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.*

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  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

Dreams, Diet and The Eye Shat

Wow. It’s quiet in here…

Which is odd, as I just woke up from a dream in which the Dalai Lama actually asked me to leave his four star resort/meditation monastery because I could not stop talking during meditation. In my dream it was a terrible misunderstanding, as we were in the midst of a releasing excercise and one of those old highschool mama’s boys (you know the ones) burst into tears because he said I was standing on the fake grave he’d imagined for his mother, who hadn’t died yet. I tried to explain that it was unintentional, but mammas boy wouldn’t listen to reason. I also tried to explain that it was a fake invisible grave, so how the hell would I know where he put it but the D.L. told me I was being disruptive and asked me to go. He was very nice about it. But still. I then went to find hubby to get him to pack up, and as it turns out, he had found a new friend and was in the attached sports bar watching the hockey game. I tell you, that is some fancy Buddhist retreat. I should really be the business manager for the Buddhists. Ideas, my friend, ideas.

So in the past while, I’ve been trying to lose some weight. It’s not that I’m big, but if I don’t change my habits now, this winter I’ll be giving Santa a run for his money. As I’ve always burned most of what I’ve eaten, this whole weight gain and loss thing is a flipping mystery to me. I really feel for people who struggle with this their whole lives. But I’ve started eating way too much. To combat this, I am eating a lot of Middle Eastern food, things like couscous, dal, and humus. Yes, my friends, I reek of garlic and onion! Can you smell me over there? My hubby keeps asking if I have any gum. And I keep trying to neck with him. S’fun.

I’ve also started taking a fiber supplement that its supposed to fill you up. It also cleans out every dark, forgotten corner of your bowel, which is okay, because I’m a bit of a neat freak. But it has an unfortunate side effect of producing extremely loud gas. With every step you take. While it is not malodorous, it is going to be a bit inconvenient. Today, in turn, I have made the small dog bark, the big dog look at me and ask “Is that gunfire?”, and I also managed to make the cat stop his frantic licking of his non-existent balls (they’ve been gone 3 years! Give it up, already!), and with his tongue still hanging out, he looked at me and said “Good God, Woman! Was that you?” I generally don’t enjoy flatulence, and I try to avoid it at all costs. But this… this could be fun! It’s like having my own personal stock of chinese firecrackers up my ass! I think I’ll try to punctuate everything I say to my family with a nice loud bang.

I’ve also had an unwanted guest for about the last month. I have a clogged tear duct that has taken on a life of its own. Honestly, this thing has started to grow arms and even a mouth. It’s been talking to me in the middle of the night. “Hey. How you doing?” “Okay. Could you leave now?” “Nooooo. I like it here. Shhhh. Go back to sleep. Dream of the Dalai Lama. Shhhhh… Lullaby and good nite…”Oddly enough, it sounds an awful lot like William Shatner. While I love the Shat and his velvet voice, I think maybe I’ve been listening to his new cd too much. That is courtesy of my dear hubby, who puts it on, giggles and sings/talks right along with it. Obviously, neither of us has a life.

I went to my physician after not being able to get it to go away on my own. “Hmmm…” he said.

“Can I poke at it?”

Umm, no.

I quote directly:”Come on, let me poke at it! Don’t be a baby!”

I let him poke at it. No one calls me a baby! I even held the lighty thingy for him. Would it be okay to tell you that it hurt like a BITCH when he was done. And nothing happened. So with a “Thanks, asshole” on my part, he’s decided to send me to a opthamologist. Tomorrow.  I’m a bit sad to see Eye Shat go, as we’ve built a bit of a relationship. But I’d like to be able to wear mascara again at Christmas.

Hubby asked me how I’d feel if I had to wear an eye patch. I told him I would then get to pretend I was a pirate. And I would talk like one all. the. time.

Arrrr, matey. A gassy,windy pirate with my own built-in cannon sounds. I think I have my Halloween costume ready for next year! Squeal!

Wish me luck.

October Part One

Ready? Because this may a long one. October has been very busy. Like really busy. Like shoot myself in the head just to be unbusy busy. With events. Parties, everything from a BBQ to meet the neighbours to a fancy dress up dinner party, to our anniversary, and back to the neighbours for a Halloween party, then to Halloween itself. Just for shits and giggles, I’ve been sick this whole month. Even better, I can’t really breathe. I’ll get to that later, but there were photos promised, and stories to go with such, so I’ll start where I can. Give you a glimpse into this craziness. I may have to nap in the middle, so bear with me.

My hubby had an awards banquet at a smancy hotel on the exact day that the world decided to OCCUPY in support of the protestors on Wall St. Now if that isn’t something to make a thinking person feel uncomfortable. As we were driving into the city to stay at the lovely mansion where said dinner was, we passed the protestors. We honked in support and|I noticed how neat and orderly they all were. A good Canadian protest! Safety first, please stay on the sidewalk. You ever hear that joke “How do you get 50 Canadians out of a pool?” You say “Okay. Everybody out of the pool!” S’true. Anyway, we all dressed up, and my best guess was that there were around 300 of us being treated to $100 a plate dinner and a quick glad hand and paparazzi shot with the provincial CEO as he gave each lucky employee with 5, 10, 15, etc. years of service a lovely pin to wear on the lapel of the suit they will only wear to this function. Did I mention we all got our rooms on the company? Well, you can do the math. My hubby, who is generally reticent about social injustices (god knows he’d have to be with me as a wife. I am always tirading about something) asked our young Asian busboy if he and the others got to partake of the rest of our banquet. Fair question. A lot of food left. Young fellow said no, it gets tossed. My dear spouse about shit himself at the waste. And on Monday, when asked by one of the brass how he enjoyed it all, he made sure to mention that “it’s bullshit” that all that food was thrown away. Hubby’s idea was perhaps a soup kitchen would have been happy with it all. This is ranty, I know. It’s nice to be acknowledged for hard work, but it seems like it may be time to move away from 1980’s excess and into a more socially conscious way of rewarding employees. Just saying.

Hubby, Me, Bombshell, Bombshell's Man.

Why do I always end up with pics like these?

A week later was our sixth anniversary. I’ll tell you a short story about our wedding day, just to lighten things up.

We’d been together for a fair bit of time and had a son before we actually bothered to get married. We are pretty casual, so we wanted something small and easy. And as neither of us are particularly of a religious bent, having it in a church seemed kind of wrong. Plus, we’re flat out sinners. We’re okay with it. At any rate, I pretty much found a guy through the yellow pages who sounded like he could be the man for the job. He also took care of the licence as well so it was one stop shopping. We went to his house to meet him and he led us into his office to make arrangements. He was personable, friendly. He was going to say what we wanted. He also had on his walls innumerable certificates from the Freemasons. I’m also fairly sure he also had some guy’s finger preserved for use as a bookmark, but I may have just been a wee bit scared.

So all good, with a price tag of $50, legal and everything. He arrived at the hotel about 3 minutes before we were to marry, red-faced, slurring and reeking of booze. He told us this was his third wedding of the day, and as he paid for parking, we owed him an extra $2 bucks. Hubby and I kinda glanced at each other and with that unspoken ‘sounds about right‘ look went ahead and did the deed.

I'm trying not to giggle. You see how red his face is?

We look a little stunned. Did we just get married by a drunk Mason?

The best part? See how we are holding hands tightly behind my back? Neither of us has let go yet. I don’t think we ever will. I couldn’t have picked someone better to share this funny bumpy ride with. Happy anniversary, Honey.

Oh, holy shit! I didn’t show you the best part of my month yet!!! Remember a while back when I was worried about weaponry for the impending doomsday? Look what I got!

Mama in her rocker. GET OFF MY PROPERTY!!!

Guns from my Daddy!!! He sent out a few, but this is my favorite because it’s held together with electrical tape! It’s just so hillbilly I can’t even tell you. How the fuck do you expect it to shoot? What? Oh fine. Hubby says they were gifts to “the family“. Whatever. They are mine! Seriously though, I love this picture. Me, looking all elegant in my sweats and jewellery, with the septic tank in the background. God. So much right about this photo…

Halloween. We went to a party at my neighbors on Saturday. It was something. Every room in their house had decorations, from a jumping 2 foot spider to broom that danced by itself and a smoke machine. She told me she has 15 tubs of decorations. It was a sight to behold and I congratulate her on her spirit. Some pics.

Me and Hubby. He won a prize for best costume.

The host and I.

Smurfette. She had wine for me when I need it most. I love her.

Leaping 2 foot spider. Scared the fuck outta everyone!

Some decorations.

Hubby did this one.

Now I only have a few words of advice about partying with your neighbours. First, if they drink shooters, get ready to get to know them verrrrryyyyy well. There was a neighbour, who I don’t think gets out very much, that proposed an orgy very early in the evening. To me. And another married woman. Couple of guys. Yeah. Like that. Probably shouldn’t do that if you have to come to my house in a few days and make small talk while your kids trick or treat. Just saying.

Well I warned you I’d need a nap half way through! I need a good long eight-hour nap. I’ll try to get back tomorrow and tell you about this not breathing thing and what I’m going to do about it.  Hope you enjoyed this. And that you had a great October.

Oh and Al, gonna work on that rss thing. This blog is only 7 months old, for chrissake! I can’t be expected to get to everything…

Cheers, Folks. Have a lovely day!

An Update On The Invisible Blog Post

I wanted to let you know that I deleted my last post. I didn’t do it because I was ashamed of the content or the writing. As I’ve said before, this is not politics, this is my knowledge. My words are true to me and I stand by them. I’m not blogging for anyone in particular and by deleting a post, I may have committed a blogger sin. But I’m new here. I still don’t know the ins and outs.

The reason I deleted the last post is a bit complex. Anyone that blogs knows that people sometimes find your words using the damnedest search terms. For the most part, I have a readership that I ‘know’, which is amazing if you think about it. I feel comfortable here. And obviously, you do too. It’s fairly innocuous. I don’t court controversy. That’s simply a matter of choice. But this last post…

While I stand behind it, this morning when I read it, I realized that if  one of the great unholy masses used even a skiff of a search term to lead them here and I gave them an idea that would cause harm to animal, well, I don’t want to be a party to that. It was a rant over some such disgusting and unconscionable action that it bothered me all day and I needed to get it out of my head. Very few read it (Thank you, sweet Jesus!), but I started to think maybe it should go. I also read some search terms that lead people to my blog. And that kinda sealed it.

I’m going to respond to a few of these right now. I’m going to get the ones that require a mental flossing out of the way first. You’ve been warned.

woman lets big dog fuck her (and any other variation you can fathom)(and EWWWW!)

Well, no. Did you see the ducks in the banner? Did that not clue you in that just maybe you had the wrong site? Is there duck porn now? My advice to you is to get a new hobby. And stay away from farms. Now zip up, and move on. But thanks for stopping by!!!

fat tits tube

Exactly! Said the same thing myself just this morning. Out of the blue, like. Just threw my head back and bawled “Fat tits tube!” My husband thought I was stroking. But you and I know what it means, right? Right? *wink*

most important vocabulary words for bba

I cannot express how important vocabulary is for bba. Especially since he’s typing already. How old is he? Goddamn genius, that kid. Though he is shit for spelling.


Why, yes! Yes I am. …batting lashes and looking away coyly

a store just for tampons

Holy shit, is there? Where is it? Why didn’t someone let me know? Do they have bovine sized ones? Asking for a friend…

can I have my own bear

I am an avid proponent of bear husbandry and ownership. Bears are way more useful than anyone gives them credit for. Short answer, yes. And may I borrow it?

remember your humanity and forget the rest shirt

Oh hell yes! I need one too.

when will I (insert pretty much whatever here)

Do I look like an oracle? Shit. Pressure…

In all seriousness, the searches that get me most are any related to depression. To those folks: I am so proud of you for looking for help. Many don’t. Good for you. Keep going.  And if you feel safe here, come on back. I know a lot of bloggers that have the same struggle. And reading them or me  may make you feel a bit less alone.

To all others finding this blog with freaky search terms, I have one thing to say to you:

fat tits tube.

I believe I’ve made my point.




Me vs. Yoga

I drive excitedly to the yoga place.

I’m alone! In the car! No husband! No kid! Yay!

I walk in the door, my excitement spilling over to everyone. Smiles, happiness.

Look at me! I’m going to do hot yoga! Yay!

I get my mat in the studio.

Good god, it’s hot.

We begin.

Oh, that instructor is my fave. She’s so pretty! She’s so good! I love her. I love everyone! Look at that woman. Such balance! I love her. Yoga! Yay!

Fifteen minutes in…

Oh my god! I am so hot!!! Why am I doing this? yoga. yay.

Twenty minutes in…

Whose sweaty old lady thighs are those? Oh. They’re mine. Yuck. Why did I wear shorts?

Twenty one minutes in…

Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! WHO FARTED?!? Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot!

I don’t know how long in…

She wants me to what? She’s outta her fucking mind! I bet she’s a real bitch! I think I hate her.

Eternity times infinity later…


Infinity times infinity later…

whywhywhywhywhywhywhy am i doing this? how much longer? can i leave?

Ad infinitum later…

who invented this? what sick fuck ever in their right mind decided this was good for you?

Ad infinitum infinity later…

owowowowowowowowowowowowowow now who farted? Jesus christ.

Final relaxation (that means lying down for a while)…

Oh this is good… I did it! I survived! Yay!

In the locker room…

Wow! That was awesome! I feel so good! Will you be here tomorrow?

Why yes. I think I will. I’m just masochistic enough to do it again.

Yoga. Yay.

John Boy Walton And My Soldier Shoulders

I feel the need to do a little clarifying. I want you all to know that I’m not thinking of anything drastic, and I’m not in a horrible state of being. I’ve been down the slope before, and always pulled myself back up. I know how to self manage. I just need to kick myself in the ass a bit. Get back to who I am. So first off, quit worrying!!!! Christ, I can hear you fussing from all the way over there! You’re  giving me a headache. And a small piece of advice: if worry did anything except cause grey hair and alcohol problems, don’t you think the world’s issues would be solved by now?

But. I thank you. I know you love me. And I have had some AMAZING support and dialogue with absolute strangers. And that is why I wrote what I did. That is why I am honest here. Because not one of us confused, lonely, sad, broken little souls is alone. Never think that. Ever. There are beautiful people out there in this world that are strangers one second, friends the next. And you folks that reached out to me? God bless you. Or Satan, whatever is your bag. Thank you. I will pay it forward.

Anyway. Day4 into a balls ass, week-long yoga intensive, from the women I took my first classes  from. Kundalini and Ashtanga. Chanting, singing, topped off with singing crystal bowls to cleanse the chakras even further. For me, it’s a no makeup, no chemical whatsoever, clean eating week. Okay, maybe I stink a bit, but hey.

So this depression deal? I can’t say when mine started. Probably in childhood. So much legacy I was handed. So much baggage that wasn’t mine. That and the fact that I was the odd duck. I didn’t look like everyone else. I had a big brown John Boy Walton mole on my cheek. Can you guess what the kids called me? Yup. You got it! First try! Kids can be sonsabitches, can’t they?

I was taught to hide very early on. Hide your feelings. Hide the truth. Hide who you are. Hide what’s going on. Hide from the pain, the embarrassment, from the wrath. Hide from God. Hide who you are. Quick! Hide!

Well.You try being 5’10”, skinny as a rail with a big mole on your face. (I always wished I was a petite blonde. Still kinda do. Anyway.) Can’t hide. Too tough. Still stand out.

I felt like everyone knew everything anyway. They most likely did. I was taught two things that stayed with me.Totally affected who I am.

Shoulders back, tits out, stomach in, chin high. Soldier posture. Soldier on. Shoulder what is thrown at you, don’t bend or sway. Buck up, Soldier!!!

Consequently, I’ve ‘pretended’ I could handle a lot of what was shoved on me. I’ve dusted myself off, when what I should have done is lay there for a while, and cry. Ask for help. But not me. I can handle it. Soldier on. 

I was also taught shame. I know shame like the back of my hand. Shame is the heaviest legacy I carry. Shame comes to me as a birthright. Handed down from both sides of my family for generations. I was born shamed.

This shame has made me rebel, and say fuck this. I do what I want.

This shame has made me hurt myself.

This shame has made me keep others away.

This shame has impaired how I love.

This shame has kept me from you.

No more. 

I have nothing to be ashamed of. I stand before everyone as I am.

My depression is not shameful. It’s a part of my life I didn’t ask for or deserve and I will KICK IT’S MOTHERFUCKING ASS!!!

You can watch. And I’ll help you do the same, if I can. I’ll hold your hand if you’ll hold mine.

The world is a pretty lovely place.

I’ll see you soon. We’ll have a laugh.

Just A Tampon

*This is in no way an endorsement and I didn’t get paid for this post.* There, that’s taken care of. But really, if you are a tampon marketer, you should read this.

At the store this morning, I just blindly grabbed a box of tampons. This has been going on 30 years. I pretty much know what I’m getting. But when I got home, as I was putting them away, I decide to read the box.(I had a little time on my hands.) Holy shit! Without my knowledge, tampons have  become “cute”. When the fuck did this happen? And why?

Seriously, the box is rather startling to me. Are teenage girls that shallow and so easily targeted by the ad men that they make these purchases based on what the box looks like or says? Is this a new popularity thing?

“OMG! Your tampon is soooo cute!!!! What brand is that? My mom has to get me some!!!!! I bet it would look great with that new purple t-shirt I got!!!! I’m gonna phone her now!”

I kid you not, the box says ‘secretly super’. ! I needed that exclamation point just to let you now the tone of the box. ‘Daringly protective,delightfully small! ‘ On the back, it has directions (cute) that say ‘ready,click, go!‘ and that cute little tampon looks like it’s flying out of the applicator at mach 10. Fuck me! That is just frightening people!!!! You really do not that kind of speed with ANYTHING down there. I don’t choose my gynecologist because he is fast! I choose him because he’s got small hands!!

Where the hell are the tampons for me and the other girls who’ve squeezed out 10 pound babies? I have the ad already in my mind:

Bovine Sized Vagina Protection!!!!! This thing will absorb ANYTHING!!!!! Caution: No swimming or hot tubbing. Your tampon WILL hold up to 300 gallons. Embarrassment and possible death will ensue. (Your cha cha may explode.) And no!!! You don’t have to shoot it into you!!! Can be applied slowly and carefully!

I heard a story from a gal a few years back. She was in a line up at a shop, buying her tampons. Huge line up behind her. The checkout girl asked the sweet young teenage stock boy for a price check on her maypax. To which he responded “Is that the push in or the hammer in kind?” Everyone turned with that gaping look we all get, and stared at him, like what the fuck? He said “Thumb tacks. The push in, or hammer in kind?” Poor woman had a moment right there. She thought ‘Oh great. Everyone thinks I hammer in my tampons’.

Maybe that’s a marketing ploy. Real big ones that you have to use a mallet to get in? I don’t know. I’m just so fucking concerned about my new cute tampons. I’m not sure if I should have them displayed proudly on top of my purse? Will I ‘fit in’ with the cool girls? I’ll ask my husband.

“Hey! Do these tampons make me look younger?”

Coping Skills From The Mentally Ill

Big breaths.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Big breaths.

I have *insert applause here* officially become a non smoker. I’m aware some of you will think that’s no big deal, but if you have ever smoked, you’ll know it is.

I have eagerly and happily tried most illicit substances in my life. Not one caught me. Thank God. But this, this has been my bane.

Having worked in mental health for years, and having studied the psychological and neurological machinations of the brain, I decided to use the non smoking pill. It inhibits reception of nicotine and massages your addiction center or something, I don’t know. It seems to have worked. My brain is nic free. All I have left are habitual and stress induced cravings. For those, substitutions are required. I have no fingernails left, and I have eaten everything in the house. The dogs are beginning to look at me warily. I think they are nervous of being devoured in the frenzy. And I’m trying to be careful of my mood and reactions. Because yelling cheerfully at the neighbour,”Hey! Good Morning! Go fuck yourself!” is not really how I want to approach the world.

Then I remembered. Hubby and I watched a documentary on Bellevue Psych hospital in New York a couple of years ago. (We watch a lot of docs. We’re boring old weirdos.) Now as I’ve said, I worked with psych patients. It was fun for a while, but even crazy can get boring. I’m not the only worker who got jaded. “Oh, he poked his own eye out during a hallucination? Yawwwnnn.” (Don’t judge! You never worked there.) Consequently, I like my crazy good and crazy. You think you got something new for me? Bring it. (And this is why I no longer work in that field.)  But in this doc there was one guy who stood out from the others because of what I believe was his original ‘take’ on the crazy.

Every day at a certain time, he would start calmly yelling:

I HATE THIS PLACE! NOTHING WORKS HERE! THE MEDICATIONS DON’T WORK! I’VE BEEN HERE FOR 7 YEARS! I HATE THIS PLACE! NOTHING WORKS HERE! THE MEDICATIONS DON’T WORK! And so on. For about 40 minutes. They’d put him in a little room so as not to disrupt the other patients and let him go. He’d stop, clean his glasses, take a breath and be fine for the rest of the day. I. Fucking. Love. This. Man.

He has given me my “not smoking, I’m stressed about nothing, please slap some sense into me before I wax your balls in a surprise attack” mantra.

When I feel the slip, I look at hubby and start. He nods and redirects the boy. And I feel all better.

I’m happy to be a ‘normal’ person again. A non smoker. The world looks a little brighter. It’s probably because it’s not all hazy with smoke, but whatever.

If you hear yelling, you’ll know what it is.


I’ll be back in about 40 minutes. (Which is almost the same length of time it takes to plan a surprise ball wax attack. Just FYI.)

Big breaths.

She Be The Amateur

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong. Joseph Chilton Pearce


I am an amateur writer. You may interpret that as you wish. To me, it means a beginner, someone learning, someone who hasn’t reached their apex yet. I’m not particularly concerned with any label, amateur or professional. I’ll likely always consider myself the A word. There is just so much to aspire to, so many phenomenal writers out there right now. Chances are they feel like amateurs now and again as well.

There is a certain freedom in it. As soon as someone throws the confining term ‘professional’ at you, it can take what was once a joy and turn it into a job. Creatives hate the word job. We want to have fun, enjoy the experience, feel a little breathless at the end. Be a Pro? The money would sure be nice, but just don’t expect too much of us. We want to do it our way, in our time.

May be I am a dilettante, a bumbler. So be it. But I am having fun. So no labels. Let me bumble. Imagine your dad drunk at a wedding, doing the heaven/earth, heaven/earth finger point made famous by Travolta, while belting out ‘You Should Be Dancing’. At that moment, he is Barry Gibb. Is that really the time to tell him he’s  no pro? I don’t think so. The old boy barely ever busts loose as it is.

Let me be Barry once in a while. You can be Maurice and your sister can be the other one. Let me be the happy amateur. And trust me, no one will clap for your bumbling as loud as I will. Because here’s what I know: Every professional was once an amateur. Keep on.