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

Blues Man

Back when I was in my early twenties, I moved out to Vancouver from Saskatoon. The chaps that I lived with had a shitty, roach and mouse infested studio/house in the infamous downtown eastside. It was an incredible eye opener for sheltered little me. I went from my heart bleeding with pity at the sight of the homeless and junkies around me to being able to step over a sleeping drunk and more than once yelling “Go piss on someone else’s doorstep!” Good times.

Not by design, I became a hairdresser in the fancy, wealthy part of town. (For clarity, I took my training and was quite good. I just never wanted to do it. Some jobs we fall into.) Twice a day, I had culture shock. I’d get dressed up and go catch my  bus. Inevitably, some dirtbag would cruise me and ask me if I “wanted to go for a beer.” I’d lose my shit and respond with a shrill “No, asshole. It’s 7:30 in the morning and I’m on my way to work. This is a bus stop. I smell like hope and beauty and if I was a hooker, you couldn’t afford me. Now fuck off, twatsmack, before I put one of my heels through your eye.” Okay, not really. I’d normally say “Um, not a Ho, friend. Have a nice day and good luck with everything.” Respect went further than aggression in terms of safety. It was still sort of insulting, though.

As I was getting ready one morning, I walked into the main part of the house and smelled the most heinous, throat-closing, nose-leaping-off-your-face-to-escape odour. It hit me like a wall and I called out “Jesus Christ!” (Why do we call him when something is yucky? FYI, he didn’t show up to save my olfactory glands.) I couldn’t figure out what had been horrifically killed by shit, wrapped in stinky cheese and left to rot around the house. As I gagged over my hand, I walked up to the window and peeked out. And there, on my step, leaning against my door, was a very overweight and smelly man eating his breakfast.

I knew that the restaurant down the street would sell their leftovers the next morning for a couple of bucks to the bums. I knew he likely needed the meal. I also knew that he was sitting in front of the only viable way out of the house and that my bus was coming in 15 minutes. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. Now what?

I sucked up my courage and thought, “To hell with it.” I knocked on the door, yelled “Coming out!” and opened the door. He leapt to his feet, his take-out in his hand and with a deep Southern drawl said “Oh! So sorry, Mam. So sorry!”

I locked the door and as he was walking away, I called him back. I said “Hey! It’s okay. Sit  down and finish your breakfast. I wouldn’t have interrupted you but I have to go to work.” He came back and yes, he was as smelly as you think. “Aw thanks, Lady! Where you work? Where your man at? I hear them fellas playing music here sometimes. I write some songs! I got some fine Blues songs I can sell to your friends.” “I’ll let them know. Gotta go catch my bus.” “Y’all shore is pretty. And you smell so good.” “Um, thanks. See ya.” “Where you work at? I come visit you sometime.” “Um, well, I do hair and it’s across the bridge so…” “Oh! You do the Gerry Curl? Like Little Richard? I’d like that on myself!” “Well, no, I’m not too good at black hair but I’ll ask around.” “Okay, Lady, y’all have a good day. I hope your man takes good care o’you. Tell him I said to!” And he sat down to finish his meal and I caught my bus.

A couple of months later, in the pouring, pissing Vancouver winter rain, I saw him downtown. I’ve never seen such a miserable looking human being in my life. He approached me reluctantly and asked for some money. I asked him how much he needed for the shelter and he told me ten more dollars. I gave him fifteen (which he didn’t want to take), and told him to get over there before it was full for the night. He barely met my eye as he said thank you. He then said, with his head sheepishly down, that if I ever needed some “luvin” that I could come and find him anytime. I thanked him with a polite no.

Shortly after that, I saw him once more. He was with some people who were already half dead from drugs. It made me sad. He never did come to sell us a song. And all I wish is that I could remember his name.

A Dog Shaped Hole In My Heart

I got Daisy when I was 31. I was living with one of, if not the best abusers on the face of the earth. He happened to be a police officer which made him that much better at it. He knew how not to leave marks. Every day was an interrogation, a trial, which I inevitably failed at. I lost 20 pounds in less than 6 months. I didn’t eat. I barely slept. Panic attacks became my reality and I started to shake when I knew he’d be coming home. He decided to move us out to the country. I believe it was just to have more control over me and less prying eyes.  At that time, I decided I needed a dog, as an alarm, as protection from cougars and bears.To let me know when he was coming home. And of course because I needed company.

My parents had come to visit and while they didn’t know precisely what was going on, I think on some level my dad knew how bad it all was. Without any forethought and with the abusive ratbastard beside him, my Dad bought me a puppy.

He handed it to me as if it  were a gold-plated sapphire. “It’s a female! There was some guy selling them outside of a tire shop! She was only 50 bucks! She peed on me on the way here but that’s okay. She seemed like the quietest one.” And lo, I had a dog.

I found out within a few days why she was the “quietest one”. She was sick. So, so sick. Didn’t eat, wouldn’t drink. I made 3 trips to the vet, Daisy staying overnight with an I.V., just to bring that poor sick little puppy around. Abusive ratbastard kept raging about how a bullet would be cheaper than that fucking dog. I didn’t care. In less than 2 months, she went from a $50 dog to a $900 dog. But she was mine. The more he tried to crush me, the more I loved the dog. When I thought about ending me, I stayed here for the dog.

I think I’d had Daisy 3 months when I left. She gave me the strength and love to move on. After that, it became “love me, love my dog”. Two years later, she went on the second date I had with my hubby. He passed the test.

Daisy was with me through our courtship, baby and marriage. She was treated as a member of our family. My hubby bonded with her when Daisy went fishing with him and had to lick every fish he caught. When she greeted him at the door at the end of the day. And when we brought our new baby son home, she sniffed him head to toe and wagged her tail, as she finally had her own child to play with.

I kept her here for maybe 2 years longer than I should have. Her hips were gone, to the point that she had to be helped up a couple of steps to get into the house. She was losing her bladder control. Her breath. I made the decision last Saturday. I knew. She knew. We were both very brave as we took our final walk and car ride. She had chicken for breakfast and a hot fudge sundae as a treat. Chocolate is bad for dogs but on their last day here exceptions can be made. I held her and thanked her for all she’d meant. She butted foreheads with me, which was her “I love you and I get it” sign. It was peaceful. And my heart broke.

We went away for a few days this week as a distraction from our grief. When we got home I checked messages. The vet had phoned and Daisy’s ashes had arrived at the office. I dropped everything and told my boys,”I’m going to pick up our girl and bring her home.” They both got teary and nodded.

Tonight is a blue moon and we sprinkled her ashes around the yard she loved so much. How perfect. How fitting for my rare dog.

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened. ~Anatole France 

Bye, Daisy. Good girl!

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.

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. lgmoffat@gmail.com, twitter @gustyduck.





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.

Old Pie And Erma Bombeck

This weekend I had not one but two people describe me as an “Erma Bombeck” type, except more cussy. At the time, I thought they were talking about my writing (ahem) but after today, I’m wondering if they weren’t describing me in appearance.

I’ve realized that I’ve become Everyone’s Mother. Truthfully. I’m yours and yours. Likely yours. Let me explain.

I turned 43 in January. It didn’t really bother me much. I figure on a really good day, if it’s overcast, a bit foggy, at dusk and you are standing 30 feet away, I can easily pass for 42. I’ve hit “That Age“. That matronly, oh-so-unshaggable age. Where everyone except the 60 to 70 year-old crowd thinks of me as a barren field that never needs plowing. Of course, my husband is not included in that, as he is mandated by our vows and in the eyes of god to throw the stick at me on occasion. If I’m not too tired. But to the rest, I’m old pie.

On the rare (oh so rare) occasion that I actually catch some myopic, possibly drunk man checking me out, two thoughts go through my head. The first is “I must have put my bra on over my shirt again” and the second is “Do I have a booger flapping out of my nostril?”.

I’m fine with it. Really. With the age comes the shift in thinking as well as behavior. I have no problem doing the shirt tag tuck on you. Mentioning that your fly is open. Letting you know that you have a little something on the corner of your mouth. I might even wipe it off for you. When I meet or talk to young men I think to myself, “Oh he’s such a nice young man! I hope my boy turns out like him!!!” See? Motherly. Matronly. I’m an Erma.

This afternoon, I stopped for gas. As I was pumping fuel, a man on a motorcycle pulled up. I’ve always had a bike interest so I glanced over, in my head thinking “Please let it be an old Triumph! Please!” It backfired and stalled and he said “Son-of-a” and stopped because he saw my middle-aged mommish face.

As I went to pay, this big 6″5″ leather clad, bearded biker chap followed me in. While I was waiting for my transaction, the cashier asked him if he had his discount card, to which he replied that he didn’t. I turned and smacked him across the shoulder and said in my best lecturey mom voice (complete with finger wag) “You’ve got to get one! Five cents off a litre!” He stammered something about he gets gas all over the place (Oh really? Me too!), to which I shook my head, frowned and said “That’s no excuse!” And as I walked out the door (which he held open) he said “Have a nice day!” To which I responded, and I quote, “You too, my dear! Have a safe ride!” He was probably around 30 and a badass. But to him, I was Mom. An Erma.

Holy mother of God, it’s like looking in a mirror!!!

I give you one of Erma’s quotes on aging: “The only reason I would take up jogging is so I could hear heavy breathing again.”

The hubby just walked by, glanced at me working on this and said “Where’d you get the black and white photo of yourself? It looks good.”

I’m not sure whether to play fetch with him or give the stick to the dog to gnaw on.

Erma. Me. Yeah.

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 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


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


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. http://blogwest.ca.

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.