Dear Republicans:

I realize there are plenty of decent, smart, nice Americans but, as a Canadian, I have lost all patience for the idiot in the White House and all his dipshit Republican doorknobs and brainless MAGA jock-supporters. 

First they want to annex us, then they hit us with tariffs, call Canadians nasty because we retaliate and defend ourselves, and now they have the nerve to demand we do something about wildfire smoke??? 

The same cretins who deny climate change and vote against clean energy? 

The same soulless morons who are putting innocent people in concentration camps and are tearing families apart without constitutional due process? 

The same greedy jerks who are taking Medicaid away from the poor and giving tax breaks to line the pockets of billionaires? 

The same war-mongers who are in lust with Putin, a murderer, and are OK with genocide in Gaza? 

The same folks who elected a convicted felon, compulsive liar, narcissistic pervert who was best friends with Epstein and just moved Maxwell to a cushy country club? 

The guy who took away women’s right to abortion for about half the country? 

Who loaded the Supreme Court with boot-lickers? 

The so-called president was never a smart person to begin with (sly, maybe, and lucky, but not smart) but now he’s falling fast into senility, only interested in the grift and saving his own sorry skin. Canada, on the other hand, has a prime minister who has one of the most respected and brilliant economic minds in the world. 

We Canadians have a reputation for being nice and we are - until we’re not. 

We have fought wars alongside Americans. We have always been your best friend and ally. Even after Frump hit us with tariffs, we sent water bombers to California to help fight that state’s wildfires. (Question: why don’t you ask your own country to stop producing wildfire smoke???) 

The day 9/11 brought air traffic to a halt, Canadians from the small town of Gander took thousands of stranded, scared Americans in to their community and straight into their hearts. (Look it up.) We’ve never been anything but good to you people. Is this how you treat a friend? Y’all treat Putin better than you do Canadians! 

Frump is LYING to you. Canada is NOT shipping fentanyl across the border (although you guys are responsible for shipping it into Canada. This whole thing is a Frump lie and excuse to start charging tariffs, which you Americans pay, by the way. Not us. YOU. 

We are not stopping American farmers from selling dairy here, and they do so - tariff free - until a threshold is reached. Guess what - that threshold has NEVER been reached and American farmers have never paid a DIME in tariffs. Again, a bold-faced LIE from Frump. 

Stop watching Fox News - that station is feeding you rage-inducing baloney. Try watching CBC to get the facts as well as an unbiased Canadian perspective. (You can stream it online.) 

Canada used to admire and look up to the States. Not anymore. Frump and his Republican galoots have forever ruined that relationship. 

We are no longer friends, and are looking elsewhere for reliable, stable trading partners that have the same morals as we do. 

You go on and descend further into fascist madness. Some day, when the current administration is nothing but a terrible memory, maybe your country can be pulled out of its self-inflicted purgatory; maybe then you can start rebuilding your boastful, self-described status as “the greatest country in the world.” 

Maybe. 

But, for now, you’re nothing but a bully. A fool. A laughing stock. But you go on and do you, and ask us to do something about wildfire smoke, something we have absolutely no control over. 

I’m guessing these goofy wildfire demands are mere distractions from all the other crap going on in your country. Anybody seen that Epstein list yet?

#ElbowsUp Canada!

The mug in my photo was designed by me and is available for sale in my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/1875999659/fuck-trump-mugs-designed-by-cold-lake

 Happy 28th Birthday, Angus! I will never stop loving you.

I'm a Pork Dork

Happy Valentine's Day everybody! I'm really rocking it. It's 7:09 p.m. The romantic dinner I planned is, as that former president used to say, "A DISASTER," I'm still wearing the nightgown I woke up with, only now it's covered in food stains, and my feet hurt gawd-awful.

Basically another typical day in the Webster house.

I had told Dave, DO NOT BUY ME ANYTHING FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Only this year I meant it. No, seriously. Hizzoner is off work recuperating from carpal tunnel surgery and we're broke. Well, we're always broke, but now we're broker than usual. Again, as the Orange One used to say, "WE'RE THE BEST BROKE, NO BROKE IS BROKER THAN US."

Of course Dave bought me a sweet card and enough chocolate to make a dentist orgasmic. 

Feck.

So as not to appear a total romantic failure, I offered to cook dinner. A nice dinner, you know? Especially since I haven't cooked since Dave had his surgery. Yes, he cooks with a bum hand. (I know, it's sad. Very, very sad. But you're jealous, amirite?)

I planned to make pulled pork, with creamy mashed potatoes, squash (he loves it, and that is NOT fake news), and a cake. Sounds good, right? 

Well, the cake turned out alright. (It was a mix. Hard to screw THAT up.) But the roast, um, is still basically raw. Frozen in the middle. At - what time is it? 7:22 p.m. And don't forget about my unbathed body in the grease stained nightgown. Sexy as hell with raw pork. 

I sawed the roast into pieces and shoved it in the Instant Pot for round two. The squash and potatoes are drying up like my sex life. I looked out the window a while back and thought, I bet there's a lot of rub and tug happening out there tonight. Probably lots of anti-maskers were out dining at local restaurants, enjoying the premier's decision to allow in-person dining again, spreading the love, spreading the COVID, going home and spreading other things with full bellies, a wine buzz, and really bad garlic breath.

We might eat sometime tonight. Not sure how romantic it will be - we'll probably wind up noshing on peanut butter toast and watching another episode of Wentworth on Netflix. Lots of smut on that show. Probably the only smut going on in this house tonight. Unless Dave gets excited over dirty old women, raw pork, and whine.

I smell the squash. I think it's burning.

P.S. Yes. It burnt. Here's a picture.

Feck.

The Problem With My Groin

I did something to my groin. 

No, not THAT. Something to the space where your leg meets your abdomen. Well, actually, my leg and my abdomen. Sorry, didn't mean to imply anything about your groin.

What happened, was, I had climbed off my exercise bike and tried to get on the bed, as all athletes do after exerting themselves ... work out next to the bed and then flop on it to catch their breath so they don't fall over and croak.

My groin had been bugging me for about a week, but nothing to write home (or a blog) about. It was just sore, like I pulled a muscle or something. A small muscle. Like, one strand of muscle, the thin type. Nothing any cannibal would want to barbecue.

But when I got off the bike, sat down on the bed, then went to lift my legs to lie down, I screamed bloody murder! It felt like someone stuck a knife in my groin. Not that I know precisely what that feels like, but I can imagine that if I was knifed in the groin, it might hurt like that. 

Dave came running upstairs to see what I'd done this time. (That man is in such good shape from running up and down the stairs all the time to look after me - and HE is the one who should be looked after. Two weeks ago he had carpal tunnel surgery and he's at home to recuperate and eat bon-bons, but he's too busy mopping the bathroom floor and traversing the stairs for bon-bon eating.) 

I told him what had happened, so he lifted my legs up onto the bed, then spread my knees so he could have a look. The resulting pain was agonizing.

"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH DON'T SPREAD MY LEGS!"

"I have to look," he said. "Here, let me turn on the light."

Why is it men always need the light on in the bedroom? 

"Don't worry," he said, placing his hand on my knees, and gently pulling them apart, "I'll be gentle."

"NOooooooooo," I hollered. "That HURTS."

He sat back on the bed. "I don't know what you want me to do." 

"I want you to put Dr. Ho there."

"Between your legs?"

"Yes," I replied, losing patience. "But use some of that lubricating gel first, it makes Dr. Ho work better."

This all happened yesterday. I am pleased to announce that Dr. Ho knows his stuff and things have relaxed under his stimulation. I also took a few anti-inflammatories, and stuffed a bag of ice down my pants. Things are still a little sore, but the sharp pain from yesterday has eased.

I do have a small lump in my groin, so I'm not sure if it's a pulled muscle, or a hernia, or just a fat lump. Has this happened to anyone else? Should I see about it, or just wait? Time heals all things, or so I've heard, but I also have to give some credit to my threesome with Dave and Dr. Ho. Such masculine hotties they both are ...

Something Different

This morning I was complaining about every day being the same, so I flooded the bathtub.

I wanted something different, right? And that was different. Also wet. And messy. It was amazing how much sodden dust and cat hair was discovered by the 539 towels Dave used to soak it all up. Of course Dave cleaned it up - I couldn't be expected to do it. After all, I hadn't washed my hair yet. My bath wasn't finished. I totally felt justified to scream for my husband, who was downstairs trying to enjoy his lunch, to come upstairs and mop.

 "Just throw all the wet stuff in the laundry basket. I'm going to take it all down to the laundry and wash it when I'm done," I said from my fortress of bubbles while my own personal Cinderella bent to the task at hand. He really was bent. I had a lovely view of the crack of his ass as he worked. "You might as well give the area behind the toilet a wipe," I added helpfully. "It's already wet and it could use a good cleaning."

He didn't say anything, just cleaned the toilet area while I watched his rather lovely hind end wiggle as he worked.

"Oh, and would you mind passing me my book?" I said. With a smile.

When I finished my bath, I picked up the laundry basket full of sodden towels and realized it was too heavy for me to lift. I am, after all, a delicate flower.

"DA-AVE!" I hollered. "IT'S TOO HEAVY. I NEED YOU."

Up he came, lifted the basket like it was a box of air, and took it downstairs to the laundry room, which is directly below the upstairs bathroom, and was floating in half an inch of water that had leaked through the ceiling. 

He is an amazing person, my man Dave. I wonder what I'm going to get him to do next.