Wednesday, October 19, 2016

I Has Several Tents.


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.


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.


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.


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.

Friday, September 23, 2016

I Have No Choice.


I could see a pet bat. 

I would like to accidently let it out and I would sit in a lawn chair moved over right to the edge of the property line, with my "Music to Clog By" turned up full blast.  I would eat chocolates and sip champagne and watch the neighbours try to run away from it, batting at it with their hands and screaming.  Then, when it would finally latch onto one of their necks I would look up and try to call it home.  I would say  "Murgenheimer  Muuuuurgenheeeeeiiiiimer.  Come here Murgeheimer.  Stop bothering the neighbours now."   But of course, my bat would not come. 

Partly because I would have trained it to ignore me but mainly because it's name would not be "Mergenheimer."

Friday, September 16, 2016

Angels Among Us


I saw an angel once. 

His name was Bill and he lived in a box under the overpass near the car dealership.

I didn't know he was an angel at first.  I met him one day when I was running away from home.  I stopped to eat one of my sandwiches and he was just sitting there, next to the town grain elevator, watching me.  So, I offered him the other half of the sandwich.

He asked what I was doing and I told him I was running away from home.  He didn't believe me, he said, " . . . you aren't running, your legs aren't even moving."  I realized he was right.  I was sitting there eating a sandwich.  He knew stuff like that.  He said I wasn't really committed to the whole running away thing and I should save myself for the right time.   He said it really forceful, like it was a commandment.   And when I turned my head, a whole field was on fire.  Moses only had a burning bush, this dude had a whole field.  I got goose bumps.

Monday, September 5, 2016

It's A Whole Freaking Rainbow Out There


For the longest time when I was growing up I thought I was magical.

It wasn't just about thinking I could fly, or that Santa was real, or there actually were fairies that drank out of the bluebells at night while we slept . . . I believed I had gifted sight.

I saw colour.

If you consider TV's were black and white, I could not believe that was how everyone else saw the world.  I could see colour.  It made me really sad for the rest of mankind.  So I spent most of the years between 3 - 8 weeping for them.  I realized colours, for them, was just names written on Crayola's.  They could pick up "yellow" for the sun and "blue" for the sky but it was all just grey and rainy.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Pretty Much Like Albino Garden Gnomes.


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 ....

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 frosting . . .  until our Avon order comes in.  Then we can be anyone … especially if we have You Tube and we watch some prepubescent boy show us how to do it.  Today I am a Meerkat.   (It is all in the strokes you use on the eyebrows and then contour the nose).

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

I Can't Find My Panties, Do I Have Alzheimer's?


I feel cheated.  I never went to a party where a bunch of girls sat around in beautiful lingerie all evening, looking like models.

Why didn't I have any model girlfriends?

Why weren't there any model girlfriends at my school?

Why wasn't I a model?

I had underwear.  It did what underwear was supposed to.  Sometimes, at Christmas mostly, I got some  shiny synthetic underwear that had a hint of lace or a bow sewn on them somewhere.  Each pantie had a different day of the week embroidered on it.  I don't ever remember worrying about whether I was wearing "Monday" or whether I grabbed "Wednesday" by mistake.  Is this maybe the reason why my life is such a mess?  Was I meant to wear the right days.  Was it a magical ritual that would have made me popular?  I have to know.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEONE ANSWER ME.  Did it matter?  I can't remember it mattering.  Do you think this is the onset of Alzheimers?  I think forgetting your underwear is one of the signs.  I think I read that in one of those click sites where they list the 5 warning symptoms that you are dying but I can't remember for sure and I KNOW that not remembering things was on there.

Unless I am not remembering properly.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Keeping It Real


I tried to sue my grandparents for all the angst they created in me growing up. 

Telling a child it is "raining cats and dogs," and then yelling at me about needing to put on my rain gear before I could go outside was traumatizing.  First of all, it made me highly nervous because I could never ever seem to get my gear on fast enough.  Secondly, it created a life-long issue with rubber boots.  I am not quite sure what the issue is but if I say that I have one, it is plausible and it keeps me from having to shop for them or from ever having to put on a pair again considering on the farm, there were no cute little shiny yellow ducky rubber boots, or even shiny red ones.  That is for city kids.  Farm kids get standard mud green/gray, dual purpose boots meant for both rain and cleaning out the barn.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Trauma Bay 37924E. I Was There, With A Horse.

bbbia 2a 

There I was, even in my viewer, with a leg tucked under an arm, my clothes floating larger than life, and a head  . . . somewhere.   My breasts, with holes where the nipples used to be and my pelvic area, fully rezzed and disturbingly near an equally disassembled but with more provocative bits rezzed man.  "Hotstud 347." 

Evidently the other 346 Hotstuds could not make it.

Second Life, where you get to play out all your fantasies.  Except this was never part of any fantasy, ever.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Etsy Can Trigger PTSD if You Don't Shop Responsibly.


Back in the Seventies, some people used to try to move out of the city to the country and set up little "hobby farms."

I think they tried to raise "hobby horses" and have lots of little girls they liked to name "Holly." Everyone was saying things like "There goes Holly Hobby on her Hobby Horse. She lives on a Hobby Farm." She always wore a gingham dress and a big prairie pioneer burka sunhat so you could never see her face.   And then some ladies started quilting her. It was all pretty genuine and innocent until some dude came up with "Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly ...." and then it got kind of messy.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016



I had a Grade 2 teacher who taught us spelling.  She was talking about words that look alike but are different and she put up "dessert" and "desert."  Then she told us that we would always know how to spell them properly if we remembered that there were two "s's" in "dessert" because everyone loves a second serving of "dessert" but you would never ask for a second serving of a "desert."

I had so many questions, I mean after I managed to get over the WTF phase of the whole exchange.  I wondered if she knew that "bosom" only has one "s" when we have two of them??  "Balls" has two "l's."  We were heading for the seventies and women were strapping on their bras and going to Girl Guides and learning how to start fires.  There were wars to be fought and if she knew something that these women needed to know, she should have shared.

I learned a lot that day.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Teleporting, Will You Live To Talk About It?


I was out walking around today in places where I was not supposed to be.  Am I the only one who loves when you click on the link in a designers profile only to end up on private land where some disembodied something types you a message that you have 4 nanoseconds to get off the private land?  Like, how does a designer fail to notice that her store is no longer where it was last night when she logged off and why wouldn't she consider that a small little detail that might be important to share with her customers? 

Advertising 101.  Store owning for Dummies.  Let people know where your store is.  Have someone stand at the door and hug people when they come in.  Give them a sticker. 

Don't move the store and hire some hit guy from the mob to take out what might be your last customer just because they clicked on a link YOU provided.

And what is with this 4 nanoseconds. 

Friday, July 1, 2016

Stop Feeding Me Cough Medicine!!


I think nerdy kids carry grudges. 

They don't just grow up to be rocket scientists and heads of international labs and finding cures for cancer.  It is not enough that they earn a truckload of money more than the loser football star and the cheerleader who both ended up living in a trailer park and practicing variables of alcohol and drug insertion (some needle play possibly included).   Nope, these dudes and dudettes are exacting revenge.

Once there was a time when all medicine was a powder that had to be mixed in water and swallowed.  Or, it came in a brown bottle and had to be forced down the patients unwilling throat.  I know, the people out there trolling the internet to pick nits out of every sentence are already busy typing away, "how do I know the throats were unwilling?"  I will tell you.  Because the human attached to said throat has arms and legs that are flailing around, smacking outwardly at the other person trying to pour the medicine down it and then the teeth of that same human are clenched and possibly trying to bite people and then the mouth and tongue are spitting the medicine out.  THAT is an unwilling throat.  Duh.

But now, we have capsules and coated pills that slide easily down the throat without any taste transference and we have happy throats that are swallowing and co-operating with the healing process.  These methods have been with us for quite some time, brought on by a huge movement when the kids that were spoon-fed cod liver oil grew up and made money and gained power and position and lobbied government and killed a few people to make sure that they put that crap in a freaking capsule and stop trying to kill children in order to make them healthy.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

I Wail And I Gnash and Still the Dogs Howl.

tik tok 1 

THIS is a really sad day for me and not just because one of those crazy adult colouring ladies escaped with her felt pens and doodled all over Blissy … but with awesome technique … I would like to point out.  I  mean, if she were to post it in on one of those Facebook colouring groups, she would get soooo many "likes" and "loves" and maybe even some weeping.  IF they have added that emotion yet.  You know, the Italian mother kind of weeping when they child decides to become a priest or a nun or something.

It is a sad day because of the dogs next door which are howling in sorrow and sadness.  Don't argue with me.  I have recently found out I speak animal . ..  and I don't even whisper when I do it.  I figure those whisperers are just a bunch of fakes, afraid to speak out loud, because it is easier to smudge over a mistake in whisper talk than it is in real, loud talk.

You can shout out "chicken shits" right here if you like.  It will probably help you get through the rest of this post if you release some of the tension.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

It Could Be Bigger Than "Old Yeller."


There were abandoned farms and businesses all over the prairies.  City kids had playgrounds and community centres and sports complexes … we had old barns and abandoned buildings.

The first thing you did when you found an old building, was move in and stake your claim on the new club house.  Someone should do some serious investigative study on the correlation between farms kids and their old abandoned buildings and bike gangs and their club houses.  A lot of the same dynamics were definitely at play.  The places were dark, there were tables and chairs made out of old boxes and equipment, there were club insignia on the wall and the members sat around and drank.  In our case it was pretty much Fanta pop when we could get it, the occasional coke, and a lot of Kool-aide.  Someone was the leader and the rest of us were followers.  We weren't happy about it, but we were there none the less.  It beat talking to the cows.

Also we did not have hookers even though Donna Peterson did grow up to be a hooker.  In Grade 4 she had not yet chosen a career path and still hoped to one day grow up and work the french fry station at the famous Peter's Drive-In.  Even if she had identified herself as a hooker at that age, trust me, none of the boys would have known what to do with her anyway.

Monday, June 13, 2016

It's A Desert Out There.


I feel my sanity slipping away.  It is either that or I have become more objective in my self-observations.  I have no idea why, when I turn on the light and it does not work, I flick the switch off and on several times as if there is a possibility that I have done it wrong or that maybe if I do it in a certain way, the light will come on.  I like to think I am an enthusiastic optimist and refuse to surrender to "no can do" in any form.

Ya, let's go with that.

The most annoying thing though, is that the voice inside my head that is laughing at me, is that of my mother's.   When did I record that, to carry with me through the rest of my life?  When I packed my things to leave home, who put the tape recorder in??

Sunday, June 5, 2016

We Aim To Serve and Protect.


I did a drive along with some cops once as part of a community awareness.

I can't help it if the cop's perspective of the incident was all caught up in the legal documents that said it was court ordered, in the hopes of helping me change my ways before it was too late.  I have my own perspective and it is my story and I am choosing happier meanings and outcomes so that I will not be all bogged down with negativity that makes me have cancer because I hold negative energy in my body.

Neither do I want to be the butt of those feel good posters that say get rid of the people who always bring you down with their sad stories.  So I just close my eyes tight and click my heels and imagine unicorns and rainbows and sparkles and you would be amazed what an awesome life I now have.

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

All Hail Evolvement and the Unencumbered Breast.


Recently there has been a lot of arguing about the validity of bras.  Some are suggesting they are unhealthy for women because they restrict the lymph nodes and cause congestion which can cause some other serious health problems.  Others say that we are all just a bunch of stupid prudes and we should grow the heck up already.  One man has even done a study to show bras cause more droopage and nipple displacement than going braless does.

Of course, the lingerie makers, lead by a very angry, heavily armed bunch of angels and their fearless leader Victoria the Boulder Holder, are contesting all the ideas and insist they will never give up and are prepared to fight to the death.

I have a million questions:

1.  I wonder if the newly enhanced silicone army will be as enticed to enlarge their breasts if there is no longer any packaging to display said boobilage?  Sometimes a present looks much prettier all wrapped up with ribbons and bows than once it is opened.   Is a boob anything without the packaging?  Consider perfume in your pondering.  What IS perfume without the pretty bottle?

2.  What will we fixate on if we breasts lose their mystique? We can't go back and reinvent the wheel.  Does anything say mommy to men more than a breast?  And if we don't have it wrapped up in some kind of shrine . . . how special can it be?