Saturday, November 18, 2017

Let's Be Fair - Or Not?

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Where has the time gone?  So much life and so many people and situations to reflect upon in appreciation for their contributions to your life.
For example, I think we greatly underestimate the influence that teachers had over our lives . . . and school - it impacted us too.  I mean, if we are really fair about it, they really did.
I am not forcing you to be fair. If you feel strongly that you wanna continue to be unfair, like if today sucks for you, then by all means, you go ahead and be a bitch.  It is your right as an adult. (and don't go off at me that I left men out in this - they can do the "bitch" dance better than many women)
I think back to my grade two teacher who pointed out to us that an easy way to tell the difference between "desert" and "dessert" is that we always want 2 helpings of "dessert" and so it has two "s's."
How brilliant was that??
And what a life lesson.
I carried that deep understanding with me even until this very day and my appreciation for that teacher cannot even begin to be expressed.

I cannot tell you the number of times that simple clarification saved me from having 2 helpings of camel ... or sand ...

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But, now that I think about it, it was probably also was responsible for making me have 2 helpings of ice cream and sticky date pudding.  The "dessert/desert rule" is probably why so many people are overweight.  How did we even stand a chance with all the mind control and conditioning done at the grade school level under the guise of "spelling tips" and a teacher campaigning for nicer Christmas gifts?

That is so FREAKING unfair!


Bitch on people!!!


MESH BODY:  Maitreya  Mesh Body - Lara
MESH HEAD:  CATWA HEAD Kimberly v2.11
HEAD APPLIER:  Amara Beauty Tori
NECKLACE:  (Kunglers) Lakshmi necklace - Citrine
EYES:  .ARISE.  Lana Eyes / Brown
HAIR:  MINA Hair - Pippa
BLOUSE:  Ghee Marsala Madylin Blouse 
SKIRT:  Ghee Voodoo Chile Madylin Skirt 
BAG:  Izzie's - Weekender rust 
BOOTS:  phedora. Nicky Boots

Monday, October 16, 2017

I Love Second Life.

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I really like Second Life. It protects you from the harsh realities of the real world.

Putting aside that you can fly and magically teleport yourself wherever you want to be in a matter of seconds, there is the factor that you can wander mountains in your lingerie. I mean you can do that in real life too but the lace tends to get caught in the rocks, and your toes tend to get stubbed and bloody which takes away from the whole effortless fashionista kind of thing.
And you can wear your underwear to the store, or to the concert, or to the wedding, or the sporting event or anywhere you want to really.  You can put a pig on your head, you can buy ginormous boobs and hide a bicycle riding monkey in the cleavage and wander around butt naked.
Second Life is like the giant Walmart in the Cloud.  No matter what you wear, and where you wander, you are pretty much guaranteed that someone there is going to look or act stupider than you. 
If you want to guarantee that 100%, just make sure some of your alts are at the same place.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Decorating With Turkeys.

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Penguins have only one mate their entire life and when they choose a mate, they often make it known by giving them a pebble. Presumably, the whole Penguin gang gathers round and they all make Penguin squealing sounds.  I am pretty sure we just can't hear them because they are a really high frequency that only dogs can hear, which makes complete sense.   Dogs are NOT impressed by pebbles, diamonds. marriage OR National Geographic, why would they bother showing up to celebrate with birds that can't even fly?

Friday, August 18, 2017

The Mother of All Inventions.

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I am a responsible blogger who sees fashion as a gateway to life.  I figure, as long as we are all expected to get dressed each morning - fashion is a gateway drug to anything you want to blame on it.  Most criminals are clothed when they commit crimes.  Maybe it is not their upbringing at all, but the fact their pants do not go with the shirt they chose.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Pass The Candy Floss

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I imagine most people have seen the video by now of the big ride that broke down and sent people flying off into the air.  Ya … that pretty much sums up why I don't do the rides anymore.

Like most kids, I was all over the rides.  Growing up and attending almost every world famous Stampede during those years, we had a good exposure to rides.  I always wanted the latest and greatest.  There is something about rides that are just thrown up in a few hours having travelled from some other little Canadian town's animal and veggie-o-rama.  It is like a prairie kids one chance to live on the edge.

That and eating the crap they sell there.

Then you become a mother and the whole throwing up bit sort of loses its charm.  (not to mention the prices)  I didn't want to throw up and I wasn't real keen on cleaning up the throw up from my kids who wanted to ride.  They already lived in the city.  They didn't NEED the rides, they had downtown and surviving Junior High to give them all the life and death situations they could possibly NEED.  I saved them from wheat and cows for crying out loud - why can't kids ever be happy with what they have?

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

The Suspenseful Suspenders Story

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Suspenders are an interesting invention.  Santa Claus and grandpa were pretty much the gateway introduction for me.  My parents tried to gloss over them in their bedtime story reading, but no detail ever escaped my attention. 

I like to speculate how and where things were invented.  Life was pretty simple once upon a time and "necessity was the mother of all invention" they say despite the unkind things written about her on bathroom walls.  She was just a single mom doing the best she could with a really unruly kid.  So I can imagine that someone was having probs with the whole belt concept.  Either they were  "the belt goes through the loops" challenged or "the little metal thingy goes in one of the holes" challenged.  OK, maybe the motivation was that they could not find a belt big enough for someone but were people ever really that fat before McDonalds, potato chips and coke? And besides, it is just as likely that they were invented for a really skinny guy with no butt to keep his pants from sliding off.  

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Life Is But A Dream

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It was a great dream, there I was packing up treasures from home, me being the recipient of undiscovered treasures.  Suddenly there were rooms that I never knew were there and the stuff in those rooms was beyond awesome.  Then it morphed into walking by the beach and watching the dolphins jump and then I was being swept way out to sea by a giant wave and pushed miles away and me thinking I could use my hands in my rubber dinghy to get myself back.  Thank heavens I hit the wall on the far side with the flocked wallpaper or I would have probably been a goner.

Then I woke up.

That was the start of my day.

Friday, April 14, 2017

They Call The Wind "Whacko."

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The problem with growing up on a farm is that when you try to go to school in anything other than blue jeans and flannel, you get labelled a whacko.

I was the school whacko.

That was aided by the fact I was not allowed to touch the cows. Do you have any idea of how you stand out, living on a farm where everyone is in 4-H touching cows all day long and you are cow-less?  It was like wearing a giant red cow with a bar through it on my forehead.  It is a wonder they did not rename me "Hester."

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Under The Influence Of The Evening News.

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Last night there was a report on the evening news about a 95 year old man who was busted for speeding around his gated community in his converted golf cart/wheelchair super-sonic road blaster.  I think he was doing wheelies on the round-a-bout and it was freaking out the neighbours so the police really leaned on him and warned him they would get him if he did not stop it.

Another evening new Police Brutality report.

The cops were incredibly stern with him.  They made him stop and show them some ID and they informed him he was speeding and operating his vehicle in a dangerous manner.  No-one even tried to do a strip search.  Despite that, the guy put his hands up and sneered at them and told them to go ahead and cuff him, he didn't care.  He was a really bad dude.  I could already hear the comments that would be made on the viral You Tube piece of this gangsta grandpa.  They would say he deserved what he got.  He was asking for it.

Friday, March 3, 2017

The Beginning of The End

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I have been a little remiss in showing up for life lately.  I am not sure what happened.

I have examined my belly with the windchimes in the trees, scented candles aflame, oming and examining my bellybutton.  Maybe I don't really understand what I am supposed to be looking for.  Do other people's belly buttons do something special?  Mine just lies there.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Pink Is The Colour Of My Own True Heart

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In my head, I like to pretend I had a pink room as a child and that I was allowed to embrace all thing's girl.  That never happened.

I was raised by my grandparents in the middle of the prairies of Canada.  The hardware store where one shopped for clothes, furniture, housewares, bedding and bath wares, office supplies, garden and combining needs … was limited in colour selection.   There was "sturdy brown," "sensible beige,"  "serviceable John Deere green,"  "coal black," "steel grey," and "combine red."  Sometimes they got crazy and threw the colours into a floral pattern or even a plaid.  The line for those items would be all the way down the street to the Combine parts catalogue store.  Nothing makes you feel more young and alive than knowing your grandparents have the exact same outfit that you do.

If I had been born on the ground in a dirt shack and wore nothing but beaver pelts … I would never have been a brown girl.  God made me allergic to brown.  I did not do brown.  If someone tried to make me, I threw up and got hives.  Once I think I may have even killed a goat.  I can't be sure, but the last thing I remember was being made to wear brown pants and then I woke up and there was a goat hoof in my pocket and bits of goat fur caught in my teeth.  Something happened and I was there, lying in the neighbours haystack and there were no live goats in sight.  Brown does that to me. 

Thursday, January 26, 2017

The Land Mass Known As "Bliss."

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I figured it out. 

I am pretty much done with people invading my space.  I saw a meme that said, "someone just honked to get me out of my parking space faster so now I have to sit here until both of us are dead."  I so relate to that.

I have done that.

Please don't judge me, unless you truly admire me for that and want to speak publicly on it … then please, you have my blessing.

I have tried.  I do try.  I start my day with my polite, tolerant underwear strapped on but by midday, after being bumped and walked into, pushed and shoved . . .  I am pretty much unstrapped and going commando.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

My Hubby Is The Girl I Always Wanted To Be.

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I suck at packing suitcases.  I try hard.  I do.  I think about what I need to take and I lay everything out.  I really get it down to bare essentials but then I start to think about the things we are going to be doing and I add a thing or two … and another . . . and suddenly there are tons of things. 

I fold them nicely and put it all in my suitcase.  Everything is relative . . . in  a vacuum.  I create a nice vacuum of me, my clothes, and my suitcases.  And then my hubby shows up with his clothes, his suitcase and ruins it all.  Hard to be proud of my efforts - 8 suitcases, almost all my clothes and colour co-ordinated within their purpose designations - when he is standing there, gloating.  One suitcase, everything he needs, room for more.  I hate him.

I would like to be that person.  I look at all those Pinterest posts on nifty ways to pack for a holiday and I visualize me, picking 6 colour co-ordinated,multi-purposefull, non-creasing items, into my carry-on, having the most fab holiday ever.  I have always wanted to be THAT girl.  But, I am not and what really hurts … my husband is.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

The Lost Halloween Confession

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Derek brought Halloween Candy home prior to Halloween because it was on sale at Aldi and he thought he might as well pick some up in case we needed it.  We never do.  No-one Halloween's here in Australia anyway, and then with the whole clown thingy, parents were terrified to let their kids out … especially if they were dressed as clowns.

I actually think that is brilliant, wish I had thought of it when my kids were going out.  We could have stopped the whole Halloween nonsense and saved a heck of a lot of money for both candy and dental bills in the process.  We were too busy hugging clowns and making clown dolls and thinking they were cute and the fun part of going to the circus when we should have been terrorizing everyone with them.

Just another missed opportunity from my youth to add to the scrap book my great aunt is keeping on me, in case God forgets anything.

The kids used to come out on the street here but the people at the end of our dead end street are so mean and nasty to everybody that the kids just decided, for their own safety, to create a 10 house radius around them.  And those people aren't even dressed as clowns.  Go figure.  Do you think they vet the people who end up living at the dead part of a dead end street?  I only ask because the people on our street seem to have really taken on the spirit of "dead-end" in all they do.  It is crazy to see how people, small children and animals who walk down the street seem to hit this invisible wall just when they get close to the dead end houses, and then turn and walk away.  Some even run.  

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

I Prefer Bees

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Queensland has a butterfly swarm going on right now.  Millions of butterflies are in the skies as those from further west are heading our way in search of food. 

Every time I step outside it literally feels like I am stuck in one of those over the top, entitlement obsessed weddings where the bride and groom are not allowed to move without there being an entourage of people to move the dress, a harp and stringed instruments to background the whole thing, and butterflies or doves being released.

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One could argue that a swarm of millions of butterflies is much nicer than a swarm of bees.  I would argue that at least with a swarm of bees death is a real possibility.  This has been going on for days.  I constantly have people telling me there is something in my teeth and I have to remove a butterfly wing  or even a leg or arm …

Butterflies like bright shiny things - like those teeth you paid thousands of dollars for so they would be bright and shiny.  Is it wrong to envy people with dentures?  You can always put them in your pocket until the swarming is over.

I lie in my pool and look up and there are layers upon layers of butterflies going up forever in the sky.  I worry about things like, what if they all suddenly forget how to fly and come hurtling down on me?  I could drown in butterflies.  And what if some of them aren't dead when they hit me and are still squirming around …. ewww …. pretty does not take away the ewww factor of far too many legs and things trying to crawl up on the life raft named me, to save themselves from drowning.  

Real life is not like the movies.  In the movies, the beautiful princess (currently being played by "me" in this real life version) would be swirling and dancing and suddenly the air would be alive with sparkling, twinkling butterflies and it would all be for her and so pretty and magical.   In real life, I have a couple of butterflies lodged up my nose because I tried to walk three steps out my back door and I was afraid I might not be able to breathe so I turned too quickly.  Imagine if I had done a full swirl?  I would be dead.  There was no twinkling and sparkling going on.  I swear I could hear the butterflies mocking me.

I ran for the house, ripped open the fridge door and grabbed my epi pen and stabbed my thigh with it.  I don't know that I am allergic to butterflies and I don't really care, I just wanted to go to sleep while they tried to pull those things out of my nose. 

The local newspaper is all excited at the opportunities for people to snap some awesome pics.  They want us to "send them in" so we can have a fun competition and see everyone's talent.  Butterfly pictures are nice … as a "one of."  After day 10 it is like, "here is a picture of a butterfly on a flower," … "oh look, and here is another one of a butterfly on a flower" … "but hey, look at this one … it's a butterfly … on a flower."  I had a pile of dead butterflies forked that I took a picture of and wanted to send in but hubby said that was not in keeping with the "spirit" of the local paper.  I would like to jam a couple butterflies up their nose and see how pretty they think they are then.    As I said … bees, death …  definitely a better scenario.

I was getting desperate.

I put out the candles that are meant to repel mosquitoes, then I added the designer aroma candles from the good drawer.  I was saving those for a special day - probably when I died and someone else finally opened the drawer and found rancid designer candles and threw them out.  That is special, right?  Then I added some twigs that had fallen from the tree.  I was on a mission.  I figured I could explain to hubby later why we no longer had a coffee table or the book case in the office.  Butterflies like shiny things.  They dance in the light.  Fire makes light.  The bigger the fire, the more light, the more tragic butterfly deaths.  I was running around the yard screaming to them to just head to the light.

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I got some tickets from the local council for excessive noise, creating terror and for having a fire without a license.  I think I raised the heat in our yard from 38 to 380.  I damaged all the flowers, grass and trees but hey, you will be happy to know … the butterflies are fine … still swarming …

And now they are mating.  Butterfly sex … everywhere.

Before everyone cries me a river about how delicate and beautiful butterflies are, may I point out that every fluttering little delicate butterfly was once a fat, wiggly, icky caterpillar and now they are flying … all over the sky and  having sex and there is no one child policy for butterflies so come next year we are going to be drowning in caterpillars.  I am sorry … no amount of pretty can erase that picture from my mind.


SKIN:  New Faces - Kendra [Summer] Black
BODY PARTS:  SLink FEMALE (Av.Enhance) Hands and Feet
LASHES:  Hush - Lashes - Lush
EYES:  Egozy.Eyes (Turquoize)
MAKE-UP:  *elymode* makeup - Gluttony shadows - caramel
[Hush] Lipcolor - Natural - Gloss (cocoa)
HAIR:  Besom *Milk* Oriental Buns
OUTFIT COMPLETE WITH JEWELLERY:  .:JUMO:. Naomi
SHOES:  :::ChicChica::: Kat Night

Saturday, November 5, 2016

A Lemon Twist

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The thing is, life has gotten incredibly busy.  Some days I feel it is a miracle I managed to get dressed.  In fact that day was a miracle.  I celebrated it just before bed and I was about to get back in my pjays.   Hubby and I high fived one another while we were brushing our teeth.  He said "waaa-t-ggooo-bawb" which, when you take away the toothpaste foam and the open mouth was, "way to go babe." 

It would be ok if it were the great things that were keeping us busy but nope, not the case.  Just lots and lots of lemons.  And when you have lemons, you always have those friends that go, " just change your perspective and stop being such a negative Nelly."  Why couldn't it be a Negative Nancy?  Or maybe a Negative Natalie?  I know some Natalie's and Nancy's and they are pretty much non-demon like.  Have I mentioned how much I hate "Nelly?"  And I mean "Nelly" anyone.  All "Nelly's" are cows.  They just are.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

I Has Several Tents.

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I love wearing these sort of clothes where there is all this extra material.  There are arm holes and maybe leg holes, some place for the neck, tons of drapey material … and you just wing it.

I especially like that you end up with a new permeation of it every time you get dressed.  It can go from a dress to pants to a scarf even, if you are really pressed for time.  It is really cool how that all comes together.  I would, however, like to caution you that some things can really not translate as well as you think they can.  Vintage can be a knife's blade in fashion.  A model can strut down a faded dress with a torn sweater down the runway and it is really cool.  Even wearing a table cloth for a fashion magazine, if there are enough cabbage roses and gauze, can look incredible.  Try wearing a tea towel your great grandma crocheted as a top to school and even you admit it was not that fashionable by the time you hit the 6 month of your detention served sitting with the minister as he reads you the Bible, and talks to you about being a precious rose and how you only blossom and share your sweet perfume and your two special buds with your husband on your wedding night.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

We All Have Baggage.

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I like watching people get their luggage at the airport.   It was not a past time by choice but one foisted on me because no matter where we go, my luggage is guaranteed to be one of the last ones unpacked from the plane.

Everyone shoves and pushes and runs to get off the plane.  You risk your life, standing before the seat belt sign is switched off, fighting off the older and disabled to be able to take the aisle position so you can stand with your heavy bags for the hour before they get docked and open the door and the 582 people ahead of you get off the plane.  Then you run and push and get to the walkways that move before other passengers do.  You actually WALK on the moving walk-way because you want to get out.  You push in front of other people in every line-up and make it to the luggage ramp.

And then you wait.  And while you wait, everyone you shoved and pushed joins you.  Even the handicapped people get there.  And then the luggage starts to drop … and like I said, mine is always last.  Yay me. 

I always think the time around the luggage ramps is special.  You get to eyeball all your fellow passengers.  The man who insisted on stretching his legs out pushing your feet from where you wanted to place them on the floor beneath your own seat up and under the seat in front of you, which is special because in order for them to do they have to be pancaked and crammed under a steel bar.  Now that dude has to stand beside me and deal with my death stare.   Ask my children how that went for them.  They actually used to have couple more brothers and sisters.  Few people survive the death stare.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

It's All About the Butter Cream.

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Some women worry that they might not look as good as everyone else. 

They spend hours buying the right dress and primping and preening before the mirror. They have been waxed and shellacked, kneaded and sculpted, cut and dried, fluffed and puffed, lipsticked and powdered ....

I saw a woman once all made up like that and she went to the restaurant and was seated next to the fireplace.  She melted. 

Really when you think about it ... how you look is really about the paint job. We women are like those tacky lawn gnomes all white and plain - handed out to be painted in senior ceramics 101, we are undecorated Christmas trees, we are cakes without icing.

I gave  my girls the whole motherly "you are a flower" talk.   Patting you on the hand is not a teenage non-verbal confirmation that you have been heard.  So I gave her the whole practical "how to" list complete with warnings the drew on every movie, newspaper heading and campfire horror story I had ever read.  I finished with explaining to her that she was not a blank canvas, but a garden gnome and she was in a really tough pottery class and if she did not paint that damn gnome better than anyone else and get an "A," and win a scholarship to Rocket Science school, she would never have even worry about whether she was the fittest gazelle and could fight off the entire lion pack.  No-one would be coming for her.  I think I got everything.  She looked at me in horror. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Everyone is Someone's Imaginary Friend.

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Imaginary friends have always been part of our family. My brother was this guy Anthony's imaginary friend for years.  We called the whole thing off when Anthony was carted off in a straight jacket because he opened the closet and found my brother hiding behind the vacuum cleaner.  I told my brother he was too real, and completely sucked at being invisible.  Anthony could not believe he wasn't imaginary.  It destroyed him.   He felt so cheated and unspecial knowing that we could all see him.  I tried to cheer him up by telling him we didn't want to see him and that if he wanted I would take my brother out into the woods and hide him better so that no-one would ever find him.  It was too late.  You can't unsee those damn live bodies.  They are littered everywhere we go.

I told my brother he sucked at being invisible and he should probably just move far away to save the family the profound shame we all felt now that he had failed.