Friday, November 1, 2019

Skipping Hallowe'en

Tell me how you really feel about Hallowe'en.

We did it! We skipped Hallowe'en. Our house was one of those dark houses, all buttoned up, with the inhabitants hiding inside like Scrooges caught up in the wrong holiday.

It was the first time I've ever done that. Do I feel guilty? HELL NO! We saved a couple hundred bucks not giving candy to all those dirty little pot-lickers, scamming us with nary a backward glance. Most of 'em don't even say "trick or treat" anymore, and almost all of 'em don't know how to say thanks. Ungrateful. Greedy little buggers, all of 'em. Screw them all, I say! NO SOUP FOR YOU!!!

I was nervous, though, getting ready for the onslaught. Had to do it early, 'cause the little darlings start early in these parts. Soon as school's out, they take to the streets, pillowcases in tow, a sea of pink princess dresses from Walmart, runny noses, cold feet, whining toddlers, and babies in strollers. Babies. What a scam that is. Everyone complains about teenagers trick or treating - I know damned well it isn't that baby eating those Tootsie Rolls.

So I started at 3:30 p.m. Drew the curtains, closed the blinds. Hung a bath towel from the curtain rod on the front door to close off all the little lace peek holes on the existing curtain. Shut the doors on the bedrooms facing the street. Brought snacks to our back-facing bedroom. Had a shower in the dark. Crept around the house in bare feet. Paced. Hid. When Dave got home from work, I hustled him through the door. "Hurry, hurry," I screamed, as one of the neighbour's kids - excited about the evening ahead - tried to talk to him. "Don't. Encourage. Them," I hissed, as I slammed the door behind him. At my insistence, he dismantled the doorbell, and then turned the Netflix volume high so we wouldn't hear the feeble knocking,  nor the insipid cries of the tiny, hungry, chocolate-smeared zombies that they are.

No, I don't feel guilty one little bit. Their parents all voted conservative in this year's two elections, and with the United Conservative Party's horrendous new budget, who has money for Hallowe'en?

Damned if I'm gonna treat their tiny conservative offspring for that trick.

Friday, July 8, 2016

Black Day in July

You know? I'm not even surprised, hearing about the shootings in Dallas. Strangely not even all that sad, and anything but shocked.

I'm numb inside. Immune to the trending headlines that speak of death after death, murder, brutality, hate, and still the misguided and patently stupid belief that guns will fix everything.

The U.S. has been heading for a meltdown for some time. It's so broke. There can be only so many black lives taken by police before the guns are turned around. The anger, the frustration, the justified belief that nothing will ever change, that black lives don't matter, has created a simmering cauldron that is way above the boiling point. 

I don't condone it, of course. I hate guns. But I'm not surprised. 

It's ridiculous that the U.S. has a reputation for its stance on terrorism, and yet it's not terrorists Americans should be worried about: it's each other. I'm not going to offer up any prayers because I believe that's a complete waste of breath, spit and time, but I do send condolences to my American friends, and a sincere hope that they can find a way to muddle through this nightmare they're forced to endure. Talk about a black day in July.


I posted this on FB tonight; thought it was worth sharing. For what it's worth.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

Is pillowy an actual word?

It's been a while. No excuses, just doing other things. But lately - at least - I've been thinking not just about this blog but about writing again. We'll see what comes of it.

I was camping on the weekend and the urge to write was strong, so I picked up a piece of paper and started laying some words down, only to be interrupted when Dave served up some bacon 'n eggs. Is there anything better than pork & fowl in the great outdoors?

I promptly put down my paper and chowed down.

There's so much going on in the world, so much bad, so much that I don't know enough to comment on, and every time I do I get into trouble, so I try to keep my yap closed. After a while, I don't feel qualified enough to comment on anything. And who seriously cares if I have bacon and eggs while camping? Or what's going on in my mediocre little life?

I guess the only reasons to continue with a blog is because my writing skills are so rusty I'm going to need a crowbar to loosen them up; because I miss the diary-like connection of mind to keyboard; and because I miss the camaraderie of blogland. Facebook is pretty harsh some days. Blogger is pillowy by comparison.


Thanks for the e-mail, Rob-Bear. Means a lot.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Eshakti Lurve

 One of the best things about being back to work is I CAN AFFORD MORE ESHAKTI DRESSES.

What? You've never heard of It's my addiction, MY PRECIOUS. It's a women's fashion company that sells fabulously funky dresses in sizes from extra small to 6X – and, for only $7.50, they will custom make any dress in your exact measurements!


This isn't phenomenal news for those who can buy stuff off the rack but, for people like me it's a godsend. In the past, my biggest reason for buying clothes was they were in my size. Didn't matter how ugly they were – if they went up around my lardy loveliness, I bought 'em.

Unlike most plus-sized gals, I have no boobs. I have boob-like calves, yes, but no actual boobs, and since my calves don't have nipples, they're not overly attractive. Then again, I have massive arms. Imagine a body builder with huge muscles. Now imagine the muscles have fainted. My youngest son once asked, before I disowned him, why my muscles grew upside down.

With MY PRECIOUS, none of this matters. I send them my measurements, they send me a custom made dress that fits me like a glove.

Well, a glove that would fit me if my hands weren't the size of ham-hocks.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Fear, loathing and nap withdrawal

Going through a lot right now and I'm not sure I have it handled.

I started a job for one thing. A really great, really cool job. On paper, it's perfect for me and I think I can be good at it. But, man, I didn't actually want a job. I haven't worked for more than two years. I have kinda forgotten how.

The best thing about not working is you can poop whenever you feel the urge. And the Food Network. I will miss the Food Network. And coffee. Whenever I want it. AND NAPS.


I was hoping I wouldn't have to work again; that early retirement (I'm 55 this year - Freedom 55, get it? hahahahahaha!) was truly mine. After all, Dave has a well-paying job, we were renting out our basement and I was selling the odd painting. We weren't getting rich by any means but it was enough to pay the bills on our very nice house, for Dave to buy a fishing boat and for us to go out for dinner every once in a while and see a movie.

Then the price of oil dropped, tons of oil workers were let go and the once booming town of Cold Lake quickly learned that the opposite of "boom" is "bust." Suddenly we couldn't rent out our basement. My paintings stopped selling. We got a few unexpected bills. And, voila, money was tight.

I realized I would have to look for a job. Problem is, there aren't a lot of jobs I can actually do. I have virtually no cartilage in my knees, which makes standing for any longer than a couple of minutes excruciating. Plus I'm fat, ugly and old, which limits both Walmart and the local peelers.

I've worked my whole life in newspapers and, as everyone knows, newspapers are dying. Graphic design work has all been shipped to India and the Philippines. (Thank you, internet.) Reporting is a job for young people with good knees and lots of energy to chase after weekend events, terminally long council meetings and hockey games out the wazoo.

I didn't know what to do. A friend suggested I apply for a disability pension. I asked my doctor about it and she thought it was a good idea so, with her help, I applied last February. Talk about paperwork. Talk about a rigamarole. They certainly don't make it easy. I finally heard back from them a couple of weeks ago: no disability for me. No cartilage. Crohn's Disease. Anxiety and depression. None of it was enough to qualify.

Feckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk me.

So anyways. I got a job. And I like it, I do, but the stress of working again has hiked my anxiety to new highs. I freaked out on Dave last night because he said it was OK for relatives to come up without checking with me first. I maintain that he should check to see if I'm good with having overnight guests, but I didn't need to freak out on him as much as I did.

And, oh, god, after only one day I was exhausted! What the heck am I going to do after an entire WEEK?

Then today I caught my kid doing something he shouldn't. I'm not going to say what that is, but he has been in trouble with it before and he has promised not to do it again, and then, feck him and the boat he rode in on, he did it again today.

He is 18. He knows better. I resent that he makes me act like a parent when he's old enough to act like a fecking adult. I was having a nice, quiet, stress-free day when suddenly, bam, everything's in the toilet, thank you very much.

Oh, and on top of everything else, three weeks ago I had carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand (OF COURSE I'M RIGHT HANDED - NOTHING IS EVER EASY), and the damned thing is infected and hurts like a fecking BEAR.

I feel better writing this. Not having many friends because I am an obnoxious bitch, there aren't a lot of folks I can dump on.

So thanks for the dumping, dear Blogspot. Now if you could pour me a cup of tea you'd be fecking perfect.