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.*


Stupid Monday, marching in at the beginning of the week, all Meh, and Meh, I’m Monday, Ha! Monday can kiss my ass.

So…I’ll fill you in on some things because Monday has me all miserable like a menstruating bear with a chapped vagina and someone said “Write about the things that make you happy”. You know what? Nothing makes me happy on Monday! NOTHING!

As to my absence from this dusty blog (My God, someone should vacuum this hell hole) I shall now attempt to explain. We live in the country and for 3 years have had high-speed internet and phone service provided by a company that rhymes with Snodgers. (I hereby release myself from all litigious action because you know what you did, you stupid dickwads, and I didn’t use your name so bite me.) (That’s legal, right?)

I am convinced that there is a built-in life span for all electronic products. Right around the time the warranty wears off, let’s say a couple of days after, all hell breaks loose. So for the latter half of August, our internet hub gave us sketchy phone and internet at best and finally stopped working COMPLETELY about a month ago. Dear Hubby, in all his masculine beauty, caressed my panicked forehead, deepened his voice an octave, grabbed the phone and said “I shall take care of this, my gorgeous and darling wife, as I know how important the web is to you.” You buying that last part? Yeah, me neither. *sigh*

But what should have been easy ended up with the said company sending us the wrong  $150 dollar part (that you can’t get anywhere else. Clever.), charging us for it plus shipping AND signing us up for another 2 years WITHOUT our consent. Oh boy. To top matters off, when Dear Hubs called 4 times to rectify this bullshit, he got YELLED at by the senior v.p. in charge of this fuckery. Hence no internet and no home phone. Does anyone know what this sort of thing does to a blogger? I’ve taken to writing things on paper in longhand and shoving it in the faces of frightened strangers saying “Can you read this? And comment? Tell me I’m funny, nice stranger! PLEASE!” How I haven’t been arrested is beyond me.

Wait. I’m supposed to be writing about things that make me Happy. Okey dokey.

One good and grand thing happened this summer that I haven’t had the chance to post about, what with the above, the dead dog, depression, what not. Ready? Are You Ready?

I got invited to be in an e-book. AND I got published in an e-book! Squeals! Joyous armpit farts!

It’s called All Cracked Up and is a collective of bloggers that are some of the finest humorists and story tellers EVER! Seriously, I read it and tears rolled down my face. I actually felt out of my league, that’s how good these folks are. Here’s the link.


If you do yourself one favour, buy this and snort laugh along with me. You’re welcome.

You know what? I do feel kind of …well, not happy, but less Monday-ish. But Monday can still suck it.

Oh and we got a new puppy but that’s a post for another day, which will happen soon because FUCK YEAH! We have internet again!

And don’t use any service that rhymes with Snodgers. They yell when they think they’re right.

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.*

Will Gratitude Give Me Less Back Pain?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh So Messy

Someone used the search “PMS makes me a crazy bitch” and found my blog.

Oh, sister. I share your pain. This past week has been as bad as any since I started, which is 31 years ago next month. Did you read that? 31 fucking years ago!!!!!!

The inner workings of my ovaries and uterus have caused great grief since I was 12. I’m not just talking about personal grief. Oh no. That would be too easy. It is grief that has blanketed all who are in my life with confusion and fear. I have even had co-workers and bosses mark on their calendars when the insanity and stupidity of my pms would be arriving.

Shit! What’s the date? Oh, christ. She’s messy!” Yes folks, I even taught them my shorthand for pms. It’s messy. I’m messy. Emotionally and physically. Don’t look at me!!! Waaaahhhh…

It’s been so bad that I have had people in my life walk up to me a week before my period starts and hand me a new box of Pamparin, with the words “I know you don’t know when your cycle starts, Leanne, but I do. Your gonna need this in 2 days. Oh and go buy yourself some pads.”

Shit. you. not.

(As a quick aside, guys? You know the whole Brazilian wax thinga-ma-boober going on down there? Not for esthetic purposes. It’s because no matter how careful you are as a woman wearing a sanitary necessity, you will inevitably get a couple of pubes ripped out by sticky tape. And that fucking hurts.)(I can hear several million women on the cotton pony now, yelping “Sonofabitch! ImagettinaBraziliantomorrow!)

This time around has been incredibly horrendous. I feel like I’ve been attacked by a Period Ninja. Kidney punch – KEEYAH!!!! Tailbone kick – HYAAH!!!! Speed bag boobs –HUMBANAHUMBANAHUMABANA!!!!!

Now, last spring I got sick. of. it. And like a good little girl, I trotted myself of to the health food store and got on some stuff recommended to me by my dear friend Karen of I believe ‘effortless periods’ was one of the phrases on the bottle. Sounded good, as I am really lazy. I took those and some other stuff and the universe and god smiled on my crippled hormonal bitch self and all was good. Until a month ago. When I ran out. And the stupid sales girl in the stupid health store said stupidly “Oh this is just as good. It actually will help you detox ‘bad’ hormones.” Bad hormones? Huh. They really educate you fucking people don’t they?

Anyhoo, I took the stuff. For 3 weeks. And after last week and 3 ninja cramp days, today I got pissed off.

Like a crack whore in withdrawal, I went back to that store, looking for “the good stuff”. There was me, pale, shaking, sweating, with a migraine flirting at my temples and my gunt bloated up 2 sizes, looking for relief. As I read the bottles, a lady sidled up next to me. We silently read the bottles and then I saw what the missing ingredient was. “Green tea! Look this one has green tea extract! This one doesn’t. That’s why this shit doesn’t fucking work! Just like everything else in my life, get me?”

She didn’t even smile sympathetically. She just sort of nodded and moved away. Maybe I was loud. Probably. I certainly got through the checkout quickly.

Then I went shopping. Which I should NEVER do when I’m messy. I buy the most ridiculous things right before my period and a few days later when the fog has lifted, I find myself wondering why I bought red skin-tight jeans with red tassels running down the side. Yet today, I found the exact perfect thing.

Yes. Today, yes.

Small issue. My 7-year-old is reading phonetically. He stared at this for a long time, sounding out the cuss word. Later on he said, “I feel like she’s watching me. No matter where I move, her eyes follow me.”

They do, son. They do.

Boobs and Birthdays

I turned 43 last week. Forty three. Fortythree. fortythree.furtytree.forryhree.

You know, if you say it enough times, it stops making sense.

I don’t particularly care about my age. It’s one year closer to death. Big deal.

I have a few wrinkles, more grey hair than I ever did. So what? I’ve earned every one of them. I’m all for passing the beauty torch on to the younglings that can handle the pressure. I did my turn.

But my boobs! My god, my boobs.

Now, I’ve never been a well endowed girl, and as I was a tomboy, they just got in the way. Alas, I’ve gained some weight in the past couple of years. Consequently, I’ve developed what my mother delicately refers to as a “rack”. And those things are just a pain in the ass.

Here’s my issue. Every birthday, I swear they drop an inch. It’s like they hate getting older and are moving south. Like retirees. Except south is towards my belt.


Last year at christmas, my mom and I were cuddled on the couch. She’s a rubber. You know the ones? They can’t just sit, they have to rub some part of you until the skin wears away and there is a bloody gaping hole where they’ve left the mark of their affection. The dogs like it. I don’t.

So she’s rubbing my arm, and I told her to stop. She asked me why. I said, “Mom, you’re kind of rubbing my nipple”. She jolted, howled with laughter and said “Jesus! Why is it by your elbow?”

Oh mom. I wish I knew.

A few weeks before christmas, our lovely neighbours called us at about 6 p.m. and said “We’re in our pajamas. And drinking. Come for pajama drinks.” Excuse me, but how badass is it to have folks in your life you feel so comfortable with that you can have drinks in your pajamas? PAJAMA DRINKS,PEOPLE!!!! Actually, it sounds a wee bit kinky, but these weren’t our orgy neighbours so we felt safe.

About half way through the evening, my friend Dee gave me a friendly stomach tickle. (Wait. This does sound kinky.) Anyway, it was one of those mom-love-ya grabs us mommies do, but sadly I had to tell her that what she’d thought was my side was actually my boob. I flustered the poor woman for a bit until I explained that now when I sit down, the girls tend to hover oh so gently to rest on my lap. An honest mistake.


I just don’t know why they’ve decided to become long and tubular. I thought that only happened to National Geographic tribal naked women. I’ve been so misled.

I’m already losing my navel behind them. “Where’s my navel? Oh wait, it’s right here, behind my boob. Duh.” What’s next, tucking them into my socks?

I’ve thought about getting them pierced. Not for any reason other than to slip a chain through one, lace around my neck and attach it to the other piercing. Kind of like a poor mans breast lift.  Might work.

But this is my advice to all the younglings. Don’t pierce your boobs! Don’t ever add weight to something thats going to sag naturally anyway.

As for me. It might just be time to buy a really good bra I can wear all the time. Do they come in tubular sizes?

Grounds For Divorce

My husband went ice fishing with a buddy this morning. No big deal, right?

Until I went to the fridge. I saw this as I grabbed milk and kinda thought,’ Well that’s funny. Why are these there?‘ Huh.

These are fake,right? Dear god, tell me these aren't real...

And then I went back to said fridge and grabbed one of these and read the package. And saw the wiggle.

Yup. Real. And alive. And very wiggly.


Me: What the fuck is this? Why are there maggots in my fridge?

Hubby: Well, they have to be kept cold.

Me: In the fridge???? I spend half my fucking life trying to keep maggots out of there!!!

Hubby, sighing: They’re not maggots if they’re bait. Duh…

Ummm, yes. Yes, they are. But you gotta admire his attempt at logic.

If you’ll excuse me, I must go bleach my fridge.

And beat my husband about the face and neck area.

December-Part 2

The week before christmas was oh so hard on me.

First, the bairn ended up with Strep throat. I do believe we ran on about 4 hours sleep for a couple of days, which means I lost a couple of days. Not good when you are the Planner Of Everything, particularly at Christmas time. I have a tendency to plot my days to the hour. It’s bad, I know, but it comes from almost 20 years of being a hairdresser (aka self-appointed Coiffeurist to the Stars)(and their dogs) and having ran late ONE time early in my career with a client that reamed me out and said he could never come back because “his time was too precious to sit and wait.” Read that as self-important prick that scarred 23-year-old me forever. Not really, but thanks, famous old-time CBC news anchor! So the boy went on antibiotics to cure that up. All good.

 At the same time, my friend… Well, I really need to tell you about my friend. I was a bridesmaid for her and about a year later, my hubby and I decided to get married. I didn’t want her to fuss and it was a private affair, so I phoned her and said “Will you be my witness?” Without a beat she said, “Yes!!! What did you do?” Now, there are friends, and then there are friends who will cover for you without thinking about it. She’s one of those. We’ve wept together, cheered each other, and held hands when it felt like no one else was there. She and her hubby tried for a long time to get pregnant and this year, lo and behold, they did. They have a small, impatient little boy, named Noah. He kicked the door open to get out 14 weeks early. He’s very tiny, but he’s a fighter. This is one of those times when I feel so powerless and I know there is nothing I can say or do to make it better. But, my dear ducks, I know how good-hearted you all are. I know you all have hearts as big as anything. So please pray for this baby and his family for me, will you? Take one minute, and send all the energy you can muster. He has great parents and he is much-loved. I can’t wait to see them all at home and happy and healthy.

On to Christmas day. Lots of fun for us to watch the boy with his gifts. Until about four o’clock, when he decided to try to turn inside out. For eight hours. I guess we’re lucky, this being our first vomitous christmas and all. I’ve heard some children actually seem to plan on getting puking sick at every family get together. Just to get attention. And to be assholes.

Sadly, my mother and I both got it on the 28th. Now I don’t know about you, but I personally think that vomiting anywhere but in your own home is best left to teenaged binge drinkers. I like my own toilet, with my own bed nearby. Because I don’t like spewing. It pisses me off. And hearing my mother retch did not help matters any. I lay limply in the bed that night, thinking “This is the shittiest christmas ever and I would like to kill everyone now.”

I didn’t. I was too weak to go on a murderous rampage. But, there’s always next year, right?

All in all, a weird couple of weeks. Emotionally and physically exhausting. The same for all of you, I’m sure. So I think we should make a deal. Lets all say ‘Fuck this shit’ save our money, and meet up somewhere warm and have a few nice cocktails and a foot massage. Sound good? I thought so.

Chill, People!!!

And no puking.

December-Part One

I’m home!!!!!!!

Oh home! How I missed you! If I could hug a house I would, that’s how goddamn happy I am to be home!

We went to the ‘Chewan for our lovely holiday visit. Nothing like driving 5 hours across bald, scrubby prairie to help one to understand the concept of horizon. It should be a very Zen experience. However, try doing it in a fully loaded Outback, with an almost seven-year old, who is perpetually in motion, a twelve week old kitten, a hundred and ten pound Shepard cross, and a thirteen pound lap dog.

I think we were an hour into the trip when the son started his plaintive calls of, get ready, “Are we there yet?” No shit. Every twenty minutes. Followed closely by “I’m borrrrrrred!” Look at the scenery, son. “What scenery???” Exactly.

Now, add in the big dog. She has always been a back seat driver. She cannot lay down and enjoy the trip. Oh no. She must get her head and upper body right between the buckets so she can see out the windshield and assess how well you are driving. This is very exciting to the old girl and the more excited she gets, the more she pants, therefore, the more she drools. As you are motoring along, your arm is getting wetter and stickier with each passing moment. Whats funny is that she is so big and sits so erect and close to your right shoulder, I’m certain it looks like some strange two-headed conjoined beast twin driving our auto. Either that or everyone thinks we have an extraordinarily ugly daughter. Who has a drooling problem.  

The small dog (we think he is a Pug/Jack Russell cross. A Jug, if you will) has a rather high-strung personality. This manifests itself in a non-stop vibratory shiver while in the car. The poor thing is a nervous wreck. He acts as if he is about to be raped and castrated at any given moment. It goes like this: Shake, open eyes, quickly smell penis, nutsack and anus to make sure they are all still there, give a dirty look to the closest human so they know you are watching them, close eyes, shake for ten minutes, repeat.

The kitten was an awesome traveller. She just hid until we arrived at our destination. We took her as a surprise present for my folks (read that as getting rid of her) but they were having none of it. We had a rousing game of ‘nonchalantly throw the cat in the car, nonchalantly throw the cat back in the house’ as we were saying our goodbyes. My parents won. Pricks.

The top cat didn’t come. I tried to get him in the cat carrier, but he is huge and wouldn’t fit. It was like trying to stuff a horse into a Corvette. But with claws. I decided to just throw him into the car and let him ride free. He escaped as soon as hubby opened the hatch, and it was a sight to behold, watching my poor man fighting with a huge ball of flab and fangs. Honestly, I don’t know who was more petrified, the man or the cat. So I got out and caught the miserable sonofabitch (the cat, not hubby) and brought him struggling and fighting back to the car, which I then quickly threw him into and tried to slam the door. Not surprisingly, he had his tail half out. Did you here the shriek over at your place? I opened the door as fast as I shut it and that cat flew out so fast, I didn’t have time to see where he went. Our neighbour let him in and fed him but he is still not speaking to me.

But we made it home today. I have had a hell of a couple of weeks. This is going to be a long one, so I’m breaking it up for you. Part two of it all tomorrow. 

Did I mention I’m glad to be home? *Hugging house*

 And does anyone need a cat?

He Means Well

My father is an interesting man. He’s an engineer by trade and any of you who have one of those in your family will know what I’m talking about. Engineers think on a different realm than you and I and therefore, flash their ‘geeky fucker’ badge even when trying to fit in with the rest of the world. It’s truly only been in the past couple of years that my dad has stopped wearing a fully loaded pocket protector around the house. I shit you not. I think he slept with that thing on in case he had to ‘make a quick note’. Sadly, he has replaced it with suspenders on his pants (even rainbow ones, like Robin Williams in “Mork from Ork’)(No fucking joke. Mom threw those out. Now he wears red ones. Or black. Depends on the mood.) and horrible dorkish watch cap hats, toques for us Canucks. But he doesn’t snug them down tight on his head. Oh no. He likes to pull them up into a cone right in the center of his bald pate. Gives the old noodle room to breathe.

Mom is beside herself.

“I got your Dad a new toque for christmas. Sonofabitch had to snoop at the receipt and found the sumbitchin thing so I gave it to him early. Oh good god, why can’t he wear it like a normal person? What’s with the cone? Your Dad has a pointy head anyway! Does he have to accentuate it? I am not going out in public with him!!”

This all said right in front of him.

Well, this is about the advice and such my dad has given me over the years. Not his gleeful penchant for looking like a dink. So here we go.

“Never get into a pissing contest with a skunk!”

All right. Sounds reasonable. I’d probably lose even if I could find a skunk willing to compete, only because I’d have to shinny my fat arse out of my too tight yoga pants and squat, being I is a female. But if it was a contest with a female skunk wearing yoga pants, I guarantee I’d win in sheer volume of liquid. Only because I drink a lot of water and forget to go to the bathroom. I can see the shamed skunkette now, lowering her tail in defeat.

“Always talk to the front end of the horse.”

Again, sound advice. I tried once years ago to have a vodka fueled conversation with the back-end of a horse. All I really remember is having a few of my teenaged girlfriends pull me up off the ground after slipping in horse shit. I don’t think the horse had much to say. But in future I will always try to find its front before I converse. Lesson learned.

“Put lipstick on a pig. It’s still a pig.”

No, it’s not. It’s Miss Piggy!

“Don’t piss in the wind!”

Are you seeing a theme here? I believe my father thinks I have a penis. He’s got one kid. How you could fuck that up is beyond me.

“Don’t shit where you eat.”

I think this was his attempt at career advice, and I hope that was it because, really?

“When you get a cold, go out to the bar. Drink lots of scotch. Your cold will get drunk and forget who it’s supposed to go home with.”

That one has actually worked for me.

“Men don’t understand froofy language. We need you to get to the point. When you say, I feel, all men hear is blah, blah, blah. Talk to a man like a man talks to a man. He’ll get it then.”

Best. Advice. EVER!!!

He took me to the dr. when I was 27.

“What are you going to the dr. for?”


“Well you can’t go to the dr. for nothing. What’s up?”



“What are you going to the dr. for?”

“Jesus christ Dad! I think I have a yeast infection okay?”

Stunned silence.

And then, my dear father, with a vague look of disgust on his face says,very quietly,

“You women. You’re always bleeding or leaking or something.”

Touche, Dad. Touche.

The poor fellow. For such a smart man, you’d think he’d know when not to ask. But he’s held his own with my mother and I. He’s taught me to change my oil and spark plugs, to throw a ball like a man. Even to throw a punch like one.(Don’t cross me!)And now, in my adulthood, he’s become a damn good friend.

But I really don’t want him giving my son any advice. Poor kid is confused enough with out all the strange animal platitudes.