09 Apr


Had a wonderful opportunity to make a mess on a wall recently at Habitat For Humanity here in Kingston:)

It was great fun, and hard work. I wasn’t happy with the lettering but really, for free hand it turned out not too bad.

I would love to do a more artistic piece on a larger scale one day. This one was pretty mainstream and is about 8′ X 8″.  It took a little over a week to complete but only because I work full time and had to fit in painting with my regular job…so it was a lot of evenings…


Great organization and really although I received some remuneration for the work, it was a lot of donated hours, just to have the opportunity to do it:) It is very cool actually, that this piece will be there for years. I hope people aren’t afraid to touch it…there is some texture to it though not as much as I would have liked.


Another piece another day perhaps.

05 Mar

Poor Dinkums…

Surely you remember Dinky?

[Clark has just been pulled over by a Colorado motorcycle cop]
Clark: Hi officer, what’s the problem?
Motorcycle Cop: Get out of the car!
[Clark exits from the car]
Clark: I don’t think I was speeding. Was I weaving or something?
Motorcycle Cop: Shut your mouth, sir! You know, if I weren’t in uniform, I’d split your skull with the butt of this revolver faster than you can say, “police brutality!”
Clark: Well whatever I did, I’m sure I can explain…
dogscene[the motorcycle cop forcibily takes Clark by the arm and leads him to the rear of the car, which has a dog leash still tied to it]
Motorcycle Cop: Explain this, you son-of-a-bitch!
Clark: Oh my God…

Source: IMDB

That little bit of tragic comedy gold…I identify with that little dog. Although I have never pee’d on a picnic basket I have been known to rain on a parade or two…

And very much like that little dog, at some pit stop on this fucking winding road that is my life…I got tied to the bumper when I got out to pee, somewhere around 1973 I think…

I’ve been chasing this damn vehicle since…and I don’t know who’s at the wheel but I hope the have to pee soon so I can catch my breath and then beat them to death with a tire iron…





I am tired.

More tired than you know.


19 Feb

Dear Purolator…you suck… a lot.

We live within 5 miles of the Purolator depot here in town.

Our package has been there since the 11th.

The shipper forgot to add our apartment number…okay so shit happens. We had to wait out the weekend as they don’t deliver on weekends. Monday rolls around and it’s a Holiday. So come Tuesday we have huge snow storm…

By the 17th the roads were all clear and everything should have been back on track right?

For everyone except Purolator apparently, who under the weight of the snow ( that didn’t even shut down UPS, Canada Post, DHL, Easy  or FedEx) were apparently unable to ship. We heard every excuse in the book right down to blaming non-existent construction and equally non-existent road closures.

I have been on the phone with them, in chat with them on Twitter, and we still are no closer to receiving our package.

No one at Purolator knows what the fuck is going on. No one can find our package now…the package that they found on the 15, 16th, 17th and again on the 18th…mysteriously disappears from their system on Friday the 19th.

Being told bullshit by people doing little more than trying to shift blame or divert the ire of an irritated customer is unacceptable. Take responsibility for your mess Purolator and get our package here.

Seriously. It has gone beyond ridiculous. The  only answer I get is to wait for a phone call from a “Tracing Specialist”.

Then we hear that it will be delivered on Saturday…because they are behind. Really.

Should I hold my hand under my ass?

18 Feb

The Toenail Incident…

We all have a memory from some time in our lives that has scarred us beyond words. Something so horrific, that the imagery, smells, tactile sensations, remain years after the event happens.

For my Husband it was a mammary accident, when as a boy he was asked to go and wake his Aunt from nap, as she rolled over, one of her massive flabby breasticles spilled out of her Moo Moo…to this day he cannot look at a large boobs without getting a bit queasy.

For me, it was The Toenail Incident.


My parents were insane, and at the beginning of summer 1974, with Great Grandmother, laying on her death-bed on the other side of Canada, it seemed a perfect time for a family road trip, with three kids all under 10 years of age. This was before my Dad invested in the VW Pop-Top Van, which would take us on many great adventures, and we all crammed into my Mother’s, 1965 Dodge Dart. Two adults who didn’t like each other, and three kids who liked each other even less.

Alberta to Ontario or bust.

I remember the prairies seem to go on forever. I also remember getting a few elbows in the face from my little brother, and a few whacks from my Mother when I gave him a few more elbows right back than he’d dished out. My sister delighted in tormenting me as well, because she was sitting behind my Dad and our Mother’s arm couldn’t reach her. The woman had an incredible reach, to nail me right upside the head from the front seat. It was usually me who got whacked, but honestly I don’t remember being that bad of a kid…

We did the usual sight-seeing along the way, and stopped at more than a few truck stops and Mickey Dee’s for food and piddle breaks. As I recall, everyone made a  big fuss about my sister…”oh she’s so pretty”, “what beautiful hair…”, “Such a polite young girl…”. My brother was, “Adorable!”, and “Oh look at that little smile… he’s so cute and quiet!”

Then there was me. A barefoot, wild-looking, ginger-haired, freckled, Helion covered in three or so layers of dirt, mud and a variety of condiments and food particles, with a perpetually runny nose.


Anyway, so by the time we got to Ontario, we were all tired and pissy. We pulled into our Aunt’s backyard, set up the trailer tent and crashed. The next day we drove out to see the Great Grandmother.

I remember being forced to wash, put on clean clothes and instructed to,”leave your damn shoes on!” We drove for a while, before we arrived outside a small flat-roofed building, and pulled into a spot along the fence. I always had to sit behind my Mother, on the passenger side so she could hit me, when she felt I required a good whack. My sister had already gotten out on the driver’s side and nearly slammed the door on my head as I tried to worm out behind her, so I scooted back over and slid out of the car against the fence. Right into a mass of spiny thistles. Naturally, I had taken my shoes off and was now barefoot and angry, as I bulldozed my way crying and whining through all the thistles until I got to the walkway.

Now if my Mother had, had her way at that moment, I’m pretty sure she’d have suffocated me with that handkerchief she put over my face, instead of yelling “Blow your damn nose you look like an orphan!”, and muttering, “You had to take your shoes off…”

It was a really old-looking building, old square tiles on the floor, and a weird odor of rubber and bleach. Lots of nurses in white uniforms and little white hats, with drab cardigans. We walked down the hallway and into a room. There were a few other beds in there if I remember right, and we made our way over to one in particular.

There was a woman laying there with just a sheet draped over her middle half with her legs exposed. I just stood there frozen. She made a weird sound as she tried to move her mouth and her arm flailed as it reached out for me, there was spittle dipping out of her mouth and she grunted loudly…I felt a push from a hand behind me and I lost it.

I panicked. I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with that woman but I wasn’t playing this game…I ran to the foot of the bed covered my face.

Now I had no idea that when I opened my eyes I was going to see something that would forever haunt me. Well into adulthood,the image of that “thing” would remain as fresh as the day I saw it.sunnitawnkingston22

The image of that gangly, gnarled and decidedly greyish yellow toenail…overgrown and thick as a tree branch…spiraled, lumpy and horribly huge. All of the toenails were like that. Attached to a skeletal foot with callouses and bunions as big as my fist.

I ran out of the room and wouldn’t go back. I had nightmares.

To this day, I can barely touch my own feet without gagging. Toenails must be short and trimmed and clean or I go a bit snaky. Feet are just gross anyway…

As an adult, of course I understand she’d had a stroke or five, and her motor skills were severely compromised. Her speech was virtually non-existent but she had her faculties about her. She knew who we were and why we were there. She got to see her Great Grand kids before she died and for her that was all that really mattered. I was too young and terrified to appreciate why we there. Too young to really comprehend that this woman was dying and this was her opportunity to say hello and goodbye.

The end of a wonderful woman, I never knew, and the beginning of a phobia.annarcher

18 Feb

You snooze you lose…

In a recent conversation with my Husband…recent as in just a second ago, and at least six or seven times a day, everyday for the last 6 years…

He has wondered how it is that I manage to drink all the coffee.

On average, I drink about 85% of the coffee at home. The coffee ratio between us is something like 4 to 1 per pot.

Okay so I drink an unusual amount of Joe. I love the shit. I even drink a cup before bed and believe it or not it helps me sleep. I have gone to bed without my bedtime cup of coffee, only to lay there for an hour thinking , “Mmm…a cup of coffee would be really nice…”. Then I’ll get up and make one, drink it and sleep like a baby. Seriously.

On average I make about 3 pots per day, sometimes more depending on the day. Our coffee maker makes 5 cups based on my mug size. It’s a large-ish mug…

To be fair I always announce when I have made fresh coffee. That conversation goes like this:

Me: “I made fresh coffee Baby.”

Him: tipping his mug to peer inside at the cold coffee already growing a milk skin on it, “I still have half a cup…”

Me: “That’s disgusting…you can have fresh…”

Him: “There’s nothing wrong with this coffee. I’ll get  a cup later…”

Me: “Ick.” as I pour myself a fresh cup.

An hour later… repeat.

An hour after that…repeat.

Three hours or so later, he’s finally reached the end of his cold coffee and is ready for a fresh cup, only to find, what he affectionately refers to as “scags” left in the coffee maker. That is old-ish, burned and bitter, coffee dredges. He empties the coffee maker into his cup and marvels at how I can drink so much so fast.

I give him ample opportunity to get fresh, warm, yummy coffee. I even offer to get it for him, because it grosses me out that he drinks “dead and dying coffee”. I have on occasion pinched his mug when he’s preoccupied, empty out whatever is growing in it, washed it and filled it with fresh Joe. Muddy with milk just how he likes it. He’ll argue that the coffee that was in there was, “perfectly good…” or that it was, “…still okay, it was just from yesterday…”


The man has a lead-lined stomach.

So the rule here is simple, if I mention that there is fresh coffee and you don’t get yourself some quickly…you’re more likely to get “scags”.

Sucks to be you…drink faster!

18 Feb

Have I told you…

Have I told you the story of how I met my husband? I don’t think I ever did.

Well…what a hoot it was!


I was just coming off of a 7 year episode of agoraphobia. Couldn’t leave my house, and the rare times when I did, I had to have someone with me.

One of the weirdest things I have ever had to deal with honestly.

Any way… so I had gone through therapy and was feeling a bit better. I was going out more and for the first time in my life at 32 years old, sat and had a cup of coffee in a restaurant all alone.

I spent a lot of time online while recovering as well as going out more often. Any method I could find to be social seemed to make things much better. One day I wandered across a link to a video blogging site. BlogTV.ca.

I was hooked. I started chatting, then actually doing little “shows” as well. Then the opportunity to head across Canada for a big weekend camp out came up. I would be staying with some of the people I had met online.

Who does that? Who just packs up and travels across the country to meet a bunch of weirdos in Ontario?

Any hoo…I did it. It was more about proving to myself that I could face the fears and do it than to actually meet everyone. I mean I loved meeting everyone and boy did I have fun…but for me it was a life confirming thing that was all mine.

Now I had been chatting with a fella who had been doing bachelor style cooking shows online. I liked him a lot.

I went to the camp out in Woodstock Ontario and had a blast!!! Then stopped in and met my Husband for the the first time in person. This is the actual picture I took of the moment I saw him.


A little blurry…I was so damn excited I nearly hung myself when I forgot to unhook my seatbelt. I was hanging out of the car with the seatbelt cutting across my midsection as I took this picture.

This is the exact moment I knew. Isn’t that awesome? How many people have a picture of the exact moment they fell in love?

So, we met hung out a bit and then I had to go back to Vancouver.

We chatted more, then started making phone calls and talking till the wee hours, we spoke everyday and he was 100% exactly as he portrayed himself to be. In fact most of the people I met were straight up, not all of them…but the ones that were important were and I never lost contact with them.

A year after that visit, he came to Vancouver to bring me back to Ontario. It took us two years but we made it back.

A big thank you goes out to my absolutely insane sister for all of it too. She sent me to Ontario and back and funded my insanity while there. And when the Hubby and I needed to get back to Ontario she helped us again.

It really was an amazing thing.

We kept on with BlogTV.ca until the site went belly up. One of the bloggers purchased the domain name and hung onto it.

Well now…it looks like BlogTV.ca is going to make a comeback and guess what? We’re ridiculously into it. It’ll be…well…like a reunion.

17 Feb

Lost and found…

So again I find myself with far too much time on my hands. Aside from looking for work…I really have far too many hours in the day to try to fill with something meaningful and useful.

I found myself wandering around the house today…looking for something. I didn’t know what I was looking for but figured I’d know it when I found it.

I never found it and had no choice but to sit my ass back down and spend yet a few more hours staring at on-line jobs and customizing my resume to send to them.

Makes me go a little snakey…

So I did a little browsing and  googling to kill some time.

I still have a few sewing projects to do that I didn’t have time for when I working from 7 am to 5pm…

I also made a tinfoil hat. More about that later…maybe… I mean I know this is supposed to be where I release my inner weirdo…

All in good time.

17 Feb

If “It” had a voice…

This was a post I had written some time ago…oddly one of the few that did not get lost when my site crashed (with my help).

Men are funny creatures. I like them. My Husband is a pretty good catch I figure, as far as men go. He’s a no pretensions, no apologies, manly man. My Husband is the kind of man, who as soon as he walks in the door from work, will strip down to his underwear, and that is how he’ll remain unless he is forced to put on some cargo shorts.

He’s a mullet sporting, biker type. Mustache with a little “foo-man-chu thing started and a soul patch. Tattooed and rough-looking with a definite edge. Highly intelligent, clever and, in all honesty a big dork. His appearance totally belies the person he is, and he likes it that way. He likes the “shock-factor” when people discover he’s not the stereotypical red neck he appears to be. He’s very fond of the contradiction.

So I’m sitting at my computer the other day, whining that I can’t seem to keep a single thought in my head, long enough to get more than a line or two written. Then I hit delete and stare blankly at the screen.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to find my Husband, in his underwear of course, flashing his man-bits at me.

“Hello…I am Mr. Peen…” he says in a low baritone, giving it a little wiggle.

With the slightest smirk on my face,”You’re such a dork.”

He flashes a moustached grin, gives “Mr. Peen” another little wiggle, “I’m not sure why I gave him such a deep voice…?” he questions.

“It just seems like he should have a very deep voice…” tilting his head to the side slightly, obviously now lost in thought about the implications of a supposed and likely vocal quality for his penis…if a penis could have a voice.

I don’t interrupt this thought process, other than to say, “It’d be a little disturbing if it sounded like Michael Jackson…”.

It’s one of those things that doesn’t need a lot of female input. I mean it doesn’t need female input to decide what vocal quality a man’s penis would have if it were to have a vocal quality at all. I don’t really have an opinion on the subject, and really at that point, had it not been so damn hot and humid, I am certain we could have found other things to do with his penis that didn’t involve “finding it’s voice”.

But it was hot and humid and the thought of getting all sweaty and breathless at that moment, although briefly and silently entertained in my head, was quickly dashed by the reality that, when even the action of blinking makes your eye balls sweat it’s too damn hot for nookie. That’s sad. I know. It pains me.

So as he wandered off muttering in various baritones that might suit his peen, and I was left to ponder.

I know damn well that my Husband is not the only man who does this. It has to span the classes. It cannot be a “status” thing or a socioeconomic “trait”. Men from every walk of life, educational background, upbringing and rearing, do this kind of thing. Hell, they have two Ozzy guys that created a live show and tour the world and actually make a living, contorting and manipulating their penis’ for large crowds of people… “Puppetry of the Penis“. They give them voices too…

You know I am betting, that Harper himself has on occasion, approached the Missus, peen in hand and announced, “Say Hello to Mr. Winky!” Disturbing and likely a bit proper…I kind of envisioned Harper giving his penis a proper British accent…not sure why. I could totally see Obama doing it too, he’d make it sound like Inspector Clouseau I figure. Obama seems like the type that would be pretty good at impressions… We all know with almost absolute certainty that Rob Ford does. So then I was off thinking of all the “famous” powerful men who might prance around in front of their significant others, using their penis’ to make commentary or initiate some frisky time.

I am glad that, despite our technological advances in computer enhanced neurosciences, that you are unable to see the images that flitted around in my brain.

As a side note, I don’t recommend Google searching for anything with “penis” in the title. I did try to find other instances of women saying their husbands or boyfriends did this…all I can say is the internet is a weird fucking place. Really, really, really weird.

From a woman’s point of view, I think I speak for all woman here…we are so very glad that penis’ cannot talk. Can you imagine the endless muffled chatter?

“Are you ready now? How about now? Now? Oh nice bend over like that again…I love it when you vacuum…are you ready now? You look hot doing dishes…ready yet? How ’bout now?”

They’d never shut up. Never. Penis muzzles and shock collars and special underwear with noise cancelling “cones of silence” would be flogged on the HSC and doctors all over the world would make a killing at “de-vocalizing ” penis’. Reality Talk Shows would spring up everywhere, and would have episodes with great titles like, “Shocked Into Silence”, “How Fruit of the Loom Stole my Voice and my Innocence”. There would  be rallies and protests, precedent setting court cases. Men would take their own penis’ to court and sue for damages to careers and relationships. Penis’ would counter-sue for undue hardships and inhumane treatment. Penis discrimination would be rampant. Employers and recruiters would have to interview both the male applicant and his penis and the paperwork would create an administrative nightmare!

What if the penis had a speech impediment or learning disability? Can you imagine? (The very thought almost made me pee a little from laughing so hard).

Then there would be the  Annual Penis Pride Parade, because everyone has to have a fucking parade!

Advocacy groups would spring up like dot coms did in the 80’s…Phallic Freedom Fighters, The No Penis Left Behind Campaign, Dicks Anonymous, Shlongs United and The Penis Rights Coalition.

Dating sites for Penis’ would be all the rage, and speed dating groups would gain in popularity as every penis tried to find their soul mate. Men and their Penis’ would have to double date…

It would be mayhem!

I could go on…but you get the idea…


17 Feb

Things I shouldn’t do, but do anyway #2…

me-waterI am a  chronic “Toucher of Stuff”. It is pure curiosity.

I tend to be a little on the impulsive side as well, which can create some hazardous situations. My hands seem to shoot and grab things before my brain has really had time to process the possibility of injury.

I’ve been electrocuted about 16 times in my life.


Ever see that amusing graphic of the kid with a fork (like the one up there ^), poised to jam it into an electrical outlet… yeah well… it was a butter knife, but the effect was the same.

I watched my Dad remove a broken bulb from a  light socket with a potato once…did the same thing to my night light with a carrot because I couldn’t find a potato.

Sneezed over the toaster, while peering into it waiting for my toast, and my spittle, sizzled and smoked when it hit the elements. Munching my toast and spitting into the toaster, I soon got bored with the small puffs of steam, so I poured a cup of water into it.

Using my Dad’s electric razor to give my Barbie a proper haircut in the bathroom…heard my Mother come home and panicked. Ran the damn thing under the water to rinse the Barbie hair out of it.

As I became an adult, I was a bit more cautious. Most of the electrocutions were not entirely my fault.

Washing walls one day I had a nice arc come from a switch plate when I ran the rag close to it. My cat chewed through the cord of the iron while I was ironing and melted the iron to my hand, I had a bit of blood ooze out of my nose…doc said I was all good though aside from the melted plastic still embedded in my palm… Removing a broken bulb from a socket and my friend insisted the power was off… only thing that saved me was I fell off the step ladder and broke the current. Pulling out my oven to do a full clean…it was wired in, and the wires had frayed over the years…as I pulled it out the wires touched – my body hit the oven as I jolted forward stiff as a board and it shifted the oven enough to separate the wires again. Once giving the dryer a quick wipe down while I had my hand on the washer… I fell and rolled backward breaking the current. Zapped by my curling iron…. there are a couple more…


I love texture too. Rock and stone. Have to touch it. Water features in gardens…have to have my hands in it. Wooden sculptures, crystal doodads, paintings and carvings, anything shiny or smooth. Stained glass. Anything old. Fabric of any kind. Slimey things too…

At the moment I spy something that peeks my curiosity, nothing else exists. It’s a freedom I get from nothing else. I am unconcerned with “how I look”, “what others think”, or if “I look stupid”.

All you’ll hear is, “Oooooh wazzat?” and I’m gone.

I hope it never changes. I hope I never loose that wonder and amazement. The world is so damn tangible and tactile…

Some people don’t understand it. I don’t touch people…just things. I have been known to touch a necklace someone is wearing, or the fabric of their shirt or dress…with permission of course. People have remarked on it rather negatively at times as well.

“Why do you have to touch everything?”, “Can’t just leave it alone can you?”, “You’ll hurt yourself.”, “You’ll break it…” “You’ll get dirty.” “It’s not really meant to be touched.”

It was hell as a kid. My Mother most certainly did not understand it and labeled me “destructive”, “embarrassing” and “retarded” (Can you imagine?). My Father however, shared the same quality and joy. My Husband also shares the same need to touch things.

As a kid, naturally I broke some things. Never with malice or ill-intent. As an adult I am conscious of how delicate some things are and I have refined my touching of things to suit.

I won’t shake your hand but if you have a cool brooch on your lapel you can pretty much guarantee I’m going to want to poke it…

I guess it’s a childlike quality. Learning by touching and inspecting. Investigating textures and designs in the world we live in. I don’t think it’s weird and I find it sad that some people do. I find it sad that most adults have lost that wonder…opting instead to just “guess” or “know” how something might feel. Or worse…to not even consider it at all!

I can’t walk down the street without wanting to touch something…the tree with the big burl in it, the shiny thing in the gutter, the funky mailbox the neighbor has…

If you ever see some crazy red head on your lawn inspecting your lawn ornaments and whirly-gigs…please don’t call the cops.

17 Feb

Things I shouldn’t do, but do anyway #1…

As an adult I know things. I am aware of consequences, right and wrong, cause and effect. Common sense for the most part is something I hold in very high regard, as it is genuinely precious.

However, there are times when all of the practical things I know cease to matter, I regress to that 6 year old mentality that “wants what they want”. So there. Neener neener.

Some of these things defy logic, and basic common sense. I admit it. Sometimes, I am simply an idiot.

Like shoveling scalding hot food into my mouth. Even with a warning, that it is hot. It’s like a challenge…

My Husband: “I don’t know why I bother but…that is fucking hot. Like fucking hot as in it JUST came out of the oven hot. Really, really, really hot…”

Me: Too late! HAHA!  “Hawh…hawh…”, with my mouth agape and little puffs of steam billowing out of it, panting desperately to cool of the morsel just enough that can I do speed chew it and swallow it while it’s still hotter than molten fucking lava.

My Husband: “You’re a dick.”

Me: “You love me.”

It’s a terrible habit that naturally, stems from my childhood. I was busy and had shit to do. The whole eating thing was a major pain in my ass, and besides my Mother was a “Meal Nazi”. A veritable tyrant at the dinner table. Preaching etiquette, demanding silence and I was her favorite target. I had her fork jabbed into my arm, I’d been smacked upside the head, had my plate tossed on the floor and told to eat like an “animal” if I was going to chew with my mouth open. I had been kicked under the table, so many times I started sitting cross legged on the chair. Damn woman wised up to that one and if she couldn’t “test kick” my legs under the table she would take my food away until I “sat properly”.

My Dad never ate with us because he had a “nose whistle” and it literally drove my Mother insane. The slightest thing would set her off, and the rules changed frequently. Not quiet enough to too quiet. Making a swallowing noise was unacceptable and disgusting , but then sipping your drink with a mouthful of food to avoid making a swallowing noise is disgusting and you’ll get backwash in the cup and THAT is even more disgusting.  And goodness help you if you scraped your knife or fork on your plate while you were eating…that would enrage her, and you’d be guaranteed a swift smack and a lecture on, “proper continental dining etiquette and table manners”

The less time spent at the table with my Mother watching my every move…the better. So I learned to eat lightning fast, as silent and as motionless as humanly possible.

I was much more “relaxed” with my own daughter, although chewing with an open mouth, unless you’re sick and stuffed up…will make me kinda bitchy.