Fresh Start

September 2009 to March 2010-76

Welcome 2018

Screech! I hope this isn’t a sound you hear this year, with the exception of driving of course. You want to hear a healthy screech when you slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a pet, or a child, or three adolescent lynxes running across the road. Oh, and maybe an adult human, I guess you might want to brake for an adult  human too. Unless you’re an asshole, and then all bets are off. What I am trying to say in a rambling sort of way is stop hitting the brake pedal on your dreams. Ignore the hesitation within yourself. Smash the desire to toss those bright and shiny dreams in the garbage just because they might be hard to accomplish.

Seriously though, this is your fresh start. Begin. Make your wishes a priority. Do you want to travel? Maybe you can’t do it today, but you can start by planning for it today. Is it the cost of travelling which is stopping you? Begin by budgeting your money, read blogs and articles on how to save money, buy stuff at a second hand store, shop the deals in a grocery flyer, and cook your own meals. There are infinite ways to tighten ye ole purse strings.

Maybe this year is the year to lose the extra jiggle on your middle? It’s probably the number one New Years promise (lie). And do you know why people fail? It’s because they cut out everything they enjoy doing and eating on January 1 and replace it with gut wrenching gym programs, and tasteless food you need to chew for an hour before swallowing. The reason people can’t make it past week three of the program is because they are pure misery and still have the jiggle. Not only that, but they are feeling unsupported because their significant other is MIA. What they don’t realize is their significant other is probably hiding in the closet or under the couch. They are avoiding the swoosh of the fun Dracula which sweeps in when you enter the room. Please, for the happiness of those people around you, go slowly into the big life changes. The only thing shock starts are good for, are for jolting your heart when it stops beating. Begin your get fit program with a fifteen minute work out and build up to an hour. Change your diet a little at a time. Wean yourself slowly off the sugars, fats, and breads and gently incorporate healthier food choices. Have one food cheat day, and one exercise free day once a week. Be nice to yourself, changing your body takes time, tiny steps evolve into going the distance with less discomfort. And lets be honest, most people don’t enjoy discomfort.

Maybe this year you are dreaming of a gershnoskel upgrade? Maybe you have one of those snot collectors which have begun to look a little lumpy in a mushroomy sort of way, or it sweeps everything off a shelf when you turn around. If it bothers you fix it. There are people who are trained to deal with the genetic whoopsies in our personal form. Maybe this is the year of the nose job?

As you endeavour to change yourself this year don’t forget you have the ability to change the world as well. Recycle, buy local when you can, and if you can’t purchase something you need locally then please consider what type of country you are supporting with your money. Continuing to purchase “Made in China” products supports human rights violations, suppression of human expression, and death sentences for those people who dare to challenge the injustices in their country. I am so grateful to live in a country where I am free.

Whatever you choose for yourself in 2018, I wish you the most honest effort. I wish you foot off the brakes oodles of dedication. I wish you the simplicity of kindness towards yourself and then towards others. It is an important practice as you’ll soon discover travelling to your dream destination. On the plane they will inform you it is necessary to put on your own oxygen mask first before you are able to help others. This is often the case in life. Your dreams are personal. If you are focused — Anything is possible. All you have to do is to commit.

Have a blow your mind, bloody amazing New Year!

Best Road Ever

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Right or Left?

Fasten your seatbelts and take a moment to tumble into this line from Robert Frost’s poem ‘The Road Not Taken’,

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—“

In the past I have finished this sentence by cavorting along the path of life tossing confetti into the air and watching it fall around me. I confess to chasing small forest creatures into the bush and losing my way. Today I realize I am at a fork in my road. And I really hope I don’t fork this up. This year I decided to forgo flitting down the trail and becoming distracted by things such as the light filtering through the trees. I decided I am picking my path with purpose. No more darting off into the trees to chase squirrels for me. I think I may have been a Canadian cur in a previous life.

How about you? Do you have insight as to why you choose the road you’re currently on? Do you stay focused on your route ahead? Do you believe the choices before you are vast and open? I hope you can recognize your potential and brilliance.

You are unlimited.

Continue moving forward, one foot in front of the other, pause to catch your breath, do a little cha cha cha, and keep going. A sure fire strategy to fulfilling your aspirations is to keep travelling. Maybe there will be more forks in your road? No worries take a break consider your options and go. Refuse to halt your progress, balk at becoming a stagnant pool of decomposing sludge. Sometimes fear will whisper in your ear, “Stop, you’re making a fool of yourself. The only thing ahead of you is ridicule and failure. Don’t listen, return your focus to your goals. Move! Dance along the road of existence with a smile on your face. You know where you are going. Simply wrap yourself in the clothing of possibility for the journey. As you continue forward, you will soon find the momentum of your decision will carry you into your future with ease.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—”

Consider Your Inner Monster

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We are each unwittingly our own rendition of Frankenstein. Maybe not physically, as the lumbering beast created with a multitude of mismatched body parts, but more so on the inside. Right from our tender beginnings, we are tailored into following, and adopting a mad scientists dogma and an Igor’s opinion as a guidebook for our lives. If we could only look in a mirror and see our inner selves we would acknowledge we are looking at scraps of philosophies and pieces of beliefs taken from this body and that body until we are nothing but a collection of others. We are without a doubt, a psychological representation of Frankenstein. The question I ask is, how do we redesign ourselves into a happier Frankenstein?

As Frankensteins, our personal patterns for functioning began from the first moment we were sparked to life. The bright light of the new world overwhelmed us, and we cried or howled aloud. Our first thoughts were tailored by our creators, parents, or caregivers. Then in a dreamlike state our friends, school, social media, co-workers, partners and news clips inserted little slivers and snippets of dogma into our internal structure. These soundbites either strengthened or loosened our stitching that bound our core beliefs. We were oblivious. While we were chained down upon our sleeping racks our subconscious wielded filaments of questionable knowledge like threadzilla. Sharp points ripped in and out of our patchwork of understanding inserting abstract information. Suddenly a thunderbolt cracked and our eyes jerked open. We were shocked to learn a positive change in ourselves could only happen when we were awake. Now we can view our  hodgepodge mess clearly chose the pieces we’d like to stitch into our Frankenstein self and those we’d like to tear out. This is our time. This is when we create our monstrously magnificent destiny— Mwah,ha,ha,ha.

The first giant step in a monster overhaul is to cut the crap and figure out what sort of beast we truly are and how it all transpired. We begin searching our past with microscopic detail. We ruminate on the origin of our fragmented parts and dissect the impact they had on our capabilities. The next step is to examine those parts of ourselves containing warning labels. Do not trundle close to other Frankensteins, they might smell your right elbow that’s starting to go off. Do not tryout for the Catch the Sheep team, you arise from a long line of lumbering creatures and your knees are an unmatched set. Or worse yet you may have been told by your parent, “Frankie, your teacher, Mrs. Lightning Bolt informed me that you’ve been playing with the werewolf pack. Is that true? You must stay with your own kind. They are freakin trouble, they are always ripping out other creatures stitches.” Or maybe you were instructed to shove everyone else out of your way on the trek to the voltage meter so you would be the first to arrive.  Or perhaps you were mistakenly told nobody was going to give you an eyeball, so you’d better damn well snatch one for yourself. Seriously monsters— To become the Frankenstein we want to be we must study the raising up we received.

So, who are we? Maybe we feel weighed down by an inappropriate choice of feet even though they came highly recommended. How about we simply use the instruments we have on hand to exchange them? Easy peasy, it’s called active-thinking my Frankenstein friends. And how are we progressing on a social level? Are we playing well with others, like vampires, werewolves and transfrankensteins? Recognizing that we are not responsible for capturing and fixing anyone else will go a long way in maintaining healthy relationships. Changing the way we operate in life won’t be an evening stroll in the moonlight, expect growing pains. The discomfort might even give new meaning to the phrase, it’s no skin off my back. Because in all truthfullness, transforming might require just that. It’s essential to recognize our built-in tendencies, and for us to triumph adjustments will have to be made. Be prepared to snip out a putrid patch of dogma in one place and sew a new plot in its place. Make no mistake, the whole process will be exhausting, possibly even backbreaking. But let’s face it, our backbones can be the most limiting factor in our ability to move through our current circumstances. Leave the fear to the villagers fellow Frankie— cut and sew baby— cut and sew.

After completing the final nips and tucks of our new design, we need to survey our stitching and check our extremities. Do we feel complete? Have we given Igor, and all the mad scientists in our lives their walking papers? Now allwe need is a few cosmic pointers to keep our heads held high in their proper place, well, besides the bolts of course. There are only a few rules to follow. Number one is — a seam ripper is a tool for our fingers only, don’t overindulge in spirits and loosely hand it off to somebody else for a try. We all know sharing is caring but not in this instance. We need to be our own best mad scientist. Rule number two is that our stitching is quality. We don’t need fancy pants sewing, ours does the same job as everyone else’s— stop comparing. And the third rule is, for the Mother of Pete we must attach a smile on our faces, pull our shoulders back and limber up our joints, nobody wants to meet a dark lumbering presence on the walk of life. Have some confidence, remember we are one of a kind. And if is is screaming like a banshee for confirmation on our successful transformation into a joyful Frankenstein all we need to do is observe how others respond to us. Are they moving towards us with a smile?— Or with a pitchfork?

Have Your Best Christmas Ever

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How are your Christmas preparations coming along? Between shopping and social obligations, a satisfying Christmas for the introvert can quickly deflate into a limp nob of disappointment during the orgy of holiday festivities. Let me ask you? Are you beginning to feel like you are fishing a dead pond for the energy to ignore the repetitive casting of Christmas consumerism? Are you one breath away from taking a punch at the next person, or advertisement that aggressively tosses you a sales pitch for yet another item you don’t really need? I’ll tell you what? The whole idea of dealing with the Christmas mobs at the mall only puts me in a festive mood for a brawl. Oh wait, a brawl is for the extrovert. The large box in the corner with flaps still on the top so I can hide in darkness is much more to my liking, toss in a cinnamon tea, and a book with a reading lamp, and I’m jimjam jolly. A word to the wise— If you’re an introvert, support your inner tendencies by shopping on-line.

The Christmas frivolities are a whole different story. Social gatherings with people I hardly know is a dead man walking way to shoot my introverted inclinations into overdrive. Why are there so many social gatherings throughout the holiday season? Can’t we spread them out over the year? Attending gatherings with no curtains to hide behind, and no empty boxes to jump into is a clearcut trail to exceeding my alcohol limit. From then on things are certain to go badly. It generally results in dancing like no one is watching— never pretty. Or it creates an opportunity for a bonding episode with the bosses wife, becoming in my mind at least #besties forever. Both regrettable actions promptly concluded with a bile driving night sleeping on a merry-go-round bed. This year I’m thinking of trying that multipurpose medical shrub with the buds instead of alcohol. What do they call it? Oh yeah, Lucifer’s lettuce, anxiety relief for some, salvation for introverts forced to socialize in large crowds. What do you want for Christmas? A bag of Cheech n Chong weed please and thanks, enough to get me through the holidays including New Years.

Seriously though, why are you celebrating Christmas this year? Are you religious? Or are you like myself and has it become more of a tradition? I know, horrors! I shouldn’t practice Christmas if I am not religious. Right? Wrong, thankfully I live in a free country and I can practice what I like as long as it doesn’t involve keeping anyone captive. Except for my audience— I have a deep dark desire to keep you.

So although I may not put a baby in the manger, I do enthusiastically admit to believing in good will toward mankind, peace on Earth, and condoms for all who need them. I also wish everyone the open heartedness to appreciate both the wondrous people, and not so wondrous people in their lives, because I believe everyone has value. (Sorry Trudeau. I may have given you the impression in the past that I wish you ill, but I don’t I just wish you would attempt another line of work.) I am on my knees hopeful that everyone finds gratitude for our Earth this year. It is the soul reason we have a body; we would not exist without the nutrients and air our Earth provides for our very existence.

This holiday season I wish all of you, the bliss of brisk walks along glistening winter trails, magical snowfalls, and rosy cheeks. I hope you can marvel at the sound of children’s giggles, and are in the vicinity to adore their sparkling eyes of wonder as they sit under the glowing Christmas tree. And may you all, even us introverts, delight in the comfort of companionship, as well as quiet reflective moments to appreciate all we are, and all we have been blessed with throughout the year.

It’s Free! Or Is It ?

 

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Underwater can be a magical place.

Building a bucket list is a rip snorting way to remind you to step out of your comfort zone. It tears your focus away from what is and leads you into the possibilities of what could be. It can bring an energizing reflection of where you’d like your life to go. Creating my own bucket list proved an elusive creature on my radar. However, my hubby, Rick nailed one down a while back and he had scuba diving listed as one of his targets. So while it wasn’t a prominent idea in my thoughts, the idea of pretending to be a fish and swimming along the bottom of the Caribbean waters did hold some appeal for me.

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Pictures from snorkelling in the Riviera Maya, my camera is only good for shallow water. These are two different types of grunt fish.

Sometimes opportunities pop up that can’t be ignored, an occasion such as this happened to crop up on a weeklong holiday in the Dominican. There we were skipping along, well maybe not skipping because Rick tends to look quite silly when he skips along. We were strolling along the tiled pool area and noticed a sign for a free introductory scuba diving lesson. The key word here is Free. It’s like a magnet for my Scottish blood, Aye Laddie, I’m cheaper than a two bit taco on Tuesday. It was like a sign from God, maybe not God, but I think his name was Jesus. Anyway we trotted down to the scuba shack, well, maybe we didn’t trot because Rick looks silly doing that too, we ambled down to the beach area to sign up for our FREE lesson. At this point I’m still feeling excited about our underwater adventure. I still think I can be as graceful as a fish gliding about the coral. I was about to realize I was a fish afraid of drowning.

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An absolutely stunning parrotfish.

Upon our arrival at the scuba shack the sales pitch began, and before we knew it we had committed to a four-day Open Water scuba diving Padi course. This was far from Free. Our actions automatically kicked my Scottish blood into internalized dialogue, “What are you doing you couple of bawheeds, now you’ve gotten yourself into a scunner, and for quite a pretty penny ya pair of numpties.”

“Hush up you cheap bastard. It’s a bargain for a notch in the bucket list belt.”  I defend replying to my Scottish side.

Check! There goes one item off of Rick’s list. After all, life is full of opportunities and shouldn’t we jump in with both feet and give it a go whenever possible? Side note- If you’re jumping in with your scuba gear on make sure to hold your mask and regulator on your face.

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A bluehead wrasse, simply gorgeous.

It shouldn’t have been such a trial for me, I do love the ocean and I enjoy snorkelling. But it was a trial. The first thing I learned during our pool dive is that I was freaking terrified. I had no faintheartedness about seeing sharks, stingrays, or puffer fish, or any of the other amazing underwater creatures that could potentially kill. I was terrified of not being able to breathe when I wanted to breathe. The cause of my excessive trepidation originated from my childhood, where all good fears tend to spring forth. As a childhood survivor of chronic bronchitis and pillow smothering, I was quite concerned about not being able to get my air. I love to inhale and exhale at will. I enjoy breathing through my nose. I am not a mouth breather and I do consider that a good thing. On the other hand it is a necessity to scuba dive.

Rick breezed through the scuba course like he was a fish disguised as a human. As for me, it proved trying at the best of times and on my final dive before certification I had a meltdown. Throughout the course I had continually shoved my fears into a little corner of my mind. It had been no easy task to keep myself in the Zen state of mind while diving in the deep blue yonder where oxygen does not exist as air. And although I admit to enjoying the magnificent undersea, there was never a second when I didn’t feel like the petrified prude of the diving world. I was forever counting down the seconds left to surface and having the freedom to pull the regulator from my mouth and breathe like a human.

On our last dive the instructor and ourselves followed the tag line downwards towards the ocean floor. Rick quickly equalized and arrived at the bottom. He took a knee in the sand observing his dawdling wife and impatient instructor through the crystalline water.

I recall following the dive line downwards and suddenly noticing the water pressure on my body feeling uncomfortably constrictive. I pause on the rope. My breath becomes shallow and rapid. I know I need to slow down my breathing, but I can’t seem to relax. My Zen space is gone and I am tossed into my fears. I stare at my instructor with wide eyes and give him the signal I’m going to the surface.

He snatches my arm and glares at me, giving me the slow down motion with his hand.

I shake my head in a negative way. His grip on my arm increases as does my feeling of being trapped. Panic sets in and masses of bubbles are released from my increasingly rapid breath. I break free of his grasp and head up to the open air. No worries about equalizing, I wasn’t far down.

As I pop to the surface I keep my mask and regulator on trying to find the calm I had achieved on previous dives.

The instructor arrives at the top and gives me his death glare. It was the one I had gotten used to seeing because he wasn’t the most patient instructor in the world.

He gave me the thumbs down motion indicating I should follow him back towards the bottom.

I shake my head vigorously making the hand tilting motion to indicate something is wrong. My heart is still squeezing out terrified beats and they reverberate inside my chest. I inhale with focused breath wrestling with my alarm.

My instructor tugs on my jacket style BCD (buoyancy control device) insistently trying to bring me down beneath the surface of the water.

Panic absconds with my thoughts; they are a troop of monkeys leaping through the trees running wild with fear. I can’t do this. I hate the water pressure squeezing my body— I hate the thin dry air through my regulator— I hate breathing through my mouth. I’m a nose breather goddammit! I feel like I’m suffocating. I could die.

I smack his grappling hand off of my BCD jacket. I bob with the waves. I stare at him through my mask with immense eyes meeting his daunting gaze. I pull the regulator from my mouth, “No. I’m not going down. I can’t do this. I can’t breathe.” I gasp. I know it seems ridiculous to him. I’d already done three dives, four including the pool training. I was almost done my certification. He could see I was going to quit on him. He saw a skinnier wallet. All I saw was a potential watery grave, and yes I’m being dramatic, but fear tends to exacerbate emotions.

He pulls his regulator out and said, “But it’s so beautiful down there, you have to see it.” He grabs my arm again.

I growl, “Let go of me. Stop frickin grabbing me. Just give me one second, and I’ll try again. But don’t grab me again.”

He raises both hands to surrender.

It takes a couple minutes but I manage to recollect myself. We drop down to join Rick on the dive. It is a paradise below indeed.

We both got our certification, (mine questionably) and Rick checked an item off his bucket list. We’ve done more diving since, and I really have come to relax into it and enjoy it. But there are moments, times when it’s been too long since my last dive and my anxiety displays it’s dreadful grip. It’s one of those life choices where you just have to calm down and kick fear in the face.

I think it’s my turn to check something off my bucket list. What are you terrified of doing dear husband?

Ten Odd Christmas Gift Ideas

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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.

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

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

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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

Mind Your Own Bees Wax

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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?

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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?

Becoming A Wisengeezer

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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

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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.