Ten Odd Christmas Gift Ideas


Alert, alert, the Christmas shopping season is upon us. Prepare to be bombarded by heaps and heaps of stuff you really don’t need. I have to wonder— Am I the only one who is tired of all the plastic mass produced crap decorated with shiny sprinkles and glossy coating? I truly believe dear consumers we are being manipulated into spending too much kaching kaching at Christmas.

This year our family decided to scale down our consumerism and some of the gifts we purchase will be experiences rather than presents. I couldn’t help but notice they sell survival adventures on-line for a hefty fee— I live by a forest, all I need is a blindfold and a gifted participant. Or maybe I could present a fitness enthusiast with an axe throwing/wood splitting experience? I’ll supply the axe and wood— First aid is extra.

I wanted any gifts I purchased to be exceptional. Therefore I logged into my computer and began wading through an overwhelming number of websites. After too much time I can no longer reclaim to my life, I discovered human beings are strange, and it’s no wonder aliens have kept their distance. Allow me to share with you a few unusual items which I found on the web sites Weird sh*t and Oddity Mall.


This item could be used as an appetite suppressant because I almost lost my lunch.


This gift actually has possibilities— I call it the wife appeaser.


Hilarious, yet so wrong in so many ways. Mind you, Einstein did encourage using your imagination.


A great stocking stuffer for that special guy in your life. He can put one in his glove box in case he has one of those emergencies no one likes to talk about.


I don’t know if this works but my intuitions says no, so I would definitely turn my nose up at this gadget.


Here is an inventive apparatus for the cat lover in your family. Or it could be an extra stocking surprise for the special fetish practicing person in your life.


I admit this gift is original, but it caused me to wonder? Does it come with a purse size flea spray?


At first I thought, what a great idea! But then I though this may be a little too supportive of Hemmingway’s write drunk philosophy.


Most pointless gift ever— Unless it’s for a chicken of course.


Best gift ever! But I’m too cheap to buy it. I’ll probably rip the drain out of the shower and build my own.

On that note I wish you all a minimalist shopping adventure this year.

Combustible Life


The descent through the tunnel had been gradual, but long and winding. During the whole trek the only thing Skye could smell resembled fresh cat pee and mouse turds. It seemed strange, because where there are cats, mice shouldn’t exist. The odour wasn’t the worst of the pathway into the earth though; the worst of it was traipsing through the spider webs. The feeling of taunt sticky threads collapsing against her face, the invisible lines sticking to her eyelashes, and being pulled into her nostrils by her terrified breaths. And although she wanted to do nothing more than to turn and escape, the idea of wealth drew her downward deeper into the darkness.

She pressed forward pushing past her dread, past the knowledge that webs are careful traps set out by hairy eight-legged creatures wanting to suck their prey dry. She wiggled her shoulders and shifted the weight of her backpack as though that simple move would lighten her load if she had to turn and run. God save me from giant spiders she thought as she surged forward through the passageway. The further she went, the more coated she became with webs, both old and dusty, and new and sticky. An involuntary shudder passed through her body as she envisioned a giant arachnid studying her with its multiple eyes. She knows she would make a juicy feast. She lets out a nervous giggle; her sisters always said she had an active imagination. She hugged herself tightly warding off any trepidation. She could always return to the surface.

As she set one foot in front of the other with fear in her bones she heard her fathers words as though he had said them aloud. God hates a coward Skye. It was a phrase he uttered often, as though if he had said it enough to her it would make it so. The memory of his hard tone sends her forward at a quickened pace, and then she sees it. It is a beckoning light further up the tunnel. She slowed her pace. She feels the clingy grip of panic increasing the beating of her heart.

She continued on like a moth to the light. She entered a large cavernous space. A blazing fire burns with a vengeance at the center of the cave. She glanced around with searching eyes. She is alone. So why does she feel like crowds are pressing in on her? The dancing flames breed massive shadows on the walls.  A chill crawls up her spine. Maybe she should leave?

Skye, Skye, say good-bye, run away and cry. The nasty rhyme the oh so beautiful kids used to sing to her on the playground played in her head, a bad memory coming to light. She wished she had a delete button, not only for the words, but also for the wicked kids themselves. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage.

Skye approached the fire feeling the heat on her face. She studied the ever-changing crimson licks of light. Her eyes widen as she realized there is no fuel for the fire. No visible fuel for the fire. There is no one present to feed the flames. She could see no footprints in the dust, yet the blaze flickers with nourished strength scarcely contained within a thick ring of stones. Maybe, it is fed by a vein of natural gas?

She gave the cave one more sweeping glance and then set her backpack down. She sank beside it settling into a cross-legged position. Her dry mouth begged for water. She snatched a bottle of water from her pack and quickly drained it. The plastic crinkles loudly, a foreign sound in the archaic cave. She shoved the empty back into her pack, she wouldn’t be the first to litter a pristine place. It is only one bottle of the many she carried. A person can live for days without food, many less without water.

She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her fleece-lined coat. The residue of the moisture darkened the periwinkle color to sky blue. She slowly unzipped the side compartment on the bag. She pulled out a small tube and reached inside with her fingertips retrieving a leathery looking roll. It is thicker than the thickest paper of modern times and smells like rotting hide. She opened the small roll with reverence. The proof she is a thief. But it’s not all she is; the life of one person has too many dimensions to name just one. She is not simply ugly; she is damaged, yet beautiful too. If people could only see past the thickened skin marring the one side of her face and look into her eyes the color of sparkling amethyst, and notice the healthy glow in her auburn hair they might find the glimpses of beauty. It is no matter, not many will miss the lowly assistant to the librarian, and it will be a long while before anyone will notice she had taken the scroll, if they even notice it at all. The librarian in charge is a hoarder, reluctant to share. She is a contradiction to the very purpose of a library. The scroll had been donated, mixed in with boxes of leather bound books and ancient maps concealed in tubes. Skye had been designated to catalogue the contents of the donation. The fact is the scroll simply wouldn’t be missed at all.

As Skye studied the scraggly drawing she could clearly see the fire had not been noted on the map. The only marking  on the wrinkly old guide was a definite X written in crimson ink inside the cave. If it even was ink? Skye’s eyes searched the cavern, so where is the booty? Everyone knows an X on a map means a treasure.

She studies the walls of the cave. They are smooth, blackened, and reflective like onyx. This space contained nothing but the flames. Her gaze lands on the entrance to the tunnel. It blended so easily with the walls and she almost could have missed its presence in the shadowy firelight. Maybe she is missing more?

She squeezed the flashlight in her hand. She feels the cool weight of the cylindrical metal. She flicked the switch on, and the bright beam diminished the fires glow. She shone it back on the mouth of the tunnel. She could go back? She could go topside to the light of day. Return to the other civilians like her bumbling through their existence. Does she want to return to that? To that dull routine, uninspired and pointless, to see the mirror reflect the flatness in her eyes, to know her spark of life has been smothered by lack of inspiration? The map is a cosmic gift.

Skye leaned in closer to the firelight. What is this mystery? Why did the map not mention this? She watches the orange and red flames prancing in colourful twists. It revealed nothing. She rose to her feet, her muscles are tight with unease, they are bound securely to her bones ready to flee if need be.

An unexplainable wind sweeps into the fire, and the flames grow taller lengthening upwards towards the ceiling of the cave. She retreats to the wall feeling her elbows tighten into her sides. She wished to be invisible to whatever this thing may be. The fire expanded cutting the cave in half. It effectively blocked her way out. And still it grows.

Her face is scorched; the sweat oozed from her pores, only to evaporate on her skin. Skye pointed her flashlight to the backside of the cave. She spied a silver toned lever gleaming at the topside of the back wall.

The fire intensified further. The rocks began to glow like coals. Her skin turned scarlet. The map smoldered in her fingers.

The cave is a crematorium; the fire has left only one option.

Propelled by mounting discomfort Skye raced to the lever. The map blazed into flame between her fingertips and she dropped it with a gasp. The handle juts out a foot from the wall. It is shining and bright, almost glowing with light. In that split second she noted the etchings along its length, swirling and symmetrical, Celtic in nature. She leaped as the fire licked her back. Skye smelled the stink of her seared ponytail. She latched onto the metal lever. The rigidness of the bar collapsed into the shape of an arm.

A hand grasped her elbow.

A female voice sounded in her head, “Hold on tight this will be nasty.”

Skye feels herself being dragged through a whirling space. Her muscles scream as she is stretched beyond anything she has known. She lost all awareness of her limbs, causing her to question the very existence of them. Nausea grabbed hold of Skye’s center causing clenching cramps in her guts. At least her belly button is present. Her mom always said Skye had the loveliest belly-button of all her kids. The edges of darkness moved in on her like the blinds on a window sliding down against the light. The last thing she felt is the wretched pain in her abdomen, and the cold steel grasp on her arm.

Mind Your Own Bees Wax


Well, let me just say, “I take offense to your offense, and I am super offended because you think I offended you. When really it’s you that offends me because you’ve taken offence to some perceived insult.”

The definition of perceived is to interpret something or someone in a certain way.

If everyone would just mind their own bee’s wax we’d have plenty of bees, and wax, and the world would continue to spin in the appropriate way.

I think we should operate on every single person and take out their offense button, and while we’re at it we should take out the perceived button so they can simply see the facts instead of interpreting people and things a certain way. It’ll make Deputy Dog’s job easier, “Just the fact Ma’am, I only need to know the facts.

I despise feeling offended. I want to be all peace, and love, and Zen. I want to sit in my mellow space with my diffuser spewing out the scent of lemongrass and bergamot. I’d like to keep my, everything will work out fine attitude. It seems I can’t.

I have unwittingly joined the ranks of other Canadians becoming a wee bit hypersensitive these days. Not only have I felt offended, now I’ve become on edge about opening my mouth, I might say the wrong thing. I might behave… God forbid, politically incorrect. Knowing this, I’ve come to believe that sometimes people lie about what they actually believe in order to prevent offending anyone else. This is a tragedy. Pressuring people to think a certain way promotes a bunch of phonies running around not truly supporting anything.

I would rather meet an honest person who displays their true colors with disagreement, than meet the one who is pretending to follow todays latest politically correct agenda. Lets be honest, you can only have an engaging and enlightening discussion with someone if they are offering you an accurate view they have of the world. Arguing different viewpoints doesn’t necessarily mean anybody’s wrong or right. It generally means the truth lies somewhere in the middle. A difference of opinion does not mean one person is bad and the other is good. The gray areas in life are far more profuse than black and white. I’ve taken to adding more gray clothing to my wardrobe in support of that very point.

Truth be known, it’s the politics in the country that really jabs the button on my feeling offended. Every time I look at the news headlines it jolts my Feeling Offended button just like a pre-schooler hitting the crosswalk button a hundred times.

I’ve come to the conclusion I should start wearing a paper bag on my head.

If you saw me, you might ask, “Why are you wearing a paper bag on your head?”

I might shrug brushing the bottom of the bag with my shoulders and answer, “It’s because I’ve taken offense to my own offense. I am so tired of being offended. It’s utterly exhausting.”

“I still don’t understand?” you would ask, “Why would you wear a paper bag on your head just because you’re offended?”

“It’s a corrective action, it stops me from looking around for more things to be offended about.” I said. “It forces me to mind my own bee’s wax.”

You might make a face, “But then you’ll miss all the other wonderful things going on in the world.”

I’d shake my head and the bag might shift slightly, “Not really, I miss them anyways by always searching for things to be offended about. This way, if I mind my own bees wax for a while, I’ll have enough wax to do my own Bikini line.”

Golly Gee Wilikers, Is That You Superman?


I love fun. I adore Halloween. I’m a teeny bit disappointed my Hubby and I didn’t dress up and attend the local Halloween bash this year. However, Rick’s been working long days, his sixty-hour week drags him down, so he was too taxed to Tango, literally. He’s been wondering if all his hard work is worth it, when half his wages go to paying taxes.

I know, here I go again. I keep telling myself I’m done, I will not write about Justin Trudeau anymore. I will not destroy my peaceful existence with another rant. But… Did you see the latest? And this comment is not because I am a stick in the Halloween goo, because I love it when people wear costumes at work on the spooktacular day.  However, when I saw Trudeau dressed up as Clark Kent, A.K.A Superman, I couldn’t help but do a tremendous eye-roll. I’m talking freaky pupils gone eye-roll, I actually lost vision in both eyes for a few seconds, and I admit to being grateful for it, because then I didn’t have to see Justin’s self-satisfied smirk any longer.

So now our egomaniacal Prime Minister thinks he’s slugging it out in the trenches and defeating evil at every turn like Superman. The audacity of him, you know, he could have reached for the joke. He could have disarmed his critics and haters with something fun. He could have dressed up like a beaver, or a polar bear, or a pair of socks? But no, he chose Superman. Once again he demonstrates his ego on a large scale. He see’s himself as the most powerful being on planet Earth. He chooses a Superhero created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, high school students living in Cleveland Ohio. Why didn’t he choose a Canadian Superhero like Wolverine, created in Cold Lake, Alberta, or Captain Canuck, created by Richard Comely, out of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Or is that all too domestic, and too Canadian for our worldly Prime Minister?

I am not a fan of a counterfeit smile.

I am a fan of an honest demeanour. I believe in humanitarian efforts, I believe in legalizing marijuana, and yes I would even champion a carbon tax if all that money were going directly towards supporting clean energy options. I believe Quebec, and any other province which dumps sewage into our waterways should be held accountable.  I believe Canada should manufacture more products at home. I believe we should be actively recruiting and developing inventive minds. I believe in creating positive trading relations with countries who have the same fundamental beliefs as our own country, freedom of expression, freedom to protest, freedom of religion unless it causes harm to others, (no devil worship please, sacrifices are generally not voluntary ) freedom of sexual orientation, and strong child protection laws.

What I am not a fan of however, is a hypocrite. On that note, I do not agree with all of Trudeau’s renovations, expensive holidays, and costly meals when he is away from the country, which seems to be a great deal of the time. I do not agree with the whopping deficit his government is incurring for the Canadian people. I especially do not agree with Trudeau’s deal with China. If the Trudeau government is so concerned about the welfare and rights of people, why is he striking trade agreements with countries like China? Do you want to  support an authoritarian regime by doing business with them? Have a look at these articles. This is Trudeau’s choice of trade partner—  the Amnesty report on China for 2016/2017China’s deadly secret, and last, but not least Trudeau urges Canadian companies to do business with China.

This is why I’m not sailing along on the Trudeaumania love boat. Justin can’t possibly represent Superman, because Superman would never deal with a country which denies their people creative freedoms, and silences outspoken human rights activists through harassment, imprisonment, and torture.

Looking forward to next Halloween. God? Is that you?

The Haunting


Uncle Alexander Antoniuk, fought with the Canadian Armed forces, his unit was the 4th Princess Louise Dragoon Guards. He was killed in action in Ortona, Italy on Dec 31, 1944. he was twenty years old. 

This strikes me as being a perfect day to share with you, a lucid tale of an actual haunting. It took place many years ago, at time just after the world had overcome the Nazi regime. It occurred in a house touched by the war yet far away from the fight. It happened in my Great grandmothers house, at the place my Dad spent many summers as a child.

The first time it transpires, my Dad is staying in a bedroom on the second floor of the family home. He tosses and turns, flips and flops in the bed attempting to find rest. He vaguely hears the grow-ups talking downstairs. Like any other normal eight year old he wishes he could have stayed up, he’s not even tired yet. The moonlight lays a wide swath of luminosity across the floor and up onto the wall beside the bed. He hears footsteps climb the worn wooden stair treads. He expects to see his Grandmother, or his Uncle poke their head in the doorway. No one comes.

Dad stares at the ceiling and listens hard for any other noise.

It comes.

He hears footsteps in his room clomping across the floor towards his bed— but there is no one in the room.

Dad’s eyes are wide as he pulls his blankets to his chin, he grasps the fabric tight. He’s clenching so tightly blood leaves his fingers. He strains to see with clarity in the moonlit room. Maybe he missed someone? But how could he? The floorboards creak softly as the sound of a footstep stops at the edge of the bed. The huff of someone else’s breathing is unmistakable.

Dad holds his own breath. “This is not real, this is not real,” he mutters aloud.

He cringes staring into the empty space. Dad’s heart pounds like a farrier’s hammer on the red-hot curve of a horseshoe coming to life.

The mattress depresses as the invisible force sits on the edge of the bed.

Dad bolts upright, “Grandma! Grandma!” he screams.

He wraps his arms around himself and presses his back firmly against the wall. He can scarcely draw breath.

He hears the sound of footsteps scrambling up the stairs. Dad is panting with fear.

The door bursts open, his grandmothers face holds creases of worry. Her eyes are underlined with dark circles of unrest. “What Alvin? What’s the matter?” she crows.

He suddenly feels small and silly as though his mind has imagined it all. He gazes at his grandmother, he sees all her weariness. If he adds to her burden, he’s sure to get a scolding from Uncle George, a well-placed whipping from a willow tree switch across a bare butt. He reconsiders his story, “I had a bad dream Grandma, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said in a quavering tone.  Maybe I imagined it? No sense worrying Grandma, he thinks. She’s been through enough, what with her being a widower, and then her boys went off to war, one went and got killed and the other one wounded. I can’t be spooking her, he thinks. Be a man Alvin, for gosh sakes be a man.

She bends down and gives Dad’s hair a loving tousle, “Ack, it’s okay Boyo, but remember bad dreams can’t hurt you, “ she reassures him with a serious face. “Go back to sleep.”

She turns and leaves the room.

The invisible presence never left.

As the sound of her fading away, the depression in the mattress lengthens.

Dad yanks the covers up over his head. Someone— something has laid beside him in the bed. Dad slides further away, over to the brim of the bed next to the wall. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. The entity takes up more space in bed and pushes Dad firmly against the wall. The feeling is undeniable.

Dad closes his eyes tight. His body lies as rigid as an icicle hanging off the roof on a cold winters day. Sometime during the night the presence disappears, and Dad falls asleep.

Later in life Dad figures it was Uncle Alec, his grandmother’s youngest son. It would make sense, he had died traumatically, and far from home. He’d gone to fight for freedom, and against tyranny, gone overseas to help the break the fingers of the grasping hand of the Nazi’s. His body never made it back to his family. He never got to feel the welcoming embrace of his kinfolk upon his return. It was only his longing spirit which came home to the comfort of his room and his bed.

This haunting didn’t happen every night, but with enough consistency that Dad learned to sleep with a ghost. And although this entity was frightening in it’s strangeness, it never offered violence of any kind.

So as far as hauntings go, I suppose this haunting was as lovely as a haunting could be. I say lovely, because the spirit simply made it’s way home to where it felt peace. All of its loneliness found refuge in a familiar space, and in a familiar bed, to rest it’s so called head.

As for the authenticity of this story, well, I can tell you this, other people within the family confirmed what Dad experienced. They had experienced it for themselves.

As far as Dad goes— I can honestly say, the only time he told the tale of the impossible haunting, was when he’d had a few glasses of liquid courage. I remember listening to him mesmerized by his words and feeling the unmistakable chill of fear dance across my skin. I recall being wide eyed with both horror and disbelief. I still recall being swept into the tale as his hands gestures to the imaginary door, to the narrow passageway where the ghostly footsteps sounded. I remember watching his eyes as he travelled back in time, and the way they grew distant when he reached for the memories. I eventually came to understand there was still a part of him who resisted the account. My Dad was not one to dabble in foolish stories, and even in the telling you could see him holding a handful of reluctance, and sense of disbelief that it had actually happened to him. And that my dear friends, is how I know, this is a tale of truth.

Becoming A Wisengeezer


If I were in the twilight years of life.

So the other day I asked my step-mom, Gil to give me a topic for my blog. “Anything,” I said. “It can be anything at all.”

She suggested I let my imagination zip into the future and write a profile of myself as a senior. At first I though, Ack! Kill me now! I don’t want to think about sagging body bits, bowel dysfunctions or misfires, failing eyesight, hearing loss, thinning hair, or extra pounds sneaking onto my meat suit. It’s not funny. I’m too close, it’s a freakin horror show. However, frightening or not, it’s a fact of life. It’s one most of us will have to face— if we’re lucky enough to make it to the coons age.

I trampled my resistance to the topic of aging, and after allowing the idea to ruminate in my mind. I came to the conclusion writing this would be more fun than putting Capri’s on a camel.

I believe old age is a state of mind, you’re only old and defunct, if you believe you are old and defunct. Bing bang boom, I arrive in my mid sixties with a face more like a prune than a raisin, but a sassy looking prune with a smile. My eyes droop at the corners, and my eyelids hang like a Bassett hounds. My super duper elastic reinforced bra keeps my boobies in line, as I never believed in letting them hang down and swing to and fro. My hair is far too thin for a lady, I’ve taken to wearing a wig with dreadlocks, I always wanted dreads. The skin on my body has the appearance of crepe paper but underneath my muscles are toned by exercising to rap music, every time I hear an explicit lyric I lift weights, or do an abdominal hold, or complete a series of leg raises.

In an effort to avoid a hum drum existence I would most likely take a few classes, a scrapbooking class, using pictures and phrases to capture the dastardly deeds I had done, or wished I had done in my life, scratch and sniff stickers included but not advised. In keeping with my creative side, I give birth to my own You Tube Channel featuring shows with local talent like Batwing Granny, Nightmare on Forgetful Street, Grandpas Gone Wild, Gummy Gummy Grandma, and Dr. Who?

Maybe I’ll finally learn to play an instrument with expertise, cello, piano, or fellatio? If my Hubby is still with me we could go out to political rallies and take turns heckling the politicians.

I could take up home brewing tequila, and have a ring around the rosie party with shots. Ring around the rosie, glasses full of boozy, cheers, cheers, we all fall down.

If my hubby is no longer with me I could go fishing on the weekend. I would catch and release. I know all the good ones are already dead or taken.

In the summer I’d plan a holiday in a recreational vehicle as a stowaway.

I’ll become an active participant in organizations similar to The Red Hat Society, but with more grit. I could join The Association of Gravestone Studies for future reference? Or maybe I would sit on the board of The National Association for Self-Esteem, but only if I’m good enough.

If my kids are sick of me and send me to a seniors living residence I’d become the local bookie, I’d take bets on the date of death for the oldest residents, no cheating allowed. The odds would go up or down according to physical ailments. In that atmosphere I could see myself enjoying some of the handicraft courses they might offer, instead of Build-A- Bear, it would be Build-A-Dildo, satisfaction guaranteed. Or I could take a pottery class. I would get my fingers in the clay and design my own urn.

If I needed some extra pocket money I’d get a phone sales job, where my husky voice, clear phone connection, and thorough knowledge of Fifty Shades Of Grey will really pay off. On a slow evening I could sell some irrelevant things on line, like the neighbours stuff. Or, I could hang out on the fringes of someone else’s busy garage sale and collect the money. Nothing says honest like saggy skin, silver hair, and age spots.

If I’m fortunate enough to live in my home as a senior I might get a pet, maybe a bird, a macaw, Id teach it an altered idea from Shakespeare, “To be or not to be? Soon it will no longer be a question.”

Seriously though, when I really do become a senior— I hope the attention I have given to eating healthy, being physically active, mentally exercised, and being emotionally aware will bring me into old age with a positive attitude. If not? Well then, roll me a giddy stick of the devil’s cabbage kiddo’s, with the new medicinal marijuana laws coming into play, there is no way life is gonna bring me down. That’s deaths job.

I dedicate this spontaneous blogarrhea to my most wonderful step-mom, Gil. She’s a good step-mom, her demons were exorcized long ago.

I’m Done For


The other day a screw fell out of the stool I was sitting on at home. It just plinked onto the floor with no encouragement at all. I picked it up. I studied it, and thought, well that’s weird.

A little later on that same day as I was vacuuming the front rug, a silver thingy popped up catching my eye. I bent over and picked it up. It was another screw. Very strange indeed, we hadn’t been building anything recently. I put it on the counter for someone to claim later in the day.

A couple hours later I was making a dessert which required me to use a hand held pastry blender, as I worked the butter into the flour a screw flew out of the wooden handle onto the counter.

Now I am scared to leave home, with those three events happening on the same day I do believe the Universe is sending me a message. It’s either telling me I have a screw loose— Or it’s telling me I‘m screwed.

Just Me and My Ego


fullsizeoutput_884.jpeg“Feed me!” growls the beast. It has wielded its way into my being, and taken possession of my soul. Saliva drips from the corner of my mouth and splats upon the ground. The relentless hunger is a gaping hole. It is my appetite for praise and kudos. My Ego has come forth to seek sustenance.

At the height of my feelings of unworthiness, my Ego silently stalks the lives of others with the intent of ripping them apart. It picks at the sore spots and feeds with ravenous vigour on their juicy dramas. The taste of spicy words sits on the edge of my tongue ready to add flavour to the attack. It feels orgasmic to lash out and whip another with snide comments and pointed jabs. Having fully gorged on others supposed delicious failings I suddenly find the monster inside has abated. I realize a self-reset is needed before others are sacrificed on the bloody alter of my ego. Where’s the damn easy button now?

My ego’s massive head whips around in discomfort sensing my lucid thoughts. We are bound together. I am gagged and tied to its bulk. It stomps off with heavy-footed steps foraging ahead in search of people and things to complain about in order revel in their inequities.

The stench of judgement is overwhelming to me. I summon my sharp inner wisdom and manage to wiggle free. I leap in front of my demon-like Ego barring its path of destruction. I stand toe to toe with the creature staring up at this beast of my own making. “Wait!” I scream, and spittle flies from my lips.

Its dreadful gaze full of self-loathing focuses on me. Its low growling tone vibrates inside my chest, “Shut up, you weak snivelling mass of flesh.” It reaches out and snatches me by the throat. It holds me high, and my feet dangle like a clapper in a bell. Its claw tipped fingers squeeze, and I cannot breathe. I stare into the hostile eyes and manage to gasp, “I love you.”

With those words the fingers relax and shame falls away like a shimmering silver shower from the sky. The hideous being shrivels down to the size of me. It blinks with sadness and confusion.

I rub my throat, “It’s okay,” I croak. “ You’ve been infected by others needing you to be this, and needing you to be that. You’ve been listening to the voice in your head telling you you’re not good enough, and you’ll never amount to anything. You need to forget about what anyone else says, or implies, and you most certainly need to stop looking around for others approval. Just be you. Who cares what anyone else thinks.”

My Ego steps away creating a space between us, “Easy for you to say, the only reason I get out of control is because I’m starving. If you would just feed me a little TLC, that’s all I would need to stay satisfied. But no, you ignore my needs. Well, that’s when I fend for myself, I look around to see what’s tasty today.” My Ego said giving a slight shiver. A glassy eyed grin crosses her face. “It’s feels delicious when someone tells me I’m doing a good job.”

I raise my eyebrows, “Yeah? Well that’s the slow start of it.”

My Ego chuckles, “ Mwahahaha, at least it’s not like last time. The last time I went searching for gratification you almost had to buy shelving for everything I bought to fill the hole.”

I scrunch up my face and wipe my brow, “I know, I still have adds in the local Buy and Sell trying to get rid of the stuff. Maybe we could work together next time, and try to get a handle on your feelings before you turn into the Hulk.” I rub my neck feeling the residual tightness in my throat, “ You almost killed me this time.”

My Ego scoffs, “You’re overreacting. If you die, then I die.”

“Well, I feel like I almost died,” I grumble.

My Ego shrugs, “Well then, get a hold of yourself. Any imagined feelings of unworthiness are because of our thought patterns.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answer, “It’s just so easy to forget that long ago when we were born caterwauling to the sky we had everything we needed to succeed within ourselves— we still do.”

“La de da, Miss. Positive pants, get rid of the camel toe and tell me something I don’t know,” My Ego quips twirling like a ballerina on steroids.

I put my hand out against the wall trying to steady the swirling world “I wish you wouldn’t do that. You do realize—” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, “this whole talking to my Ego thing could put us in a straight jacket?”

“Does it come in blue?” asks my Ego. “I hope so. It would match my eyes.”

Blade Runner 2049


A good movie provides entertainment; a great movie inspires internal consideration. My hubby and I went to the movie Blade Runner 2049 last Saturday. We choose to watch it in 3D, and although the glasses are annoying as hell, my eyes eventually adjusted and I was transported into a world of apocalyptic conditions. It is a time of humans and replicants. The replicants are bioengineered humans birthed by technology for the sole purpose to obey and serve. The main character K is a replicant, a Blade Runner for the LAPD who is instructed to hunt down and dispose of older model rogue replicants. As we are swept along into the story it becomes clear that the storyline is more about creation and the rights of self-aware beings. In the midst of the movie we discover life has been created within a replicant through a loving relationship. A baby had been born, and the bioengineered human died in childbirth. The character K is sent to hunt the now grown baby.

The cinematography is nothing short of stunning. The visual effects sweep me into the adventure as though I were in a waking dream, and although I sense the length of the movie I didn’t want it to end. There are a few drawn out scenes with little action, and although I am tethered in an otherworldly state, my hubby begins to snore in the seat beside me. The increasing volume of the chainsaw noise yanks me back into my reality.

Here I sit in an expansive room crowded with rows of tilting chairs filled by strangers wearing unattractive glasses in the dark. A ginormous screen occupies the front wall playing images and there are numerous speakers surrounding the uppermost parts of the room emitting intense sounds. I lift my obnoxious spectacles. I lean over and stare at my hubby entering the thralls of deep snoredom. I poke my chosen mate in the ribs, initially with no response, or so it would seem in the darkened room. I prod him again with my rigid finger for which I receive a glassy glare.

Take my hubbies snore as no reflection on the movie. I myself was in wide-eyed full appreciation of the drama threaded through with wicked stimulation. I thought the cinematographer Rodger Deakins created a work of art as he brought the imaginary world destroyed by war and famine to life. If you care to enhance the experience, please do wear the magical but ugly 3D eyewear and be catapulted into the year 2049.

After we left the movie and acclimated our senses to the present moment we headed downtown to attend an Oilers hockey game. It was a once a year, big night in the city for us. We are confessed Oilers fans but rarely go to a live game. We were looking forward to being part of the crowd and making some noise. We did in the beginning, but it soon became obvious our team had not shown up for the game. It was a snoozer. This time I fell asleep through the show and Rick poked me in the ribs. The final score was the Senators 6 and Oilers 1, it’s no wonder I lost my battle of the yawns.

After our evening out I can honestly say the Canadian, Denis Villeneuve who directed Blade Runner 2049, scored big. The movie was the significant winner of the evening for us despite my partners brief snore. Blade Runner 2049 gets a standing ovation from me, along with the wave, which isn’t very impressive with only one person. It just looks like I’m doing a set of squats. Now go be inspired by an amazing cinematic experience.

Two Years of Trudeau

My happy go lucky side has been kidnapped. I am held hostage by pissy thoughts and rampaging inner tirades. I started seven different topics to write about this morning, and now I’ve settled on doing something different.

Oh how much do I love the Trudeau government? Let me count the ways. It’s snowing today so I decided to rant in a festive way, a Christmas Carol with a political twist. It’s written to the tune of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Feel free to sing along, and bang on your pots and pans while you still have them.

The Two Years of Trudeau

On the first month of Trudeau,

My P.M sent to me

A ridiculous amount of selfies.


On the second month of Trudeau

My P.M sent to me

Crazy looking socks

And a ridiculous amount of selfies


Pause/time out. You get the idea. I’ll just go straight into the final verse because nobody needs to sing Trudeau’s name that often.


On the umpteenth month of Trudeau,

My P.M sent to me,

An unbalanced budget,

An overwhelming deficit,

A small business tax hike,

Cancelled Eastern pipeline,

Mismanaged carbon tax,

Cash for access fee,

Overpriced security,

Five billion in foreign aid,

Increased CPP,

Pushy elbow gate,

Crazy looking socks,

And a ridiculous amount of selfies.

Welcome to winter, and kiss my plain ordinary black socks Justin. :*