, me to get over myself. Here in Alberta there is an interesting place called Drumheller. They’ve found many dinosaur skeletons there and have a wonderful museum. It’s also home to a place called Reptile World that has all manner of nightmare inducing reptiles. Destroying primal fear and dinosaurs? Can you say two birds with one stone? Off we went.

The World’s Biggest Tourist Trap, I mean Dinosaur.

We paid $29 to climb 100 steps in 30C heat. We took a picture to prove we’re idiots.

RAWR! (I just wanted to type that once in my life.)

I managed to hold him still for a moment.

A good perspective. Mildly interesting for the boy. For 6 seconds.

He’s good here and happy, because I had to tickle him to make him smile. Miserable little bastard.

Look at the sunshiney joy in his face! All because I said something like “Get the hell away from the canyon edge!”

“Hold it? Okay!” Notice my hovering, ready to grab it and kill it.

Now this, this is COOL!

At this point, I had a nice convo with the young, sweet snake man. He said “Would you like to hold her?” I asked him if red made her pissed off, like a bull. “Um, no, they can’t see colour.” You’re certain she won’t get all bitey with me? Because of the red? “Um, well, she’s 18 and she has bitten anyone yet.” I’m certain he’s lying but go ahead. Primal fear, be damned!

Oh Dear God! I’m about to hold a fucking snake!


I’m alright…I wish it would quit fucking moving.

Okay, it’s been 2 seconds. I think that might be enough now.

I did it! I held a SNAKE! Yay me! I actually even watched them eat. I learned. Fear now over.

That’s this one for now. Oh wait. One more.

Signs all over telling you not to crawl on or hump the fake mini dinosaurs. Hello? Dangling candy in front of an immature woman!

A good fun trip. It helped. Broke the funk.

I am getting happier, sillier day by day.  Fingers crossed.

Love you all.

Simply Tricky

I’ve been having wild anxiety lately, to the point it’s almost crippling me. I find it hard to leave my house. My stomach feels as if a cobra is fighting with a … well, another cobra.

Sorry. I couldn’t really come up with anything else that is quite as horrifying to me. I HATE fucking snakes. Don’t even say snake, always say “fucking snake” around me. I’ve said before that the only snake I like is a snake that eats another snake, feels really guilty about it and commits Hari Kari. I don’t hold that god or satan created snakes. I think they fell here from some strange alien planet where the people freaked out and said “Jesusmurphy, those things are scary motherfuckers! Lets get rid of them!” and herded them all onto a meteor that landed here.

Even as I write this, my stomach is churning. Remember my craptastic adventure? Turns out, nothing was wrong. Nothing physical. I phoned the hubby to tell him the results. He said “That’s good, right?”.

No. It’s actually bad. Really bad. An illness would be simple. If this is emotionally related, mentally related, anxiety related, it becomes tricky.


With the anxiety comes the depression. With the depression comes the anxiety.


I know how it works. I also know that unless I buckle down and buckle up, do the work and tear the shit I’m carrying away from my psyche, I will get worse. That is unthinkable.

I’m ready. I can do this. It’s not going to be that hard.

Some people will have to be purged from my life. Others (my Soph, my Kathy, my Mary) I will hang onto for dear life. And my hubby. I’ve really never met a better man. He doesn’t pretend to understand. But he gets it. And he believes in me like no other.

I’ll share with you folks what I feel comfortable with as I go through this, in trust that just maybe some of it will help you or someone you love.

And don’t worry. I haven’t lost my sense of humour. I’ll still post my nonsensical bullshit to make you smile. I really love it when you laugh. It distracts the snakes. Well, that and rabbits.

I’m ready. I can do this. It’s not going to be that hard.

Be kind to each other.

p.s. As ever, I’m here if you need to talk., twitter @gustyduck.





An Open Letter To A Blogger (Not You.)

Dear Well Known Blogger: (No, not you, or you, or you.) (Quit it! It’s not you!!!)

I read you for a couple of months a year or so ago. I liked your writing and you had a great back story. Very sad, indeed. But you wrote it well. I followed you on the twit and Facebook. I wanted to know you. I really wanted to like you. I imagined gleefully meeting somewhere, having a beer. I wanted to like you as a person, not just a bloggy face.

But then…

Well, I have issues with the whole social media thing. I do. This spring I bore witness to the worst aspects of it, when a blogger got bullied and chest butted by another blogger’s husband over what I consider something so benign as to be laughable. On twitter. For the world to see. What I found so incredibly disturbing was that this was a case of cyber-bullying, in essence, by a person that brands himself as a family man. I think I get it. He mistakenly thought he was standing up for his wife, yet the way he went about it left me to wonder what he would have done if he’d had physical access to the person that offended him.

Is this what we’ve become? Is social media just the new jungle gym to knock someone else off of? Does anyone think of the embarrassment that they may cause? Or the pain?

Back to you. I stopped following you on the twit after I saw one of your tweets congratulating a country on their killing of a madman. Like Yay! He’s dead! Way to go! That just flat-out gave me pause. If you are a person that advocates for others (which you do), why would you ever tweet about anyone’s death like that? I didn’t get it. I unfollowed you and stopped reading. But like I said, I really wanted to like you. For you.

I just came back to you a few days ago. I was almost excited. Like reconnecting with an old friend. But you did it again. You insulted someone on twitter. Someone that had done a lot of work, laid themselves out in front of people. Someone who didn’t deserve to be made fun of because they were sharing their truth as they see it. You called them a name. I ask you; if that person read your ‘harmless’ little tweet, what do you think they would feel? What if that person made their living this way? Who are you to piss on them?

Again, I think I get it. I’m of the mind that you think you are as famous as The Bloggess. That just maybe, you can call people out and be rude when you feel because you are “famous” and no one will take you to task. Well, I’ve read almost all of Jenny’s work and I will say this. If she has to get into a shitfight, she manages to still do it with humour and dare I say, a semblance of class. If she calls out her minions on twitter, all of us now happy members of The Unicorn Success Club, she also can call us all back. Do you know why? Because we are all nice people. We read her because she has a good heart and like attracts like.

Having said that, if I have to be a social maven who is rude, mean and thinks others are beneath them to be successful at blogging, I guess I want no part of it.

I think I’ll happily stay here in my own dimly lit little corner of the web. I hope you are aware that if I tweet, as I’ve been known to do, the biggest person I make fun of is myself. And I never high-five anyone’s death. I don’t care who it is. That is just bad form.

I think that’s it. If you do read this, I can only hope that you realize that fame is fleeting. Someday soon you’ll be second-hand news. I also hope you learn that an inner censor is not a bad thing. You are better than some of the things you’ve put out to the world.

I Need A Do Over

Hey folks! What did you get for Mothers Day?

My son gave me the requisite handmade card with a poem, which was beautiful. (I’m a sap. I keep everything he makes me. I’ve kept all of his clothes and I have a tough time washing off kisses. Okay, awwwww.) But the not so good part was that he woke me at 6:30 to give it to me. Apparently his teacher forgot to mention how it’s a law that mom gets to sleep in on that one day. But the even better part was that as he was coming out of his room, he stepped in a huge lake of dog urine and had to freak out and shriek “GROSS!!! Mom, it’s still hot!!! Hurry!” for me to come and clean it up. That was just the start. Our old, suddenly incontinent dog pissed herself again not once, but three more times that day. I wasn’t angry with her. It’s just, come on, Mothers Day? She doesn’t seem to be in pain, but I know I’ll have to make some decisions.

Surprisingly large bladdered dog. She is alive in this pic, but she sort of has a “Please, kill me now” look on her face.

So the hubby, who is just abysmal at gift giving, got up that day and hurried into town. And came back three hours later with dirt.

“Happy Mothers Day! I got you dirt for your flower beds!”

My Mothers Day dirt.

Um, Thanks? Is there a card?

“Shit. No. But here’s a shovel.”

I thought perhaps he was willingly going to let me bury him, but sadly not. It seems he won’t go down without a fight. He’s sort of an asshole that way.

The day was spent with me, alternately, shovelling dirt and wiping up urine. It got so confusing and frenetic that at one point, I strapped the spade to my belt and tucked the roll of paper towel in my bra strap, just so I was prepared. Hubby looked at the vision of his dirty, smelly wife and said “Nice outfit”. To which I bellowed “I AM A MACHINE!!!” and flexed a non-existent muscle.

I think he felt a bit sorry for me so we dropped everything and drove to town to get a cheesecake. On the way back we stopped at our local overpriced beer, gas and condom store, where they have six baby bunnies living under the deck. (Yes, I asked about that. I guess it’s almost impossible to get a condom on a rabbit.)

So the son and I watched these cute little hand sized bunnies hop around for a while. Oh, such a bad idea.

“Mummy, I really, really, really want a bunny!” in his best whiny, nobody loves me voice.

My brain kicked into exhausted overdrive.

“No, you never, ever want a baby bunny. You have to rip its head off and drink its blood at age ten as a right of passage into manhood. It’s just awful.”

“Um, what?” with his best ‘you’re shitting me’ voice. Then his dad chimed in.

“It’s true. And I had to take a bite out of the still-beating heart of the first deer I ever shot.”

To which I replied, “Are you kidding me? You expect him to believe that?”

“And the bunny story makes more sense?”

We argued about which tale would scar him less all the way home. The son sat in the backseat quietly. Rolled his eyes a few times and sighed his ‘you guys are so fucked up’ sigh. Minimal damage done.

The day ended with showers, cheesecake for supper and a movie. But next year? Right after my morning kisses, I’m getting the hell out of here. I think it’ll be safer for all.

Joy: Revisited For Mothers Day

*This was my first ever post, almost a year ago. It’s one of my favorites.*

As the lucky mother of a six-year-old son, I have had the great fortune of experiencing joy on a daily basis. This often happens during the most mundane and private moments of my life when I am least expecting it. And I am thankful every time.

Sitting on the pot and having small son fly into the bathroom with a Nerf gun shrieking “Gunfight, Mummy!” After the initial physical terror of being bombarded with soft projectiles in the midst of my morning constitutional and when my heart rate has slowed, I take a moment, and realize that having Son in my life has made even my toilet time a place where instead of being alone and bored, I now feel excitement. Also empathy for all our men in combat.

Having a bath and attacking the jungle that nature has given me for a bikini line, and in the middle of dangerous contortions with a razor, the young joy spreader flings open the door in all his urgency to share. The cute little look of horror and shock on his precious face as he looked at me and whispered “Mum, you cut your penis off.” Wow. Just, wow. I cannot describe what I felt looking at this little person and thinking of the adult he’ll become because of this moment. Almost breathtaking.

Giving the beautiful soul a kiss while he is sobbing. And with God’s perfect timing, having him sneeze a boat load of warm gooey snot at the exact second my mouth was aligned with his nose. Oh, the peals of laughter as he watched me gag and run for a towel! I knew then I had made his day.

Joy. Being a mother has opened me to joy. Plus a few nervous tics and a small drinking problem, but mostly joy.

Happy Mothers Day. Have fun!


I’ve been having some issues as of late. For the past month and a half, my bowels have become irritable. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss them off so. I guess they just think I’m a bitch and have decided to wreck my life.

Oh my. Have they! I’m exhausted, riding the edge of dehydration. I can’t think well as my intellect has been blunted by the lack of nutrition, my home skills have waned (putting it politely. This house is a half step from condemned.) and my social skills have dulled as I can’t leave my house to talk to anyone.

You now those nice adverts for incontinence underwear? My sarcastic (assholish) husband has been pointing them out to me.

“See that? You can’t even tell if they’re FULL! They look just like your panties! Maybe a little sexier.” It’s comments like this that put the shovel in my hand.

My friends have been sort of half supportive. I believe the comment I heard a few times was “We have a toilet, you know.”

That’s dear of them, but there are certain things I try not to share with any of my fellow-men and women if I can avoid  it. I actually left health care because I was fed up with other people’s shit. I’m one of those women that gets angry when I walk into a rank washroom. I do not believe in public defecation. If you are over the age of 10, you should be able to make it til you’re home.

I went to the Doc. When I told him what was going on and for how long, he gave me one of those looks. The quiet “You waited how long? You silly bitch.” See, the problem is I worked in the hospital too long. I live by the ‘If it’s not falling off, spurting blood, and if you can’t see the bone, you’re all good’ rule. Fluids and Tylenol, you’re golden, now fuck off! There is a reason I’m not a nurse now. You’re welcome.

To that end I am being tested. The likely culprits? A bacterial infection or parasites. Stop for a second. Parasites. Oh…

I’m betting on it. I’m one of those organic, raw food eating dumbasses. (Can you smell the patchouli? Would you like a glass of bong water?) Alright, I’m far from a hippie, but I just like good, real food. But with that comes this risk. Whatever. I’ve decided to name my parasites, get to know them. There is Pamela, Percy, Paul, Peter, Petunia, Poppy, Poopsy, Poopsy, Poopsy (those are the triplets)…

By my reason, If I get to know them, I may be able to coax them out. My hubby has offered to hold a sandwich by my backdoor to tempt them. (Yes. Digging a shallow grave as we speak.)

The fun part? I get to have a colonoscopy! Yay! Whee! Balloons and confetti!

So if you are having a bad day, take comfort in the fact that soon I will have five feet of tubing with a camera on the end shoved up my ass into my gut to take a look around. See what the parasites have done to the old place. I just hope he doesn’t have to shove a lamp up there first to light the way.


Will Work For Cheap

Hubby: I think it’s time you got a job.

Me: And what is wrong with the occupation I have now?

H: Umm, what might that be?

Me: Well, I have several.

H: Go on…

Me: Let’s see. I’m a wife, obviously. That takes up time.

H: Hmm.

Me: You do require a fair bit of effort, you know. There’s feeding you, making sure you cut your toenails. Nagging.The nagging alone is a 35 hour a week endeavor.

H: Okay. What else?

Me: Mothering. Hello? Remember that 10 pound ball of flesh I pushed out of my vagina? Turned into that skinny blonde kid? That didn’t happen by itself, you know. I have had to mother the snot out of that thing just to keep it going.

H: He’s in school full-time now. You’ve done well.

Me: Thanks. And then there is blogging. Twitter. Cat herder. Being a gusty windbag. All of this stuff going on…*sigh*

H: Yeah, about that, umm, what’s the cat count at now?

Me: I don’t know. Sixty? Sixty seems about right.

H:  You can’t take a fucking step in this house without tripping over a cat.

Me: Exactly!!! Keeping everyone safe from the cats is a fulltime job.

H: So, what does all this “stuff” you do pay?

Me: Dude. You can’t put a dollar value on what I do in a day. Is this about money?

H: Well, no. Not really. It just seems like you are, I don’t know, not thriving.

Me: Have you been listening to Dr. Phil? Thriving.The fuck?

H: Well, it’s 6:30p.m. You’re still in your pajamas.The boy is eating peanut butter out of the jar and you are shovelling mac and cheese out of the pot into your mouth with your bare hands.

Me: Whafst? Hmp? *wiping hands on pajama pants and swallowing* Look, eating peanut butter out of the jar is a right of passage! He has to learn how to survive before he gets to college! And as far as the pajamas I only put them on at 3:00.

H: Why the hell would you put them on at 3 p.m.?

Me: Because, Dumbass, I can’t very well go pick the kid up at the bus in my panties, now, can I??? Duh!

It’s about this point that voices were raised, some cussing and eye rolling ensued. I’ll spare you the deets but suffice to say we got down and dirty. One of those good old-fashioned name calling, threatening kind of fights. The fight where you walk away from each other, wondering where the shovel is and in which corner of the yard the dogs would be least likely to dig up a corpse.

But…the sumbitch is right. SHHHHHHT! Shut your mouth! Never tell him I said that! *showing you my shiv, making frowney eyebrows*

To that end, I started looking. Here’s the shite part; I absolutely, unequivocally do not want to do any of the jobs I’ve ever done and am even remotely qualified for. But I’ve been trying. It’s going a little something like this…

So, Mrs. Flummshitz, why do you want this position?

I answer with all of the called for responses. (And in my crazy little head, to entertain myself, ending each response with ‘Your Momma’!)

And could you explain the 4 year gap in your employment?

I lost my sitter and couldn’t find another. (I was raising my CHILD, you horse’s ass! Your Momma!)

Pardon me?

Oh nothing. (JESUS SHITSTICKS! Did I just say Your Momma out loud?)

I thought I heard you say you were a momma, which I understand. Anyway, what else did you do during this time?

I studied such and such, which I’m in the process of completing, blah, blah, blah (Mostly I looked at shit on the internet that would make your pubes straighten, you little twerp.)

Okay. Almost done. Could you describe yourself in three words for me?

At which point, I’m so fucking bored and so very certain I don’t want this job, all I dream of doing is leaning over the desk, getting close to his face and saying very slowly,

I. Have. Gas. (And with a wink and an upraised middle finger taking my leave! YOUR MOMMA!)

The job hunt continues. But if anyone wants to pay me for all of this *sweeping arm around, showing you the splendour of my words and nonsensical bullshit*, please let me know. I will work for boxed wine.


I was supposed to be working on this blog this weekend, a new layout, just generally tidying it up. Instead I cleaned and organized the basement, a couple of closets and washed all the clothes. For I, dear ducks, am a Master Procrastinator!

I think it’s a real ‘thing’. A degree of sorts. I’ll tell you how to attain my level of masterhood. Do you have a term paper due, perhaps no less than 10,000 words, that requires much reasearch on a topic you know nothing about? Let’s make it complete with a bibliography and footnotes. Hey, SUNSHINE! Leave that damn thing until 8:00  p.m. the NIGHT BEFORE!!! Yeah. Do that.

Painting the bedroom? Well, you just leave that one wall taped off. You’ll get to it a week before you sell the house. Do not clean your freezer out, don’t even think about it unless and until there is so much frost surrounding your bag of peas that you cannot close the door. Hey! You’re almost there!!!

Okay. To attain Master level, find out that there is a blog conference in your town that you want to go to. To learn and mingle. Let’s call it BlogWest.

Be so excited that you could almost piddle like your girldog. Then realize that everything you do is crap, that you need to do ‘stuff’ before you are comfortable meeting your peers, call your friend, who is also your designer, and have her become your touchstone because she knows you are fucking freaking out. Let her put you on-task to the point she makes you write shit-to-do down (Leanne, write this down. Are you writing this down? Write this down.”) Tell her you are, but secretly be filing your nails. Tell her you love her, because you do. Immediately forget what the fuck she just said the second you are off the phone.

Now go clean your basement. And while you are cleaning, realize that every single thing you have ever thought of writing has left your head. Have an anxiety attack. Perhaps have a drink or two. Maybe promise to mail some good strong Canadian beer to your American blog friend because, really, why the hell not? Maybe say something stupid on twitter. Like  ‘Yep. Serial killer describes me perfectly’ or something equally stupid. Have it taken out of context. But favorited by a few folks. (Cool.)

With the clock ticking, decide that you’ve had enough of your own bullshit. Get your ducks in order and get on with it! Do whatever it is you have to do as well as you can. (Wish that you had started sooner.) 

There. You have now become a Master. I once had someone tell me procrastinators work better under pressure because they have to! Truer words were never spoken.

Now, about this old blog. There is now a twitter button here so go ahead. Follow me. It’s not scary! And a Facebook like page that I just started up, where I will put stuff from here, funny things, serious things, whatever. So we can interact a bit. Because YAY! I’m fun and you probably are too!

Also, Mama Duck is going to be doing some writing prompts and competitions right away. So I’ll let you know what and when they are right here, but I’m giving you ample warning so you don’t read something about my brother becoming a mass dog murder and flip your shit because you think I’ve finally lost it. It will be FICTION. So just calm down.

I think that’s it. And for the record, I started this post, then got hungry, watched ‘The Walking Dead’, twittered, read other blogs and finally decided to finish it.

Master. I am.

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 (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.)

Wishes and Hopes

This post will show up as January 2nd, but trust me when I tell you that here in the dark underbelly of Canada, it’s still the 1st.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish you all good mental health.

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

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

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

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

Love, Me *hugging you all through the internet*