Genie In A Bottle


Poof— Open a bottle and release a magic spirit to do your bidding. What seems like a good idea at the time— can soon bring regret. News flash, there is no genie at the bottom of a gin bottle, this— I know for sure. If you happen to be an occasional regretful drinker like myself, I can save you a great deal of nausea, and bed spins, by reminding you to pour your own drinks, be involved in keeping track of your alcohol consumption. If you let others do it for you, it can cause unwelcome side effects. This is the best advice I can give you this week, probably even all summer. Especially considering, I’ve just killed off more brain cells, than I grew all of last week.

This lapse of judgement occurred visiting our step-mom in Castlegar, B.C. Fortunately, I’m too old for the corner, but I would have enjoyed a time out. The eleven-hour truck ride home after trying to free the Genie proved challenging. In the first hours I kept my teeth and fists clenched, determined to be stoic. I would not succumb to the feelings of illness through the curvy, windy, ever-changing elevation of mountain passes. The sun shone down on me in the passengers seat, as though lighting up an overexposed turd in the backyard. I curse my god given fortitude to drink, and eat whatever people put in front of me.

Five hours into the trip— more like four hours, fifty-three minutes, and six seconds— but who’s counting? We roll through the picturesque little town of Fernie. A green light on a traffic standard flickers orange, and then blazes into red. Rick jams on the brakes. We fly forward. Our seatbelts grab us tightly around the midsection. My queasy tummy flip-flops initiating fountain protocol. I frantically search the truck for a bag, an old boot, or anything to keep from redecorating the new company truck with pavement pizza. I find a gift bag containing a present for our granddaughter; it has been lovingly packed by our step-mom. I rip out the contents, and hover over the bag. I huff and puff, and blow away the idea of being sick.

Rick gives me a concerned look, “Are you going to be okay?“

Green is not a color, it’s a feeling, “Pull over when you can, “ I groan.

I watch the road ahead, focused, “I am not getting sick, I am not getting sick.” It’s a mantra in my mind. I hold the colourful birthday bag wide open between my hands, in case the bile geyser erupts.

Rick pulls over just outside of the quaint little town— probably full of very wise non-drinkers, and wise moderate drinkers.

I fling my door open, and tumble out of the truck. I bobble over to the edge of a gravel bank overlooking a rolling river. It’s swollen with spring runoff from the majestic mountain ranges. I am whiter than the peaks of snow. I lean forward, my hands on my knees. My body refuses to give anything up, except a few masculine belches— the ghosts of drinks gone past.

If only we had gone dancing last night. A bit of busting a move could have exorcized the demons of gin.

I crawl back into the seat of punishment for the rest of the trip home— The long, long, trip home.

This is your friendly reminder for sweet summer outings, there is no genie at the bottom of a bottle, and pour your own drinks my friends.

Wake Up


This is what I wish, for all of our planet, to be clean and pristine.

I try to be positive about life, I normally look at a pile of poop, and think, “Oh look fertilizer.” However, this poop pile is from a dog, and it’s sticky, and it’s stuck to my shoe, and I’m scrubbing my damn shoe on the grass. But the brown stuff is ground into my sneaker tread. Now I stink. My blog today, isn’t about dog poop. It’s about poop that won’t turn into fertilizer.

Why are we are walking around like mindless stinkers? We have amazing brains. The planet needs us to get our crap together. Stop buying junk! Did you see the article this morning? Scientists find 38 million pieces of trash on pacific Island. We are all contributing to plastic pollution with our brainless buying. The corporations have the people of North America right where they want them— working hard to buy the next piece of junk that won’t make them happy anyway. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, spoiler alert— Happiness is an inside job. There is nothing you can buy, that will bring you happiness, or satisfaction, for more than a day or two. Joy comes from connections with other living things, from appreciation, from music, from creating, from doing things with love and not obligation. It doesn’t come from stuff.

The cities are the corporations biggest crop. They have a captive audience to plant their seeds of need. It’s fertile ground. One person buys the latest and greatest product, and then envy takes root, and the other person must have something bigger and better. Pretty soon, you have the whole collection of happy meal toys, which eventually work their way into the dump. There they sit, doing nothing for several hundred lifetimes before they crumble away.

I realize people don’t respond to being pushed. I don’t respond to being pushed. But man o man, wake the frick up. Start supporting small companies with an ecofriendly policy, start supporting the growers with a minimized chemical program, buy local, use your beautiful minds to consider what you are actually buying before you purchase it. Consider where it ends up, when it gets broken and used up. Who are you supporting? What are you supporting?

We are the target market for big companies. We support the Billionaires whose bottle of wine cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. We have the strength to create change when we unite as numbers, because corporations look at numbers. The government will not save us. We have to save ourselves. You are responsible. I am responsible.

I have been struggling over what I can do, as an individual, to help change the world. It’s simple, and it’s hard. Stop buying junk. I was in Walmart the other day. I bought some groceries, and I bought one light summer dress. I don’t think I am ever going back. I feel guilty about the dress. I bet it will only wash ten times before it looks like I washed it one hundred. I saw a bubble making plastic lawnmower for kids. Not just one, probably a stack of fifty. I thought about my granddaughters, and how much fun they would have with that toy. I envisioned our athletic girl prancing around the lawn, making a bubble storm for her little sister to chase. I saw the cloud of rainbow bubbles glistening in the sun. Then I looked into the future, I saw the broken lump of plastic sitting in the landfill, along with hundreds of other broken plastic bubble blowers. I can make a bubble blower. I can make bubble juice.

Yes, plastic can be recycled, but not everyone does recycle.

I met a man a while back, we were discussing recycling, “Yeah,” He said with a wave of his hand, “I used to recycle everything. Then I watched a documentary on garbage and pollution.” He pauses, and tightens his face, “We are so screwed, it doesn’t matter what I do. I’m not wasting my time recycling.”

Wow! My jaw dropped, It looked like I took two too many benzos. I’ll admit, it’s not going to be easy. But let’s work at it. Don’t wave the big white I surrender flag. Change what you can— You have dominion over how you spend your hard earned money. You matter, your kids matter. What we do now is for our kids— and their kids. You can make a difference. Go team human beings! Whoot!

The dog crap smell is gone now.



When a moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that’s amore. Thanks for that obscure song in my head Dean Martin. So at 4:30 am, what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a synchronized dance of the moonlight glare. I raise my head up, and struggle to lift my eyelids off my bleary eyeballs. How beautiful, I think as I take it all in for a moment. Sleep forces me back down, and I sink into my pillow. The warm comfort cocoons me. An inner light bulb clicks on inside my mind, ” You know?” suggests my inner voice, ” You should get up. Go take a picture of that magnificent representation of nature. You always wanted a moonlight photo. ”

I pull the covers up over my head ignoring the idea. The voice becomes whiney and nasal, ” What’s wrong with you? Get up! Your camera is in the cupboard, the tripod is in the closet, and the manual is in your nightstand. ” The voice is babbling now, annoyingly excited, “ If you hop on Pinterest, you can get the settings to take the picture. It could be done in an instant. Faster than it takes for your body cells to divide. ”

” I don’t know how long it takes for my body cells to divide. I don’t want to get up. It’s too early. ”  I protest. I inhale a deep breath and sigh. My body relaxes.

The voice says, “ You could google how long it takes for a body cell to divide. ”

I don’t move hoping my mind quietens.

“ Listen. ” orders the voice, ” Time for a reality check, if you live as long as your Mom, you have eight years left. Only eight years before you turn into a spook, and learn how move stuff without a body, to scare the crap out of your kids. ”

I smile, that’ll be fun.

“ Not a lot of time. ” Says the irritating voice. I can hear imaginary fingernails tap on a counter inside my head, like the ticking of a clock.

” Fine. ” I groan, ” I’ll get up. ” I slide down the side of our tall bed. I think my husband bought our giant bed on purpose. Just so he could watch me struggle to get in. I’m stubborn, no stool for me. I’ll attach a rope ladder first. In eight years he’ll inscribe a logo on my gravestone, depicting a stool with an x through it. Well, at least she achieved her no-stool badge. I digress.

I fumble with attaching the camera to the tripod. My arms are still sleeping. I blink like a butterfly flapping its wings, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. I squint to read the manual, and Pinterest directions to set up the shot. I tighten the last knob on the tripod. A cloud swoops in and covers the moon.

I laugh, “ Oh Murphy, you kill me. You and your law, always sticking it to the hopeful. ” I shrug my shoulders. ” Oh well, at least I’m set up for tomorrow night. ” FYI, body cells divide in approximately 24 hours.

Hey, that’s life, give it a shot, and if it doesn’t work out, give it another go. There is always a second chance, never forget, there wouldn’t be any rainbows without any clouds. Look at it this way— lets say you plan a trip, and the end goal is to be home on a certain date. If you only focus on the end goal, why should you leave at all? The fun is in the journey. I’m not sure what that means for a prostate exams. But be adventurous. You know what they say. Don’t sweat the small stuff, which is a great saying, unless you’re a little man with a big loud truck.

So, let’s go people! Have fun, play safe, and never give up.

Go Oilers. Go!

Heartwarming Canadians


Anyone else feel extraordinarily proud of our Canadian brethren at the Oilers hockey game on Sunday night? How about the singing of the two national anthems performed by 18,000 hockey fans? When Brett Kissel asked the fans in the stadium to sing the American anthem I thought it might be a half-hearted effort at best. The spectators were outstanding; they honoured our American counterparts with solid performance without even having the words up on the screen. Watching them belt our own anthem was heart-warming too. But nothing compared to the way my heart blew up watching the fans sing the American anthem. So proud, Canadians showed their class. We may want to crush them in hockey but we respect them as a country. I won’t comment on the following game— However, come Wednesday night— bring it all Oilers!

Canadians are known for their kindness and inclusion. Sunday night gave me one more reason to be a proud Canadian. I know other countries make fun of us for being nice, but there’s nothing wrong with a little please and thank you. Our world-renowned benevolence only serves to enhance our travel experience.

“Are you an American?” growls the citizen from any other country in the world.

“No, I’m Canadian.”

The citizen from anywhere in the world smiles, “ How wonderful. I’ve always wanted to meet a Canadian, I hear you smell like cotton Candy, and fart unicorn fluff. Come and stay with us. Perhaps you would like our first born to bring home with you? He could stand to learn some manners.”

Maybe Canadians are overly polite, and maybe it is associated with weakness. Wrong assumption, good manners demonstrate kick butt confidence.

“How are you?”

“I’m wonderful!“

“Never mind about me, what about you?”

“Please, you go first. I like to help those who struggle under the weight of a door.” Manners are having consideration for others around you. Please does not mean, I am weak and unimportant. I need help. It means I sure appreciate your comradery. After all we are fellow humans supplying mosquitoes with blood each year, we may as well be pleasant.

Thank you means, I appreciate what you have done.

Excuse me means, I recognise your importance, I will put aside my own, in order to validate you. Lets cooperate, and then frolic in a field of dandelions.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I butt in line? Go ahead, please.”

“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. “ says the smiling Canadian. We are not apologising for existing. We are sorry for you, because your day is going so poorly, when we are doing so incredibly well.

I am sorry, I wish you could have a life like me.

I am Canadian, and despite our politician’s efforts to make us miserable— We Rock.