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I'm a Pork Dork 14 Feb 2021 5:38 PM (4 years ago)

Happy Valentine's Day everybody! I'm really rocking it. It's 7:09 p.m. The romantic dinner I planned is, as that former president used to say, "A DISASTER," I'm still wearing the nightgown I woke up with, only now it's covered in food stains, and my feet hurt gawd-awful.

Basically another typical day in the Webster house.

I had told Dave, DO NOT BUY ME ANYTHING FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Only this year I meant it. No, seriously. Hizzoner is off work recuperating from carpal tunnel surgery and we're broke. Well, we're always broke, but now we're broker than usual. Again, as the Orange One used to say, "WE'RE THE BEST BROKE, NO BROKE IS BROKER THAN US."

Of course Dave bought me a sweet card and enough chocolate to make a dentist orgasmic. 

Feck.

So as not to appear a total romantic failure, I offered to cook dinner. A nice dinner, you know? Especially since I haven't cooked since Dave had his surgery. Yes, he cooks with a bum hand. (I know, it's sad. Very, very sad. But you're jealous, amirite?)

I planned to make pulled pork, with creamy mashed potatoes, squash (he loves it, and that is NOT fake news), and a cake. Sounds good, right? 

Well, the cake turned out alright. (It was a mix. Hard to screw THAT up.) But the roast, um, is still basically raw. Frozen in the middle. At - what time is it? 7:22 p.m. And don't forget about my unbathed body in the grease stained nightgown. Sexy as hell with raw pork. 

I sawed the roast into pieces and shoved it in the Instant Pot for round two. The squash and potatoes are drying up like my sex life. I looked out the window a while back and thought, I bet there's a lot of rub and tug happening out there tonight. Probably lots of anti-maskers were out dining at local restaurants, enjoying the premier's decision to allow in-person dining again, spreading the love, spreading the COVID, going home and spreading other things with full bellies, a wine buzz, and really bad garlic breath.

We might eat sometime tonight. Not sure how romantic it will be - we'll probably wind up noshing on peanut butter toast and watching another episode of Wentworth on Netflix. Lots of smut on that show. Probably the only smut going on in this house tonight. Unless Dave gets excited over dirty old women, raw pork, and whine.

I smell the squash. I think it's burning.

P.S. Yes. It burnt. Here's a picture.

Feck.

The Problem With My Groin 5 Feb 2021 3:02 PM (4 years ago)

I did something to my groin. 

No, not THAT. Something to the space where your leg meets your abdomen. Well, actually, my leg and my abdomen. Sorry, didn't mean to imply anything about your groin.

What happened, was, I had climbed off my exercise bike and tried to get on the bed, as all athletes do after exerting themselves ... work out next to the bed and then flop on it to catch their breath so they don't fall over and croak.

My groin had been bugging me for about a week, but nothing to write home (or a blog) about. It was just sore, like I pulled a muscle or something. A small muscle. Like, one strand of muscle, the thin type. Nothing any cannibal would want to barbecue.

But when I got off the bike, sat down on the bed, then went to lift my legs to lie down, I screamed bloody murder! It felt like someone stuck a knife in my groin. Not that I know precisely what that feels like, but I can imagine that if I was knifed in the groin, it might hurt like that. 

Dave came running upstairs to see what I'd done this time. (That man is in such good shape from running up and down the stairs all the time to look after me - and HE is the one who should be looked after. Two weeks ago he had carpal tunnel surgery and he's at home to recuperate and eat bon-bons, but he's too busy mopping the bathroom floor and traversing the stairs for bon-bon eating.) 

I told him what had happened, so he lifted my legs up onto the bed, then spread my knees so he could have a look. The resulting pain was agonizing.

"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH DON'T SPREAD MY LEGS!"

"I have to look," he said. "Here, let me turn on the light."

Why is it men always need the light on in the bedroom? 

"Don't worry," he said, placing his hand on my knees, and gently pulling them apart, "I'll be gentle."

"NOooooooooo," I hollered. "That HURTS."

He sat back on the bed. "I don't know what you want me to do." 

"I want you to put Dr. Ho there."

"Between your legs?"

"Yes," I replied, losing patience. "But use some of that lubricating gel first, it makes Dr. Ho work better."

This all happened yesterday. I am pleased to announce that Dr. Ho knows his stuff and things have relaxed under his stimulation. I also took a few anti-inflammatories, and stuffed a bag of ice down my pants. Things are still a little sore, but the sharp pain from yesterday has eased.

I do have a small lump in my groin, so I'm not sure if it's a pulled muscle, or a hernia, or just a fat lump. Has this happened to anyone else? Should I see about it, or just wait? Time heals all things, or so I've heard, but I also have to give some credit to my threesome with Dave and Dr. Ho. Such masculine hotties they both are ...

Something Different 3 Feb 2021 1:10 PM (4 years ago)

This morning I was complaining about every day being the same, so I flooded the bathtub.

I wanted something different, right? And that was different. Also wet. And messy. It was amazing how much sodden dust and cat hair was discovered by the 539 towels Dave used to soak it all up. Of course Dave cleaned it up - I couldn't be expected to do it. After all, I hadn't washed my hair yet. My bath wasn't finished. I totally felt justified to scream for my husband, who was downstairs trying to enjoy his lunch, to come upstairs and mop.

 "Just throw all the wet stuff in the laundry basket. I'm going to take it all down to the laundry and wash it when I'm done," I said from my fortress of bubbles while my own personal Cinderella bent to the task at hand. He really was bent. I had a lovely view of the crack of his ass as he worked. "You might as well give the area behind the toilet a wipe," I added helpfully. "It's already wet and it could use a good cleaning."

He didn't say anything, just cleaned the toilet area while I watched his rather lovely hind end wiggle as he worked.

"Oh, and would you mind passing me my book?" I said. With a smile.

When I finished my bath, I picked up the laundry basket full of sodden towels and realized it was too heavy for me to lift. I am, after all, a delicate flower.

"DA-AVE!" I hollered. "IT'S TOO HEAVY. I NEED YOU."

Up he came, lifted the basket like it was a box of air, and took it downstairs to the laundry room, which is directly below the upstairs bathroom, and was floating in half an inch of water that had leaked through the ceiling. 

He is an amazing person, my man Dave. I wonder what I'm going to get him to do next.

Skipping Hallowe'en 1 Nov 2019 10:56 AM (5 years ago)

Tell me how you really feel about Hallowe'en.

We did it! We skipped Hallowe'en. Our house was one of those dark houses, all buttoned up, with the inhabitants hiding inside like Scrooges caught up in the wrong holiday.

It was the first time I've ever done that. Do I feel guilty? HELL NO! We saved a couple hundred bucks not giving candy to all those dirty little pot-lickers, scamming us with nary a backward glance. Most of 'em don't even say "trick or treat" anymore, and almost all of 'em don't know how to say thanks. Ungrateful. Greedy little buggers, all of 'em. Screw them all, I say! NO SOUP FOR YOU!!!

I was nervous, though, getting ready for the onslaught. Had to do it early, 'cause the little darlings start early in these parts. Soon as school's out, they take to the streets, pillowcases in tow, a sea of pink princess dresses from Walmart, runny noses, cold feet, whining toddlers, and babies in strollers. Babies. What a scam that is. Everyone complains about teenagers trick or treating - I know damned well it isn't that baby eating those Tootsie Rolls.

So I started at 3:30 p.m. Drew the curtains, closed the blinds. Hung a bath towel from the curtain rod on the front door to close off all the little lace peek holes on the existing curtain. Shut the doors on the bedrooms facing the street. Brought snacks to our back-facing bedroom. Had a shower in the dark. Crept around the house in bare feet. Paced. Hid. When Dave got home from work, I hustled him through the door. "Hurry, hurry," I screamed, as one of the neighbour's kids - excited about the evening ahead - tried to talk to him. "Don't. Encourage. Them," I hissed, as I slammed the door behind him. At my insistence, he dismantled the doorbell, and then turned the Netflix volume high so we wouldn't hear the feeble knocking,  nor the insipid cries of the tiny, hungry, chocolate-smeared zombies that they are.

No, I don't feel guilty one little bit. Their parents all voted conservative in this year's two elections, and with the United Conservative Party's horrendous new budget, who has money for Hallowe'en?

Damned if I'm gonna treat their tiny conservative offspring for that trick.

Black Day in July 7 Jul 2016 9:31 PM (8 years ago)

You know? I'm not even surprised, hearing about the shootings in Dallas. Strangely not even all that sad, and anything but shocked.

I'm numb inside. Immune to the trending headlines that speak of death after death, murder, brutality, hate, and still the misguided and patently stupid belief that guns will fix everything.

The U.S. has been heading for a meltdown for some time. It's so broke. There can be only so many black lives taken by police before the guns are turned around. The anger, the frustration, the justified belief that nothing will ever change, that black lives don't matter, has created a simmering cauldron that is way above the boiling point. 

I don't condone it, of course. I hate guns. But I'm not surprised. 

It's ridiculous that the U.S. has a reputation for its stance on terrorism, and yet it's not terrorists Americans should be worried about: it's each other. I'm not going to offer up any prayers because I believe that's a complete waste of breath, spit and time, but I do send condolences to my American friends, and a sincere hope that they can find a way to muddle through this nightmare they're forced to endure. Talk about a black day in July.

***

I posted this on FB tonight; thought it was worth sharing. For what it's worth.

Is pillowy an actual word? 7 Jul 2016 9:22 AM (8 years ago)

It's been a while. No excuses, just doing other things. But lately - at least - I've been thinking not just about this blog but about writing again. We'll see what comes of it.

I was camping on the weekend and the urge to write was strong, so I picked up a piece of paper and started laying some words down, only to be interrupted when Dave served up some bacon 'n eggs. Is there anything better than pork & fowl in the great outdoors?

I promptly put down my paper and chowed down.

There's so much going on in the world, so much bad, so much that I don't know enough to comment on, and every time I do I get into trouble, so I try to keep my yap closed. After a while, I don't feel qualified enough to comment on anything. And who seriously cares if I have bacon and eggs while camping? Or what's going on in my mediocre little life?

I guess the only reasons to continue with a blog is because my writing skills are so rusty I'm going to need a crowbar to loosen them up; because I miss the diary-like connection of mind to keyboard; and because I miss the camaraderie of blogland. Facebook is pretty harsh some days. Blogger is pillowy by comparison.

***

Thanks for the e-mail, Rob-Bear. Means a lot.

Eshakti Lurve 25 Aug 2015 5:10 AM (9 years ago)

 One of the best things about being back to work is I CAN AFFORD MORE ESHAKTI DRESSES.

What? You've never heard of eshakti.com? It's my addiction, MY PRECIOUS. It's a women's fashion company that sells fabulously funky dresses in sizes from extra small to 6X – and, for only $7.50, they will custom make any dress in your exact measurements!

I KNOW, RIGHT?

This isn't phenomenal news for those who can buy stuff off the rack but, for people like me it's a godsend. In the past, my biggest reason for buying clothes was they were in my size. Didn't matter how ugly they were – if they went up around my lardy loveliness, I bought 'em.

Unlike most plus-sized gals, I have no boobs. I have boob-like calves, yes, but no actual boobs, and since my calves don't have nipples, they're not overly attractive. Then again, I have massive arms. Imagine a body builder with huge muscles. Now imagine the muscles have fainted. My youngest son once asked, before I disowned him, why my muscles grew upside down.

With MY PRECIOUS, none of this matters. I send them my measurements, they send me a custom made dress that fits me like a glove.

Well, a glove that would fit me if my hands weren't the size of ham-hocks.

Fear, loathing and nap withdrawal 23 Aug 2015 4:23 PM (9 years ago)

Going through a lot right now and I'm not sure I have it handled.

I started a job for one thing. A really great, really cool job. On paper, it's perfect for me and I think I can be good at it. But, man, I didn't actually want a job. I haven't worked for more than two years. I have kinda forgotten how.

The best thing about not working is you can poop whenever you feel the urge. And the Food Network. I will miss the Food Network. And coffee. Whenever I want it. AND NAPS.

*sighs*

I was hoping I wouldn't have to work again; that early retirement (I'm 55 this year - Freedom 55, get it? hahahahahaha!) was truly mine. After all, Dave has a well-paying job, we were renting out our basement and I was selling the odd painting. We weren't getting rich by any means but it was enough to pay the bills on our very nice house, for Dave to buy a fishing boat and for us to go out for dinner every once in a while and see a movie.

Then the price of oil dropped, tons of oil workers were let go and the once booming town of Cold Lake quickly learned that the opposite of "boom" is "bust." Suddenly we couldn't rent out our basement. My paintings stopped selling. We got a few unexpected bills. And, voila, money was tight.

I realized I would have to look for a job. Problem is, there aren't a lot of jobs I can actually do. I have virtually no cartilage in my knees, which makes standing for any longer than a couple of minutes excruciating. Plus I'm fat, ugly and old, which limits both Walmart and the local peelers.

I've worked my whole life in newspapers and, as everyone knows, newspapers are dying. Graphic design work has all been shipped to India and the Philippines. (Thank you, internet.) Reporting is a job for young people with good knees and lots of energy to chase after weekend events, terminally long council meetings and hockey games out the wazoo.

I didn't know what to do. A friend suggested I apply for a disability pension. I asked my doctor about it and she thought it was a good idea so, with her help, I applied last February. Talk about paperwork. Talk about a rigamarole. They certainly don't make it easy. I finally heard back from them a couple of weeks ago: no disability for me. No cartilage. Crohn's Disease. Anxiety and depression. None of it was enough to qualify.

Feckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk me.

So anyways. I got a job. And I like it, I do, but the stress of working again has hiked my anxiety to new highs. I freaked out on Dave last night because he said it was OK for relatives to come up without checking with me first. I maintain that he should check to see if I'm good with having overnight guests, but I didn't need to freak out on him as much as I did.

And, oh, god, after only one day I was exhausted! What the heck am I going to do after an entire WEEK?

Then today I caught my kid doing something he shouldn't. I'm not going to say what that is, but he has been in trouble with it before and he has promised not to do it again, and then, feck him and the boat he rode in on, he did it again today.

He is 18. He knows better. I resent that he makes me act like a parent when he's old enough to act like a fecking adult. I was having a nice, quiet, stress-free day when suddenly, bam, everything's in the toilet, thank you very much.

Oh, and on top of everything else, three weeks ago I had carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand (OF COURSE I'M RIGHT HANDED - NOTHING IS EVER EASY), and the damned thing is infected and hurts like a fecking BEAR.

I feel better writing this. Not having many friends because I am an obnoxious bitch, there aren't a lot of folks I can dump on.

So thanks for the dumping, dear Blogspot. Now if you could pour me a cup of tea you'd be fecking perfect.

What to do, what to do 15 Jul 2015 9:46 AM (9 years ago)

 I've been thinking about my blog; there's that, at least. Not sure what I'm thinking, except for guilt. Definitely thinking/feeling guilt. This poor blog has basically been ignored for several months. I can't even look at it because I feel such guilt.

For a long time I didn't feel like writing. Hopelessly wordless. I think I blew my wad, pardon the expression, getting my books published and that task was so huge, so exhausting and, ultimately, so disappointing, that I just couldn't muster up the energy to even think about writing again.

Lately little ideas have been flitting around my brain. Thoughts. Like, I'll be driving somewhere and I'll sink into that mysterious funk-like state that used to meant ideas were hatching, and I'd think, gee, this would make a good blog post. But then I remembered that I don't actually blog anymore. Cause you have to blog to blog.

I know, I'm hella deep.

There's also the reciprocal side of blogging. If you blog, and hope other people will read your posts, you should read their posts as well. Obviously I haven't been doing that either. My entire social media interactions have been limited to brief Facebook scribbles, mostly jokes and occasionally a self-righteous arrow aimed at racists and other nasty folk. I've been spending more time painting, sewing and cooking than I have doing anything else. And only one of those at a time. I've always prided myself on multi-tasking but apparently if I'm sewing, I'm not painting, and if I'm painting there's going to be take-out for supper.

It's not like I don't care what my blogger friends are up to: I do. Sincerely. But I used to spend hours, every day, catching up with other blogs. I just don't want to invest that kind of time anymore.

So the dilemma is, if I'm not going to read other blogs, I probably shouldn't blog. But then again, I didn't start a blog to necessarily have it read by other people: I started one because I wanted to write, and blogging was new and exciting and I fell in love with every aspect of it.

I always promised myself I wouldn't write one of those "should I blog or not" posts, but here I am. I think this is more an out-loud argument for myself trying to line up the positive and the negative and finally answering The Clash's age old question, "Should I stay or should I go?"

Heck, I don't know. I'll see how I feel about all this tomorrow. Meanwhile, I don't expect you to read my drivel. Move on. Read a post from a blogger who truly has a passion for the game; someone who actually has something to say.

This? This is just the inner musings of someone putting off laundry.

The Albert Einstein Side of My Brain 31 Mar 2015 7:45 AM (10 years ago)

I get my best ideas while changing the kitty litter, like solving world hunger and reinventing the square wheel. I seem to go off into some kind of scoop 'n poop la-la-land. One side of my brain is busy being Albert Einstein, the other half is, well, gawd knows what it is doing. Obviously not thinking, that's for sure.

I bought these cheap-ass garbage bags for kitty poop purposes and the first time I went to use them, I realized I wouldn't be able to get one open without wet fingers. You know how plastic bags glom together? You need mad skills to get some of them open, either that or some spit on your fingers.

Usually I lick my fingers in order to open said bags. But at that moment they were covered in kitty litter germs. Which are, like, fatal, right? I mean, who wants to get kitty poop in their mouth? I sat there staring at the bag, trying to figure out a way to open it without licking my crap encrusted fingers. Finally I just said, "feck it," maybe if I lick 'em real quick the germs won't stick. Like the three second food on the floor rule.

"Gah," I said, making quick work of the licking.

It wasn't until I was done spitting in the sink and rinsing my mouth out with gagloads of salt water and Listerine that Albert Einstein finally took over the D-oh part of my brain: I didn't have to lick my finger - all I had to do was SPIT on it.

Ice Hut Village 13 Jan 2015 1:47 PM (10 years ago)

Ice fishing is not just a hobby – it's a way of life, and huts are like people's homes, as individual as they are. This painting has a smattering of different ice hut styles. Some, like the church, seem outlandish, but all of them exist on the world's frozen lakes. All you have to do is google ice hut villages and you'll be astounded at the variety of different huts you'll see. If you take a close look at the lures in this painting, you'll see they are all real lures, including the Swedish Pimple and the William's Wabler Ice Jig. See how many lures you recognize. Surely there's a hut and a lure you can call your own. My husband's favourite is the log cabin and the Wabler. Incidentally, that's my LEAST favourite. I actually am torn between the trailer and the skinny blue and white one. Which is yours?

36" x 12" original acrylic painting on stretched canvas. Gessoed. Varnished. Sides are painted black so no framing is necessary. For more information visit my Etsy shop.

Don't you just LOVE a cat in uniform? 30 Dec 2014 3:50 PM (10 years ago)

O CANADA! That's how I felt when I was painting this handsome feline. Is he a hunk of burning cat love or what? I've always been a sucker for a man in uniform (I mean, who isn't?) but I have a special appreciation for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police when they're in full dress uniform. All that pressed red serge ... and brass ... and, sigh ... (excuse me while I have a cold shower).


I love this painting a lot (it's my favourite so far) and hope to do a few more animals wearing the world famous Mountie uniform. Maybe a moose? Or a bear? Can't wait to get started.

Meanwhile, a good friend of mine (Mr. Harry Sanderford) suggested I call this dashing dude "Cuddly Do-Right." I think the name fits ... what do you think?

By the way, I sincerely hope everyone had a terrific holiday. Mine was ... different! But OK! Glad to get back to normal – whatever the feck normal is. (Let me know if you have a clue.)

8"x10" original acrylic painting on stretched, gessoed canvas, varnished. Sides are painted black so no framing is needed. For more information visit my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/216694736/cat-in-mountie-uniform-original-acrylic?ref=shop_home_active_1

Item is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced without permission from me.

Kiosk at Sunrise 28 Nov 2014 1:07 PM (10 years ago)

Did another painting today, which makes me extremely happy. I have been really busy the last week or so doing paintings for Christmas presents and the very last one I did, for a very dear friend, turned out GROSS.

I was so disappointed that I stayed away from the brush for a while.

Finally I told her, "I did a painting for you and it really sucks," and I felt so much better afterwards that I started painting again.

The moral of the story? If something sucks, admit it! Shout it from the fecking rooftops! You'll feel EVER so much happier!

This painting, by the way, was inspired by a photo I took a couple years ago at Kiosk, at sunrise, in the northern part of Algonquin Park. We used to go there every spring and every fall for fishing trips. It's a gorgeous place, desolate and wildly beautiful, and I miss it like crazy. (It's available for purchase at my Etsy shop.)

By the way, I can't show you the sucky one because apparently my friend still wants to receive its suckiness for Christmas. So it has to be a SURPRISE SUCK, if you get my drift.

Geez that sounded bad ...

My fabulous new career as an AR-TEESTE 19 Nov 2014 8:32 AM (10 years ago)

If we're friends on Facebook (and if we're not, what is UP with that?), you know I've been busier than a one-armed paperhanger. I haven't been writing, or blogging much, that is TRUE, but I have regressed to my second childhood and have been painting like a madwoman.

No, not the basement. (I painted that last month.) Actual paintings. Like, art, dude. Like, I'm an ar-TEESTE now, a Group of Sevenish legend in my own mind.

Yesterday I cracked off two paintings. Two. I am feverish about my new thang.

FB friends have been asking, "Wassup with you? Did you always paint?" And stuff like that. So I figured I should blog about it, not only to answer their questions, but also because I'M SO EXCITED I CAN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.


I know. I'm obnoxious. Apologies all round. Go watch Ellen or something if offended. She's probably dancing, which is not obnoxious at all. <<< I LIED JUST THERE, btw.

So NO, I have not always painted. But I have always drawn, coloured, sketched and occasionally painted. Art was my favourite subject in high school. I had a brief fling with folk art in the '80s. I painted a billboard and a few backdrops for an environmental fair I was involved with. Mostly, though, I remember, with great fondness, the hours upon hours I spent with my cousin, Kelly, sitting at the kitchen table at our summer cottage, making our own comic books. We drew them and wrote them and coloured them and yakked and giggled and had the best time. Kelly grew up to be a social worker/psychologist with the Canadian military. In short, she was a very smart, very successful professional. But she never gave up her art. When she retired from the army, she became a full-time artist and has had many successful shows, including some in foreign countries. (You can see her amazing artwork on her website.)

Me, I went to journalism school because my life goal was being a reporter. Writing was serious business; art was something I did for fun. After 20-some years as a writer and an editor, I turned to the graphic design aspect of newspapers and rediscovered joy in the act of creating something pretty. After several years of graphics, I discovered I missed writing, and so started blogging. Blogging led to writing Friday Flash and Friday Flash led to writing a novel, and for a while I was hot and heavy into that world.


After my novel came out, and my collection of short stories, I lost interest in writing. I felt like I had reached the pinnacle of my writing career and, try as I might, and I did try, beginning and not finishing several projects, I just couldn't rekindle my interest. For a while I got really down on myself. I couldn't get a newspaper job anymore, because those just don't exist. (Graphic work is mostly one in India these days.) And I'm too old and fat and decrepit to be a reporter. You have to have good legs to be a reporter and my knees are toast. I literally cannot go shopping without being in severe pain.

My short term memory is also toast. I've been taking anti-depressants for many years and they've been playing havoc with my brain. I seriously can't remember stuff anymore. I mean, for the most part, I function OK, but sometimes I absolutely have no memory of things happening. None. It's like it never happened, and that's scary. For a while I thought I had early onset Alzheimer's, but am now sure it's the anti-depressant. I tried switching to a different pill and I had a terrible crash. Was not a good idea. From being on and off meds over the years, I now know I will be on anti-depressants for the rest of my life. That's OK with me, and I'd rather have a poor memory than be suicidal.


Anyway, sorry this is depressing! (Go watch Ellen!) As you can see, I am basically unemployable. I can't remember stuff. I can't stand on my feet all day. I'm fat and I'm old and I'm wrinkled. Nobody wants to hire someone like me. No, you don't have to reassure me, it's just the simple truth. And, gawd, don't tell me to diet. I lose weight, I gain it back and then some, I lose, and gain... bah. Talk about disheartening...

Dave works really hard to pay the bills and for a while now I've been wondering how I can contribute. Just recently it came to me. After we painted the basement apartment white, I yearned for some kind of artwork. It was just so stark. But I couldn't afford to buy art, of course, even cheap stuff, and so I thought I would paint something. Besides, I had been thinking of painting a picture of our cat, singing, for some time. Every night I would lay in bed thinking about painting Ben, the kitty we had to put down this summer because of cancer. The urge to paint was getting stronger.

Finally, I went to our cupboard and pulled out all my paint supplies. I had them for years, and never really did anything with them. (I started one painting and never finished it. My son Sam liked it, though, and now this half-finished painting hangs in his hallway, which is adorable.)


I had taken a photo of the Canadian prairies a year ago, because I thought it would make a good painting (I always see this in photos, but never act on it). And because I never do anything by half, I painted TWO canvases, to be hung together, as one. I painted them in a day (above). My paintbrush FLEW. For a few happy hours, I disappeared into the work. When I was done, I was pleasantly surprised by the result.

A couple of days later, I painted the cat (below).


The next day I painted something else. And then something else after that. Pretty soon I was painting every single day. And then it occurred to me: maybe I should do this as a business. I opened a shop on Etsy.com, and began posting my work on Facebook. It wasn't long before I had sold my first painting (below) to my dear writing friend Lou Freshwater, who I love beyond belief. And, since then, I have sold four more. That is not bad considering I've only been doing this for about a month.


Right now I am busy amassing a "body of work" for my Etsy shop and for farmers markets in the spring. I'm also painting a number of Christmas presents. But mostly? I am busy having FUN. Painting is so much more joyful than writing, which for me is done all by myself, in a closed room, with no music and no distractions. It's work, pure and simple. When I paint, I listen to the radio, or music, or I have the Food Network blathering in the background. I talk to friends on the telephone. I drink coffee. I take breaks and go do housework. I am energized, I am happy and I feel like I am contributing to our income.


I'm not pretending to be a Great Artist. In fact, I describe my style as Hokey Folky. Basically, I'm hoping that the bright colours might put a smile on someone's face, and if I can do that, and make a couple bucks in the process, well that puts a smile on my face, too.

Oh, by the way. That little cow? In the corner of every painting? That's my signature. Because my initials – unfortunately – spell COW.


If you feel like visiting my Etsy shop, I'd appreciate it if you could "Favourite" it. It's kinda like Facebook, in that the more people who like it, the better exposure the site gives you. The link to my shop is here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/ColdLakeCathy?ref=hdr

By the way, I'm not the only blogger with shops on Etsy. Joanne Noragon, better known as Cup on the Bus has her shop here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/JoanneNoragonWeaver?ref=pr_faveshops Joanne is a long-time weaver. She recently sent me some dish towels, which I LOVE and use every single day. (Thanks Joanne!)

Writer/blogger Icy Sedgwick sells some beautiful jewellery in her shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/IcyHandmade?ref=pr_faveshops

Writer/blogger Scotti Cohn also does some terrific jewellery in her shop: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/JewelryByScotti?ref=pr_faveshops

And my niece, Jennifer Baldwin, isn't a writer, but she does have a brand new Etsy shop. Jen makes wonderful "arm woven" scarves. She made me one recently and I wear it all the time! (Thanks Jen!) You can buy her work here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/jenniferknitcrafts?ref=pr_faveshops

If you have an Etsy shop, please list it in the comments so I can come visit!

World's Biggest Things #3 2 Nov 2014 7:01 AM (10 years ago)

Tim Horton: yes, he was an actual guy but he's dead now.

World's Biggest Things #2 8 Oct 2014 3:18 PM (10 years ago)

Did you know Winnie-the-Pooh was a real bear? Did you also know that he was a Canadian bear who was born in the woods near White River, Ontario?

"Pooh" was actually a black bear cub who was captured by a trapper in 1914 and sold to a soldier from Winnipeg, Manitoba.  Lieutenant Harry Colebourn of the Canadian Army Veterinary Corps paid $20 for the bear and promptly fell in love with the little black bundle of fur. Other soldiers loved him, too but, as he got bigger, "Winnie" (named after Lt. Colebourn's hometown) started knocking down tents and causing other mischief. Reluctantly the soldier gave Winnie to the London Zoo for safekeeping.

Author A.A. Milne and his son Christopher were regular visitors at the zoo and they were so fond of Winnie that he became the subject of one of the world's most beloved children's books. (You can read more of that story on the town of White River's website.)

In 1992 a statue of Winnie-the-Pooh was unveiled at a park at the side of Highway 17 and has been a must-stop for kids of all ages as they travel the Trans Canada Highway.

We stopped in for a photo op (and a pee break) on our way to Ontario this August. In the photo, from left, is Angus, Sam, Misty and Dave.


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Guess the True Statement and WIN Jessica Bell's thriller, White Lady! 6 Oct 2014 2:00 AM (10 years ago)

World's Biggest Things #1 3 Oct 2014 6:28 AM (10 years ago)

People 'round here are obsessed with giant "things."

A couple miles down the road from me, in Vilna, Alberta, is THE WORLD'S LARGEST MUSHROOM. Last summer I made Sam pose with it. He was, like, "Do I haaaaaaave to?" and I can't blame him for whining because the mushroom was kind of lame. I mean, I haven't seen a bigger mushroom, but it wasn't bigger than a house or anything. At the most, maybe it was bigger than an SUV, but, like, a small SUV, not a Buick Escalade.

Down the road a bit further is THE WORLD'S LARGEST PYROGY. I haven't seen it yet, however. It is six kilometres off the highway and apparently six kilometres is like a trek across the Andes because I can never talk Dave into going to see the fecking thing. It's on my bucket list, though. Giant pyrogies. Mmmm. I wonder if there's a giant vat of sour cream to go with? And is there a giant fork? If not, you'd need giant fingers to manhandle that thing into my giant mouth.

Fellow Canucks will doubtless remember the Corner Gas episode in which the people of Dog River decide to build a giant "thing" to attract tourists. Their vision is to create a giant farm implement to represent prairie agriculture, and one naive resident (I think she's the mayor's grandma) suggests a hoe, but not a new hoe, a well-used one, one with dirt on it and maybe a crack from all the use it has received.

Yep. A giant hoe. A giant cracked hoe, with dirt on it.

A GIANT DIRTY OLD CRACK HEAUX.



One of the coolest things I noticed when we were moving halfway across the great country of Canada, was the overwhelmingly sheer number of small towns with giant "things." They were everywhere. Giant fish. Giant moose. Giant bugs. You name it, it was there.

This summer Dave and I drove the boys back to Ontario (after an awesome couple of months together) and, on our way home, we vowed to stop and take a picture of every giant "thing" we came across. And, lucky you, I plan on sharing all my "things" here on this misbegotten and forgotten blog!

Today's giant "thing" is, indeed, a thing. A Volkswagen Beetle turned into some kind of weird spider/bug/thing wearing a top hat. Because, you know, all giant bugs want to wear top hats. It's in front of an automotive shop outside of Kenora, Ontario.

And, oh yeah, that's my honey-bun dancing in front of the giant bug. (As you do.)

He was NOT dancing after the 534th giant thing we came across. (Whining, yes, dancing, not so much.)


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Red hot and coming soon! 1 Oct 2014 4:00 AM (10 years ago)

Great news! My author pal, and one of Canada's best writing talents, has a new book coming out just in time for Christmas!

Wait. Didn't I sound like a TV infomercial just now? Hell yeah! I can't help myself – I'm THAT excited about Kevin Craig's new book, Burn Baby Burn Baby. It doesn't come out until December 11, 2014 (that's this year for those of you, like me, who have no fecking idea what year it is because everything since 1973 has been a complete blur), but I get to show you the cover TODAY. (Why? Because I'm special, that's why.)

And without further adieu, here it is:


Hot stuff, eh? I told ya! And if the book inside that luscious cover is anything like Kevin's other books, it'll be sizzling. Here's the deets:

Seventeen-year-old Francis Fripp’s confidence is practically non-existent since his abusive father drenched him in accelerant and threw a match at him eight years ago. Now badly scarred, Francis relies on his best friend Trig to protect him from the constant bullying doled out at the hands of his nemesis, Brandon Hayley—the unrelenting boy who gave him the dreaded nickname of Burn Baby. The new girl at school, Rachel Higgins, is the first to see past Francis’s pariah-inducing scars. If Brandon’s bullying doesn’t destroy him, Francis might experience life as a normal teenager for the first time in his life. He just has to avoid Brandon and convince himself he’s worthy of Rachel’s attentions. Sounds easy enough, but Francis himself has a hard time seeing past his scars. And Brandon is getting violently frustrated, as his attempts to bully Francis are constantly thwarted. Francis is in turmoil as he simultaneously rushes toward his first kiss and a possible violent end.

I KNOW. IT SOUNDS SO GOOD.

I seriously can't wait. I liked Kevin Craig the minute I met him at the Muskoka Novel Marathon, but I became a huge fan of Kevin's when I devoured The Reasons. While it was written for a young adult audience, the story was so mature, so engrossing and deep and insightful, that I couldn't put it down. I'm hoping for an equally thrilling ride with Burn Baby Burn Baby. Knowing Kevin, I won't be disappointed.

You can pre-order Burn Baby Burn Baby on Amazon HERE.


Burn Baby Burn Baby by Kevin Craig


About The Author:

Feck You and the Horse You Rode In On 19 Sep 2014 8:07 PM (10 years ago)

Do you ever have one of those days where you hate EVERYONE?

Where every single person on the face of this earth has found your last nerve and is chewing on its ragged end?

Where people who you think are friends let you down?

Or worse, tear you down?

Where normally you can take it, you can, but not on this day, not today, because everything and everyone just pisses the ever-loving crap out of you?

I just want to say a general FECK YOU to everybody who has crawled under my skin today (and yesterday) and farted. No, not farted, SHARTED, that awful, wet, smelly cross between hot air and the other stuff.

What's crawled up my ass, you may well ask? Oh it's too fecking boring to go into. I'm not being passive aggressive or trying to stir up some drama or anything, I'm just venting.

No, I'm not mad at Dave. No, I'm not mad at Mom, or my sister, or my neighbour. IT'S NOT YOU, you're good, honest.

At least for now.

Gimme a moment, though ...

The Chains That Bind 12 Sep 2014 9:51 AM (10 years ago)

You're all my friends, so you know this, but in the winter of 2005 my life changed irrevocably. I went from Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm to a criminal in one fell swoop. Me and the ex had the biggest fight of our lives after he was caught cheating and, in my anger and pain, I swatted him with a Dr. Seuss book.

Green Eggs & Ham. Naturally. If you're gonna swat someone with kid-lit, it might as well be the best.

I called the cops to have him removed from the house, but instead of asking him to leave, they arrested me for assault. When I freaked out, one of cops stuck his hand over my mouth to shut me up, and I bit one officer's gloved finger.

Without further adieu, I was handcuffed, charged with assault police and escorted to jail for the night.

Yada, yada, yada. I apologize if you've heard this a million times before.

No big deal, right? I mean, people spend nights in jail all the time. People on TV crime dramas don't think twice about it. But not "people like me." I was the epitome of Betty Crocker. June Cleaver. Mary Fecking Sunshine. I was a do-gooder, an environmentalist, a politically active world-beater. And I truly used to believe cops were my friends.

Basically I was a naive asshole who didn't know shite from shinola. Or a can from canola. (Substitute any grain or gluten-free product you prefer here.)

Since that time I have carried the weight of a criminal record. You'd be surprised how this affects you. On top of the morbid embarrassment of it all, you can't get a passport. You can't travel out of the country. You can't volunteer at a school or anywhere else that demands a clean record. You can't get life insurance. You can't be bonded or be hired for certain jobs. In short, if you can possibly avoid biting a cop's thumb and smacking your ex, I would highly recommend said avoidance.

Years passed. Life carried on and, in fact, improved. Everything has come up roses for me in just about every way. My marriage break-up was probably the best thing that could have happened. Still, the record lingered, reminding me every once in a while with a sadistic kick in the gut that "you're not normal, you're an outcast, you're a criminal."

This spring I finally decided to find out if my record still held, because honestly I wasn't sure how many years had to pass before the record was expunged. So I gathered up my courage and went to the local cop shop to get fingerprinted. I have to tell you, it was a really traumatic moment. My experience with police made me terrified of them. I don't like them. I don't trust them. When I see events like the killing of Mike Brown I have no doubt the cop was a vicious, racist killer.

That night I reached out for help when I needed it most and instead of helping, or showing any kind of sensitivity, they arrested me for swatting my ex with a book. I mean, seriously? The whole night could have gone so much differently if they had any brains in their heads. But I digress ... just trust me when I say I was shaking in my boots and filling my drawers with stinky stuff when I went to get fingerprinted that day.

I mailed the prints and a form off to Ottawa, to RCMP headquarters, and waited for them to do a criminal record check. I waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

And then got tired of waiting and almost forgot about it.

Last week I finally heard back. A letter from the RCMP was in my mailbox, addressed to me. I opened it with shaking hands and held my breath as I scanned the piece of paper for the verdict:


I can barely describe how awesome I feel. How nine years of pain has been washed away.

I am finally free.

RIP Ben-Ben 12 Aug 2014 1:38 PM (10 years ago)

To me, a house wasn't a home without a cat. Dave, he was more of a dog person. Didn't really see the value in a feline companion but, after we'd been living together for a few months, because he loved me, he announced that we would go to a local animal shelter and pick out a kitty cat.

There were a lot of cats that autumn day at the All Heart animal shelter near Powassan, Ontario. All kinds of cute kittens. Even more full grown cats, some of them handsome, some of them pretty, all of them sad behind the walls of their kennels. I had my eye on a grey tabby but Dave was interested in a skinny white short-haired male with the most unusual blue eyes. The nice lady at the shelter scooped him out of his cage and carried him over to Dave. Ben, as she called him, had all four legs stuck straight out in front of him, stiff as a board. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever seen. She plopped him in Dave's arms and Ben instantaneously shed what amounted to another whole cat of wiry white hair on Dave's shirt.

Then he meowed. The most awkward meow I'd ever heard. Like he just got his tail stuck in a car door.

The shelter lady laughed. "Ben's a talker," she said.

A talker. I'd never heard that expression before. "Oh yeah," she said, "he talks all the time. Sings, too. Cutest thing ever."

Dave and I, never having had a "talker" cat before, thought that was cute as well. It wasn't so cute a couple nights later, when Ben was howling mournfully at the top of his cat lungs at four o'clock in the morning. He did this every night. Night after cursed night. Dave and I walked around with raccoon eyes. I thought we were going to die from lack of sleep. It was worse than having a newborn baby because at least the baby didn't shed. Dave resorted to filling a squirt bottle with water and chasing the cat around the house in his underwear (Dave, not the cat), squirting him until he stopped yowling. He did this for weeks before Ben got the message. Dave running around in his gotchies in the middle of the night chasing a howling cat became my norm. It got to the point where I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

One night, during the underwear-squirt festivities, Ben jumped on our bed and scrambled across it at lightning speed, Dave in hot pursuit. Before I could even close my mouth, mid-snore, Ben's leg was down my throat, right up to his giblets. He was gone again before I could even choke, but the feel of that kitty litter encrusted back leg thrust deep past my tonsils scarred me for life.

If someone ever tells me a cat is a "talker," I will avoid that cat like the proverbial plague. I know now it is code for "you will never sleep again."


Eventually Ben figured out that he could sing his opera at bedtime without being chased. We'd go to bed, the house would quiet, and our prima donna would start the first strains of his aria, first a quiet few meows in a simple tenor, then growing in volume, a mezzo-soprano at his peak, then dipping low, low into the baritone of his soul, growling out his feelings in an emotional crescendo, then, finally, finishing with a breathless credenza, and then one long held note, then quiet. Sometimes we would applaud. Sometimes we'd just giggle. I always wanted to paint a picture of Ben with an opera stage as the background. I never got around to it, but I will, some day, when I'm not so sad.

Back at the shelter, I wasn't impressed with Ben. Dave was positively covered in white hair and Ben was staring at me with the most bizarre expression. He looked kind of like a cross-eyed barn owl. I kept thinking about the grey tabby, or maybe the orange kitten.

The lady told us Ben had terrible teeth. "The worst our vet has ever seen. Some are broken right off. We figure he was given bones to chew on."

Ben, she told us, was raised in an ice hut with three large dogs and an alcoholic. When the hut burned down, the man – now truly homeless – brought his animals to the shelter. Which was a good thing, of course. I don't have any idea what happened to the man, but Ben was well fed and well looked after at the shelter. He was neutered and referred to a veterinary dental surgeon to have his teeth fixed.

Dave handed him over to me as the shelter lady told us his story. Ben looked up at me with his weird blue eyes and something loosened in my heart. "We'll take this one," I said. Ben seemingly understood what I said because he dropped a load of white hair in my lap, enough for people to confuse me with the abominable snowman.


We brought him home and immediately regretted it.

Ben was the biggest asshole we had ever met.

He scratched EVERYTHING. Our furniture. Our drywall. Dave's workboots. We bought every scratching post known to man, and still he scratched shit. Between him keeping us up all night and him wrecking our furniture, me and Dave almost got a divorce – and we weren't even married yet!

Worse, even though eight-year-old Ben was fixed, he still carried on like a stud. Every time we turned around he was humping our afghans, especially the ones Dave's Aunt Edna had made. Oh, he loved Aunt Edna's blanket, humping it every chance he got. "It's his girlfriend," our son Sam said. I began hiding Ben's girlfriends in the closet.

I'd never, ever had a cat de-clawed before. Never had a need. Always thought it was cruel. But it was declaw him or take him back to the shelter. So we had him declawed. At the same time we had his teeth fixed. He came back from the vet with sore paws and this dopey, toothless grin. With his silly crossed eyes and his droopy lip, he looked like a stroke victim.

For years, absolute YEARS, we regretted inviting Ben into our lives. We told everyone he was the biggest asshat of a cat in the world. But somehow, somewhere along the line, we began to get accustomed to his crooked face.


He was fearless, for one. Before we had him declawed and turned him into an indoor cat, he used to fight the neighbourhood bully cats who grew feral in the barn next door. One day we watched out the window as Ben stalked a raven that was three times as big as he was. When we moved across the country, our other cat cried and shit himself and thought he was dying, every single day, but Ben rode on the console between me and Sam, looking out the window and enjoying the scenery. When we lived in a log cabin, he got up every morning with Dave and "helped" him light the woodstove. When we moved to Alberta, he visited us in bed every night, usually when Dave was reading. He'd start at his feet and walk right up Dave's body, sniffing his mouth and licking his nose – just one lick – and then curling up on his chest behind Dave's Kindle. I always enjoyed this because Dave never liked cats, and now him and Ben-Ben, his squirt bottle nemesis, were, unexpectedly, best friends.

About a month ago, Ben started throwing up. Once a day, every day. I changed his food to a formula for seniors, but he continued to be sick. Unlike our other cat, who throws up everywhere (usually on a couch or a rug, never on a bare floor), Ben had the good manners to throw up in his litter box. Such a tidy kitty he was, in spite of the cloud of white hair that has followed him like Pigpen for all of his 16 years. We have given up worrying about it and have proudly taken Ben hair to weddings, funerals, supermarkets and every place we've ever worked.

A week ago Ben got lethargic. He laid on our bed all day and I teased him about being a lazy cat. Then he stopped eating, and he started laying on the floor. Yesterday, before I took him to the vet, he lay in our closet behind a semi-closed door.

I should have known something was wrong. He hadn't sung opera for nearly a month.


The vet told us he had cancer. Dave and I talked about it. Cried about it. And decided to have him put down. The kids came to the clinic to say good-bye, then waited in the car while Dave and I kept Ben company. I cuddled his skinny, shedding body in my arms and petted him, then the doctor took him for a few minutes to put a catheter in his thin leg. Dave and I held hands in the next room, and he squeezed my hand when we heard Ben cry out when the IV was put in.

The vet brought Ben back to us. The first needle would tranquilize him, put him to sleep, literally. The second needle in the IV would stop his heart.

My face was right in front of his as we prepared to say good-bye. I stroked his funny, sad face and told him he was the best kitty ever, and I was so glad he found us and we found him, and it was true, I had fallen in love with this asshole of a cat and tears were streaming down my face as I told him I loved him, and Dave was patting his back and, then the first needle and within a second Ben relaxed and his pupils dilated black and his head rested on the tabletop. I cried harder and stroked his head and murmured words of love, and then the second needle and the light left his eyes, and in that split-second I wanted, irrationally to hit "undo" like my computer, UNDO, UNDO, bring him back, I'm sorry, I love you Ben-Ben, and my heart broke, it just broke, with guilt and sorrow.

I know it's for the best. I know, in my head, it was the right thing to do. But my heart doesn't know that. My heart hates me, for having the power to take another creature's life. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he could have been here longer. I try to take solace that we saved him from suffering, but I've never had to take the responsibility of euthanasia before and being the adult sucked, it just sucked so bad.

Last night Dave dug a hole in the hard-packed clay of our backyard. It was a hot day. The soil was like concrete. It took forever. I sat beside him on the lawn, sharp blades of grass itchy on my hot legs, Angus watching solemnly from the back deck. When the hole was finally deep enough (three feet), he went to the garage and came back with Ben wrapped in a green bath towel. Dave was carrying that bundle like he was carrying a newborn baby, and I could see the tears streaming down his face as he came closer to the grave. He placed Ben tenderly in the bottom of the hole, then covered him up, tamping the dirt down occasionally to help prevent settling, then covering the grave with a patio stone so neighbourhood dogs wouldn't dig him up. We decided, in the spring, we would plant a wild rose there, in his honour. Because wild roses are the provincial flower here in Alberta, and because if Ben was a flower, he would be a wild one.

Last night there was no singing in our sad house. No opera. No whiskery kisses. No crossed eyes or droopy lips. I'm sure there will be white hair here for years to come and you know what? I'm in no hurry to get rid of it.

Already I miss the singing. Already I miss the Ben.


Thanks to the wonderfully caring people at Cold Lake Veterinary Clinic for helping us through this difficult time.

There's nothing wrong with nice 24 Jul 2014 1:11 PM (10 years ago)

Whatever happened to niceness?

To manners?

To being considerate to your fellow human beings?

I'm the first to admit I'm naive and old-fashioned, but for 53.5 years I've gotten by on the notion that you should treat others like you want to be treated, and generally speaking, I have had a peaceful, productive, happy life. I'm not all crazy about being nice 24/7, and have been known to lose my cool in less than nice ways. Not proud of it, but I'm human, and shite happens. But I do try. I want people to say of me, "Oh that Cathy, she's a pretty nice person," and if that appears on my tombstone, hey, I'll be smiling six feet under.

Lately, though, I've come in contact with internet folks who don't value "nice" the way I do. In fact, I am absolutely gobsmacked at the mean-spirited name-calling and generalizing that has pitted gender against gender, race against race, religion against religion. It just seems everywhere I turn, I see little but venom and hate.

Screaming epithets at each other is like throwing kerosene on a campfire (although, admittedly, sometimes it feels really good to spout off). Not wanting to get burned, and realizing the futility of name-calling, I would like to try to ice these ongoing battles with niceness. Again, maybe I'm naive, but it's hard to be mean to someone who is being nice to you.

Maybe that's the answer to the troubles of this world. Niceness. Saying I'm sorry when it's needed, or excuse me when you bump into someone at the grocery store.

John Lennon used to say that love is the answer, but love isn't something you can make up out of whole cloth. Being nice, on the other hand, is easier than you might think.

Perhaps we should try it.

I'm Crooked, I Guess 12 Jul 2014 12:46 PM (10 years ago)

Does anyone else have this problem? It's my neckline. It's fecking CROOKED.

No matter what shirt I have on, it slides to the left, exposing my bra strap on one side and strangling me on the other.

It's not like I'm some dimestore tart who flaunts bra straps like overcoats. I prefer my straps hidden, mostly because they're as wide as planks with yellowish-grey colouration that's supposed to be white, and yet most closely resembles lace-trimmed barn-board.

I'm all HAWT, yes, that's what you're thinking.

So what the feck is WRONG with me? Do I slump? Am I shorter on the left side? Is my left boob magnetized? I mean, WTF?