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.

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.

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.

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.

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 eshakti.com? 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!

I KNOW, RIGHT?

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.

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.

*sighs*

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.

What to do, what to do

 I've been thinking about my blog; there's that, at least. Not sure what I'm thinking, except for guilt. Definitely thinking/feeling guilt. This poor blog has basically been ignored for several months. I can't even look at it because I feel such guilt.

For a long time I didn't feel like writing. Hopelessly wordless. I think I blew my wad, pardon the expression, getting my books published and that task was so huge, so exhausting and, ultimately, so disappointing, that I just couldn't muster up the energy to even think about writing again.

Lately little ideas have been flitting around my brain. Thoughts. Like, I'll be driving somewhere and I'll sink into that mysterious funk-like state that used to meant ideas were hatching, and I'd think, gee, this would make a good blog post. But then I remembered that I don't actually blog anymore. Cause you have to blog to blog.

I know, I'm hella deep.

There's also the reciprocal side of blogging. If you blog, and hope other people will read your posts, you should read their posts as well. Obviously I haven't been doing that either. My entire social media interactions have been limited to brief Facebook scribbles, mostly jokes and occasionally a self-righteous arrow aimed at racists and other nasty folk. I've been spending more time painting, sewing and cooking than I have doing anything else. And only one of those at a time. I've always prided myself on multi-tasking but apparently if I'm sewing, I'm not painting, and if I'm painting there's going to be take-out for supper.

It's not like I don't care what my blogger friends are up to: I do. Sincerely. But I used to spend hours, every day, catching up with other blogs. I just don't want to invest that kind of time anymore.

So the dilemma is, if I'm not going to read other blogs, I probably shouldn't blog. But then again, I didn't start a blog to necessarily have it read by other people: I started one because I wanted to write, and blogging was new and exciting and I fell in love with every aspect of it.

I always promised myself I wouldn't write one of those "should I blog or not" posts, but here I am. I think this is more an out-loud argument for myself trying to line up the positive and the negative and finally answering The Clash's age old question, "Should I stay or should I go?"

Heck, I don't know. I'll see how I feel about all this tomorrow. Meanwhile, I don't expect you to read my drivel. Move on. Read a post from a blogger who truly has a passion for the game; someone who actually has something to say.

This? This is just the inner musings of someone putting off laundry.

The Albert Einstein Side of My Brain

I get my best ideas while changing the kitty litter, like solving world hunger and reinventing the square wheel. I seem to go off into some kind of scoop 'n poop la-la-land. One side of my brain is busy being Albert Einstein, the other half is, well, gawd knows what it is doing. Obviously not thinking, that's for sure.

I bought these cheap-ass garbage bags for kitty poop purposes and the first time I went to use them, I realized I wouldn't be able to get one open without wet fingers. You know how plastic bags glom together? You need mad skills to get some of them open, either that or some spit on your fingers.

Usually I lick my fingers in order to open said bags. But at that moment they were covered in kitty litter germs. Which are, like, fatal, right? I mean, who wants to get kitty poop in their mouth? I sat there staring at the bag, trying to figure out a way to open it without licking my crap encrusted fingers. Finally I just said, "feck it," maybe if I lick 'em real quick the germs won't stick. Like the three second food on the floor rule.

"Gah," I said, making quick work of the licking.

It wasn't until I was done spitting in the sink and rinsing my mouth out with gagloads of salt water and Listerine that Albert Einstein finally took over the D-oh part of my brain: I didn't have to lick my finger - all I had to do was SPIT on it.

Ice Hut Village

Ice fishing is not just a hobby – it's a way of life, and huts are like people's homes, as individual as they are. This painting has a smattering of different ice hut styles. Some, like the church, seem outlandish, but all of them exist on the world's frozen lakes. All you have to do is google ice hut villages and you'll be astounded at the variety of different huts you'll see. If you take a close look at the lures in this painting, you'll see they are all real lures, including the Swedish Pimple and the William's Wabler Ice Jig. See how many lures you recognize. Surely there's a hut and a lure you can call your own. My husband's favourite is the log cabin and the Wabler. Incidentally, that's my LEAST favourite. I actually am torn between the trailer and the skinny blue and white one. Which is yours?

36" x 12" original acrylic painting on stretched canvas. Gessoed. Varnished. Sides are painted black so no framing is necessary. For more information visit my Etsy shop.

Don't you just LOVE a cat in uniform?

O CANADA! That's how I felt when I was painting this handsome feline. Is he a hunk of burning cat love or what? I've always been a sucker for a man in uniform (I mean, who isn't?) but I have a special appreciation for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police when they're in full dress uniform. All that pressed red serge ... and brass ... and, sigh ... (excuse me while I have a cold shower).


I love this painting a lot (it's my favourite so far) and hope to do a few more animals wearing the world famous Mountie uniform. Maybe a moose? Or a bear? Can't wait to get started.

Meanwhile, a good friend of mine (Mr. Harry Sanderford) suggested I call this dashing dude "Cuddly Do-Right." I think the name fits ... what do you think?

By the way, I sincerely hope everyone had a terrific holiday. Mine was ... different! But OK! Glad to get back to normal – whatever the feck normal is. (Let me know if you have a clue.)

8"x10" original acrylic painting on stretched, gessoed canvas, varnished. Sides are painted black so no framing is needed. For more information visit my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/216694736/cat-in-mountie-uniform-original-acrylic?ref=shop_home_active_1

Item is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced without permission from me.

Kiosk at Sunrise

Did another painting today, which makes me extremely happy. I have been really busy the last week or so doing paintings for Christmas presents and the very last one I did, for a very dear friend, turned out GROSS.

I was so disappointed that I stayed away from the brush for a while.

Finally I told her, "I did a painting for you and it really sucks," and I felt so much better afterwards that I started painting again.

The moral of the story? If something sucks, admit it! Shout it from the fecking rooftops! You'll feel EVER so much happier!

This painting, by the way, was inspired by a photo I took a couple years ago at Kiosk, at sunrise, in the northern part of Algonquin Park. We used to go there every spring and every fall for fishing trips. It's a gorgeous place, desolate and wildly beautiful, and I miss it like crazy. (It's available for purchase at my Etsy shop.)

By the way, I can't show you the sucky one because apparently my friend still wants to receive its suckiness for Christmas. So it has to be a SURPRISE SUCK, if you get my drift.

Geez that sounded bad ...

My fabulous new career as an AR-TEESTE

If we're friends on Facebook (and if we're not, what is UP with that?), you know I've been busier than a one-armed paperhanger. I haven't been writing, or blogging much, that is TRUE, but I have regressed to my second childhood and have been painting like a madwoman.

No, not the basement. (I painted that last month.) Actual paintings. Like, art, dude. Like, I'm an ar-TEESTE now, a Group of Sevenish legend in my own mind.

Yesterday I cracked off two paintings. Two. I am feverish about my new thang.

FB friends have been asking, "Wassup with you? Did you always paint?" And stuff like that. So I figured I should blog about it, not only to answer their questions, but also because I'M SO EXCITED I CAN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

I know. I'm obnoxious. Apologies all round. Go watch Ellen or something if offended. She's probably dancing, which is not obnoxious at all. <<< I LIED JUST THERE, btw.

So NO, I have not always painted. But I have always drawn, coloured, sketched and occasionally painted. Art was my favourite subject in high school. I had a brief fling with folk art in the '80s. I painted a billboard and a few backdrops for an environmental fair I was involved with. Mostly, though, I remember, with great fondness, the hours upon hours I spent with my cousin, Kelly, sitting at the kitchen table at our summer cottage, making our own comic books. We drew them and wrote them and coloured them and yakked and giggled and had the best time. Kelly grew up to be a social worker/psychologist with the Canadian military. In short, she was a very smart, very successful professional. But she never gave up her art. When she retired from the army, she became a full-time artist and has had many successful shows, including some in foreign countries. (You can see her amazing artwork on her website.)

Me, I went to journalism school because my life goal was being a reporter. Writing was serious business; art was something I did for fun. After 20-some years as a writer and an editor, I turned to the graphic design aspect of newspapers and rediscovered joy in the act of creating something pretty. After several years of graphics, I discovered I missed writing, and so started blogging. Blogging led to writing Friday Flash and Friday Flash led to writing a novel, and for a while I was hot and heavy into that world.

After my novel came out, and my collection of short stories, I lost interest in writing. I felt like I had reached the pinnacle of my writing career and, try as I might, and I did try, beginning and not finishing several projects, I just couldn't rekindle my interest. For a while I got really down on myself. I couldn't get a newspaper job anymore, because those just don't exist. (Graphic work is mostly one in India these days.) And I'm too old and fat and decrepit to be a reporter. You have to have good legs to be a reporter and my knees are toast. I literally cannot go shopping without being in severe pain.

My short term memory is also toast. I've been taking anti-depressants for many years and they've been playing havoc with my brain. I seriously can't remember stuff anymore. I mean, for the most part, I function OK, but sometimes I absolutely have no memory of things happening. None. It's like it never happened, and that's scary. For a while I thought I had early onset Alzheimer's, but am now sure it's the anti-depressant. I tried switching to a different pill and I had a terrible crash. Was not a good idea. From being on and off meds over the years, I now know I will be on anti-depressants for the rest of my life. That's OK with me, and I'd rather have a poor memory than be suicidal.

Anyway, sorry this is depressing! (Go watch Ellen!) As you can see, I am basically unemployable. I can't remember stuff. I can't stand on my feet all day. I'm fat and I'm old and I'm wrinkled. Nobody wants to hire someone like me. No, you don't have to reassure me, it's just the simple truth. And, gawd, don't tell me to diet. I lose weight, I gain it back and then some, I lose, and gain... bah. Talk about disheartening...

Dave works really hard to pay the bills and for a while now I've been wondering how I can contribute. Just recently it came to me. After we painted the basement apartment white, I yearned for some kind of artwork. It was just so stark. But I couldn't afford to buy art, of course, even cheap stuff, and so I thought I would paint something. Besides, I had been thinking of painting a picture of our cat, singing, for some time. Every night I would lay in bed thinking about painting Ben, the kitty we had to put down this summer because of cancer. The urge to paint was getting stronger.

Finally, I went to our cupboard and pulled out all my paint supplies. I had them for years, and never really did anything with them. (I started one painting and never finished it. My son Sam liked it, though, and now this half-finished painting hangs in his hallway, which is adorable.)

I had taken a photo of the Canadian prairies a year ago, because I thought it would make a good painting (I always see this in photos, but never act on it). And because I never do anything by half, I painted TWO canvases, to be hung together, as one. I painted them in a day (above). My paintbrush FLEW. For a few happy hours, I disappeared into the work. When I was done, I was pleasantly surprised by the result.

A couple of days later, I painted the cat (below).

The next day I painted something else. And then something else after that. Pretty soon I was painting every single day. And then it occurred to me: maybe I should do this as a business. I opened a shop on Etsy.com, and began posting my work on Facebook. It wasn't long before I had sold my first painting (below) to my dear writing friend Lou Freshwater, who I love beyond belief. And, since then, I have sold four more. That is not bad considering I've only been doing this for about a month.

Right now I am busy amassing a "body of work" for my Etsy shop and for farmers markets in the spring. I'm also painting a number of Christmas presents. But mostly? I am busy having FUN. Painting is so much more joyful than writing, which for me is done all by myself, in a closed room, with no music and no distractions. It's work, pure and simple. When I paint, I listen to the radio, or music, or I have the Food Network blathering in the background. I talk to friends on the telephone. I drink coffee. I take breaks and go do housework. I am energized, I am happy and I feel like I am contributing to our income.

I'm not pretending to be a Great Artist. In fact, I describe my style as Hokey Folky. Basically, I'm hoping that the bright colours might put a smile on someone's face, and if I can do that, and make a couple bucks in the process, well that puts a smile on my face, too.

Oh, by the way. That little cow? In the corner of every painting? That's my signature. Because my initials – unfortunately – spell COW.

If you feel like visiting my Etsy shop, I'd appreciate it if you could "Favourite" it. It's kinda like Facebook, in that the more people who like it, the better exposure the site gives you. The link to my shop is here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/ColdLakeCathy?ref=hdr

By the way, I'm not the only blogger with shops on Etsy. Joanne Noragon, better known as Cup on the Bus has her shop here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/JoanneNoragonWeaver?ref=pr_faveshops Joanne is a long-time weaver. She recently sent me some dish towels, which I LOVE and use every single day. (Thanks Joanne!)

Writer/blogger Icy Sedgwick sells some beautiful jewellery in her shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/IcyHandmade?ref=pr_faveshops

Writer/blogger Scotti Cohn also does some terrific jewellery in her shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/JewelryByScotti?ref=pr_faveshops

And my niece, Jennifer Baldwin, isn't a writer, but she does have a brand new Etsy shop. Jen makes wonderful "arm woven" scarves. She made me one recently and I wear it all the time! (Thanks Jen!) You can buy her work here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/jenniferknitcrafts?ref=pr_faveshops

If you have an Etsy shop, please list it in the comments so I can come visit!

World's Biggest Things #3

Polar bears are the "thing" in Cochrane, Ontario, but I'm thinking a giant cup of coffee might be more in order. (Two sugars, one cream, please.)

Tim Horton: yes,
he was an actual guy
but he's dead now.

Tim Horton was born in Cochrane. YES. THEE TIM HORTON. The guy who founded the Canadian coffee empire. And, oh yeah, he played some hockey too. Frankly, I would expect a ginormous cup of Tim's at the entrance to town but instead there is Chimo, a plus-sized chub cub. Dave and I stopped by for a photo op on our way across the country last summer. As you can see from Dave's hair, we had basically just woken up after sleeping in our Jeep. (We did that. Because we are bums.)

Cochrane is in northeastern Ontario, east of Kapukasing and north of Iroquois Falls. Basically, when you get to Cochrane, you're putting the "up" in north. When you're travelling across Ontario, you have to go north for a long time before you start heading west, and if you're taking Highway 11, that turning point is here in polar bear land. 

Not that you see any polar bears roaming around. It's not THAT far north. But it is the southern terminus for the famous Polar Bear Express, the train that takes people across Ontario's real north to Moosonee on James Bay. As far as I know, there are no roads to Moosonee and, as well as being an important transportation link, the Express brings many tourists who want to see what life is really like in the far north. The trip can take anywhere between five and six hours. That's just crazy talk.

There are some polar bears in Cochrane, however. The town is home to Cochrane Polar Bear Habitat, the only captive bear facility in the world devoted to polar bears. They do research and stuff and apparently are all about raising awareness about climate change and how that negatively impacts these beauteous bears. If you'd like to know more, here's the LINK.


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P.S. I'm pretending I have not disappeared from blogland. Shhhhhh....

World's Biggest Things #2

Did you know Winnie-the-Pooh was a real bear? Did you also know that he was a Canadian bear who was born in the woods near White River, Ontario?

"Pooh" was actually a black bear cub who was captured by a trapper in 1914 and sold to a soldier from Winnipeg, Manitoba.  Lieutenant Harry Colebourn of the Canadian Army Veterinary Corps paid $20 for the bear and promptly fell in love with the little black bundle of fur. Other soldiers loved him, too but, as he got bigger, "Winnie" (named after Lt. Colebourn's hometown) started knocking down tents and causing other mischief. Reluctantly the soldier gave Winnie to the London Zoo for safekeeping.

Author A.A. Milne and his son Christopher were regular visitors at the zoo and they were so fond of Winnie that he became the subject of one of the world's most beloved children's books. (You can read more of that story on the town of White River's website.)

In 1992 a statue of Winnie-the-Pooh was unveiled at a park at the side of Highway 17 and has been a must-stop for kids of all ages as they travel the Trans Canada Highway.

We stopped in for a photo op (and a pee break) on our way to Ontario this August. In the photo, from left, is Angus, Sam, Misty and Dave.


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Guess the True Statement and WIN Jessica Bell's thriller, White Lady!

Jessica Bell. I've known Jessica for so long I can't quite remember HOW I know her. I'm pretty sure it's through the writing I did with #FridayFlash, when I was first dazzled by her prose. Since then I've also become dazzled by her dedication to writing, and to a book she released last year called Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle. LOVED this book and, if the idea of self-publishing has ever even crossed your mind, it's a must-read.

Unlike some people who are happy with two books (me?), Jessica has a whole raft of work for sale – two PAGES of book listings on Amazon! (I'm really impressed, I really am and yeah, kinda jealous, too!)

To celebrate the release of Jessica’s latest novel, WHITE LADY, she is giving away an e-copy (mobi, ePub, or PDF) to the first person to correctly guess the one true statement in the three statements below. To clarify, two statements are lies, and one is true:

Jessica Bell’s favourite book of all time is ...

a. Robber Bride, by Margaret Atwood

b. Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson

c. In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote

What do you think? Which one is true? Write your guess in the comments, along with your email address. Comments will close in 48 hours. If no-one guesses correctly within in 48 hours, comments will stay open until someone does.

Want more chances to win? You have until October 31 to visit all the blogs where Jessica will share a different set of true and false statements on each one. Remember, each blog is open to comments for 48 hours only from the time of posting.

If you win, you will be notified by email with instructions on how to download the book.

Click HERE to see the list of blogs.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

*This novel contains coarse language, violence, and sexual themes.

Sonia yearns for sharp objects and blood. But now that she’s rehabilitating herself as a “normal” mother and mathematics teacher, it’s time to stop dreaming about slicing people’s throats.

While being the wife of Melbourne’s leading drug lord and simultaneously dating his best mate is not ideal, she’s determined to make it work.

It does work. Until Mia, her lover’s daughter, starts exchanging saliva with her son, Mick. They plan to commit a crime behind Sonia’s back. It isn’t long before she finds out and gets involved to protect them.

But is protecting the kids really Sonia’s motive?

Click HERE to view the book trailer.

Click HERE for purchase links.

Jessica Bell, a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, is the Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and the director of the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Connect with Jessica online:

Website | Retreat & workshop | Blog | Vine Leaves Literary Journal | Facebook | Twitter